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had been out of toothpaste and his old toothbrush was a disgrace. If drugstores were in short supply in the neighborhood of Spurgeon’s rustic lodge, then the host could be counted on to supply such needs.
    He had brought along an electric razor in a padded box and a can of spray deodorant, and there was probably a comb tucked away someplace, though it was not in evidence at the moment. The spray can, when looked at particularly, turned out to be of antiseptic, not deodorant, but would be more welcome if he cut himself before being rescued. The razor was useless at the moment, but then he had no reason to shave so long as he was stranded. He unzipped the case and drained it, but closed it without looking into the little mirror affixed to the inside of the top lid. For years he had had nothing to learn from staring at his own face.
    The remaining contents of the duffel bag were not what they should have been for a weekend anywhere, crash aside, consisting of the half-gallon jug of vodka and too much underwear and socks and too little else, for example sweaters, of which he had neglected to bring a one. When packing, a five-minute event, he had apparently mistaken a couple of navy-blue T-shirts for heavier clothing. Two more knitted polo shirts of the type he was wearing and a pair of blue jeans comprised the only garments for exterior wear.
    He spread the wet clothes to dry on the sand and inspected the contents of the plastic boxes from the picnic basket. The food proved to be the sort that some gourmet catering service deemed appropriate for four men on a fishing trip: little sandwiches of goat cheese and dried tomatoes; Cornish-hen drumsticks; vegetable pâté and sesame-seeded crackers. Probably these things were to be snacked on during the flight and never intended as a proper lunch. But they were a potential source of nourishment and might serve a purpose if he had to wait much longer for rescue. He had not eaten a bite of anything in recent memory, and was still not hungry, but he forced himself now to chew on a triangle of goat-cheese sandwich. He also sipped some coffee from the thermos; it was still faintly warm. Immediately he was nauseated, but with self-discipline not only kept down what he had eaten but continued to masticate until he finished the sandwich. He was suddenly aware of being dehydrated, and poured himself more coffee and drank it all.
    He could see no evidence that any other human being had ever visited this place. But they had hardly been flying long enough to have reached uncharted wilderness, if any such even existed on the continent. Beyond that wall of Christmas trees, it stood to reason that civilization was not too far away, in some form or another. Had he possessed footgear, he might have done worse than choose a direction and hike toward it—if rescue did not come soon, that is. He had to consider the possibility that his position was not known, owing to the failure of the radio. It was now almost a full day since the crash. Could a searching plane have flown overhead while he was buried to his face in the sand?
    Crews was trying to use a brain that had been pickled in alcohol too long to be instantly radiant when teetotaling. The flask had disappeared from the pocket of his jacket: he would not search the fuselage for it. The half gallon of vodka, in its plastic jug, had easily survived the disaster, surrounded by the soft clothing in the duffel bag. Crews had planted this vessel in the sand. He had neither taste for it nor horror of it. He was interested solely now in what would serve him, and alcohol, whatever it had done for him elsewhere, held no promise.
    His pressing need at the moment was for a means of attracting the attention of any airplane that might fly over the lake. A big smoky fire would do it, but he had nothing with which to start one. He decided to make a horizontal sign on the beach, using the branches of trees. He had forgotten his bad left leg until he