Meanwhile in the Mid-Atlantic…
Gordnauld drags Rentwich – still unconscious – out of the crashing waves, and collapses on the hard rocky surface of the uncharted islet. Bruised, bloodied and bereft of body heat, he blearily brings himself to behold the barren bump of basalt. Though the night is dark, with nothing but starlight to aid his reconnoiter, he can tell it is dead to all life.
Flandly Overture: “Welcome to my island. My name is Flandly Overture.”
Gordnauld screams, out of a mixture of surprise and of seeing the pale seemingly-disembodied face appear out of the darkness.
Gordnauld: “Um… I’m Gordnauld Fortuna, and this is my associate – Rentwich.”
Flandly bows a greeting. His eyes focusing, Gordnauld can now make out Flandly’s impressively well-kept black suit.
Flandly: “Well… it’s not often I have visitors here and I wouldn’t want to overcrowd you. You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your toilet. I trust we can get to know each other better in the near future.”
A particularly strong wave crashes noisily, and Flandly Overture is gone. Gornauld, now befuddled and bemuzed, looks out to sea where the first grey light of dawn is making itself known.