Bond took a few steps through the shallows and dived through the blood-warm upper water down into the cool depths. The beach shelved quickly through green to blue under the water. The small beach was a dazzling half-moon of white sand enclosed on both sides by rocky points. Bond changed and walked out again into the sun. HERS contained a small pile of soft clothes and the white doeskin sandals. Inside were two changing rooms labeled HIS and HERS. The beach hut was a Robinson Crusoe affair of plaited bamboo and screwpine with a palm thatch whose wide eaves threw black shadows. By the time Bond found the sandy track leading off into the casuarinas and had parked the car on the edge of the beach, all he wanted to do was get into the sea and stay in it. The Land Rover had Dunlopillo cushions, but the ripple-edged tarmac and the pitted bends of Nassau's coastal road were tough on the springs and the quivering afternoon sun was a killer. He felt in his trousers pocket to make sure he had the identification bracelet and went out of the room and down in the lift. He looked like any other tourist with a camera. Bond rolled his swimming trunks into a towel, put on a dark blue sea-island cotton shirt over his slacks, and slung Leiter's Geiger counter over his shoulder.
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