019- Wild Oranges -William Conrad

You were trapped in the darkness of a ruined plantation house, and somewhere in the pitch-black room is a homicidal maniac armed with a knife, groping for you, trying to prevent your escape. Escape! Produced by William N. Robeson, directed tonight by Richard Sandville, and carefully plotted to free you from the poor walls of today, for a half hour of high adventure.

Tonight we escaped to a deserted sand head off the coast of Georgia, where terror stalks under the Spanish moss, as Joseph Hurgersheimer tells it in Wild Oranges. What could have appeared more innocent of danger than that barren low-lying shore of southern Georgia?

What could have seemed less laden with terror than that lovely little cove, so tranquil and well sheltered, so warmly bathed in late afternoon sun, sun, as we drop the anchor of our catch and prepared our mooring.

And yet there was something. First it was an odor of a grove of wild orange trees in late bloom, growing defiantly amid the tangled undergrowth of the shore. The scent was strong and exotic and heady, and as I smelled it I felt a vague uneasiness.

Then as I watched the shore and halvered sole member of my crew furled the sails, the mirror of the cove was shattered by a movement. First I thought it was a fish leaping and playing in the water. Came round a spit of land from an inner bay and then Halvard was beside me. That's queer sir. It would have bet there was nobody but then Miles of here.

But there's someone swimming. Yes, it's a girl. Hey, she'll be surprised when she discovers us, no doubt. And embarrassed. Oh, she swims well, doesn't she? If she's been born in the water. Ah, yeah, does she see this? Yes. Now she's running away. That sprint would win an Olympic race. What's she's doing here? Where she comes from? Perhaps there. Hmm? Where? Two to three