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Title: Moonraker
Author: Fleming, Ian [Ian Lancaster] (1908-1964)
Date of first publication: 1955
Date first posted: 16 August 2015
Date last updated: 21 August 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1267

This ebook was produced by Alex White, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout,
notably in Chapter VII (the bridge game), where, for example,
we have used the full name of suits: "DIAMONDS" instead
of the familiar diamond symbol, and so on.

We have also added a table of contents.






                               MOONRAKER


                              Ian Fleming






                                CONTENTS


                         I SECRET PAPER-WORK
                        II THE COLUMBITE KING
                       III 'BELLY STRIPPERS', ETC.
                        IV THE 'SHINER'
                         V DINNER AT BLADES
                        VI CARDS WITH A STRANGER
                       VII THE QUICKNESS OF THE HAND
                      VIII THE RED TELEPHONE
                        IX TAKE IT FROM HERE
                         X SPECIAL BRANCH AGENT
                        XI POLICEWOMAN BRAND
                       XII THE MOONRAKER
                      XIII DEAD RECKONING
                       XIV ITCHING FINGERS
                        XV ROUGH JUSTICE
                       XVI A GOLDEN DAY
                      XVII WILD SURMISES
                     XVIII BENEATH THE FLAT STONE
                       XIX MISSING PERSON
                        XX DRAX'S GAMBIT
                       XXI 'THE PERSUADER'
                      XXII PANDORA'S BOX
                     XXIII ZERO MINUS
                      XXIV ZERO
                       XXV ZERO PLUS




                           _PART ONE: MONDAY_




                               CHAPTER I
                           SECRET PAPER-WORK


The two thirty-eights roared simultaneously.

The walls of the underground room took the crash of sound and batted it
to and fro between them until there was silence. James Bond watched the
smoke being sucked from each end of the room towards the central
Ventaxia fan. The memory in his right hand of how he had drawn and fired
with one sweep from the left made him confident. He broke the chamber
sideways out of the Colt Detective Special and waited, his gun pointing
at the floor, while the Instructor walked the twenty yards towards him
through the half-light of the gallery.

Bond saw that the Instructor was grinning. "I don't believe it," he
said. "I got you that time."

The Instructor came up with him. "I'm in hospital, but you're dead,
sir," he said. In one hand he held the silhouette target of the upper
body of a man. In the other a polaroid film, postcard size. He handed
this to Bond and they turned to a table behind them on which there was a
green-shaded desk-light and a large magnifying glass.

Bond picked up the glass and bent over the photograph. It was a
flash-light photograph of him. Around his right hand there was a blurred
burst of white flame. He focused the glass carefully on the left side of
his dark jacket. In the centre of his heart there was a tiny pinpoint of
light.

Without speaking, the Instructor laid the big white man-shaped target
under the lamp. Its heart was a black bullseye, about three inches
across. Just below and half an inch to the right was the rent made by
Bond's bullet.

"Through the left wall of the stomach and out at the back," said the
Instructor, with satisfaction. He took out a pencil and scribbled an
addition on the side of the target. "Twenty rounds and I make it you owe
me seven-and-six, sir," he said impassively.

Bond laughed. He counted out some silver. "Double the stakes next
Monday," he said.

"That's all right with me," said the Instructor. "But you can't beat the
machine, sir. And if you want to get into the team for the Dewar Trophy
we ought to give the thirty-eights a rest and spend some time on the
Remington. That new long twenty-two cartridge they've just brought out
is going to mean at least 7900 out of a possible 8000 to win. Most of
your bullets have got to be in the X-ring and that's only as big as a
shilling when it's under your nose. At a hundred yards it isn't there at
all."

"To hell with the Dewar Trophy," said Bond. "It's your money I'm after."
He shook the unfired bullets in the chamber of his gun into his cupped
hand and laid them and the gun on the table. "See you Monday. Same
time?"

"Ten o'clock'll be fine, sir," said the Instructor, jerking down the two
handles on the iron door. He smiled at Bond's back as it disappeared up
the steep concrete stairs leading to the ground floor. He was pleased
with Bond's shooting, but he wouldn't have thought of telling him that
he was the best shot in the Service. Only M. was allowed to know that,
and his Chief of Staff, who would be told to enter the scores of that
day's shoot on Bond's Confidential Record.

Bond pushed through the green baize door at the top of the basement
steps and walked over to the lift that would take him up to the eighth
floor of the tall, grey building near Regent's Park that is the
headquarters of the Secret Service. He was satisfied with his score but
not proud of it. His trigger finger twitched in his pocket as he
wondered how to conjure up that little extra flash of speed that would
beat the machine, the complicated box of tricks that sprung the target
for just three seconds, fired back at him with a blank.38, and shot a
pencil of light aimed at him and photographed it as he stood and fired
from the circle of chalk on the floor.

The lift doors sighed open and Bond got in. The liftman could smell the
cordite on him. They always smelled like that when they came up from the
shooting gallery. He liked it. It reminded him of the Army. He pressed
the button for the eighth and rested the stump of his left arm against
the control handle.

If only the light was better, thought Bond. But M. insisted that all
shooting should be done in averagely bad conditions. A dim light and a
target that shot back at you was as close as he could get to copying the
real thing. 'Shooting hell out of a piece of cardboard doesn't prove
anything' was his single-line introduction to the Small-arms Defence
Manual.

The lift eased to a stop and as Bond stepped out into the drab
Ministry-of-Works-green corridor and into the bustling world of girls
carrying files, doors opening and shutting, and muted telephone bells,
he emptied his mind of all thoughts of his shoot and prepared himself
for the normal business of a routine day at Headquarters.

He walked along to the end door on the right. It was as anonymous as all
the others he had passed. No numbers. If you had any business on the
eighth floor, and your office was not on that floor, someone would come
and fetch you to the room you needed and see you back into the lift when
you were through.

Bond knocked and waited. He looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Mondays
were hell. Two days of dockets and files to plough through. And
week-ends were generally busy times abroad. Empty flats got burgled.
People were photographed in compromising positions. Motor-car
'accidents' looked better, got a more cursory handling, amidst the
week-end slaughter on the roads. The weekly bags from Washington,
Istanbul, and Tokyo would have come in and been sorted. They might hold
something for him.

The door opened and he had his daily moment of pleasure at having a
beautiful secretary. "Morning, Lil," he said.

The careful warmth of her smile of welcome dropped about ten degrees.

"Give me that coat," she said. "It stinks of cordite. And don't call me
Lil. You know I hate it."

Bond took off his coat and handed it to her. "Anyone who gets christened
Loelia Ponsonby ought to get used to pet names."

He stood beside her desk in the little anteroom which she had somehow
made to seem a little more human than an office and watched her hang his
coat on the iron frame of the open window.

She was tall and dark with a reserved, unbroken beauty to which the war
and five years in the Service had lent a touch of sternness. Unless she
married soon, Bond thought for the hundredth time, or had a lover, her
cool air of authority might easily become spinsterish and she would join
the army of women who had married a career.

Bond had told her as much, often, and he and the two other members of
the 00 Section had at various times made determined assaults on her
virtue. She had handled them all with the same cool motherliness (which,
to salve their egos, they privately defined as frigidity) and, the day
after, she treated them with small attentions and kindnesses to show
that it was really her fault and that she forgave them.

What they didn't know was that she worried herself almost to death when
they were in danger and that she loved them equally; but that she had no
intention of becoming emotionally involved with any man who might be
dead next week. And it was true that an appointment in the Secret
Service was a form of peonage. If you were a woman there wasn't much of
you left for other relationships. It was easier for the men. They had an
excuse for fragmentary affairs. For them marriage and children and a
home were out of the question if they were to be of any use 'in the
field' as it was cosily termed. But, for the women, an affair outside
the Service automatically made you a 'security risk' and in the last
analysis you had a choice of resignation from the Service and a normal
life, or of perpetual concubinage to your King and Country.

Loelia Ponsonby knew that she had almost reached the time for decision
and all her instincts told her to get out. But every day the drama and
romance of her Cavell-Nightingale world locked her more securely into
the company of the other girls at Headquarters and every day it seemed
more difficult to betray by resignation the father-figure which The
Service had become.

Meanwhile she was one of the most envied girls in the building, and a
member of the small company of Principal Secretaries who had access to
the innermost secrets of the Service--'The Pearls and Twin-set' as they
were called behind their backs by the other girls, with ironical
reference to their supposedly 'County' and 'Kensington'
backgrounds--and, so far as the Personnel Branch was concerned, her
destiny in twenty years' time would be that single golden line right at
the end of a New Year's Honours List, among the medals for officials of
the Fishery Board, of the Post Office, of the Women's Institute, towards
the bottom of the OBEs: 'Miss Loelia Ponsonby, Principal Secretary in
the Ministry of Defence.'

She turned away from the window. She was dressed in a sugar-pink and
white striped shirt and a plain dark blue skirt.

Bond smiled into her grey eyes. "I only call you Lil on Mondays," he
said. "Miss Ponsonby the rest of the week. But I'll never call you
Loelia. It sounds like somebody in an indecent limerick. Any messages?"

"No," she said shortly. She relented. "But there's piles of stuff on
your desk. Nothing urgent. But there's an awful lot of it. Oh, and the
powder-vine says that 008's got out. He's in Berlin, resting. Isn't it
wonderful!"

Bond looked quickly at her. "When did you hear that?"

"About half an hour ago," she said.

Bond opened the inner door to the big office with the three desks and
shut it behind him. He went and stood by the window, looking out at the
late spring green of the trees in Regent's Park. So Bill had made it
after all. Peenemunde and back. Resting in Berlin sounded bad. Must be
in pretty poor shape. Well, he'd just have to wait for news from the
only leak in the building--the girls' rest-room, known to the impotent
fury of the Security staff as 'The powder-vine'.

Bond sighed and sat down at his desk, pulling towards him the tray of
brown folders bearing the top-secret red star. And what about 0011? It
was two months since he had vanished into the 'Dirty Half-mile' in
Singapore. Not a word since. While he, Bond, No. 007, the senior of the
three men in the Service who had earned the double 0 number, sat at his
comfortable desk doing paper-work and flirting with their secretary.

He shrugged his shoulders and resolutely opened the top folder. Inside
there was a detailed map of southern Poland and north-eastern Germany.
Its feature was a straggling red line connecting Warsaw and Berlin.
There was also a long typewritten memorandum headed _Mainline: A
well-established Escape Route from East to West_.

Bond took out his black gunmetal cigarette-box and his black-oxidized
Ronson lighter and put them on the desk beside him. He lit a cigarette,
one of the Macedonian blend with the three gold rings round the butt
that Morlands of Grosvenor Street made for him, then he settled himself
forward in the padded swivel chair and began to read.

It was the beginning of a typical routine day for Bond. It was only two
or three times a year that an assignment came along requiring his
particular abilities. For the rest of the year he had the duties of an
easy-going senior civil servant--elastic office hours from around ten to
six; lunch, generally in the canteen; evenings spent playing cards in
the company of a few close friends, or at Crockford's; or making love,
with rather cold passion, to one of three similarly disposed married
women; week-ends playing golf for high stakes at one of the clubs near
London.

He took no holidays, but was generally given a fortnight's leave at the
end of each assignment--in addition to any sick-leave that might be
necessary. He earned 1500 a year, the salary of a Principal Officer in
the Civil Service, and he had a thousand a year free of tax of his own.
When he was on a job he could spend as much as he liked, so for the
other months of the year he could live very well on his 2000 a year
net.

He had a small but comfortable flat off the Kings Road, an elderly
Scottish housekeeper--a treasure called May--and a 1930 4-litre Bentley
coup, supercharged, which he kept expertly tuned so that he could do a
hundred when he wanted to.

On these things he spent all his money and it was his ambition to have
as little as possible in his banking account when he was killed, as,
when he was depressed, he knew he would be, before the statutory age of
forty-five.

Eight years to go before he was automatically taken off the 00 list and
given a staff job at Headquarters. At least eight tough assignments.
Probably sixteen. Perhaps twenty-four. Too many.

There were five cigarette-ends in the big glass ashtray by the time Bond
had finished memorizing the details of 'Mainline'. He picked up a red
pencil and ran his eye down the distribution list on the cover. The list
started with 'M.', then 'CoS.', then a dozen or so letters and numbers
and then, at the end '00'. Against this he put a neat tick, signed it
with the figure 7, and tossed the file into his OUT tray.

It was twelve o'clock. Bond took the next folder off the pile and opened
it. It was from the Radio Intelligence Division of NATO, 'For
Information Only' and it was headed 'Radio Signatures'.

Bond pulled the rest of the pile towards him and glanced at the first
page of each. These were their titles:

_The Inspectoscope--a machine for the detection of contraband._

_Philopon--A Japanese murder-drug._

_Possible points of concealment on trains. No. 11. Germany._

_The methods of Smersh. No. 6. Kidnapping._

_Route five to Pekin._

_Vladivostock. A photographic Reconnaissance by U.S. Thunderjet._

Bond was not surprised by the curious mixture he was supposed to digest.
The 00 Section of the Secret Service was not concerned with the current
operations of other sections and stations, only with background
information which might be useful or instructive to the only three men
in the Service whose duties included assassination--who might be ordered
to kill. There was no urgency about these files. No action was required
by him or his two colleagues except that each of them jotted down the
numbers of dockets which he considered the other two should also read
when they were next attached to Headquarters. When the 00 Section had
finished with this lot they would go down to their final destination in
'Records'.

Bond turned back to the NATO paper.

'The almost inevitable manner', he read, 'in which individuality is
revealed by minute patterns of behaviour, is demonstrated by the
indelible characteristics of the "fist" of each radio operator. This
"fist", or manner of tapping out messages, is distinctive and
recognizable by those who are practised in receiving messages. It can
also be measured by very sensitive mechanisms. To illustrate, in 1943
the United States Radio Intelligence Bureau made use of this fact in
tracing an enemy station in Chile operated by "Pedro", a young German.
When the Chilean police closed in on the station, "Pedro" escaped. A
year later, expert listeners spotted a new illegal transmitter and were
able to recognize "Pedro" as the operator. In order to disguise his
"fist" he was transmitting left-handed, but the disguise was not
effective and he was captured.

'NATO Radio Research has recently been experimenting with a form of
"scrambler" which can be attached to the wrist of operators with the
object of interfering minutely with the nerve centres which control the
muscles of the hand. However...'

There were three telephones on Bond's desk. A black one for outside
calls, a green office telephone, and a red one which went only to M. and
his Chief of Staff. It was the familiar burr of the red one that broke
the silence of the room.

It was M's Chief of Staff.

"Can you come up?" asked the pleasant voice.

"M.?" asked Bond.

"Yes."

"Any clue?"

"Simply said if you were about he'd like to see you."

"Right," said Bond, and put down the receiver.

He collected his coat, told his secretary he would be with M. and not to
wait for him, left his office and walked along the corridor to the lift.

While he waited for it, he thought of those other times, when, in the
middle of an empty day, the red telephone had suddenly broken the
silence and taken him out of one world and set him down in another. He
shrugged his shoulders--Monday! He might have expected trouble.

The lift came. "Ninth," said Bond, and stepped in.




                               CHAPTER II
                           THE COLUMBITE KING


The ninth was the top floor of the building. Most of it was occupied by
Communications, the hand-picked inter-services team of operators whose
only interest was the world of microwaves, sunspots, and the 'heaviside
layer'. Above them, on the flat roof, were the three squat masts of one
of the most powerful transmitters in England, explained on the bold
bronze list of occupants in the entrance hall of the building by the
words 'Radio Tests Ltd.' The other tenants were declared to be
'Universal Export Co.', 'Delaney Bros. (1940) Ltd.', 'The Omnium
Corporation', and 'Enquiries (Miss E. Twining, OBE)'.

Miss Twining was a real person. Forty years earlier she had been a
Loelia Ponsonby. Now, in retirement, she sat in a small office on the
ground floor and spent her days tearing up circulars, paying the rates
and taxes of her ghostly tenants, and politely brushing off salesmen and
people who wanted to export something or have their radios mended.

It was always very quiet on the ninth floor. As Bond turned to the left
outside the lift and walked along the softly carpeted corridor to the
green baize door that led to the offices of M. and his personal staff,
the only sound he heard was a thin high-pitched whine that was so faint
that you almost had to listen for it.

Without knocking he pushed through the green door and walked into the
last room but one along the passage.

Miss Moneypenny, M.'s private secretary, looked up from her typewriter
and smiled at him. They liked each other and she knew that Bond admired
her looks. She was wearing the same model shirt as his own secretary,
but with blue stripes.

"New uniform, Penny?" said Bond.

She laughed. "Loelia and I share the same little woman," she said. "We
tossed and I got blue."

A snort came through the open door of the adjoining room. The Chief of
Staff, a man of about Bond's age, came out, a sardonic grin on his pale,
overworked face.

"Break it up," he said. "M.'s waiting. Lunch afterwards?"

"Fine," said Bond. He turned to the door beside Miss Moneypenny, walked
through and shut it after him. Above it, a green light went on. Miss
Moneypenny raised her eyebrows at the Chief of Staff. He shook his head.

"I don't think it's business, Penny," he said. "Just sent for him out of
the blue." He went back into his own room and got on with the day's
work.

When Bond came through the door, M. was sitting at his broad desk,
lighting a pipe. He made a vague gesture with the lighted match towards
the chair on the other side of the desk and Bond walked over and sat
down. M. glanced at him sharply through the smoke and then threw the box
of matches on to the empty expanse of red leather in front of him.

"Have a good leave?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes, thank you, sir," said Bond.

"Still sunburned, I see." M. looked his disapproval. He didn't really
begrudge Bond a holiday which had been partly convalescence. The hint of
criticism came from the Puritan and the Jesuit who live in all leaders
of men.

"Yes, sir," said Bond noncommittally. "It's very hot near the equator."

"Quite," said M. "Well-deserved rest." He screwed up his eyes without
humour. "Hope the colour won't last too long. Always suspicious of
sunburned men in England. Either they've not got a job of work to do or
they put it on with a sun-lamp." He dismissed the subject with a short
sideways jerk of his pipe.

He put the pipe back in his mouth and pulled at it absentmindedly. It
had gone out. He reached for the matches and wasted some time getting it
going again.

"Looks as if we'll get that gold after all," he said finally. "There's
been some talk of the Hague Court, but Ashenheim's a fine lawyer."[1]

"Good," said Bond.

There was silence for a moment. M. gazed into the bowl of his pipe.
Through the open windows came the distant roar of London's traffic. A
pigeon landed on one of the window-sills with a clatter of wings and
quickly took off again.

Bond tried to read something in the weatherbeaten face he knew so well
and which held so much of his loyalty. But the grey eyes were quiet and
the little pulse that always beat high up on the right temple when M.
was tense showed no sign of life.

Suddenly Bond suspected that M. was embarrassed. He had the feeling that
M. didn't know where to begin. Bond wanted to help. He shifted in his
chair and took his eyes off M. He looked down at his hands and idly
picked at a rough nail.

M. lifted his eyes from his pipe and cleared his throat.

"Got anything particular on at the moment, James?" he asked in a neutral
voice.

'James.' That was unusual. It was rare for M. to use a Christian name in
this room.

"Only paper-work and the usual courses," said Bond. "Anything you want
me for, sir?"

"As a matter of fact there is," said M. He frowned at Bond. "But it's
really got nothing to do with the Service. Almost a personal matter.
Thought you might give me a hand."

"Of course, sir," said Bond. He was relieved for M.'s sake that the ice
had been broken. Probably one of the old man's relations had got into
trouble and M. didn't want to ask a favour of Scotland Yard. Blackmail,
perhaps. Or drugs. He was pleased that M. should have chosen him. Of
course he would take care of it. M. was such a desperate stickler about
Government property and personnel. Using Bond on a personal matter must
have seemed to him like stealing the Government's money.

"Thought you'd say so," said M., gruffly. "Won't take up much of your
time. An evening ought to be enough." He paused. "Well now, you've heard
of this man Sir Hugo Drax?"

"Of course, sir," said Bond, surprised at the name. "You can't open a
paper without reading something about him. _Sunday Express_ is running
his life. Extraordinary story."

"I know," said M. shortly. "Just give me the facts as you see them. I'd
like to know if your version tallies with mine."

Bond gazed out of the window for a moment to marshal his thoughts. M.
didn't like haphazard talk. He liked a fully detailed story with no
um-ing and er-ing. No afterthoughts or hedging.

"Well, sir," said Bond finally. "For one thing the man's a national
hero. The public have taken to him. I suppose he's in much the same
class as Jack Hobbs or Gordon Richards. They've got a real feeling for
him. They consider he's one of them, but a glorified version. A sort of
superman. He's not much to look at, with all those scars from his war
injuries, and he's a bit loud-mouthed and ostentatious. But they rather
like that. Makes him a sort of Lonsdale figure, but more in their class.
They like his friends calling him 'Hugger' Drax. It makes him a bit of a
card and I expect it gives the women a thrill. And then when you think
what he's doing for the country, out of his own pocket and far beyond
what any government seems to be able to do, it's really extraordinary
that they don't insist on making him Prime Minister."

Bond saw the cold eyes getting chillier, but he was determined not to
let his admiration for Drax's achievements be dampened by the older man.
"After all, sir," he continued reasonably, "it looks as if he's made
this country safe from war for years. And he can't be much over forty. I
feel the same as most people about him. And then there's all this
mystery about his real identity. I'm not surprised people feel rather
sorry for him, although he is a multi-millionaire. He seems to be a
lonely sort of man in spite of his gay life."

M. smiled drily. "All that sounds rather like a trailer for the
_Express_ story. He's certainly an extrordinary man. But what's your
version of the facts? I don't expect I know much more than you do.
Probably less. Don't read the papers very carefully, and there are no
files on him except at the War Office and they're not very illuminating.
Now then. What's the gist of the _Express_ story?"

"Sorry, sir," said Bond. "But the facts are pretty slim. Well," he
looked out of the window again and concentrated, "in the German
break-through in the Ardennes in the winter of '44, the Germans made a
lot of use of guerrillas and saboteurs. Gave them the rather spooky name
of Werewolves. They did quite a lot of damage of one sort or another.
Very good at camouflage and stay-behind tricks of all sorts and some of
them went on operating long after Ardennes had failed and we had crossed
the Rhine. They were supposed to carry on even when we had overrun the
country. But they packed up pretty quickly when things got really bad.

"One of their best coups was to blow up one of the rear liaison HQs
between the American and British armies. Reinforcement Holding Units I
think they're called. It was a mixed affair, all kinds of Allied
personnel--American signals, British ambulance drivers--a rather
shifting group from every sort of unit. The Werewolves somehow managed
to mine the mess-hall and, when it blew, it took with it quite a lot of
the field hospital as well. Killed or wounded over a hundred. Sorting
out all the bodies was the hell of a business. One of the English bodies
was Drax. Half his face was blown away. Total amnesia that lasted a year
and at the end of that time they didn't know who he was and nor did he.
There were about twenty-five other unidentified bodies that neither we
nor the Americans could sort out. Either not enough bits, or perhaps
people in transit, or there without authorization. It was that sort of a
unit. Two commanding officers, of course. Sloppy staff work. Lousy
records. So after a year in various hospitals they took Drax through the
War Office file of Missing Men. When they came to the papers of a
no-next-of-kin called Hugo Drax, an orphan who had been working in the
Liverpool docks before the war, he showed signs of interest, and the
photograph and physical description seemed to tally more or less with
what our man must have looked like before he was blown up. From that
time he began to mend. He started to talk a bit about simple things he
remembered, and the doctors got very proud of him. The War Office found
a man who had served in the same Pioneer unit as this Hugo Drax and he
came along to the hospital and said he was sure the man was Drax. That
settled it. Advertising didn't produce another Hugo Drax and he was
finally discharged late in 1945 in that name with back pay and a full
disability pension."

"But he still says he doesn't really know who he is," interrupted M.
"He's a member of Blades. I've often played cards with him and talked to
him afterwards at dinner. He says he sometimes gets a strong feeling of
'having been there before'. Often goes to Liverpool to try and hunt up
his past. Anyway, what else?"

Bond's eyes were turned inwards, remembering. "He seems to have
disappeared for about three years after the war," he said. "Then the
City started to hear about him from all over the world. The Metal Market
heard about him first. Seems he'd cornered a very valuable ore called
Columbite. Everybody was wanting the stuff. It's got an extraordinarily
high melting point. Jet engines can't be made without it. There's very
little of it in the world, only a few thousand tons are produced every
year, mostly as a by-product of the Nigerian tin mines. Drax must have
looked at the Jet Age and somehow put his finger on its main scarcity.
He must have got hold of about 10,000 from somewhere because the
_Express_ says that in 1946 he'd bought three tons of Columbite, which
cost him around 3000 a ton. He got a 5000 premium on this lot from an
American aircraft firm who wanted it in a hurry. Then he started buying
futures in the stuff, six months, nine months, a year forward. In three
years he'd made a corner. Anyone who wanted Columbite went to Drax
Metals for it. All this time he'd been playing about with futures in
other small commodities--Shellac, Sisal, Black Pepper--anything where
you could build up a big position on margin. Of course he gambled on a
rising commodity market but he had the guts to keep his foot right down
on the pedal even when the pace got hot as hell. And whenever he took a
profit he ploughed the money back again. For instance, he was one of the
first men to buy up used ore-dumps in South Africa. Now they're being
re-mined for their uranium content. Another fortune there."

M's quiet eyes were fixed on Bond. He puffed at his pipe, listening.

"Of course," continued Bond, lost in his story, "all this made the City
wonder what the hell was going on. The commodity brokers kept on coming
across the name of Drax. Whatever they wanted Drax had got it and was
holding out for a much higher price than they were prepared to pay. He
operated from Tangier--free port, no taxes, no currency restrictions. By
1950 he was a multi-millionaire. Then he came back to England and
started spending it. He simply threw it about. Best houses, best cars,
best women. Boxes at the Opera, at Goodwood. Prize-winning Jersey herds.
Prize-winning carnations. Prize-winning two-year-olds. Two yachts; money
for the Walker Cup team; 100,000 for the Flood Disaster Fund;
Coronation Ball for Nurses at the Albert Hall--there wasn't a week when
he wasn't hitting the headlines with some splash or other. And all the
time he went on getting richer and the people simply loved it. It was
the Arabian Nights. It lit up their lives. If a wounded soldier from
Liverpool could get there in five years, why shouldn't they or their
sons? It sounded almost as easy as winning a gigantic football pool.

"And then came his astonishing letter to the Queen: 'Your Majesty, may I
have the temerity...' and the typical genius of the single
banner-line across the _Express_ next day: TEMERITY DRAX, and the story
of how he had given to Britain his entire holding in Columbite to build
a super atomic rocket with a range that would cover nearly every capital
in Europe--the immediate answer to anyone who tried to atom-bomb London.
10,000,000 he was going to put up out of his own pocket, and he had the
design of the thing and was prepared to find the staff to build it.

"And then there were months of delay and everyone got impatient.
Questions in the House. The Opposition nearly forced a vote of
Confidence. And then the announcement by the Prime Minister that the
design had been approved by the Woomera Range experts of the Ministry of
Supply, and that the Queen had been graciously pleased to accept the
gift on behalf of the people of Britain and had conferred a knighthood
on the donor."

Bond paused, almost carried away by the story of this extraordinary man.

"Yes," said M. "Peace in Our Time--This Time. I remember the headline. A
year ago. And now the rocket's nearly ready. 'The Moonraker'. And from
all I hear it really should do what he says. It's very odd." He relapsed
into silence, gazing out of the window.

He turned back and faced Bond across the desk.

"That's about it," he said slowly. "I don't know much more than you do.
A wonderful story. Extraordinary man." He paused, reflecting. "There's
only one thing..." M. tapped the stem of his pipe against his teeth.

"What's that, sir?" asked Bond.

M. seemed to make up his mind. He looked mildly across at Bond.

"Sir Hugo Drax cheats at cards."

-----

[1] This refers to Bond's previous assignment, described in _Live and
Let Die_, by the same author.




                              CHAPTER III
                        'BELLY STRIPPERS', ETC.


"Cheats at cards?"

M. frowned. "That's what I said," he commented drily. "It doesn't seem
to you odd that a multi-millionaire should cheat at cards?"

Bond grinned apologetically. "Not as odd as all that, sir," he said.
"I've known very rich people cheat themselves at Patience. But it just
didn't fit in with my picture of Drax. Bit of an anti-climax."

"That's the point," said M. "Why does he do it? And don't forget that
cheating at cards can still smash a man. In so-called Society, it's
about the only crime that can still finish you, whoever you are. Drax
does it so well that nobody's caught him yet. As a matter of fact I
doubt if anyone has begun to suspect him except Basildon. He's the
Chairman of Blades. He came to me. He's got a vague idea I've got
something to do with Intelligence and I've given him a hand over one or
two little troubles in the past. Asked my advice. Said he didn't want a
fuss at the club, of course, but above all he wants to save Drax from
making a fool of himself. He admires him as much as we all do and he's
terrified of an incident. You couldn't stop a scandal like that getting
out. A lot of MPs are members and it would soon get talked about in the
Lobby. Then the gossip-writers would get hold of it. Drax would have to
resign from Blades and the next thing there'd be a libel action brought
in his defence by one of his friends. Tranby Croft all over again. At
least, that's how Basildon's mind is working and I must say I can see it
that way too. Anyway," said M. with finality, "I've agreed to help and,"
he looked levelly at Bond, "that's where you come in. You're the best
card-player in the Service, or," he smiled ironically, "you should be
after the casino jobs you've been on, and I remembered that we'd spent
quite a lot of money putting you through a course in card-sharping
before you went after those Roumanians in Monte Carlo before the war."

Bond smiled grimly. "Steffi Esposito," he said softly. "That was the
chap. American. Made me work ten hours a day for a week learning a thing
called the Riffle Stack and how to deal Seconds and Bottoms and Middles.
I wrote a long report about it at the time. Must be buried in Records.
He knew every trick in the game. How to wax the aces so that the pack
will break at them; Edge Work and Line Work with a razor on the backs of
the high cards; Trimming; Arm Pressure Holdouts--mechanical gadgets up
your sleeve that feed you cards. Belly Strippers--trimming a whole pack
less than a millimetre down both sides, but leaving a slight belly on
the cards you're interested in--the aces, for instance. Shiners, tiny
mirrors built into rings, or fitted into the bottom of a pipe-bowl.
Actually," Bond admitted, "it was his tip about Luminous Readers that
helped me on that Monte Carlo job. A croupier was using an invisible ink
the team could pick out with special glasses. But Steffi was a wonderful
chap. Scotland Yard found him for us. He could shuffle the pack once and
then cut the four aces out of it. Absolute magic."

"Sounds a bit too professional for our man," commented M. "That sort of
work needs hours of practice every day, or an accomplice, and I can't
believe he'd find that at Blades. No, there's nothing sensational about
his cheating and for all I know it might be a fantastic run of luck.
It's odd. He's not a particularly good player--he only plays bridge by
the way--but quite often he brings off bids or doubles or finesses that
are absolutely phenomenal--quite against the odds. Or the conventions.
But they come off. He's always a big winner and they play high at
Blades. He hasn't lost on a weekly settlement since he joined a year
ago. We've got two or three of the finest players in the world in the
Club and none of them has ever had a record like that over twelve
months. It's getting talked about in a sort of joking way and I think
Basildon's right to do something about it. What system do you suppose
Drax has got?"

Bond was longing for his lunch. The Chief of Staff must have given him
up half an hour ago. He could have talked to M. about cheating for
hours, and M., who never seemed to be interested in food or sleep, would
have listened to everything and remembered it afterwards. But Bond was
hungry.

"Assuming he's not a professional, sir, and can't doctor the cards in
any way, there are only two answers. He's either looking, or else he's
got a system of signals with his partner. Does he often play with the
same man?"

"We always cut for partners after each rubber," said M. "Unless there's
a challenge. And on guest nights, Mondays and Thursdays, you stick to
your guest. Drax nearly always brings a man called Meyer, his metal
broker. Nice chap. Jew. Very fine player."

"I might be able to tell if I watched," said Bond.

"That's what I was going to say," said M. "How about coming along
tonight? At any rate you'll get a good dinner. Meet you there about six.
I'll take some money off you at piquet and we'll watch the bridge for a
little. After dinner we'll have a rubber or two with Drax and his
friend. They're always there on Monday. All right? Sure I'm not taking
you away from your work?"

"No, sir," said Bond with a grin. "And I'd like to come very much. Bit
of a busman's holiday. And if Drax is cheating, I'll show him I've
spotted it and that should be enough to warn him off. I wouldn't like to
see him get into a mess. That all, sir?"

"Yes, James," said M. "And thank you for your help. Drax must be a
bloody fool. Obviously a bit of a crank. But it isn't the man I'm
worried about. I wouldn't like to chance anything going wrong with this
rocket of his. And Drax more or less _is_ the Moonraker. Well, see you
at six. Don't bother about dressing. Some of us do for dinner and some
of us don't. Tonight we won't. Better go along now and sandpaper your
fingertips or whatever you sharpers do."

Bond smiled back at M. and got to his feet. It sounded a promising
evening. As he walked over to the door and let himself out he reflected
that here at last was an interview with M. that didn't cast a shadow.

M's secretary was still at her desk. There was a plate of sandwiches and
a glass of milk beside her typewriter. She looked sharply at Bond, but
there was nothing to be read in his expression.

"I suppose he gave up," said Bond.

"Nearly an hour ago," said Miss Moneypenny reproachfully. "It's
half-past two. He'll be back any minute now."

"I'll go down to the canteen before it closes," he said. "Tell him I'll
pay for his lunch next time." He smiled at her and walked out into the
corridor and along to the lift.

There were only a few people left in the officers' canteen. Bond sat by
himself and ate a grilled sole, a large mixed salad with his own
dressing laced with mustard, some Brie cheese and toast, and half a
carafe of white Bordeaux. He had two cups of black coffee and was back
in his office by three. With half his mind preoccupied with M.'s
problem, he hurried through the rest of the NATO file, said goodbye to
his secretary after telling her where he would be that evening, and at
four-thirty was collecting his car from the staff garage at the back of
the building.

"Supercharger's whining a bit, sir," said the ex-RAF mechanic who
regarded Bond's Bentley as his own property. "Take it down tomorrow if
you won't be needing her at lunch-time."

"Thanks," said Bond, "that'll be fine." He took the car quietly out into
the park and over to Baker Street, the two-inch exhaust bubbling fatly
in his wake.

He was home in fifteen minutes. He left the car under the plane trees in
the little square and let himself into the ground floor of the converted
Regency house, went into the book-lined sitting-room and, after a
moment's search, pulled _Scarne on Cards_ out of its shelf and dropped
it on the ornate Empire desk near the broad window.

He walked through into the smallish bedroom with the white and gold Cole
wallpaper and the deep red curtains, undressed and threw his clothes,
more or less tidily, on the dark blue counterpane of the double bed.
Then he went into the bathroom and had a quick shower. Before leaving
the bathroom he examined his face in the glass and decided that he had
no intention of sacrificing a lifetime prejudice by shaving twice in one
day.

In the glass, the grey-blue eyes looked back at him with the extra light
they held when his mind was focused on a problem that interested him.
The lean, hard face had a hungry, competitive edge to it. There was
something swift and intent in the way he ran his fingers along his jaw
and in the impatient stroke of the hairbrush to put back the comma of
black hair that fell down an inch above his right eyebrow. It crossed
his mind that, with the fading of his sunburn, the scar down the right
cheek that had shown so white was beginning to be less prominent, and
automatically he glanced down his naked body and registered that the
almost indecent white area left by his bathing trunks was less sharply
defined. He smiled at some memory and went through into the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, in a heavy white silk shirt, dark blue trousers of
Navy serge, dark blue socks, and well-polished black moccasin shoes, he
was sitting at his desk with a pack of cards in one hand and Scarne's
wonderful guide to cheating open in front of him.

For half an hour, as he ran quickly through the section on Methods, he
practised the vital Mechanic's Grip (three fingers curled round the long
edge of the cards, and the index finger at the short upper edge away
from him), Palming and Nullifying the Cut. His hands worked
automatically at these basic manoeuvres, while his eyes read, and he was
glad to find that his fingers were supple and assured and that there was
no noise from the cards even with the very difficult single-handed
Annulment.

At five-thirty he slapped the cards on the table and shut the book.

He went into his bedroom, filled the wide black case with cigarettes and
slipped it into his hip pocket, put on a black knitted silk tie and his
coat and verified that his cheque book was in his notecase.

He stood for a moment, thinking. Then he selected two white silk
handkerchiefs, carefully rumpled them, and put one into each side-pocket
of his coat.

He lit a cigarette and walked back into the sitting-room and sat down at
his desk again and relaxed for ten minutes, gazing out of the window at
the empty square and thinking about the evening that was just going to
begin and about Blades, probably the most famous private card club in
the world.

The exact date of the foundation of Blades is uncertain. The second half
of the eighteenth century saw the opening of many coffee houses and
gaming rooms, and premises and proprietors shifted often with changing
fashions and fortunes. White's was founded in 1755, Almack's in 1764,
and Brooks's in 1774, and it was in that year that the Scavoir Vivre,
which was to be the cradle of Blades, opened its doors on to Park
Street, a quiet backwater off St James's.

The Scavoir Vivre was too exclusive to live and it blackballed itself to
death within a year. Then, in 1776, Horace Walpole wrote: 'A new club is
opened off St James's Street that piques itself in surpassing all its
predecessors' and in 1778 'Blades' first occurs in a letter from Gibbon,
the historian, who coupled it with the name of its founder, a German
called Longchamp at that time conducting the Jockey Club at Newmarket.

From the outset Blades seems to have been a success, and in 1782 we find
the Duke of Wirtemberg writing excitedly home to his younger brother:
'This is indeed the "Ace of Clubs"! There have been four or five quinze
tables going in the room at the same time, with whist and piquet, after
which a full Hazard table. I have known two at the same time. Two chests
each containing 4000 guinea rouleaus were scarce sufficient for the
night's circulation.'

Mention of Hazard perhaps provides a clue to the club's prosperity.
Permission to play this dangerous but popular game must have been given
by the Committee in contravention of its own rules which laid down that
'No game is to be admitted to the House of the Society but Chess, Whist,
Picket, Cribbage, Quadrille, Ombre and Tredville'.

In any event the club continued to flourish and remains to this day the
home of some of the highest 'polite' gambling in the world. It is not as
aristocratic as it was, the redistribution of wealth has seen to that,
but it is still the most exclusive club in London. The membership is
restricted to two hundred and each candidate must have two
qualifications for election; he must behave like a gentleman and he must
be able to 'show' 100,000 in cash or gilt-edged securities.

The amenities of Blades, apart from the gambling, are so desirable that
the Committee has had to rule that every member is required to win or
lose 500 a year on the club premises, or pay an annual fine of 250.
The food and wine are the best in London and no bills are presented, the
cost of all meals being deducted at the end of each week _pro rata_ from
the profits of the winners. Seeing that about 5,000 changes hands each
week at the tables the impost is not too painful and the losers have the
satisfaction of saving something from the wreck; and the custom explains
the fairness of the levy on infrequent gamblers.

Club servants are the making or breaking of any club and the servants of
Blades have no equal. The half-dozen waitresses in the dining-room are
of such a high standard of beauty that some of the younger members have
been known to smuggle them undetected into dbutante balls, and if, at
night, one or other of the girls is persuaded to stray into one of the
twelve members' bedrooms at the back of the club, that is regarded as
the members' private concern.

There are one or two other small refinements which contribute to the
luxury of the place. Only brand-new currency notes and silver are paid
out on the premises and, if a member is staying overnight, his notes and
small change are taken away by the valet who brings the early morning
tea and _The Times_ and are replaced with new money. No newspaper comes
to the reading room before it has been ironed. Floris provides the soaps
and lotions in the lavatories and bedrooms; there is a direct wire to
Ladbroke's from the porter's lodge; the club has the finest tents and
boxes at the principal race-meetings, at Lords, Henley, and Wimbledon,
and members travelling abroad have automatic membership of the leading
club in every foreign capital.

In short, membership of Blades, in return for the 100 entrance fee and
the 50 a year subscription, provides the standard of luxury of the
Victorian age together with the opportunity to win or lose, in great
comfort, anything up to 20,000 a year.

Bond, reflecting on all this, decided that he was going to enjoy his
evening. He had only played at Blades a dozen times in his life, and on
the last occasion he had burnt his fingers badly in a high poker game,
but the prospect of some expensive bridge and of the swing of a few, to
him, not unimportant hundred pounds made his muscles taut with
anticipation.

And then, of course, there was the little business of Sir Hugo Drax,
which might bring an additional touch of drama to the evening.

He was not even disturbed by a curious portent he encountered while he
was driving along King's Road into Sloane Square with half his mind on
the traffic and the other half exploring the evening ahead.

It was a few minutes to six and there was thunder about. The sky
threatened rain and it had become suddenly dark. Across the square from
him, high up in the air, a bold electric sign started to flash on and
off. The fading light-waves had caused the cathode tube to start the
mechanism which would keep the sign flashing through the dark hours
until, around six in the morning, the early light of day would again
sensitize the tube and cause the circuit to close.

Startled at the great crimson words, Bond pulled in to the curb, got out
of the car and crossed to the other side of the street to get a better
view of the big skysign.

Ah! That was it. Some of the letters had been hidden by a neighbouring
building. It was only one of those Shell advertisements. 'SUMMER SHELL
IS HERE' was what it said.

Bond smiled to himself and walked back to his car and drove on.

When he had first seen the sign, half-hidden by the building, great
crimson letters across the evening sky had flashed a different message.

They had said: 'HELL IS HERE... HELL IS HERE... HELL IS HERE.'




                               CHAPTER IV
                              THE 'SHINER'


Bond left the Bentley outside Brooks's and walked round the corner into
Park Street.

The Adam frontage of Blades, recessed a yard or so back from its
neighbours, was elegant in the soft dusk. The dark red curtains had been
drawn across the ground floor bow-windows on either side of the entrance
and a uniformed servant showed for a moment as he drew them across the
three windows of the floor above. In the centre of the three, Bond could
see the heads and shoulders of two men bent over a game, probably
backgammon he thought, and he caught a glimpse of the spangled fire of
one of the three great chandeliers that illuminate the famous gambling
room.

Bond pushed through the swing doors and walked up to the old-fashioned
porter's lodge ruled over by Brevett, the guardian of Blades and the
counsellor and family friend of half the members.

"Evening, Brevett. Is the Admiral in?"

"Good evening, sir," said Brevett, who knew Bond as an occasional guest
at the club. "The Admiral's waiting for you in the card room. Page, take
Commander Bond up to the Admiral. Lively now!"

As Bond followed the uniformed page boy across the worn black and white
marble floor of the hall and up the wide staircase with its fine
mahogany balustrade, he remembered the story of how, at one election,
nine blackballs had been found in the box when there were only eight
members of the committee present. Brevett, who had handed the box from
member to member, was said to have confessed to the Chairman that he was
so afraid the candidate would be elected that he had put in a blackball
himself. No one had objected. The committee would rather have lost its
chairman than the porter whose family had held the same post at Blades
for a hundred years.

The page pushed open one wing of the tall doors at the top of the stairs
and held it for Bond to go through. The long room was not crowded and
Bond saw M. sitting by himself playing patience in the alcove formed by
the left hand of the three bow windows. He dismissed the page and walked
across the heavy carpet, noticing the rich background smell of
cigar-smoke, the quiet voices that came from the three tables of bridge,
and the sharp rattle of dice across an unseen backgammon board.

"There you are," said M. as Bond came up. He waved to the chair that
faced him across the card table. "Just let me finish this. I haven't
cracked this man Canfield for months. Drink?"

"No, thanks," said Bond. He sat down and lit a cigarette and watched
with amusement the concentration M. was putting into his game.

'Admiral Sir M-- M--: something at the Ministry of Defence.' M. looked
like any member of any of the clubs in St James's Street. Dark grey
suit, stiff white collar, the favourite dark blue bow-tie with spots,
rather loosely tied, the thin black cord of the rimless eyeglass that M.
seemed only to use to read menus, the keen sailor's face, with the
clear, sharp sailor's eyes. It was difficult to believe that an hour
before he had been playing with a thousand live chessmen against the
enemies of England; that there might be, this evening, fresh blood on
his hands, or a successful burglary, or the hideous knowledge of a
disgusting blackmail case.

And what could the casual observer think of him, 'Commander James Bond,
GMG, RNVSR', also 'something at the Ministry of Defence', the rather
saturnine young man in his middle thirties sitting opposite the Admiral?
Something a bit cold and dangerous in that face. Looks pretty fit. May
have been attached to Templer in Malaya. Or Nairobi. Mau Mau work.
Tough-looking customer. Doesn't look the sort of chap one usually sees
in Blades.

Bond knew that there was something alien and un-English about himself.
He knew that he was a difficult man to cover up. Particularly in
England. He shrugged his shoulders. Abroad was what mattered. He would
never have a job to do in England. Outside the jurisdiction of the
Service. Anyway, he didn't need a cover this evening. This was
recreation.

M. snorted and threw his cards down. Bond automatically gathered in the
pack and as automatically gave it the Scarne shuffle, marrying the two
halves with the quick downward riffle that never brings the cards off
the table. He squared off the pack and pushed it away.

M. beckoned to a passing waiter. "Piquet cards, please, Tanner," he
said.

The waiter went away and came back a moment later with the two thin
packs. He stripped off the wrapping and placed them, with two markers,
on the table. He stood waiting.

"Bring me a whisky and soda," said M. "Sure you won't have anything?"

Bond looked at his watch. It was half-past six. "Could I have a dry
Martini?" he said. "Made with Vodka. Large slice of lemon peel."

"Rot-gut," commented M. briefly as the waiter went away. "Now I'll just
take a pound or two off you and then we'll go and have a look at the
bridge. Our friend hasn't turned up yet."

For half an hour they played the game at which the expert player can
nearly always win even with the cards running slightly against him. At
the end of the game Bond laughed and counted out three pound-notes.

"One of these days I'm going to take some trouble and really learn
piquet," he said. "I've never won against you yet."

"It's all memory and knowing the odds," said M. with satisfaction. He
finished his whisky and soda. "Let's go over and see what's going on at
the bridge. Our man's playing at Basildon's table. Came in about ten
minutes ago. If you notice anything, just give me a nod and we'll go
downstairs and talk about it."

He stood up and Bond followed suit.

The far end of the room had begun to fill up and half a dozen tables of
bridge were going. At the round poker table under the centre chandelier
three players were counting out chips into five stacks, waiting for two
more players to come in. The kidney-shaped baccarat table was still
shrouded and would probably remain so until after dinner, when it would
be used for chemin-de-fer.

Bond followed M. out of their alcove, relishing the scene down the long
room, the oases of green, the tinkle of glasses as the waiters moved
amongst the tables, the hum of talk punctuated by sudden exclamations
and warm laughter, the haze of blue smoke rising up through the dark red
lampshades that hung over the centre of each table. His pulses quickened
with the smell of it all and his nostrils flared slightly as the two men
came down the long room and joined the company.

M., with Bond beside him, wandered casually from table to table,
exchanging greetings with the players until they reached the last table
beneath the fine Lawrence of Beau Brummel over the wide Adam fireplace.

"Double, damn you," said the loud, cheerful voice of the player with his
back to Bond. Bond thoughtfully noted the head of tight reddish hair
that was all he could see of the speaker, then he looked to the left at
the rather studious profile of Lord Basildon. The Chairman of Blades was
leaning back, looking critically down his nose at the hand of cards
which he held out and away from him as if it were a rare object.

"My hand is so exquisite that I am forced to redouble, my dear Drax," he
said. He looked across at his partner. "Tommy," he said. "Charge this to
me if it goes wrong."

"Rot," said his partner. "Meyer? Better take Drax out."

"Too frightened," said the middle-aged florid man who was playing with
Drax. "No bid." He picked up his cigar from the brass ashtray and put it
carefully into the middle of his mouth.

"No bid here," said Basildon's partner.

"And nothing here," came Drax's voice.

"Five clubs redoubled," said Basildon. "Your lead, Meyer."

Bond looked over Drax's shoulder. Drax had the ace of spades and the ace
of hearts. He promptly made them both and led another heart which
Basildon took on the table with the king.

"Well," said Basildon. "There are four trumps against me including the
queen. I shall play Drax to have her." He finessed against Drax. Meyer
took the trick with the queen.

"Hell and damnation," said Basildon. "What's the queen doing in Meyer's
hand? Well, I'm damned. Anyway the rest are mine." He fanned his cards
down on the table. He looked defensively at his partner. "Can you beat
it, Tommy? Drax doubles and Meyer has the queen." There was not more
than a natural exasperation in his voice.

Drax chuckled. "Didn't expect my partner to have a Yarborough did you?"
he said cheerfully to Basildon. "Well, that's just the four hundred
above the line. Your deal." He cut the cards to Basildon and the game
went on.

So it had been Drax's deal the hand before. That might be important.
Bond lit a cigarette and reflectively examined the back of Drax's head.

M.'s voice cut in on Bond's thoughts. "You remember my friend Commander
Bond, Basil? Thought we'd come along and play some bridge this evening."

Basildon smiled up at Bond. "Evening," he said. He waved a hand round
the table from the left to right. "Meyer, Dangerfield, Drax." The three
men looked up briefly and Bond nodded a greeting to the table in
general. "You all know the Admiral," added the Chairman, starting to
deal.

Drax half turned in his chair. "Ah, the Admiral," he said boisterously.
"Glad to have you aboard, Admiral. Drink?"

"No, thanks," said M. with a thin smile. "Just had one."

Drax turned and glanced up at Bond, who caught a glimpse of a tuft of
reddish moustache and a rather chilly blue eye. "What about you?" asked
Drax perfunctorily.

"No, thanks," said Bond.

Drax swivelled back to the table and picked up his cards. Bond watched
the big blunt hands sort them.

Then he moved round the table with a second clue to ponder.

Drax didn't sort his cards into suits as most players do, but only into
reds and blacks, ungraded, making his hand very difficult to kibitz and
almost impossible for one of his neighbours, if they were so inclined to
decipher.

Bond knew it for the way people hold their hands who are very careful
card-players indeed.

Bond went and stood beside the chimneypiece. He took out a cigarette and
lit it at the flame from a small gas-jet enclosed in a silver grille--a
relic of the days before the use of matches--that protruded from the
wall beside him.

From where he stood he could see the hand of Meyer, and by moving a pace
to the right, of Basildon. His view of Sir Hugo Drax was uninterrupted
and he inspected him carefully while appearing to interest himself only
in the game.

Drax gave the impression of being a little larger than life. He was
physically big--about six foot tall, Bond guessed--and his shoulders
were exceptionally broad. He had a big square head and the tight reddish
hair was parted in the middle. On either side of the parting the hair
dipped down in a curve towards the temples with the object, Bond
assumed, of hiding as much as possible of the tissue of shining puckered
skin that covered most of the right half of his face. Other relics of
plastic surgery could be detected in the man's right ear, which was not
a perfect match with its companion on the left, and the right eye, which
had been a surgical failure. It was considerably larger than the left
eye, because of a contraction of the borrowed skin used to rebuild the
upper and lower eyelids, and it looked painfully bloodshot. Bond doubted
if it was capable of closing completely and he guessed that Drax covered
it with a patch at night.

To conceal as much as possible of the unsightly taut skin that covered
half his face, Drax had grown a bushy reddish moustache and had allowed
his whiskers to grow down to the level of the lobes of his ears. He also
had patches of hair on his cheek-bones.

The heavy moustache served another purpose. It helped to hide a
naturally prognathous upper jaw and a marked protrusion of the upper row
of teeth. Bond reflected that this was probably due to sucking his thumb
as a child, and it had resulted in an ugly splaying, or diastema, of
what Bond had heard his dentist call 'the centrals'. The moustache
helped to hide these 'ogre's teeth' and it was only when Drax uttered,
as he frequently did, his short braying laugh that the splay could be
seen.

The general effect of the face--the riot of red-brown hair, the powerful
nose and jaw, the florid skin--was flamboyant. It put Bond in mind of a
ring-master at a circus. The contrasting sharpness and coldness of the
left eye supported the likeness.

A bullying, boorish, loud-mouthed vulgarian. That would have been Bond's
verdict if he had not known something of Drax's abilities. As it was, it
crossed his mind that much of the effect might be Drax's idea of a
latter-day Regency buck--the harmless disguise of a man with a smashed
face who was also a snob.

Looking for further clues, Bond noticed that Drax was sweating rather
freely. Despite the occasional growl of thunder outside it was a cool
evening, and yet Drax was constantly mopping his face and neck with a
huge bandana handkerchief. He smoked incessantly, stubbing out the
cork-tipped Virginia cigarettes after a dozen lungfuls of smoke and
almost immediately lighting another from a box of fifty in his coat
pocket. His big hands, their backs thickly covered with reddish hair,
were always on the move, fiddling with his cards, handling the cigarette
lighter that stood beside a plain flat silver cigarette-case in front of
him, twisting a lock of hair on the side of his head, using the
handkerchief on his face and neck. Occasionally he put a finger greedily
to his mouth and worried a nail. Even at a distance Bond could see that
every finger-nail was bitten down to the quick.

The hands themselves were strong and capable but the thumbs had
something ungainly about them which it took Bond a moment or two to
define. He finally detected that they were unnaturally long and reached
level with the top joint of the index finger.

Bond concluded his inspection with Drax's clothes which were expensive
and in excellent taste--a dark blue pinstripe in lightweight flannel,
double-breasted with turnback cuffs, a heavy white silk shirt with a
stiff collar, an unobtrusive tie with a small grey and white check,
modest cuff-links, which looked like Cartier, and a plain gold Patek
Philippe watch with a black leather strap.

Bond lit another cigarette and concentrated on the game, leaving his
subconscious to digest the details of Drax's appearance and manner that
had seemed to him significant and that might help to explain the riddle
of his cheating, the nature of which had still to be discovered.

Half an hour later the cards had completed the circle.

"My deal," said Drax with authority. "Game all and we have a
satisfactory inflation above the line. Now then, Max, see if you can't
pick up a few aces. I'm tired of doing all the work." He dealt smoothly
and slowly round the table, keeping up a running fire of rather
heavy-handed banter with the company. "Long rubber," he said to M. who
was sitting smoking his pipe between Drax and Basildon. "Sorry to have
kept you out so long. How about a challenge after dinner? Max and I'll
take on you and Commander Thingummy. What did you say his name was? Good
player?"

"Bond," said M. "James Bond. Yes, I think we'd like that very much. What
do you say, James?"

Bond's eyes were glued to the bent head and slowly moving hands of the
dealer. Yes, that was it! Got you, you bastard. A Shiner. A simple,
bloody Shiner that wouldn't have lasted five minutes in a pro's game. M.
saw the glint of assurance in Bond's eyes as they met across the table.

"Fine," said Bond cheerfully. "Couldn't be better."

He made an imperceptible movement of the head. "How about showing me the
Betting Book before dinner? You always say it'll amuse me."

M. nodded. "Yes. Come along. It's in the Secretary's office. Then
Basildon can come down and give us a cocktail and tell us the result of
this death-struggle." He got up.

"Order what you want," said Basildon with a sharp glance at M. "I'll be
down directly we've polished them off."

"Around nine then," said Drax, glancing from M. to Bond. "Show him the
bet about the girl in the balloon." He picked up his hand. "Looks like I
shall have the Casino's money to play with," he said after a rapid
glance at his cards. "Three No Trumps." He shot a triumphant glance at
Basildon. "Put that in your pipe and smoke it."

Bond, following M. out of the room, missed Basildon's reply.

They walked down the stairs and along to the Secretary's office in
silence. The room was in darkness. M. switched on the light and went and
sat down in the swivel chair in front of the busy-looking desk. He
turned the chair to face Bond who had walked over to the empty fireplace
and was taking out a cigarette.

"Any luck?" he asked looking up at him.

"Yes," said Bond. "He cheats all right."

"Ah," said M. unemotionally. "How does he do it?"

"Only on the deal," said Bond. "You know that silver cigarette-case he
has in front of him, with his lighter? He never takes cigarettes from
it. Doesn't want to get fingermarks on the surface. It's plain silver
and very highly polished. When he deals, it's almost concealed by the
cards and his big hands. And he doesn't move his hands away from it.
Deals four piles quite close to him. Every card is reflected in the top
of the case. It's just as good as a mirror although it looks perfectly
innocent lying there. As he's such a good businessman it would be normal
for him to have a first-class memory. You remember I told you about
'Shiners'? Well, that's just a version of one. No wonder he brings off
these miraculous finesses every once in a while. That double we watched
was easy. He knew his partner had the guarded queen. With his two aces
the double was a certainty. The rest of the time he just plays his
average game. But knowing all the cards on every fourth deal is a
terrific edge. It's not surprising he always shows a profit."

"But one doesn't notice him doing it," protested M.

"It's quite natural to look down when one's dealing," said Bond.
"Everybody does. And he covers up with a lot of banter, much more than
he produces when someone else is dealing. I expect he's got very good
peripheral vision--the thing they mark us so highly for when we take our
medical for the Service. Very wide angle of sight."

The door opened and Basildon came in. He was bristling. He shut the door
behind him. "That dam' shut-out bid of Drax's," he exploded. "Tommy and
I could have made four hearts if we could have got around to bidding it.
Between them they had the ace of hearts, six club tricks, and the ace,
king of diamonds and a bare guard in spades. Made nine tricks straight
off. How he had the face to open Three No Trumps I can't imagine." He
calmed down a little. "Well, Miles," he said, "has your friend got the
answer?"

M. gestured to Bond, who repeated what he had told M.

Lord Basildon's face got angrier as Bond talked.

"Damn the man," he exploded when Bond had finished. "What the hell does
he want to do that for? Bloody millionaire. Rolling in money. Fine
scandal we're in for. I'll simply have to tell the Committee. Haven't
had a cheating case since the 'fourteen-eighteen war." He paced up and
down the room. The club was quickly forgotten as he remembered the
significance of Drax himself. "And they say this rocket of his is going
to be ready before long. Only comes up here once or twice a week for a
bit of relaxation. Why, the man's a public hero! this is terrible."

Basildon's anger was chilled by the thought of his responsibility. He
turned to M. for help. "Now, Miles, what am I to do? He's won thousands
of pounds in this club and others have lost it. Take this evening. It
doesn't matter about my losses, of course. But what about Dangerfield? I
happen to know he's been having a bad time on the stock market lately. I
don't see how I can avoid telling the Committee. Can't shirk it--whoever
Drax is. And you know what that'll mean. There are ten on the Committee.
Bound to be a leak. And then look at the scandal. They tell me the
Moonraker can't exist without Drax and the papers say the whole future
of the country depends on the thing. This is a damned serious business."
He paused and shot a hopeful glance at M. and then at Bond. "Is there
any alternative?"

Bond stubbed out his cigarette. "He could be stopped," he said quietly.
"That is," he added with a thin smile, "if you don't mind paying him out
in his own coin."

"Do anything you bloody well like," said Basildon emphatically. "What
are you thinking of?" Hope dawned in his eyes at Bond's assurance.

"Well," said Bond. "I could show him I'd spotted him and at the same
time flay the hide off him at his own game. Of course Meyer'd get hurt
in the process. Might lose a lot of money as Drax's partner. Would that
matter?"

"Serve him right," said Basildon, overcome with relief and ready to
grasp at any solution. "He's been riding along on Drax's back. Making
plenty of money playing with him. You don't think..."

"No," said Bond. "I'm sure he doesn't know what's going on. Although
some of Drax's bids must come as a bit of a shock. Well," he turned to
M., "is it all right with you, sir?"

M. reflected. He looked at Basildon. There was no doubt of his view.

He looked at Bond. "All right," he said. "What must be, must be. Don't
like the idea, but I can see Basildon's point. So long as you can bring
it off and," he smiled, "as long as you don't want me to palm any cards
or anything of that sort. No talent for it."

"No," said Bond. He put his hands in his coat pockets and touched the
two silk handkerchiefs. "And I think it should work. All I need is a
couple of packs of used cards, one of each colour, and ten minutes in
here alone."




                               CHAPTER V
                            DINNER AT BLADES


It was eight o'clock as Bond followed M. through the tall doors, across
the well of the staircase from the card room, that opened into the
beautiful white and gold Regency dining-room of Blades.

M. chose not to hear a call from Basildon who was presiding over the big
centre table where there were still two places vacant. Instead, he
walked firmly across the room to the end one of a row of six smaller
tables, waved Bond into the comfortable armed chair that faced outwards
into the room, and himself took the one on Bond's left so that his back
was to the company.

The head steward was already behind Bond's chair. He placed a broad menu
card beside his plate and handed another to M. 'Blades' was written in
fine gold script across the top. Below there was a forest of print.

"Don't bother to read through all that," said M., "unless you've got no
ideas. One of the first rules of the club, and one of the best, was that
any member may speak for any dish, cheap or dear, but he must pay for
it. The same's true today, only the odds are one doesn't have to pay for
it. Just order what you feel like." He looked up at the steward. "Any of
that Beluga caviar left, Porterfield?"

"Yes, sir. There was a new delivery last week."

"Well," said M. "Caviar for me. Devilled kidney and a slice of your
excellent bacon. Peas and new potatoes. Strawberries in kirsch. What
about you, James?"

"I've got a mania for really good smoked salmon," said Bond. Then he
pointed down the menu. "Lamb cutlets. The same vegetables as you, as
it's May. Asparagus with Barnaise sauce sounds wonderful. And perhaps a
slice of pineapple." He sat back and pushed the menu away.

"Thank heaven for a man who makes up his mind," said M. He looked up at
the steward. "Have you got all that, Porterfield?"

"Yes, sir." The steward smiled. "You wouldn't care for a marrow bone
after the strawberries, sir? We got half a dozen in today from the
country, and I'd specially kept one in case you came in."

"Of course. You know I can't resist them. Bad for me but it can't be
helped. God knows what I'm celebrating this evening. But it doesn't
often happen. Ask Grimley to come over, would you."

"He's here now, sir," said the steward, making way for the wine-waiter.

"Ah, Grimley, some vodka, please." He turned to Bond. "Not the stuff you
had in your cocktail. This is real pre-war Wolfschmidt from Riga. Like
some with your smoked salmon?"

"Very much," said Bond.

"Then what?" asked M. "Champagne? Personally I'm going to have a
half-bottle of claret. The Mouton Rothschild '34, please, Grimley. But
don't pay any attention to me, James. I'm an old man. Champagne's no
good for me. We've got some good champagnes, haven't we, Grimley? None
of that stuff you're always telling me about, I'm afraid, James. Don't
often see it in England. Taittinger, wasn't it?"

Bond smiled at M.'s memory. "Yes," he said, "but it's only a fad of
mine. As a matter of fact, for various reasons I believe I would like to
drink champagne this evening. Perhaps I could leave it to Grimley."

The wine-waiter was pleased. "If I may suggest it, sir, the Dom Perignon
'46. I understand that France only sells it for dollars, sir, so you
don't often see it in London. I believe it was a gift from the Regency
Club in New York, sir. I have some on ice at the moment. It's the
Chairman's favourite and he's told me to have it ready every evening in
case he needs it."

Bond smiled his agreement.

"So be it, Grimley," said M. "The Dom Perignon. Bring it straight away,
would you?"

A waitress appeared and put racks of fresh toast on the table and a
silver dish of Jersey butter. As she bent over the table her black skirt
brushed Bond's arm and he looked up into two pert, sparkling eyes under
a soft fringe of hair. The eyes held his for a fraction of a second and
then she whisked away. Bond's eyes followed the white bow at her waist
and the starched collar and cuffs of her uniform as she went down the
long room. His eyes narrowed. He recalled a pre-war establishment in
Paris where the girls were dressed with the same exciting severity.
Until they turned round and showed their backs.

He smiled to himself. The _Marthe Richards_ law had changed all that.

M. turned from studying their neighbours behind him. "Why were you so
cryptic about drinking champagne?"

"Well, if you don't mind, sir," Bond explained, "I've got to get a bit
tight tonight. I'll have to seem very drunk when the time comes. It's
not an easy thing to act unless you do it with a good deal of
conviction. I hope you won't get worried if I seem to get frayed at the
edges later on."

M. shrugged his shoulders. "You've got a head like a rock, James," he
said. "Drink as much as you like if it's going to help. Ah, here's the
vodka."

When M. poured him three fingers from the frosted carafe Bond took a
pinch of black pepper and dropped it on the surface of the vodka. The
pepper slowly settled to the bottom of the glass leaving a few grains on
the surface which Bond dabbed up with the tip of a finger. Then he
tossed the cold liquor well to the back of his throat and put his glass,
with the dregs of the pepper at the bottom, back on the table.

M. gave him a glance of rather ironical inquiry.

"It's a trick the Russians taught me that time you attached me to the
Embassy in Moscow," apologized Bond. "There's often quite a lot of fusel
oil on the surface of this stuff--at least there used to be when it was
badly distilled. Poisonous. In Russia, where you get a lot of bath-tub
liquor, it's an understood thing to sprinkle a little pepper in your
glass. It takes the fusel oil to the bottom. I got to like the taste and
now it's a habit. But I shouldn't have insulted the club Wolfschmidt,"
he added with a grin.

M. grunted. "So long as you don't put pepper in Basildon's favourite
champagne," he said drily.

A harsh bray of laughter came from a table at the far end of the room.
M. looked over his shoulder and then turned back to his caviar.

"What do you think of this man Drax?" he said through a mouthful of
buttered toast.

Bond helped himself to another slice of smoked salmon from the silver
dish beside him. It had the delicate glutinous texture only achieved by
Highland curers--very different from the dessicated products of
Scandinavia. He rolled a wafer-thin slice of brown bread-and-butter into
a cylinder and contemplated it thoughtfully.

"One can't like his manner much. At first I was rather surprised that
you tolerate him here." He glanced at M., who shrugged his shoulders.
"But that's none of my business and anyway clubs would be very dull
without a sprinkling of eccentrics. And in any case he's a national hero
and a millionaire and obviously an adequate card-player. Even when he
isn't helping himself to the odds," he added. "But I can see he's the
sort of man I always imagined. Full-blooded, ruthless, shrewd. Plenty of
guts. I'm not surprised he's managed to get where he is. What I don't
understand is why he should be quite happy to throw it all away. This
cheating of his. It's really beyond belief. What's he trying to prove
with it? That he can beat everyone at everything? He seems to put so
much passion into his cards--as if it wasn't a game at all, but some
sort of trial of strength. You've only got to look at his fingernails.
Bitten to the quick. And he sweats too much. There's a lot of tension
there somewhere. It comes out in those ghastly jokes of his. They're
harsh. There's no light touch about them. He seemed to want to squash
Basildon like a fly. Hope I shall be able to keep my temper. That manner
of his is pretty riling. He even treats his partner as if he was muck.
He hasn't quite got under my skin, but I shan't at all mind sticking a
very sharp pin in him tonight." He smiled at M. "If it comes off, that
is."

"I know what you mean," said M. "But you may be being a bit hard on the
man. After all, it's a big step from the Liverpool docks, or wherever he
came from, to where he is now. And he's one of those people who was born
with naturally hairy heels. Nothing to do with snobbery. I expect his
mates in Liverpool found him just as loud-mouthed as Blades does. As for
his cheating, there's probably a crooked streak in him somewhere. I dare
say he took plenty of short cuts on his way up. Somebody said that to
become very rich you have to be helped by a combination of remarkable
circumstances and an unbroken run of luck. It certainly isn't only the
qualities of people that make them rich. At least that's my experience.
At the beginning, getting together the first ten thousand, or the first
hundred thousand, things have got to go damn right. And in that
commodity business after the war, with all the regulations and
restrictions, I expect it was often a case of being able to drop a
thousand pounds in the right pocket. Officials. The ones who understand
nothing but addition, division--and silence. The useful ones."

M. paused while the next course came. With it arrived the champagne in a
silver ice-bucket, and the small wicker-basket containing M.'s
half-bottle of claret.

The wine-steward waited until they had delivered a favourable judgment
on the wines and then moved away. As he did so a page came up to their
table. "Commander Bond?" he asked.

Bond took the envelope that was handed to him and slit it open. He took
out a thin paper packet and carefully opened it under the level of the
table. It contained a white powder. He took a silver fruit knife off the
table and dipped the tip of the blade into the packet so that about half
its contents were transferred to the knife. He reached for his glass of
champagne and tipped the powder into it.

"Now what?" said M. with a trace of impatience.

There was no hint of apology in Bond's face. It wasn't M. who was going
to have to do the work that evening. Bond knew what he was doing.
Whenever he had a job of work to do he would take infinite pains
beforehand and leave as little as possible to chance. Then if something
went wrong it was the unforeseeable. For that he accepted no
responsibility.

"Benzedrine," he said. "I rang up my secretary before dinner and asked
her to wangle some out of the surgery at Headquarters. It's what I shall
need if I'm going to keep my wits about me tonight. It's apt to make one
a bit over-confident, but that'll be a help too." He stirred the
champagne with a scrap of toast so that the white powder whirled among
the bubbles. Then he drank the mixture down with one long swallow. "It
doesn't taste," said Bond, "and the champagne is quite excellent."

M. smiled at him indulgently. "It's your funeral," he said.--"Now we'd
better get on with our dinner. How were the cutlets?"

"Superb," said Bond. "I could cut them with a fork. The best English
cooking is the best in the world--particularly at this time of the year.
By the way, what stakes will we be playing for this evening? I don't
mind very much. We ought to end up the winners. But I'd like to know how
much it will cost Drax."

"Drax likes to play for what he calls 'One and One'," said M., helping
himself from the strawberries that had just been put on the table.
"Modest sounding stake, if you don't know what it stands for. In fact
it's one tenner a hundred and one hundred pounds on the rubber."

"Oh," said Bond respectfully. "I see."

"But he's perfectly happy to play for Two and Two or even Three and
Three. Mounts up at those figures. The average rubber of bridge at
Blades is about ten points. That's 200 at One and One. And the bridge
here makes for big rubbers. There are no conventions so there's plenty
of gambling and bluffing. Sometimes it's more like poker. They're a
mixed lot of players. Some of them are the best in England, but others
are terribly wild. Don't seem to mind how much they lose. General
Bealey, just behind us." M. made a gesture with his head, "doesn't know
the reds from the blacks. Nearly always a few hundred down at the end of
the week. Doesn't seem to care. Bad heart. No dependants. Stacks of
money from jute. But Duff Sutherland, the scruffy-looking chap next to
the chairman, is an absolute killer. Makes a regular ten thousand a year
out of the club. Nice chap. Wonderful card manners. Used to play chess
for England."

M. was interrupted by the arrival of his marrow bone. It was placed
upright in a spotless lace napkin on the silver plate. An ornate silver
marrow-scoop was laid beside it.

After the asparagus, Bond had little appetite for the thin slivers of
pineapple. He tipped the last of the ice-cold champagne into his glass.
He felt wonderful. The effects of the benzedrine and champagne had more
than offset the splendour of the food. For the first time he took his
mind away from the dinner and his conversation with M. and glanced round
the room.

It was a sparkling scene. There were perhaps fifty men in the room, the
majority in dinner jackets, all at ease with themselves and their
surroundings, all stimulated by the peerless food and drink, all
animated by a common interest--the prospect of high gambling, the grand
slam, the ace pot, the key-throw in a 64 game at backgammon. There might
be cheats or possible cheats amongst them, men who beat their wives, men
with perverse instincts, greedy men, cowardly men, lying men; but the
elegance of the room invested each one with a kind of aristocracy.

At the far end, above the cold table, laden with lobsters, pies, joints
and delicacies in aspic, Romney's unfinished full-length portrait of Mrs
Fitzherbert gazed provocatively across at Fragonard's _Jeu de Cartes_,
the broad conversation-piece which half-filled the opposite wall above
the Adam fireplace. Along the lateral walls, in the centre of each
gilt-edged panel, was one of the rare engravings of the Hell-Fire Club
in which each figure is shown making a minute gesture of scatological or
magical significance. Above, marrying the walls into the ceiling, ran a
frieze in plaster relief of carved urns and swags interrupted at
intervals by the capitals of the fluted pilasters which framed the
windows and the tall double doors, the latter delicately carved with a
design showing the Tudor Rose interwoven with a ribbon effect.

The central chandelier, a cascade of crystal ropes terminating in a
broad basket of strung quartz, sparkled warmly above the white damask
tablecloths and George IV silver. Below, in the centre of each table,
branched candlesticks distributed the golden light of three candles,
each surmounted by a red silk shade, so that the faces of the diners
shone with a convivial warmth which glossed over the occasional chill of
an eye or cruel twist of a mouth.

Even as Bond drank in the warm elegance of the scene, some of the groups
began to break up. There was a drift towards the door accompanied by an
exchange of challenges, side-bets, and exhortations to hurry up and get
down to business. Sir Hugo Drax, his hairy red face shining with
cheerful anticipation, came towards them with Meyer in his wake.

"Well, gentlemen," he said jovially as he reached their table. "Are the
lambs ready for the slaughter and the geese for the plucking?" He
grinned and in wolfish pantomime drew a finger across his throat. "We'll
go ahead and lay out the axe and the basket. Made your wills?"

"Be with you in a moment," said M. edgily. "You go along and stack the
cards."

Drax laughed. "We shan't need any artificial aids," he said. "Don't be
long." He turned and made for the door. Meyer enveloped them in an
uncertain smile and followed him.

M. grunted. "We'll have coffee and brandy in the card room," he said to
Bond. "Can't smoke here. Now then. Any final plans?"

"I'll have to fatten him up for the kill, so please don't worry if I
seem to be getting high," said Bond. "We'll just have to play our normal
game till the time comes. When it's his deal, we'll have to be careful.
Of course, he can't alter the cards and there's no reason why he
shouldn't deal us good hands, but he's bound to bring off some pretty
remarkable coups. Do you mind if I sit on his left?"

"No," said M. "Anything else?"

Bond reflected for a moment. "Only one thing, sir," he said. "When the
time comes, I shall take a white handkerchief out of my coat pocket.
That will mean that you are about to be dealt a Yarborough. Would you
please leave the bidding of that hand to me?"




                               CHAPTER VI
                         CARDS WITH A STRANGER


Drax and Meyer were waiting for them. They were leaning back in their
chairs, smoking Cabinet Havanas.

On the small tables beside them there was coffee and large balloons of
brandy. As M. and Bond came up, Drax was tearing the paper cover off a
new pack of cards. The other pack was fanned out across the green baize
in front of him.

"Ah, there you are," said Drax. He leant forward and cut a card. They
all followed suit. Drax won the cut and elected to stay where he was and
take the red cards.

Bond sat down on Drax's left.

M. beckoned to a passing waiter. "Coffee and the club brandy," he said.
He took out a thin black cheroot and offered one to Bond who accepted
it. Then he picked up the red cards and started to shuffle them.

"Stakes?" asked Drax, looking at M. "One and One? Or more? I'll be glad
to accommodate you up to Five and Five."

"One and One'll be enough for me," said M. "James?"

Drax cut in, "I suppose your guest knows what he's in for?" he asked
sharply.

Bond answered for M. "Yes," he said briefly. He smiled at Drax. "And I
feel rather generous tonight. What would you like to take off me?"

"Every penny you've got," said Drax cheerfully. "How much can you
afford?"

"I'll tell you when there's none left," said Bond. He suddenly decided
to be ruthless. "I'm told that Five and Five is your limit. Let's play
for that."

Almost before the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. 50 a
hundred! 500 side-bets! Four bad rubbers would be double his income for
a year. If something went wrong he'd look pretty stupid. Have to borrow
from M. And M. wasn't a particularly rich man. Suddenly he saw that this
ridiculous game might end in a very nasty mess. He felt the prickle of
sweat on his forehead. That damned benzedrine. And, for him of all
people to allow himself to be needled by a blustering loud-mouthed
bastard like Drax. And he wasn't even on a job. The whole evening was a
bit of a social pantomime that meant less than nothing to him. Even M.
had only been dragged into it by chance. And all of a sudden he'd let
himself be swept up into a duel with this multi-millionaire, into a
gamble for literally all Bond possessed, for the simple reason that the
man had got filthy manners and he'd wanted to teach him a lesson. And
supposing the lesson didn't come off? Bond cursed himself for an impulse
that earlier in the day would have seemed unthinkable. Champagne and
benzedrine! Never again.

Drax was looking at him in sarcastic disbelief. He turned to M. who was
still unconcernedly shuffling the cards. "I suppose your guest is good
for his commitments," he said. Unforgivably.

Bond saw the blood rush up M.'s neck and into his face. M. paused for an
instant in his shuffling. When he continued Bond noticed that his hands
were quite calm. M. looked up and took the cheroot very deliberately out
from between his teeth. His voice was perfectly controlled. "If you mean
'Am I good for my guest's commitments'," he said coldly, "the answer is
yes."

He cut the cards to Drax with his left hand and with his right knocked
the ash off his cheroot into the copper ashtray in the corner of the
table. Bond heard the faint hiss as the burning ash hit the water.

Drax squinted sideways at M. He picked up the cards. "Of course, of
course," he said hastily. "I didn't mean..." He left the sentence
unfinished and turned to Bond. "Right, then," he said, looking rather
curiously at Bond. "Five and Five it is. Meyer," he turned to his
partner, "how much would you like to take? There's Six and Six to cut
up."

"One and One's enough for me, Hugger," said Meyer apologetically.
"Unless you'd like me to take some more." He looked anxiously at his
partner.

"Of course not," said Drax. "I like a high game. Never get enough on,
generally. Now then," he started to deal. "Off we go."

And suddenly Bond didn't care about the high stakes. Suddenly all he
wanted to do was to give this hairy ape the lesson of his life, give him
a shock which would make him remember this evening for ever, remember
Bond, remember M., remember the last time he would cheat at Blades,
remember the time of day, the weather outside, what he had had for
dinner.

For all its importance, Bond had forgotten the Moonraker. This was a
private affair between two men.

As he watched the casual downward glance at the cigarette-case between
the two hands and felt the cool memory ticking up the card values as
they passed over its surface, Bond cleared his mind of all regrets,
absolved himself of all blame for what was about to happen, and focused
his attention on the game. He settled himself more comfortably into his
chair and rested his hands on the padded leather arms. Then he took the
thin cheroot from between his teeth, laid it on the burnished copper
surround of the ashtray beside him and reached for his coffee. It was
very black and strong. He emptied the cup and picked up the balloon
glass with its fat measure of pale brandy. As he sipped it and then
drank again, more deeply, he looked over the rim at M. M. met his eye
and smiled briefly.

"Hope you like it," he said. "Comes from one of the Rothschild estates
at Cognac. About a hundred years ago one of the family bequeathed us a
barrel of it every year in perpetuity. During the war they hid a barrel
for us every year and then sent us over the whole lot in 1945. Ever
since then we've been drinking doubles. And," he gathered up his cards,
"now we shall have to concentrate."

Bond picked up his hand. It was average. A bare two-and-a-half quick
tricks, the suits evenly distributed. He reached for his cheroot and
gave it a final draw, then killed it in the ashtray.

"Three clubs," said Drax.

No bid from Bond.

Four clubs from Meyer.

No bid from M.

Hm, thought Bond. He's not quite got the cards for a game call this
time. Shut-out call--knows that his partner has got a bare raise. M. may
have got a perfectly good bid. We may have all the hearts between us,
for instance. But M. never gets a bid. Presumably they'll make four
clubs.

They did, with the help of one finesse through Bond. M. turned out not
to have had hearts, but a long string of diamonds, missing only the
king, which was in Meyer's hand and would have been caught. Drax didn't
have nearly enough length for a three call. Meyer had the rest of the
clubs.

Anyway, thought Bond as he dealt the next hand, we were lucky to escape
without a game call.

Their good luck continued. Bond opened a No Trump, was put up to three
by M., and they made it with an over-trick. On Meyer's deal they went
one down in five diamonds, but on the next hand M. opened four spades
and Bond's three small trumps and an outside king, queen were all M.
needed for the contract.

First rubber to M. and Bond. Drax looked annoyed. He had lost 900 on
the rubber and the cards seemed to be running against them.

"Shall we go straight on?" he asked. "No point in cutting."

M. smiled across at Bond. The same thought was in both their minds. So
Drax wanted to keep the deal. Bond shrugged his shoulders.

"No objection," said M. "These seats seem to be doing their best for
us."

"Up to now," said Drax, looking more cheerful.

And with reason. On the next hand he and Meyer bid and made a small slam
in spades that required two hair-raising finesses, both of which Drax,
after a good deal of pantomime and hemming and hawing, negotiated
smoothly, each time commenting loudly on his good fortune.

"Hugger, you're wonderful," said Meyer fulsomely. "How the devil do you
do it?"

Bond thought it time to sow a tiny seed. "Memory," he said.

Drax looked at him, sharply. "What do you mean, memory?" he said.
"What's that got to do with taking a finesse?"

"I was going to add 'and card sense'," said Bond smoothly. "They're the
two qualities that make great card-players."

"Oh," said Drax slowly. "Yes, I see." He cut the cards to Bond and as
Bond dealt he felt the other man's eyes examining him carefully.

The game proceeded at an even pace. The cards refused to get hot and no
one seemed inclined to take chances. M. doubled Meyer in an incautious
four-spade bid and got him two down vulnerable, but on the next hand
Drax went out with a lay down three No Trumps. Bond's win on the first
rubber was wiped out and a bit more besides.

"Anyone care for a drink?" asked M. as he cut the cards to Drax for the
third rubber. "James. A little more champagne. The second bottle always
tastes better."

"I'd like that very much," said Bond.

The waiter came. The others ordered whiskies and sodas.

Drax turned to Bond. "This game needs livening up," he said. "A hundred
we win this hand." He had completed the deal and the cards lay in neat
piles in the centre of the table.

Bond looked at him. The damaged eye glared at him redly. The other was
cold and hard and scornful. There were beads of sweat on either side of
the large, beaky nose.

Bond wondered if he was having a fly thrown over him to see if he was
suspicious of the deal. He decided to leave the man in doubt. It was a
hundred down the drain, but it would give him an excuse for increasing
the stakes later.

"On your deal?" he said with a smile. "Well," he weighed imaginary
chances. "Yes. All right." An idea seemed to come to him. "And the same
on the next hand. If you like," he added.

"All right, all right," said Drax impatiently. "If you want to throw
good money after bad."

"You seem very certain about this hand," said Bond indifferently,
picking up his cards. They were a poor lot and he had no answer to
Drax's opening No Trump except to double it. The bluff had no effect on
Drax's partner. Meyer said "Two No Trumps" and Bond was relieved when
M., with no long suit, said "No bid". Drax left it in two No Trumps and
made the contract.

"Thanks," he said with relish, and wrote carefully on his score. "Now
let's see if you can get it back."

Much to his annoyance, Bond couldn't. The cards still ran for Meyer and
Drax and they made three hearts and the game.

Drax was pleased with himself. He took a long swallow at his whisky and
soda and wiped down his face with his bandana handkerchief.

"God is with the big battalions," he said jovially. "Got to have the
cards as well as play them. Coming back for more or had enough?"

Bond's champagne had come and was standing beside him in its silver
bucket. There was a glass goblet three-quarters full beside it on the
side table. Bond picked it up and drained it, as if to give himself
Dutch courage. Then he filled it again.

"All right," he said thickly, "a hundred on the next two hands."

And promptly lost them both, and the rubber.

Bond suddenly realized that he was nearly 1,500 down. He drank another
glass of champagne. "Save trouble if we just double the stakes on this
rubber," he said rather wildly. "All right with you?"

Drax had dealt and was looking at his cards. His lips were wet with
anticipation. He looked at Bond who seemed to be having difficulty
lighting his cigarette. "Taken," he said quickly. "A hundred pounds a
hundred and a thousand on the rubber." Then he felt he could risk a
touch of sportsmanship. Bond could hardly cancel the bet now. "But I
seem to have got some good tickets here," he added. "Are you still on?"

"Of course, of course," said Bond, clumsily picking up his hand. "I made
the bet, didn't I?"

"All right, then," said Drax with satisfaction. "Three No Trumps here."

He made four.

Then, to Bond's relief, the cards turned. Bond bid and made a small slam
in hearts and on the next hand M. ran out in three No Trumps.

Bond grinned cheerfully into the sweating face. Drax was picking angrily
at his nails. "Big battalions," said Bond, rubbing it in.

Drax growled something and busied himself with the score.

Bond looked across at M., who was putting a match, with evident
satisfaction at the way the game had gone, to his second cheroot of the
evening, an almost unheard of indulgence.

"'Fraid this'll have to be my last rubber," said Bond. "Got to get up
early. Hope you'll forgive me."

M. looked at his watch. "It's past midnight," he said. "What about you,
Meyer?"

Meyer, who had been a silent passenger for most of the evening and who
had the look of a man caught in a cage with a couple of tigers, seemed
relieved at being offered a chance of making his escape. He leapt at the
idea of getting back to his quiet flat in Albany and the soothing
companionship of his collection of Battersea snuff-boxes.

"Quite all right with me, Admiral," he said quickly. "What about you,
Hugger? Nearly ready for bed?"

Drax ignored him. He looked up from his score-sheet at Bond. He noticed
the signs of intoxication. The moist forehead, the black comma of hair
that hung untidily over the right eyebrow, the sheen of alcohol in the
grey-blue eyes.

"Pretty miserable balance so far," he said. "I make it you win a couple
of hundred or so. Of course if you want to run out of the game you can.
But how about some fireworks to finish up with? Treble the stakes on the
last rubber? Fifteen and fifteen? Historic match. Am I on?"

Bond looked up at him. He paused before answering. He wanted Drax to
remember every detail of this last rubber, every word that had been
spoken, every gesture.

"Well," said Drax impatiently. "What about it?"

Bond looked into the cold left eye in the flushed face. He spoke to it
alone.

"One hundred and fifty pounds a hundred, and 1,500 on the rubber," he
said distinctly. "You're on."




                              CHAPTER VII
                       THE QUICKNESS OF THE HAND


There was a moment's silence at the table. It was broken by the agitated
voice of Meyer.

"Here I say," he said anxiously. "Don't include me in on this, Hugger."
He knew it was a private bet with Bond, but he wanted to show Drax that
he was thoroughly nervous about the whole affair. He saw himself making
some ghastly mistake that would cost his partner a lot of money.

"Don't be ridiculous, Max," said Drax harshly. "You play your hand. This
is nothing to do with you. Just an enjoyable little bet with our rash
friend here. Come along, come along. My deal, Admiral."

M. cut the cards and the game began.

Bond lit a cigarette with hands that had suddenly become quite steady.
His mind was clear. He knew exactly what he had to do, and when, and he
was glad that the moment of decision had come.

He sat back in his chair and for a moment he had the impression that
there was a crowd behind him at each elbow, and that faces were peering
over his shoulder, waiting to see his cards. He somehow felt that the
ghosts were friendly, that they approved of the rough justice that was
about to be done.

He smiled as he caught himself sending this company of dead gamblers a
message, that they should see that all went well.

The background noise of the famous gaming room broke in on his thoughts.
He looked round. In the middle of the long room, under the central
chandelier, there were several onlookers round the poker game. 'Raise
you a hundred.' 'And a hundred.' 'And a hundred.' 'Damn you. I'll look',
and a shout of triumph followed by a hubbub of comment. In the distance
he could hear the rattle of a croupier's rake against the counters at
the Shemmy game. Nearer at hand, at his end of the room, there were
three other tables of bridge over which the smoke of cigars and
cigarettes rose towards the barrelled ceiling.

Nearly every night for more than a hundred and fifty years there had
been just such a scene, he reflected, in this famous room. The same
cries of victory and defeat, the same dedicated faces, the same smell of
tobacco and drama. For Bond, who loved gambling, it was the most
exciting spectacle in the world. He gave it a last glance to fix it all
in his mind and then he turned back to his table.

He picked up his cards and his eyes glittered. For once, on Drax's deal,
he had a cast-iron game hand; seven spades with the four top honours,
the ace of hearts, and the ace, king of diamonds. He looked at Drax. Had
he and Meyer got the clubs? Even so Bond could overbid. Would Drax try
and force him too high and risk a double? Bond waited.

"No bid," said Drax, unable to keep the bitterness of his private
knowledge of Bond's hand out of his voice.

"Four spades," said Bond.

No bid from Meyer; from M.; reluctantly from Drax.

M. provided some help, and they made five.

One hundred and fifty points below the line. A hundred above for
honours.

"Humph," said a voice at Bond's elbow. He looked up. It was Basildon.
His game had finished and he had strolled over to see what was happening
on this separate battlefield.

He picked up Bond's score-sheet and looked at it.

"That was a bit of a beetle-crusher," he said cheerfully. "Seems you're
holding the champions. What are the stakes?"

Bond left the answer to Drax. He was glad of the diversion. It could not
have been better timed. Drax had cut the blue cards to him. He married
the two halves and put the pack just in front of him, near the edge of
the table.

"Fifteen and fifteen. On my left," said Drax.

Bond heard Basildon draw in his breath.

"Chap seemed to want to gamble, so I accommodated him. Now he goes and
gets all the cards..."

Drax grumbled on.

Across the table, M. saw a white handkerchief materialize in Bond's
right hand. M.'s eyes narrowed. Bond seemed to wipe his face with it. M.
saw him glance sharply at Drax and Meyer, then the handkerchief was back
in his pocket.

A blue pack was in Bond's hands and he had started to deal.

"That's the hell of a stake," said Basildon. "We once had a
thousand-pound side-bet on a game of bridge. But that was in the rubber
boom before the 'fourteen-eighteen war. Hope nobody's going to get
hurt." He meant it. Very high stakes in a private game generally led to
trouble. He walked round and stood between M. and Drax.

Bond completed the deal. With a touch of anxiety he picked up his cards.

He had nothing but five clubs to the ace, queen, ten, and eight small
diamonds to the queen.

It was all right. The trap was set.

He almost felt Drax stiffen as the big man thumbed through his cards,
and then, unbelieving, thumbed them through again. Bond knew that Drax
had an incredibly good hand. Ten certain tricks, the ace, king of
diamonds, the four top honours in spades, the four top honours in
hearts, and the king, knave, nine of clubs.

Bond had dealt them to him--in the Secretary's room before dinner.

Bond waited, wondering how Drax would react to the huge hand. He took an
almost cruel interest in watching the greedy fish come to the lure.

Drax exceeded his expectations.

Casually he folded his hand and laid it on the table. Nonchalantly he
took the flat carton out of his pocket, selected a cigarette and lit it.
He didn't look at Bond. He glanced up at Basildon.

"Yes," he said, continuing the conversation about their stakes. "It's a
high game, but not the highest I've ever played. Once played for two
thousand a rubber in Cairo. At the Mahomet Ali as a matter of fact.
They've really got guts there. Often bet on every trick as well as on
the game and rubber. Now," he picked up his hand and looked slyly at
Bond. "I've got some good tickets here. I'll admit it. But then you may
have too, for all I know." (Unlikely, you old shark, thought Bond, with
three of the ace-kings in your own hand.) "Care to have something extra
just on this hand?"

Bond made a show of studying his cards with the minuteness of someone
who is nearly very drunk. "I've got a promising lot too," he said
thickly. "If my partner fits and the cards lie right I might make a lot
of tricks myself. What are you suggesting?"

"Sounds as if we're pretty evenly matched," lied Drax. "What do you say
to a hundred a trick on the side? From what you say it shouldn't be too
painful."

Bond looked thoughtful and rather fuddled. He took another careful look
at his hand, running through the cards one by one. "All right," he said.
"You're on. And frankly you've made me gamble. You've obviously got a
big hand, so I must shut you out and chance it."

Bond looked blearily across at M. "Pay your losses on this one,
partner," he said. "Here we go. Er--seven clubs."

In the dead silence that followed, Basildon, who had seen Drax's hand,
was so startled that he dropped his whisky and soda on the floor. He
looked dazedly down at the broken glass and let it lie.

Drax said "What?" in a startled voice and hastily ran through his cards
again for reassurance.

"Did you say grand slam in clubs?" he asked, looking curiously at his
obviously drunken opponent. "Well, it's your funeral. What do you say,
Max?"

"No bid," said Meyer, feeling in the air the electricity of just that
crisis he had hoped to avoid. Why the hell hadn't he gone home before
this last rubber? He groaned inwardly.

"No bid," said M. apparently unperturbed.

"Double." The word came viciously out of Drax's mouth. He put down his
hand and looked cruelly, scornfully at this tipsy oaf who had at last,
inexplicably, fallen into his hands.

"That mean you double the side-bets too?" asked Bond.

"Yes," said Drax greedily. "Yes. That's what I meant."

"All right," said Bond. He paused. He looked at Drax and not at his
hand. "Redouble. The contract and the side-bets. 400 a trick on the
side."

It was at that moment that the first hint of a dreadful, incredible
doubt entered Drax's mind. But again he looked at his hand, and again he
was reassured. At the very worst he couldn't fail to make two tricks.

A muttered "No bid" from Meyer. A rather strangled "No bid" from M. An
impatient shake of the head from Drax.

Basildon stood, his face very pale, looking intently across the table at
Bond.

Then he walked slowly round the table, scrutinizing all the hands. What
he saw was this:

                                  BOND
               DIAMONDS: Queen, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2
               CLUBS: Ace, queen, 10, 8, 4

                                  DRAX
               SPADES: Ace, king, queen, knave
               HEARTS: Ace, king, queen, knave
               DIAMONDS: Ace, king
               CLUBS: King, knave, 9

                                 MEYER
               SPADES: 6, 5, 4, 3, 2
               HEARTS: 10, 9, 8, 7, 2
               DIAMONDS: Knave, 10, 9

                                   M.
               SPADES: 10, 9, 8, 7
               HEARTS: 6, 5, 4, 3
               CLUBS: 7, 6, 5, 3, 2

And suddenly Basildon understood. It was a laydown Grand Slam for Bond
against any defence. Whatever Meyer led, Bond must get in with a trump
in his own hand or on the table. Then, in between clearing trumps,
finessing of course against Drax, he would play two rounds of diamonds,
trumping them in dummy and catching Drax's ace and king in the process.
After five plays he would be left with the remaining trumps and six
winning diamonds. Drax's aces and kings would be totally valueless.

It was sheer murder.

Basildon, almost in a trance, continued round the table and stood
between M. and Meyer so that he could watch Drax's face, and Bond's. His
own face was impassive, but his hands, which he had stuffed into his
trouser pockets so that they would not betray him, were sweating. He
waited, almost fearfully, for the terrible punishment that Drax was
about to receive--thirteen separate lashes whose scars no card-player
would ever lose.

"Come along, come along," said Drax impatiently. "Lead something, Max.
Can't be here all night."

You poor fool, thought Basildon. In ten minutes you'll wish that Meyer
had died in his chair before he could pull out that first card.

In fact, Meyer looked as if at any moment he might have a stroke. He was
deathly pale, and the perspiration was dropping off his chin on to his
shirt front. For all he knew, his first card might be a disaster.

At last, reasoning that Bond might be void in his own long suits, spades
and hearts, he led the knave of diamonds.

It made no difference what he led, but when M.'s hand went down showing
chicane in diamonds, Drax snarled across at his partner. "Haven't you
got anything else, you dam' fool? Want to hand it to him on a plate?
Whose side are you on, anyway?"

Meyer cringed into his clothes. "Best I could do, Hugger," he said
miserably, wiping his face with his handkerchief.

But by this time Drax had got his own worries.

Bond trumped on the table, catching Drax's king of diamonds, and
promptly led a club. Drax put up his nine. Bond took it with his ten and
led a diamond, trumping it on the table. Drax's ace fell. Another club
from the table, catching Drax's knave.

Then the ace of clubs.

As Drax surrendered his king, for the first time he saw what might be
happening. His eyes squinted anxiously at Bond, waiting fearfully for
the next card. Had Bond got the diamonds? Hadn't Meyer got them guarded?
After all, he had opened with them. Drax waited, his cards slippery with
sweat.

Morphy, the great chess player, had a terrible habit. He would never
raise his eyes from the game until he knew his opponent could not escape
defeat. Then he would slowly lift his great head and gaze curiously at
the man across the board. His opponent would feel the gaze and would
slowly, humbly raise his eyes to meet Morphy's. At that moment he would
know that it was no good continuing the game. The eyes of Morphy said
so. There was nothing left but surrender.

Now, like Morphy, Bond lifted his head and looked straight into Drax's
eyes. Then he slowly drew out the queen of diamonds and placed it on the
table. Without waiting for Meyer to play he followed it, deliberately,
with the 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, and the two winning clubs.

Then he spoke. "That's all, Drax," he said quietly, and sat slowly back
in his chair.

Drax's first reaction was to lurch forward and tear Meyer's cards out of
his hand. He faced them on the table, scrabbling feverishly among them
for a possible winner.

Then he flung them back across the baize.

His face was dead white, but his eyes blazed redly at Bond. Suddenly he
raised one clenched fist and crashed it on the table among the pile of
impotent aces and kings and queens in front of him.

Very low, he spat the words at Bond. "You're a che..."

"That's enough, Drax." Basildon's voice came across the table like a
whiplash. "None of that talk here. I've been watching the whole game.
Settle up. If you've got any complaints, put them in writing to the
Committee."

Drax got slowly to his feet. He stood away from his chair and ran a hand
through his wet red hair. The colour came slowly back into his face and
with it an expression of cunning. He glanced down at Bond and there was
in his good eye a contemptuous triumph which Bond found curiously
disturbing.

He turned to the table. "Good night, gentlemen," he said, looking at
each of them with the same oddly scornful expression. "I owe about
15,000. I will accept Meyer's addition."

He leant forward and picked up his cigarette-case and lighter.

Then he looked again at Bond and spoke very quietly, the red moustache
lifting slowly from the splayed upper teeth.

"I should spend the money quickly, Commander Bond," he said.

Then he turned away from the table and walked swiftly out of the room.




                     _PART TWO: TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY_




                              CHAPTER VIII
                           THE RED TELEPHONE


Although he had not got to bed until two, Bond walked into his
headquarters punctually at ten the next morning. He was feeling
dreadful. As well as acidity and liver as a result of drinking nearly
two whole bottles of champagne, he had a touch of the melancholy and
spiritual deflation that were partly the after-effects of the benzedrine
and partly reaction to the drama of the night before.

When he went up in the lift towards another routine day, the bitter
taste of the midnight hours was still with him.

After Meyer had scuttled thankfully off to bed, Bond had taken the two
packs of cards out of the pockets of his coat and had put them on the
table in front of Basildon and M. One was the blue pack that Drax had
cut to him and that he had pocketed, substituting instead, under cover
of his handkerchief, the stacked blue pack in his right-hand pocket. The
other was the stacked red pack in his left-hand pocket which had not
been needed.

He fanned the red pack out on the table and showed M. and Basildon that
it would have produced the same freak grand slam that had defeated Drax.

"It's a famous Culbertson hand," he explained. "He used it to spoof his
own quick-trick conventions. I had to doctor a red and a blue pack.
Couldn't know which colour I would be dealing with."

"Well, it certainly went with a bang," said Basildon gratefully. "I
expect he'll put two and two together and either stay away or play
straight in future. Expensive evening for him. Don't let's have any
arguments about your winnings," he added. "You've done everyone--and
particularly Drax--a good turn tonight. Things might have gone wrong.
Then it would have been your fingers that would have got burned. Cheque
will reach you on Saturday."

They had said good-night and Bond, in a mood of anti-climax, had gone
off to bed. He had taken a mild sleeping pill to try and clear his mind
of the bizarre events of the evening and prepare himself for the morning
and the office. Before he slept he reflected, as he had often reflected
in other moments of triumph at the card table, that the gain to the
winner is, in some odd way, always less than the loss to the loser.

When he closed the door behind him Loelia Ponsonby looked curiously at
the dark shadows under his eyes. He noticed the glance, as she had
intended.

He grinned. "Partly work and partly play," he explained. "In strictly
masculine company," he added. "And thanks very much for the benzedrine.
It really was badly needed. Hope I didn't interfere with your evening?"

"Of course not," she said, thinking of the dinner and the library book
she had abandoned when Bond telephoned. She looked down at her shorthand
pad. "The Chief of Staff telephoned half an hour ago. He said that M.
would be wanting you today. He couldn't say when. I told him that you've
got Unarmed Combat at three and he said to cancel it. That's all, except
the dockets left over from yesterday."

"Thank heavens," said Bond. "I couldn't have stood being thrown about by
that dam' Commando chap today. Any news of 008?"

"Yes," she said. "They say he's all right. He's been moved to the
military hospital at Wahnerheide. Apparently it's only shock."

Bond knew what 'shock' might mean in his profession. "Good," he said
without conviction. He smiled at her and went into his office and closed
the door.

He walked decisively round his desk to the chair, sat down, and pulled
the top file towards him. Monday was gone. This was Tuesday. A new day.
Closing his mind to his headache and to thoughts about the night, he lit
a cigarette and opened the brown folder with the Top Secret red star on
it. It was a memorandum from the Office of the Chief Preventive Officer
of the United States Customs Branch and it was headed _The
Inspectoscope_.

He focused his eyes.

'The Inspectoscope,' he read, 'is an instrument using fluoroscopic
principles for the detection of contraband. It is manufactured by the
Sicular Inspectoscope Company of San Francisco and is widely used in
American prisons for the secret detection of metal objects concealed in
the clothing or on the person of criminals and prison visitors. It is
also used in the detection of IDB (Illicit Diamond Buying) and diamond
smuggling in the diamond fields of Africa and Brazil. The instrument
costs seven thousand dollars, is approximately eight feet long by seven
feet high and weighs nearly three tons. It requires two trained
operators. Experiments have been made with this instrument in the
customs hall of the International Airport at Idlewild with the following
results...'

Bond skipped two pages containing details of a number of petty smuggling
cases and studied the 'Summary of Conclusions' from which he deduced,
with some irritation, that he would have to think of some place other
than his armpit for carrying his 25 Beretta the next time he travelled
abroad. He made a mental note to discuss the problem with the Technical
Devices Section.

He ticked and initialled the distribution slip and automatically reached
for the next folder entitled _Philopon. A Japanese murder-drug._

'Philopon', his mind was trying to wander and he dragged it sharply back
to the typewritten pages.

'Philopon is the chief factor in the increase in crime in Japan.
According to the Welfare Ministry there are now 1,500,000 addicts in the
country, of whom one million are under the age of 20, and the Tokyo
Metropolitan Police attribute 70 per cent of juvenile crime to the
influences of the drug.

'Addiction, as in the case of marijuana in the United States, begins
with one "shot". The effect is "stimulating" and the drug is
habit-forming. It is also cheap--about ten yen (sixpence) a shot--and
the addict rapidly increases his shots to the neighbourhood of one
hundred a day. In these quantities the addiction becomes expensive and
the victim automatically turns to crime to pay for the drug. That the
crime often includes physical assault and murder is due to a peculiar
property of the drug. It induces an acute persecution complex in the
addict who becomes prey to the illusion that people want to kill him and
that he is always being followed with harmful intent. He will turn with
his feet and fists, or with a razor, on a stranger in the streets who he
thinks has scrutinized him offensively. Less advanced addicts tend to
avoid an old friend who has reached the one hundred shots a day dosage,
and this of course merely increases his feeling of persecution.

'In this way murder becomes an act of self-defence, virtuous and
justified, and it will readily be seen what a dangerous weapon it can
become in the handling and direction of organized crime by a
"master-mind".

'Philopon has been traced as the motive power behind the notorious Bar
Mecca murder case and as a result of that unpleasant affair the police
rounded up more than 5000 _purveyors_ of the drug in a matter of weeks.

'As usual Korean nationals are being blamed...'

Suddenly Bond rebelled. What the hell was he doing reading all this
stuff? When would he conceivably require to know about a Japanese
murder-drug called Philopon?

Inattentively he skimmed through the remaining pages, ticked himself off
the distribution slip, and threw the docket into his out-tray.

His headache was still sitting over his right eye as if it had been
nailed there. He opened one of the drawers of his desk and took out a
bottle of Phensic. He considered asking his secretary for a glass of
water, but he disliked being cossetted. With distaste he crunched two
tablets between his teeth and swallowed down the harsh powder.

Then he lit a cigarette and got up and stood by the window. He looked
across the green panorama far below him and, without seeing it, let his
eyes wander aimlessly along the jagged horizon of London while his mind
focused on the strange events of the night before.

And the more he thought about it, the stranger it all seemed.

Why should Drax, a millionaire, a public hero, a man with a unique
position in the country, why should this remarkable man cheat at cards?
What could he achieve by it? What could he prove to himself? Did he
think that he was so much a law unto himself, so far above the common
herd and their puny canons of behaviour that he could spit in the face
of public opinion?

Bond's mind paused. Spit in their faces. That just about described his
manner at Blades. The combination of superiority and scorn. As if he was
dealing with human muck so far beneath contempt that there was no need
to put up even a pretence of decent behaviour in its company.

Presumably Drax enjoyed gambling. Perhaps it eased the tensions in him,
the tensions that showed in his harsh voice, his nail-biting, the
constant sweating. But he mustn't lose. It would be contemptible to lose
to these inferior people. So, at whatever risk, he must cheat his way to
victory. As for the possibility of detection, presumably he thought that
he could bluster his way out of any corner. If he thought about it at
all. And people with obsessions, reflected Bond, were blind to danger.
They even courted it in a perverse way. Kleptomaniacs would try to steal
more and more difficult objects. Sex maniacs would parade their
importunities as if they were longing to be arrested. Pyromaniacs often
made no attempt to avoid being linked with their fire-raising.

But what obsession was it that was consuming this man? What was the
origin of the compulsive urge that was driving him down the steep hill
into the sea?

All the signs pointed to paranoia. Delusions of grandeur and, behind
that, of persecution. The contempt in his face. The bullying voice. The
expression of secret triumph with which he had met defeat after a moment
of bitter collapse. The triumph of the maniac who knows that whatever
the facts may say he is right. Whoever may try to thwart him he can
overcome. For him there is no defeat because of his secret power. He
knows how to make gold. He can fly like a bird. He is almighty--the man
in the padded cell who is God.

Yes, thought Bond, gazing blindly out over Regent's Park. That is the
solution. Sir Hugo Drax is a raving paranoiac. That is the power which
has driven him on, by devious routes, to make his millions. That is the
mainspring of the gift to England of this giant rocket that will
annihilate our enemies. Thanks to the all-powerful Drax.

But who can tell how near to breaking-point this man is? Who has
penetrated behind that bluster, behind all that red hair on his face,
who has read the signs as more than the effect of his humble origins or
of sensitivity about his war wounds?

Apparently no one. Then was he, Bond, right in his analysis? What was it
based on? Was this glimpse through a shuttered window into a man's soul
sufficient evidence? Perhaps others had caught such a glimpse. Perhaps
there had been other moments of supreme tension in Singapore, Hong Kong,
Nigeria, Tangier, when some merchant sitting across a table from Drax
had noticed the sweat and the bitten nails and the red blaze of the eyes
in the face from which all the blood had suddenly been drained.

If one had time, thought Bond, one ought to seek those people out, if
they existed, and really find out about this man, perhaps get him in the
killing-bottle before it was too late.

Too late? Bond smiled to himself. What was he being so dramatic about?
What had this man done to him? Made him a present of 15,000. Bond
shrugged. It was none of his business anyway. But that last remark of
his, 'Spend it quickly, Commander Bond.' What had he meant by that? It
must be those words, Bond reflected, that had stayed in the back of his
mind and made him ponder so carefully over the problem of Drax.

Bond turned brusquely away from the window. To hell with it, he thought.
I'm getting obsessed myself. Now then. Fifteen thousand pounds. A
miraculous windfall. All right then, he _would_ spend it quickly. He sat
down at his desk and picked up a pencil. He thought for a moment and
then wrote carefully on a memorandum pad headed 'Top Secret':

(1) Rolls-Bentley Convertible, say 5000.

(2) Three diamond clips at 250 each, 750.

He paused. That still left nearly 10,000. Some clothes, paint the flat,
a set of the new Henry Cotton irons, a few dozen of the Taittinger
champagne. But those could wait. He would go that afternoon and buy the
clips and talk to Bentleys. Put all the rest into gold shares. Make a
fortune. Retire.

In angry protest the red telephone splintered the silence.

"Can you come up? M. wants you." It was the Chief of Staff, speaking
urgently.

"Coming," said Bond, suddenly alert. "Any clue?"

"Search me," said the Chief of Staff. "Hasn't touched his signals yet.
Been over at the Yard and the Ministry of Supply all the morning."

He rang off.




                               CHAPTER IX
                           TAKE IT FROM HERE


A few minutes later Bond was walking through the familiar door and the
green light had gone on over the entrance.

M. looked sharply at him. "You look pretty dreadful, 007," he said. "Sit
down."

It's business, thought Bond, his pulse quickening. No Christian names
today. He sat down. M. was studying some pencilled notes on a
scratch-pad. He looked up. His eyes were no longer interested in Bond.

"Trouble down at Drax's plant last night," he said. "Double killing.
Police tried to get hold of Drax. Didn't think of Blades apparently.
Caught up with him when he got back to the Ritz about half-past one this
morning. Two men from the Moonraker got shot in a public house near the
plant. Both dead. Drax told the police he couldn't care less and then
hung up. Typical of the man. He's down there now. Taking the thing a bit
more seriously, I gather."

"Curious coincidence," said Bond thoughtfully. "But where do we come in,
sir? Isn't it a police job?"

"Partly," said M., "but it happens that we're responsible for a lot of
the key personnel down there. Germans," he added. "I'd better explain."
He looked down at his pad. "It's an RAF establishment and the cover-plan
is that it's part of the big radar network along the East Coast. The RAF
are responsible for guarding the perimeter and the Ministry of Supply
only has authority at the centre where the work is going on. It's on the
edge of the cliffs between Dover and Deal. The whole area covers about a
thousand acres, but the site itself is about two hundred. On the site
there are only Drax and fifty-two others left. All the construction team
have gone."

Pack of cards and a joker, reflected Bond.

"Fifty of these are Germans," continued M. "More or less all the guided
missile experts the Russians didn't get. Drax paid for them to come over
here and work on the Moonraker. Nobody was very happy with the
arrangement but there was no alternative. The Ministry of Supply
couldn't spare any of their experts from Woomera. Drax had to find his
men where he could. To strengthen the RAF security people, the Ministry
of Supply appointed their own security officer to live on the site. Man
called Major Tallon."

M. paused and looked up at the ceiling.

"He was one of the two who got killed last night. Shot by one of the
Germans, who then shot himself."

M. lowered his eyes and looked at Bond. Bond said nothing, waiting for
the rest of the story.

"It happened in a public house near the site. Plenty of witnesses.
Apparently it's an inn on the edge of the site that is in bounds to the
men. Must have somewhere to go to, I suppose." M. paused. He kept his
eyes on Bond. "Now you asked where we come in on all this. We come in
because we cleared this particular German, and all the others, before
they were allowed to come over here. We've got the dossiers of all of
them. So when this happened the first thing RAF Security and Scotland
Yard wanted was the dossier of the dead man. They got on to the Duty
Officer last night and he dug the papers out of Records and sent them
over to the Yard. Routine job. He noted it in the log. When I got here
this morning and saw the entry in the log I suddenly got interested." M.
spoke quietly. "After spending the evening with Drax, it was, as you
remarked, a curious coincidence."

"Very curious, sir," said Bond, still waiting.

"And there's one more thing," concluded M. "And this is the real reason
why I've let myself get involved instead of keeping clear of the whole
business. This has got to take priority over everything." M.'s voice was
very quiet. "They're going to fire the Moonraker on Friday. Less than
four days' time. Practice shoot."

M. paused and reached for his pipe and busied himself lighting it.

Bond said nothing. He still couldn't see what all this had to do with
the Secret Service whose jurisdiction runs only outside the United
Kingdom. It seemed a job for the Special Branch of Scotland Yard, or
conceivably for MI5. He waited. He looked at his watch. It was noon.

M. got his pipe going and continued.

"But quite apart from that," said M., "I got interested because last
night I got interested in Drax."

"So did I, sir," said Bond.

"So when I read the log," said M., ignoring Bond's comment, "I
telephoned Vallance at the Yard and asked him what it was all about. He
was rather worried and asked me to come over. I said I didn't want to
tread on Five's corns but he said he had already spoken to them. They
maintained it was a matter between my department and the police since it
was we who had cleared the German who did the killing. So I went along."

M. paused and looked down at his notes.

"The place is on the coast about three miles north of Dover," he said.
"There's this inn nearby on the main coast road, the 'World without
Want', and the men from the site go there in the evening. Last night,
about seven-thirty, the Security man from the Ministry, this man Tallon,
went along there and was having a whisky and soda and chatting away with
some of the Germans when the murderer, if you like to call him that,
came in and walked straight up to Tallon. He pulled out a Luger--no
serial numbers by the way--out of his shirt and said," M. looked up, "'I
love Gala Brand. You shall not have her.' Then he shot Tallon through
the heart and put the smoking gun in his own mouth and pulled the
trigger."

"What a ghastly business," said Bond. He could see every detail of the
shambles in the crowded taproom of a typical English public house.
"Who's the girl?"

"That's another complication," said M. "She's an agent of the Special
Branch. Bilingual in German. One of Vallance's best girls. She and
Tallon were the only two non-Germans Drax had with him on the site.
Vallance is a suspicious chap. Has to be. This Moonraker plan is
obviously the most important thing happening in England. Without telling
anyone and acting more or less on instinct, he planted this Brand girl
on Drax and somehow fixed for her to be taken on as his private
secretary. Been on the site since the beginning. She's had absolutely
nothing to report. Says that Drax is an excellent chief, except for his
manners, and drives his men like hell. Apparently he started by making
passes at her, even after she'd spun the usual yarn about being engaged,
but after she'd shown she could defend herself, which of course she can,
he gave up and she says they're perfectly good friends. Naturally she
knew Tallon, but he was old enough to be her father, besides being
happily married with four children, and she told Vallance's man who got
a word with her this morning that he's taken her to the cinema in a
paternal sort of way twice in eighteen months. As for the killer, man
called Egon Bartsch, he was an electronics expert whom she barely knew
by sight."

"What do his friends say about all this?" asked Bond.

"The man who shared his room with him backs up Bartsch. Says he was
madly in love with the Brand woman and put his whole lack of success
down to 'The Englishman'. He says Bartsch had been getting very moody
and reserved lately and that he wasn't a bit surprised to hear of the
shooting."

"Sounds pretty corroborative," said Bond. "Somehow one can see the
picture. One of those highly strung nervous chaps with the usual German
chip on the shoulder. What does Vallance think?"

"He's not sure," said M. "He's mainly concerned with protecting his girl
from the Press and seeing that her cover doesn't get blown. All the
papers are on to it, of course. It'll be in the midday editions. And
they're all howling for a picture of the girl. Vallance is having one
cooked up and got down to her that'll look more or less like any girl,
but just sufficiently like her. She'll send it out this evening.
Fortunately the reporters can't get near the place. She's refusing to
talk and Vallance is praying that some friend or relation won't blow the
gaff. They're holding the inquest today and Vallance is hoping that the
case will be officially closed by this evening and that the papers will
have to let it die for lack of material."

"What about this practice shoot?" asked Bond.

"They're sticking to the schedule," said M. "Noon on Friday. They're
using a dummy warhead and firing her vertically with only three-quarter
tanks. They're clearing about a hundred square miles of the North Sea
from about Latitude 52 up. That's north of a line joining The Hague and
the Wash. Full details are going to be given out by the PM on Thursday
night."

M. stopped talking. He swivelled his chair round so that he could look
out of the window. Bond heard a distant clock chime the four quarters.
One o'clock. Was he going to miss his lunch again? If M. would stop
ferreting about in the business of other Departments he could have a
quick lunch and get round to Bentley's. Bond shifted slightly in his
chair.

M. turned back and faced him again across the desk.

"The people who are most worried about all this," he said, "are the
Ministry of Supply. Tallon was one of their best men. His reports had
been completely negative all along. Then he suddenly rang up the
Assistant Under-Secretary yesterday afternoon and said he thought
something fishy was going on at the site and he asked to see the
Minister personally at ten o'clock this morning. Wouldn't say anything
more on the telephone. And a few hours later he gets shot. Another funny
coincidence, wasn't it?"

"Very funny," said Bond. "But why don't they close down the site and
have a wholesale inquiry? After all, this thing's too big to take a
chance on."

"The cabinet met early this morning," said M., "and the Prime Minister
asked the obvious question. What evidence was there of any attempt, or
even of any intention, to sabotage the Moonraker? The answer was none.
There were only fears which had been brought to the surface in the last
twenty-four hours by Tallon's vague message and the double murder.
Everyone agreed that unless there was a grain of evidence, which so far
hasn't turned up, both these incidents could be put down to the terrific
nervous tension on the site. The way things are in the world at the
moment it was decided that the sooner the Moonraker could give us an
independent say in world affairs the better for us and," M. shrugged his
shoulders, "quite possibly for the world. And it was agreed that for a
thousand reasons why the Moonraker should be fired the reasons against
didn't stand up. The Minister of Supply had to agree, but he knows as
well as you or I that, whatever the facts, it would be a colossal
victory for the Russians to sabotage the Moonraker on the eve of her
practice shoot. If they did it well enough they might easily get the
whole project shelved. There are fifty Germans working on the thing. Any
one of them could have relatives still being held in Russia whose lives
could be used as a lever." M. paused. He looked up at the ceiling. Then
his eyes came down and rested thoughtfully on Bond.

"The Minister asked me to go and see him after the Cabinet. He said that
the least he could do was replace Tallon at once. The new man must be
bilingual in German, a sabotage expert, and have had plenty of
experience of our Russian friends. MI5 have put up three candidates.
They're all on cases at the moment, but they could be extricated in a
few hours. But then the Minister asked my opinion. I gave it. He talked
to the Prime Minister and a lot of red tape got cut very quickly."

Bond looked sharply, resentfully, into the grey, uncompromising eyes.

"So," said M. flatly, "Sir Hugo Drax has been notified of your
appointment and he expects you down at his headquarters in time for
dinner this evening."




                               CHAPTER X
                          SPECIAL BRANCH AGENT


At six o'clock that Tuesday evening towards the end of May, James Bond
was thrashing the big Bentley down the Dover road along the straight
stretch that runs into Maidstone.

Although he was driving fast and with concentration, part of his mind
was going back over his movements since he had left M.'s office four and
a half hours earlier.

After giving a brief outline of the case to his secretary and eating a
quick lunch at a table to himself in the canteen, he had told the garage
for God's sake to hurry up with his car and deliver it, filled up, to
his flat not later than four o'clock. Then he had taken a taxi down to
Scotland Yard where he had an appointment with Assistant Commissioner
Vallance at a quarter to three.

The courtyards and cul-de-sacs of the Yard had reminded him as usual of
a prison without roofs. The overhead strip lighting in the cold corridor
took the colour out of the cheeks of the police sergeant who asked his
business and watched him sign the apple-green chit. It did the same for
the face of the constable who led him up the short steps and along the
bleak passage between the rows of anonymous doors to the waiting-room.

A quiet, middle-aged woman with the resigned eyes of someone who had
seen everything came in and said the Assistant Commissioner would be
free in five minutes. Bond had gone to the window and had looked out
into the grey courtyard below. A constable, looking naked without his
helmet, had come out of a building and walked across the yard munching a
split roll with something pink between the two halves. It had been very
quiet and the noise of the traffic on Whitehall and on the Embankment
had sounded far away. Bond had felt dispirited. He was getting tangled
up with strange departments. He would be out of touch with his own
people and his own Service routines. Already, in this waiting-room, he
felt out of his element. Only criminals or informers came and waited
here, or influential people vainly trying to get out of a dangerous
driving charge or desperately hoping to persuade Vallance that their
sons were not really homosexuals. You could not be in the waiting-room
of the Special Branch for any innocent purpose. You were either
prosecuting or defending.

At last the woman came for him. He stubbed out his cigarette in the top
of the Player's cigarette tin that serves as an ashtray in the
waiting-rooms of government departments, and followed her across the
corridor.

After the gloom of the waiting-room the unseasonable fire in the hearth
of the large cheerful room had seemed like a trick, like the cigarette
offered you by the Gestapo.

It had taken Bond a full five minutes to shake off his depression and
realize that Ronnie Vallance was relieved to see him, that he was not
interested in inter-departmental jealousies and that he was only looking
to Bond to protect the Moonraker and get one of his best officers out of
what might be a bad mess.

Vallance was a man of great tact. For the first few minutes he had
spoken only of M. And he had spoken with inside knowledge and with
sincerity. Without even mentioning the case he had gained Bond's
friendship and co-operation.

As Bond swung the Bentley through the crowded streets of Maidstone he
reflected that Vallance's gift had come from twenty years of avoiding
the corns of MI5, of working in with the uniformed branch of the police,
and of handling ignorant politicians and affronted foreign diplomats.

When Bond had left him after a quarter of an hour's hard talking, each
man knew that he had acquired an ally. Vallance had seized up Bond and
knew that Gala Brand would get all Bond's help and whatever protection
she needed. He also respected Bond's professional approach to the
assignment and his absence of departmental rivalry with the Special
Branch. As for Bond, he was full of admiration for what he had learned
about Vallance's agent, and he felt that he was no longer naked and that
he had Vallance and the whole of Vallance's department behind him.

Bond had left Scotland Yard with the feeling that he had achieved
Clausewitz's first principle. He had made his base secure.

His visit to the Ministry of Supply had added nothing to his knowledge
of the case. He had studied Tallon's record and his reports. The former
was quite straightforward--a lifetime in Army Intelligence and Field
Security--and the latter painted a picture of a very lively and
well-managed technical establishment--one or two cases of drunkenness,
one of petty theft, several personal vendettas leading to fights and
mild bloodshed but otherwise a loyal and hardworking team of men.

Then he had had an inadequate half-hour in the Operations Room of the
Ministry with Professor Train, a fat, scruffy, undistinguished-looking
man who had been runner-up for the Physics Division of the Nobel Prize
the year before and who was one of the greatest experts on guided
missiles in the world.

Professor Train had walked up to a row of huge wall maps and had pulled
down the cord of one of them. Bond was faced with a ten-foot horizontal
scale diagram of some thing that looked like a V2 with big fins.

"Now," said Professor Train, "you know nothing about rockets so I'm
going to put this in simple terms and not fill you up with a lot of
stuff about Nozzle Expansion Ratios, Exhaust Velocity, and the Keplerian
Ellipse. The Moonraker, as Drax chooses to call it, is a single-stage
rocket. It uses up all its fuel shooting itself into the air and then it
homes on to the objective. The V2's trajectory was more like a shell
fired from a gun. At the top of its 200-mile flight it had climbed to
about 70 miles. It was fuelled with a very combustible mixture of
alcohol and liquid oxygen which was watered down so as not to burn out
the mild steel which was all they were allocated for the engine. There
are far more powerful fuels available but until now we hadn't been able
to achieve very much with them for the same reason, their combustion
temperature is so high that they would burn out the toughest engine."

The professor paused and stuck a finger in Bond's chest. "All you, my
dear sir, have to remember about this rocket is that, thanks to Drax's
Columbite, which has a melting point of about 3500 degrees Centigrade,
compared with 1300 in the V2 engines, we can use one of the super fuels
without burning out the engine. In fact," he looked at Bond as if Bond
should be impressed, "we are using fluorine and hydrogen."

"Oh, really," said Bond reverently.

The Professor looked at him sharply. "So we hope to achieve a speed in
the neighbourhood of 1500 miles an hour and a vertical range of about
1000 miles. This should produce an operational range of about 4000
miles, bringing every European capital within reach of England. Very
useful," he added drily, "in certain circumstances. But, for the
scientists, chiefly desirable as a step towards escape from the earth.
Any questions?"

"How does it work?" asked Bond dutifully.

The Professor gestured brusquely towards the diagram. "Let's start from
the nose," he said. "First comes the warhead. For the practice shoot
this will contain upper-atmosphere instruments, radar and suchlike. Then
the gyro compasses to make it fly straight--pitch-and-yaw gyro and roll
gyro. Then various minor instruments, servo motors, power supply. And
then the big fuel tanks--30,000 pounds of the stuff.

"At the stern you get two small tanks to drive the turbine. Four hundred
pounds of hydrogen peroxide mixes with forty pounds of potassium
permanganate and makes steam which drives the turbines underneath them.
These drive a set of centrifugal pumps which force the main fuel into
the rocket motor. Under terrific pressure. Do you follow me?" He cocked
a dubious eyebrow at Bond.

"Sounds much the same principle as a jet plane," said Bond.

The Professor seemed pleased. "More or less," he said, "but the rocket
carries all its fuel inside it, instead of sucking in oxygen from
outside like the Comet. Well then," he continued, "the fuel gets ignited
in the motor and squirts out at the end in a continuous blast. Rather
like a continuous recoil from a gun. And this blast forces the rocket
into the air like any other firework. Of course it's at the stern that
the Columbite comes in. It's allowed us to make a motor that won't be
melted by the fantastic heat. And then," he pointed, "those are the tail
fins to keep it steady at the beginning of its flight. Also made of
Columbite alloy or they'd break away with the colossal air pressure.
Anything else?"

"How can you be certain it'll come down where you mean it to?" asked
Bond. "What's to prevent it falling on The Hague next Friday?"

"The gyros will see to that. But as a matter of fact we're taking no
chances on Friday and we're using a radar homing device on a raft in the
middle of the sea. There'll be a radar transmitter in the nose of the
rocket which will pick up an echo from our gadget in the sea and home on
to it automatically. Of course," the Professor grinned, "if we ever had
to use the thing in wartime it would be a great help to have a homing
device transmitting energy from the middle of Moscow or Warsaw or Prague
or Monte Carlo or wherever we might be shooting at. It'll probably be up
to you chaps to get one there. Good luck to you."

Bond smiled non-committally. "One more question," he said. "If you
wanted to sabotage the rocket what would be the easiest way?"

"Any number," said the Professor cheerfully. "Sand in the fuel. Grit in
the pumps. A small hole anywhere on the fuselage or the fins. With that
power and at those speeds the smallest fault would finish it."

"Thanks very much," said Bond. "It seems you've got fewer worries about
the Moonraker than I have."

"It's a wonderful machine," said the Professor. "She'll fly all right if
nobody interferes with her. Drax has done a sound job. Wonderful
organizer. That's a brilliant team he put together. And they'll do
anything for him. We've got a lot to thank him for."

Bond did a racing change and swung the big car left at the Charing fork,
preferring the clear road by Chilham and Canterbury to the bottlenecks
of Ashford and Folkestone. The car howled up to eighty in third and he
held it in the same gear to negotiate the hairpin at the top of the long
gradient leading up to the Molash road.

And, he wondered, going back into top and listening with satisfaction to
the relaxed thunder of the exhaust, and what about Drax? What sort of a
reception was Drax going to give him this evening? According to M., when
his name had been suggested over the telephone, Drax had paused for a
moment and then said, "Oh yes. I know the fellow. Didn't know he was
mixed up in that racket. I'd be interested to have another look at him.
Send him along. I'll expect him in time for dinner." Then he had rung
off.

The people at the Ministry had their own view of Drax. In their dealings
with him they had found him a dedicated man, completely bound up in the
Moonraker, living for nothing but its success, driving his men to the
limit, fighting for priorities in material with other departments,
goading the Ministry of Supply into clearing his requirements at Cabinet
level. They disliked his hectoring manners but they respected him for
his know-how and his drive and his dedication. And, like the rest of
England, they considered him a possible saviour of the country.

Well, thought Bond, accelerating down the straight stretch of road past
Chilham Castle, he could see that picture too and if he was going to
work with the man he must adjust himself to the heroic version. If Drax
was willing, he would put the whole affair at Blades out of his mind and
concentrate on protecting Drax and his wonderful project from their
country's enemies. There were only about three days to go. The security
precautions were already minute and Drax might resent suggestions for
increasing them. It was not going to be easy and a great deal of tact
would have to be used. Tact. Not Bond's long suit and not, he reflected,
connected in any way with that he knew of Drax's character.

Bond took the short cut out of Canterbury by the Old Dover road and
looked at his watch. It was six-thirty. Another fifteen minutes to Dover
and then another ten minutes along the Deal road. Were there any other
plans to be made? The double killing was out of his hands, thank heaven.
'Murder and suicide while of unsound mind' had been the coroner's
verdict. The girl had not even been called. He would stop for a drink at
the 'World Without Want' and have a quick word with the innkeeper. The
next day he would have to try and smell out the 'something fishy' that
Tallon had wanted to see the Minister about. No clue about that. Nothing
had been found in Tallon's room, which presumably he would now be taking
over. Well, at any rate that would give him plenty of leisure to go
through Tallon's papers.

Bond concentrated on his driving as he coasted down into Dover. He kept
left and was soon climbing out of the town again past the wonderful
cardboard castle.

There was a patch of low cloud on top of the hill and a spit of rain on
his windshield. There was a cold breeze coming in from the sea. The
visibility was bad and he switched on his lights as he motored slowly
along the coast-road, the ruby-spangled masts of the Swingate radar
station rising like petrified Roman candles on his right.

The girl? He would have to be careful how he contacted her and careful
not to upset her. He wondered if she would be any use to him. After a
year on the site she would have had all the opportunities of a private
secretary to 'The Chief' to get under the skin of the whole project--and
of Drax. And she had a mind trained to his own particular craft. But he
would have to be prepared for her to be suspicious of the new broom and
perhaps resentful. He wondered what she was really like. The photograph
on her record-sheet at the Yard had shown an attractive but rather
severe girl and any hint of seductiveness had been abstracted by the
cheerless jacket of her policewoman's uniform.

Hair: Auburn. Eyes: Blue. Height: 5 ft 7. Weight: 9 stone. Hips: 38.
Waist: 26. Bust: 38. Distinguishing marks: Mole on upper curvature of
right breast.

Hm! thought Bond.

He put the statistics out of his mind as he came to the turning to the
right. There was a signpost that said Kingsdown, and the lights of a
small inn.

He pulled up and switched off the engine. Above his head a sign which
said 'World Without Want' in faded gold lettering groaned in the salt
breeze that came over the cliffs half a mile away. He got out, stretched
and walked over to the door of the public bar. It was locked. Closed for
cleaning? He tried the next door, which opened and gave access to the
small private bar. Behind the bar a stolid-looking man in shirt-sleeves
was reading an evening paper.

He looked up as Bond entered, and put his paper down. "Evening, sir," he
said, evidently relieved to see a customer.

"Evening," said Bond. "Large whisky and soda, please." He sat up at the
bar and waited while the man poured two measures of Black and White and
put the glass in front of him with a syphon of soda.

Bond filled the glass with soda and drank. "Bad business you had here
last night," he said, putting the glass down.

"Terrible, sir," said the man. "And bad for trade. Would you be from the
Press, sir? Had nothing but reporters and policemen in and out of the
house all day long."

"No," said Bond. "I've come to take over the job of the fellow who got
shot. Major Tallon. Was he one of your regular customers?"

"Never came here but the once, sir, and that was the end of him. Now
I've been put out of bounds for a week and the public has got to be
painted from top to bottom. But I will say that Sir Hugo has been very
decent about it. Sent me fifty quid this afternoon to pay for the
damage. He must be a fine gentleman that. Made himself well liked in
these parts. Always very generous and a cheery word for all."

"Yes. Fine man," said Bond. "Did you see it all happen?"

"Didn't see the first shot, sir. Serving a pint at the time. Then of
course I looked up. Dropped the ruddy pint on the floor."

"What happened then?"

"Well, everybody's standing back of course. Nothing but Germans in the
place. About a dozen of them. There's the body on the floor and the chap
with the gun looking down at him. Then suddenly he stands to attention
and sticks his left arm up in the air. ''Eil!' he shouts like the silly
bastards used to do during the war. Then he puts the end of the gun in
his mouth. Next thing," the man made a grimace, "he's all over my ruddy
ceiling."

"That was all he said after the shot?" asked Bond. "Just '_Heil_'?"

"That's all, sir. Don't seem to be able to forget the bloody word, do
they?"

"No," said Bond thoughtfully, "they certainly don't."




                               CHAPTER XI
                           POLICEWOMAN BRAND


Five minutes later Bond was showing his Ministry pass to the uniformed
guard on duty at the gate in the high wire fence.

The RAF sergeant handed it back to him and saluted. "Sir Hugo's
expecting you, sir. It's the big house up in the woods there." He
pointed to some lights a hundred yards further on towards the cliffs.

Bond heard him telephoning to the next guard point. He motored slowly
along the new tarmac road that had been laid across the fields behind
Kingsdown. He could hear the distant boom of the sea at the foot of the
tall cliffs and from somewhere close at hand there was a high-pitched
whine of machinery which grew louder as he approached the trees.

He was stopped again by a plain-clothes guard at a second wire fence
through which a five-bar gate gave access to the interior of the wood,
and as he was waved through he heard the distant baying of police dogs
which suggested some form of night patrol. All these precautions seemed
efficient. Bond decided that he wouldn't have to worry himself with
problems of external security.

Once through the trees the car was running over a flat concrete apron
the limits of which, in the bad light, were out of range even of the
huge twin beams of his Marchal headlamps. A hundred yards to his left,
on the edge of the trees, there were the lights of a large house
half-hidden behind a wall six feet thick, that rose straight up off the
surface of the concrete almost to the height of the house. Bond slowed
the car down to walking pace and turned its bonnet away from the house
towards the sea and towards a dark shape that suddenly glinted white in
the revolving beams of the South Goodwin Lightship far out in the
Channel. His lights cut a path down the apron to where, almost on the
edge of the cliff and at least half a mile away, a squat dome surged up
about fifty feet out of the concrete. It looked like the top of an
observatory and Bond could distinguish the flange of a joint running
east and west across the surface of the dome.

He turned the car back and slowly ran it up between what he now assumed
to be a blast-wall and the front of the house. As he pulled up outside
the house the door opened and a manservant in a white jacket came out.
He smartly opened the door of the car.

"Good evening, sir. This way please."

He spoke woodenly and with a trace of accent. Bond followed him into the
house and across a comfortable hall to a door on which the butler
knocked.

"In."

Bond smiled to himself at the harsh tone of the well-remembered voice
and at the note of command in the single monosyllable.

At the far end of the long, bright, chintzy living-room Drax was
standing with his back to an empty grate, a huge figure in a
plum-coloured velvet smoking-jacket that clashed with the reddish hair
on his face. There were three other people standing near him, two men
and a woman.

"Ah, my dear fellow," said Drax boisterously, striding forward to meet
him and shaking him cordially by the hand. "So we meet again. And so
soon. Didn't realize you were a ruddy spy for my Ministry or I'd have
been more careful about playing cards against you. Spent that money
yet?" he asked, leading him towards the fire.

"Not yet," smiled Bond. "Haven't seen the colour of it."

"Of course. Settlement on Saturday. Probably get the cheque just in time
to celebrate our little firework display, what? Now let's see." He led
Bond up to the woman. "This is my secretary, Miss Brand."

Bond looked into a pair of very level blue eyes.

"Good evening." He gave her a friendly smile.

There was no answering smile in the eyes which looked calmly into his.
No answering pressure of her hand. "How do you do," she said
indifferently, almost, Bond sensed, with hostility.

It crossed Bond's mind that she had been well-chosen. Another Loelia
Ponsonby. Reserved, efficient, loyal, virginal. Thank heavens, he
thought. A professional.

"My right-hand man, Dr Walter." The thin elderly man with a pair of
angry eyes under the shock of black hair seemed not to notice Bond's
outstretched hand. He sprang to attention and gave a quick nod of the
head. "Valter," said the thin mouth above the black imperial, correcting
Drax's pronunciation.

"And my--what shall I say--my dogsbody. What you might call my ADC,
Willy Krebs." There was the touch of a slightly damp hand. "Ferry
pleased to meet you," said an ingratiating voice and Bond looked into a
pale round unhealthy face now split in a stage smile which died almost
as Bond noticed it. Bond looked into his eyes. They were like two
restless black buttons and they twisted away from Bond's gaze.

Both men wore spotless white overalls with plastic zip fasteners at the
sleeves and ankles and down the back. Their hair was close-cropped so
that the skin shone through and they would have looked like people from
another planet but for the untidy black moustache and imperial of Dr
Walter and the pale wispy moustache of Krebs. They were both
caricatures--a mad scientist and a youthful version of Peter Lorre.

The colourful ogreish figure of Drax was a pleasant contrast in this
chilly company and Bond was grateful to him for the cheerful roughness
of his welcome and for his apparent wish to bury the hatchet and make
the best of his new security officer.

Drax was very much the host. He rubbed his hands together. "Now, Willy,"
he said, "how about making one of your excellent dry Martinis for us?
Except, of course, for the Doctor. Doesn't drink or smoke," he explained
to Bond, returning to his place by the mantelpiece. "Hardly breathes."
He barked out a short laugh. "Thinks of nothing but the rocket. Do you,
my friend?"

The Doctor looked stonily in front of him. "You are pleased to joke," he
said.

"Now, now," said Drax, as if to a child. "We will go back to those
leading edges later. Everybody's quite happy about them except you." He
turned to Bond. "The good Doctor is always frightening us," he explained
indulgently. "He's always having nightmares about something. Now it's
the leading edges of the fins. They're already as sharp as razor
blades--hardly any wind resistance at all. And he suddenly gets it into
his head that they're going to melt. Friction of the air. Of course
everything's possible, but they've been tested at over 3000 degrees and,
as I tell him, if they're going to melt then the whole rocket will melt.
And that's just not going to happen," he added with a grim smile.

Krebs came up with a silver tray with four full glasses and a frosted
shaker. The Martini was excellent and Bond said so.

"You are ferry kind," said Krebs with a smirk of satisfaction. "Sir Hugo
is ferry exacting."

"Fill up his glass," said Drax, "and then perhaps our friend would like
to wash. We dine at eight sharp."

As he spoke there came the muffled wail of a siren and almost
immediately the sound of a body of men running in strict unison across
the concrete apron outside.

"That's the first night shift," explained Drax. "Barracks are just
behind the house. Must be eight o'clock. We do everything at the double
here," he added with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. "Precision. Lot
of scientists about, but we try to run the place like a military
establishment. Willy, look after the Commander. We'll go ahead. Come
along, my dear."

As Bond followed Krebs to the door through which he had entered, he saw
the other two with Drax in the lead make for the double doors at the end
of the room which had opened as Drax finished speaking. The manservant
in the white coat stood in the entrance. As Bond went out into the hall
it crossed his mind that Drax would certainly go into the dining-room
ahead of Miss Brand. Forceful personality. Treated his staff like
children. Obviously a born leader. Where had he got it from? The Army?
Or did it grow on one with millions of money? Bond followed the
slug-like neck of Krebs and wondered.

The dinner was excellent. Drax was a genial host and at his own table
his manners were faultless. Most of his conversation consisted in
drawing out Dr Walter for the benefit of Bond, and it covered a wide
range of technical matters which Drax took pains to explain briefly
after each topic had been exhausted. Bond was impressed by the
confidence with which Drax handled each abstruse problem as it was
raised, and by his immense grasp of detail. A genuine admiration for the
man gradually developed in him and overshadowed much of his previous
dislike. He felt more than ever inclined to forget the Blades affair now
that he was faced with the other Drax, the creator and inspired leader
of a remarkable enterprise.

Bond sat between his host and Miss Brand. He made several attempts to
engage her in conversation. He failed completely. She answered with
polite monosyllables and would hardly meet his eye. Bond became mildly
irritated. He found her physically very attractive and it annoyed him to
be unable to extract the smallest response. He felt that her frigid
indifference was overacted and that security would have been far better
met with an easy, friendly approach instead of this exaggerated
reticence. He felt a strong urge to give her a sharp kick on the ankle.
The idea entertained him and he found himself observing her with a fresh
eye--as a girl and not as an official colleague. As a start, and under
cover of a long argument between Drax and Walter, in which she was
required to join, about the collation of weather reports from the Air
Ministry and from Europe, he began to add up his impressions of her.

She was far more attractive than her photograph had suggested and it was
difficult to see traces of the severe competence of a policewoman in the
seductive girl beside him. There was authority in the definite line of
the profile, but the long black eyelashes over the dark blue eyes and
the rather wide mouth might have been painted by Marie Laurencin. Yet
the lips were too full for a Laurencin and the dark brown hair that
curved inwards at the base of the neck was of a different fashion. There
was a hint of northern blood in the high cheekbones and in the very
slight upward slant of the eyes, but the warmth of her skin was entirely
English. There was too much poise and authority in her gestures and in
the carriage of her head for her to be a very convincing portrait of a
secretary. In fact she seemed almost a member of Drax's team, and Bond
noticed that the men listened with attention as she answered Drax's
questions.

Her rather severe evening dress was in charcoal black grosgrain with
full sleeves that came below the elbow. The wrapover bodice just showed
the swell of her breasts, which were as splendid as Bond had guessed
from the measurements on her record sheet. At the point of the vee there
was a bright blue cameo brooch, a Tassie intaglio, Bond guessed, cheap
but imaginative. She wore no other jewellery except a half-hoop of small
diamonds on her engagement finger. Apart from the warm rouge on her
lips, she wore no make-up and her nails were square-cut with a natural
polish.

Altogether, Bond decided, she was a very lovely girl and beneath her
reserve, a very passionate one. And, he reflected, she might be a
policewoman and an expert at jujitsu, but she also had a mole on her
right breast.

With this comforting thought Bond turned the whole of his attention to
the conversation between Drax and Walter and made no further attempts to
make friends with the girl.

Dinner ended at nine. "Now we will go over and introduce you to the
Moonraker," said Drax, rising abruptly from the table. "Walter will
accompany us. He has much to do. Come along, my dear Bond."

Without a word to Krebs or the girl he strode out of the room. Bond and
Walter followed him.

They left the house and walked across the concrete towards the distant
shape on the edge of the cliff. The moon had risen and in the distance
the squat dome shone palely in its light.

A hundred yards from the site Drax stopped. "I will explain the
geography," he said. "Walter, you go ahead. They will be waiting for you
to have another look at those fins. Don't worry about them, my dear
fellow. Those people at High Duty Alloys know what they're doing. Now,"
he turned to Bond and gestured towards the milk-white dome, "in there is
the Moonraker. What you see is the lid of a wide shaft that has been cut
about forty foot down into the chalk. The two halves of the dome are
opened hydraulically and folded back flush with that twenty-foot wall.
If they were open now, you would see the nose of the Moonraker just
protruding above the level of the wall. Over there," he pointed to a
square shape that was almost out of sight in the direction of Deal, "is
the firing point. Concrete blockhouse. Full of radar tracking
gadgets--Doppler velocity radar and flight-path radar, for instance.
Information is fed to them by twenty telemetering channels in the nose
of the rocket. There's a big television screen in there too so that you
can watch the behaviour of the rocket inside the shaft after the pumps
have been started. Another television set to follow the beginning of its
climb. Alongside the blockhouse there's a hoist down the face of the
cliff. Quite a lot of gear has been brought to the site by sea and then
sent up on the hoist. That whine you hear is from the power house over
there," he gestured vaguely in the direction of Dover. "The men's
barracks and the house are protected by the blast-wall, but when we fire
there won't be anyone within a mile of the site, except the Ministry
experts and the BBC team who are going to be in the firing point. Hope
it'll stand up to the blast. Walter says that the site and a lot of the
concrete apron will be melted by the heat. That's all. Nothing else you
need to know about until we get inside. Come along."

Bond noted again the abrupt tone of command. He followed in silence
across the moonlit expanse until they came to the supporting wall of the
dome. A naked red bulb glowed over a steel-plated door in the wall. It
illuminated a bold sign which said in English and German: MORTAL
DANGER. ENTRY FORBIDDEN WHEN RED LAMP SHOWS. RING AND WAIT.

Drax pressed the button beneath the notice and there was the muffled
clang of an alarm bell. "Might be somebody working with oxy-acetylene or
doing some other delicate job," he explained. "Take his mind off his job
for a split second as somebody comes in and you could have an expensive
mistake. Everybody downs tools when the bell rings and then starts up
again when they see what it is." Drax stood away from the door and
pointed upwards to a row of four-foot wide gratings just below the top
of the wall. "Ventilator shafts," he explained. "Air conditioned inside
to 70 degrees."

The door was opened by a man with a truncheon in his hand and a revolver
at his hip. Bond followed Drax through into a small anteroom. It
contained nothing but a bench and a neat row of felt slippers.

"Have to put these on," said Drax sitting down and kicking off his
shoes. "Might slip up and knock into someone. Better leave your coat
here, too. Seventy degrees is quite warm."

"Thanks," said Bond remembering the Beretta at his armpit. "As a matter
of fact I don't feel the heat."

Feeling like a visitor to an operating theatre, Bond followed Drax
through a communicating door out on to an iron catwalk and into a blaze
of spotlights that made him automatically put a hand up to his eyes as
he grasped the guardrail in front of him.

When he took his hand away he was greeted by a scene of such splendour
that for several minutes he stood speechless, his eyes dazzled by the
terrible beauty of the greatest weapon on earth.




                              CHAPTER XII
                             THE MOONRAKER


It was like being inside the polished barrel of a huge gun.

From the floor, forty feet below, rose circular walls of polished metal
near the top of which he and Drax clung like two flies. Up through the
centre of the shaft, which was about thirty feet wide, soared a pencil
of glistening chromium, whose point, tapering to a needle-sharp antenna,
seemed to graze the roof twenty feet above their heads.

The shimmering projectile rested on a blunt cone of latticed steel which
rose from the floor between the tips of three severely back-swept delta
fins that looked as sharp as surgeons' scalpels. But otherwise nothing
marred the silken sheen of the fifty feet of polished chrome steel
except the spidery fingers of two light gantries which stood out from
the walls and clasped the waist of the rocket between thick pads of
foam-rubber.

Where they touched the rocket, small access doors stood open in the
steel skin and, as Bond looked down, a man crawled out of one door on to
the narrow platform of the gantry and closed the door behind him with a
gloved hand. He walked gingerly along the narrow bridge to the wall and
turned a handle. There was a sharp whine of machinery and the gantry
took its padded hand off the rocket and held it poised in the air like
the forelegs of a praying mantis. The whine altered to a deeper tone and
the gantry slowly telescoped in on itself. Then it reached out again and
seized the rocket ten feet lower down. Its operator crawled out along
its arm and opened another small access door and disappeared inside.

"Probably checking the fuel-feed from the after tanks," said Drax.
"Gravity feed. Tricky bit of design. What do you think of her?" He
looked with pleasure at Bond's rapt expression.

"One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen," said Bond. It was
easy to talk. There was hardly a sound in the great steel shaft and the
voices of the men clustered below under the tail of the rocket were no
more than a murmur.

Drax pointed upwards. "Warhead," he explained. "Experimental one now.
Full of instruments. Telemeters and so forth. Then the gyros just
opposite us here. Then mostly fuel tanks all the way down until you get
to the turbines near the tail. Driven by superheated steam, made by
decomposing hydrogen peroxide. The fuel, fluorine and hydrogen" (he
glanced sharply at Bond. "That's top-secret by the way") "falls down the
feed tubes and gets ignited as soon as it's forced into the motor. Sort
of controlled explosion which shoots the rocket into the air. That steel
floor under the rocket slides away. There's a big exhaust pit
underneath. Comes out at the base of the cliff. You'll see it tomorrow.
Looks like a huge cave. When we ran a static test the other day the
chalk melted and ran out into the sea like water. Hope we don't burn
down the famous white cliffs when we come to the real thing. Like to
come and have a look at the works?"

Bond followed silently as Drax led the way down the steep iron ladder
that curved down the side of the steel wall. He felt a glow of
admiration and almost of reverence for this man and his majestic
achievement. How could he ever have been put off by Drax's childish
behaviour at the card-table? Even the greatest men have their
weaknesses. Drax must have an outlet for the tension of the fantastic
responsibility he was carrying. It was clear from the conversation at
dinner that he couldn't shed much on to the shoulders of his
highly-strung deputy. From him alone had to spring the vitality and
confidence to buoy up his whole team. Even in such a small thing as
winning at cards it must be important to him to be constantly reassuring
himself, constantly searching out omens of good fortune and success,
even to the point of creating these omens for himself. Who, Bond asked
himself, wouldn't sweat and bite his nails when so much had been dared,
when so much was at stake?

As they filed down the long curve of the stairway, their figures
grotesquely reflected back at them by the mirror of the rocket's
chromium skin, Bond almost felt the man-in-the-street's affection for
the man whom, only a few hours previously, he had been dissecting
without pity, almost with loathing.

When they reached the steel-plated floor of the shaft, Drax paused and
looked up. Bond followed his eyes. Seen from that angle it seemed as if
they were gazing up a thin straight shaft of light into the blazing
heaven of the arcs, a shaft of light that was not pure white but a shot
mother-of-pearl satin. There were shimmers of red in it picked up from
the crimson canisters of a giant foam fire-extinguisher that stood near
them, a man in an asbestos suit beside it aiming its nozzle at the base
of the rocket. There was a streak of violet whose origin was a violet
bulb on the board of an instrument panel in the wall, which controlled
the steel cover over the exhaust pit. And there was a whisper of emerald
green from the shaded light over a plain deal table at which a man sat
and wrote down figures as they were called to him from the group
gathered directly beneath the Moonraker's tail.

Gazing up this pastel column, so incredibly slim and graceful, it seemed
unthinkable that anything so delicate could withstand the pressures
which it had been designed to meet on Friday--the howling stream of the
most powerful controlled explosion that had ever been attempted; the
impact of the sound barrier; the unknown pressures of the atmosphere at
15,000 miles an hour; the terrible shock as it plunged back from a
thousand miles up and hit the atmospheric envelope of the earth.

Drax seemed to read his thoughts. He turned to Bond. "It will be like
committing murder," he said. Then surprisingly, he burst into a braying
laugh. "Walter," he called to the group of men. "Come here." Walter
detached himself and came over. "Walter, I was saying to our friend the
Commander that when we fire the Moonraker it will be like committing
murder."

Bond was not surprised to see a look of puzzled incredulity come over
the Doctor's face.

Drax said irritably, "Child murder. Murder of our child," he gestured at
the rocket. "Wake up. Wake up. What's the matter with you?"

Walter's face cleared. Frostily he beamed his appreciation of the
simile. "Murder. Yes, that is good. Ha! ha! And now, Sir Hugo. The
graphite slats in the exhaust vent. The Ministry is quite happy about
their melting-point? They do not feel that..." Still talking, Walter
led Drax under the tail of the rocket. Bond followed.

The faces of the ten men were turned towards them as they came up. Drax
introduced him with a wave of the hand. "Commander Bond, our new
security officer," he said briefly.

The group eyed Bond in silence. There was no move to greet him and the
ten pairs of eyes were incurious.

"Now then, what's all this fuss about the graphite?..." The group
closed round Drax and Walter. Bond was left standing alone.

He was not surprised by the coolness of his reception. He would have
regarded the intrusion of an amateur into the secrets of his own
department with much the same indifference mixed with resentment. And he
sympathized with these hand-picked technicians who had lived for months
among the highest realms of astronautics, and were now on the threshold
of the final arbitration. And yet, he reminded himself, the innocent
among them must know that Bond had his own duty to perform, his own
vital part in this project. Supposing one pair of those uncommunicative
eyes concealed a man within a man, an enemy, perhaps at this very moment
exulting in his knowledge that the graphite which Walter seemed to
mistrust was indeed under-strength. It was true that they had the look
of a well-knit team, almost of a brotherhood, as they stood round Drax
and Walter, hanging on their words, their eyes intent on the mouths of
the two men. But was part of one brain moving within the privacy of some
secret orbit, ticking off its hidden calculus like the stealthy
mechanism of an infernal machine?

Bond moved casually up and down the triangle made by the three points of
the fins as they rested in their rubber-lined cavities in the steel
floor, interesting himself in whatever met his eyes, but every now and
then focusing the group of men from a new angle.

With the exception of Drax they all wore the same tight nylon overalls
fastened with plastic zips. There was nowhere a hint of metal and none
wore spectacles. As in the case of Walter and Krebs their heads were
close-shaved, presumably, Bond would have thought, to prevent a loose
hair falling into the mechanism. And yet, and this struck Bond as a most
bizarre characteristic of the team, each man sported a luxuriant
moustache to whose culture it was clear that a great deal of attention
had been devoted. They were in all shapes and tints: fair or mousy or
dark; handlebar, walrus, Kaiser, Hitler--each face bore its own hairy
badge amongst which the rank, reddish growth of Drax's facial hair
blazed like the official stamp of their paramount chief.

Why, wondered Bond, should every man on the site wear a moustache? He
had never liked the things, but combined with these shaven heads, there
was something positively obscene about this crop of hairy tufts. It
would have been just bearable if they had all been cut to the same
pattern, but this range of individual fashions, this riot of
personalized growth, had something particularly horrible about it
against the background of naked round heads.

There was nothing else to notice; the men were of average height and
they were all on the slim side--tailored, Bond supposed, more or less to
the requirements of their work. Agility would be needed on the gantries,
and compactness for manoeuvring through the access doors and around the
tiny compartments in the rocket. Their hands looked relaxed and
spotlessly clean, and their feet in the felt slippers were motionless
with concentration. He never once caught any of them glancing in his
direction and, as for penetrating their minds or weighing up their
loyalties, he admitted to himself that the task of unmasking the
thoughts of fifty of these robot-like Germans in three days was quite
hopeless. Then he remembered. It was fifty no longer. Only forty-nine.
One of these robots had blown his top (apt expression, reflected Bond).
And what had come out of Bartsch's secret thoughts? Lust for a woman and
a Heil Hitler. Would he be far wrong, wondered Bond, if he guessed that,
forgetting the Moonraker, those were also the dominant thoughts inside
forty-nine other heads?

"Doctor Walter! That is an order." Drax's voice of controlled anger
broke in on Bond's thoughts as he stood fingering the sharp leading edge
of the tail of one of the Columbite fins. "Back to work. We have wasted
enough time."

The men scattered smartly about their duties and Drax came up to where
Bond was standing, leaving Walter hanging about indecisively beneath the
exhaust vent of the rocket.

Drax's face was thunderous. "Damn fool. Always seeing trouble," he
muttered. And then abruptly, as if he wanted to clear his deputy out of
his mind, "Come along to my office. Show you the flight plan. Then we'll
go off to bed."

Bond followed him across the floor. Drax turned a small handle flush
with the steel wall and a narrow door opened with a soft hiss. Three
feet inside there was another steel door and Bond noticed that they were
both edged with rubber. Air-lock. Before closing the outer door Drax
paused on the threshold and pointed along the circular wall to a number
of similar inconspicuous flat knobs in the wall. "Workshops," he said.
"Electricians, generators, fuelling control, washrooms, stores." He
pointed to the adjoining door. "My secretary's room." He closed the
outer door before he opened the second and walked into his office and
shut the inner door behind Bond.

It was a severe room painted pale grey, containing a broad desk and
several chairs of tubular metal and dark blue canvas. The floor was
carpeted in grey. There were two green filing cabinets and a large metal
radio set. A half-open door showed part of a tiled bathroom. The desk
faced a wide blank wall which seemed to be made of opaque glass. Drax
walked up to the walls and snapped down two switches on its extreme
right. The whole wall lit up and Bond was faced with two maps each about
six feet square traced on the back of the glass.

The left-hand map showed the eastern quarter of England from Portsmouth
to Hull and the adjoining waters from Latitude 50 to 55. From the red
dot near Dover which was the site of the Moonraker, arcs showing the
range in ten-mile intervals had been drawn up the map. At a point eighty
miles from the site, between the Friesian Islands and Hull, there was a
red diamond in the middle of the ocean.

Drax waved towards the dense mathematical tables and columns of compass
readings which filled the right-hand side of the map. "Wind velocities,
atmospheric pressure, ready-reckoner for the gyro settings," he said.
"All worked out using the rocket's velocity and range as constants. We
get the weather every day from the Air Ministry and readings from the
upper atmosphere every time the RAF jet can get up there. When he's at
maximum altitude he releases helium balloons that can get up still
further. The earth's atmosphere reaches about fifty miles up. After
twenty there's hardly any density to affect the Moonraker. It'll coast
up almost in a vacuum. Getting through the first twenty miles is the
problem. The gravity pull's another worry. Walter can explain all those
things if you're interested. There'll be continuous weather reports
during the last few hours on Friday. And we'll set the gyros just before
the take-off. For the time being, Miss Brand gets together the data
every morning and keeps a table of gyro settings in case they're
wanted."

Drax pointed at the second of the two maps. This was a diagram of the
rocket's flight ellipse from firing point to target. There were more
columns of figures. "Speed of the earth and its effect on the rocket's
trajectory," explained Drax. "The earth will be turning to the east
while the rocket's in flight. That factor has to be married in with the
figures on the other map. Complicated business. Fortunately you don't
have to understand it. Leave it to Miss Brand. Now then," he switched
off the lights and the wall went blank, "any particular questions about
your job? Don't think there'll be much for you to do. You can see that
the place is already riddled with security. The Ministry's insisted on
it from the beginning."

"Everything looks all right," said Bond. He examined Drax's face. The
good eye was looking at him sharply. Bond paused. "Do you think there
was anything between your secretary and Major Tallon?" he asked. It was
an obvious question and he might just as well ask it now.

"Could have been," said Drax easily. "Attractive girl. They were thrown
together a lot down here. At any rate she seems to have got under
Bartsch's skin."

"I hear Bartsch saluted and shouted 'Heil Hitler' before he put the gun
in his mouth," said Bond.

"So they tell me," said Drax evenly. "What of it?"

"Why do all the men wear moustaches?" asked Bond, ignoring Drax's
question. Again he had the impression that his question had nettled the
other man.

Drax gave one of his short barking laughs. "My idea," he said. "They're
difficult to recognize in those white overalls and with their heads
shaved. So I told them all to grow moustaches. The thing's become quite
a fetish. Like in the RAF during the war. See anything wrong with it?"

"Of course not," said Bond. "Rather startling at first. I would have
thought that large numbers on their suits with a different colour for
each shift would have been more effective."

"Well," said Drax, turning away towards the door as if to end the
conversation, "I decided on moustaches."




                              CHAPTER XIII
                             DEAD RECKONING


On Wednesday morning Bond woke early in the dead man's bed.

He had slept little. Drax had said nothing on their way back to the
house and had bidden him a curt good-night at the foot of the stairs.
Bond had walked along the carpeted corridor to where light shone from an
open door and had found his things neatly laid out in a comfortable
bedroom.

The room was furnished in the same expensive taste as the ground floor
and there were biscuits and a bottle of Vichy (not a Vichy bottle of
tap-water, Bond established) beside the Heal bed.

There were no signs of the previous occupant except a leather case
containing binoculars on the dressing-table and a metal filing cabinet
which was locked. Bond knew about filing cabinets. He tilted it against
the wall, reached underneath, and found the bottom end of the bar-lock
which protrudes downwards when the top section has been locked. Upwards
pressure released the drawers one by one and he softly lowered the edge
of the cabinet back on to the floor with the unkind reflection that
Major Tallon would not have survived very long in the Secret Service.

The top drawer contained scale maps of the site and its component
buildings and Admiralty Chart No. 1895 of the Straits of Dover. Bond
laid each sheet on the bed and examined them minutely. There were traces
of cigarette ash in the folds of the Admiralty chart.

Bond fetched his tool-box--a square leather case that stood beside the
dressing-table. He examined the numbers on the wheels of the combination
lock and, satisfied that they had not been disturbed, turned them to the
code number. The box was closely fitted with instruments. Bond selected
a fingerprint powder-spray and a large magnifying glass. He puffed the
fine greyish powder foot by foot over the whole expanse of the chart. A
forest of fingerprints showed.

By going over these with the magnifying glass he established that they
belonged to two people. He isolated two of the best sets, took a Leica
with a flashbulb attachment out of the leather case and photographed
them. Then he carefully examined through his glass the two minute
furrows in the paper which the powder had brought to light.

These appeared to be two lines drawn out from the coast to form a
cross-bearing in the sea. It was a very narrow bearing, and both lines
seemed to originate from the house where Bond was. In fact, thought
Bond, they might indicate observations of some object in the sea made
from each wing of the house.

The two lines were drawn not with a pencil, but, presumably to avoid
detection, with a stylus which had barely furrowed the paper.

At the point where they met there was the trace of a question mark, and
this point was on the twelve-fathom line about fifty yards from the
cliff on a direct bearing from the house to the South Goodwin Lightship.

There was nothing else to be gathered from the chart. Bond glanced at
his watch. Twenty minutes to one. He heard distant footsteps in the hall
and the click of a light being extinguished. On an impulse he rose and
softly switched off the lights in his room, leaving only the shaded
reading-light beside the bed.

He heard the heavy footsteps of Drax approaching up the stairs. There
was the click of another switch and then silence. Bond could imagine the
great hairy face turned down the corridor, looking, listening. Then
there was a creak and the sound of a door being softly opened and as
softly closed. Bond waited, visualizing the motions of the man as he
prepared for bed. There was the muffled sound of a window being thrown
open and the distant trumpet of a nose being blown. Then silence.

Bond gave Drax another five minutes then he went over to the filing
cabinet and softly pulled out the other drawers. There was nothing in
the second and third, but the bottom one was solid with files arranged
under index letters. They were the dossiers of all the men working on
the site. Bond pulled out the 'A' section and went back to the bed and
started to read.

In each case the formula was the same: full name, address, date of
birth, description, distinguishing marks, profession or trade since the
war, war record, political record and present sympathies, criminal
record, health, next of kin. Some of the men had wives and children
whose particulars were noted, and with each dossier there were
photographs, full face and profile, and the fingerprints of both hands.

Two hours and ten cigarettes later he had worked through all of them and
had discovered two points of general interest. First, that every one of
the fifty men appeared to have led a blameless life without a breath of
political or criminal odium. This seemed so unlikely that he decided to
refer every single dossier back to Station D for a thorough recheck at
the first opportunity.

The second point was that none of the faces in the photographs bore a
moustache. Despite Drax's explanations, this fact raised a second tiny
question mark in Bond's mind.

Bond got up from the bed and locked everything away, putting the
Admiralty Chart and one of the files in his leather case. He turned the
wheels of the combination lock and thrust the case far under his bed so
that it rested directly beneath his pillow at the inside angle of the
wall. Then he quietly washed and cleaned his teeth in the adjoining
bathroom and eased the window wide open.

The moon was still shining: as it must have shone, Bond thought, when,
aroused perhaps by some unusual noise, Tallon had climbed up to the
roof, maybe only a couple of nights before, and had seen, out at sea,
what he had seen. He would have had his glasses with him and Bond,
remembering, turned back from the window and picked them up. They were a
very powerful German pair, booty perhaps from the war, and the 7 x 50 on
the top plates told Bond that they were night glasses. And then the
careful Tallon must have walked softly (but not softly enough?) to the
other end of the roof and had raised his glasses again, estimating the
distance from the edge of the cliff to the object in the sea, and from
the object to the Goodwin Lightship. Then he would have come back the
way he had gone and softly re-entered his room.

Bond saw Tallon, perhaps for the first time since he had been in the
house, carefully lock the door and walk over to the filing cabinet and
take out the chart which he had hardly glanced at till then and on it
softly mark the lines of his rough bearing. Perhaps he looked at it for
a long while before putting the minute question mark beside it.

And what had the unknown object been? Impossible to say. A boat? A
light? A noise?

Whatever it was Tallon had not been supposed to see it. And somebody had
heard him. Somebody had guessed he had seen it and had waited until
Tallon had left his room next morning. Then that man had come into his
room and had searched it. Probably the chart had revealed nothing, but
there were the night glasses by the window.

That had been enough. And that night Tallon had died.

Bond pulled himself up. He was going too fast, building up a case on the
flimsiest evidence. Bartsch had killed Tallon and Bartsch was not the
man who had heard the noise, the man who had left fingerprints on the
chart, the man whose dossier Bond had put away in his leather case.

That man had been the oily ADC, Krebs, the man with the neck like a
white slug. They were his prints on the chart. For a quarter of an hour
Bond had compared the impressions on the chart with the prints on
Krebs's dossier. But who said Krebs had heard a noise or done anything
about it if he had? Well, to begin with, he looked like a natural
snooper. He had the eyes of a petty thief. And those prints of his had
definitely been made on the chart after Tallon had studied it. Krebs's
fingers overlaid Tallon's at several points.

But how could Krebs possibly be involved, with Drax's eye constantly on
him? The confidential assistant. But what about Cicero, the trusted
valet of the British Ambassador in Ankara during the war? The hand in
the pocket of the striped trousers hanging over the back of the chair.
The Ambassador's keys. The safe. The secrets. This picture looked very
much the same.

Bond shivered. He suddenly realized that he had been standing for a long
time in front of the open windows and that it was time to get some
sleep.

Before he got into bed he took his shoulder-holster from the chair where
it hung beside his discarded clothes and removed the Beretta with the
skeleton grip and slipped it under his pillow. As a defence against
whom? Bond didn't know, but his intuition told him quite definitely that
there was danger about. The smell of it was insistent although it was
still imprecise and lingered only on the threshold of his subconscious.
In fact he knew his feelings were based on a number of tiny
question-marks which had materialized during the past twenty-four
hours--the riddle of Drax; Bartsch's 'Heil Hitler'; the bizarre
moustaches; the fifty worthy Germans; the chart; the night glasses;
Krebs.

First he must pass on his suspicions to Vallance. Then explore the
possibilities of Krebs. Then look to the defences of the Moonraker--the
seaward side for instance. And then get together with this Brand girl
and agree on a plan for the next two days. There wasn't much time to
lose.

While he forced sleep to come into his teeming mind, Bond visualized the
figure seven on the dial of a clock and left it to the hidden cells of
his memory to wake him. He wanted to be out of the house and on the
telephone to Vallance as early as possible. If his actions aroused
suspicion he would not be dismayed. One of his objects was to attract
into his orbit the same forces that had concerned themselves with
Tallon, for of one thing he felt reasonably certain, Major Tallon had
not died because he loved Gala Brand.

The extra-sensory alarm clock did not fail him. Punctually at seven, his
mouth dry with too many cigarettes the night before, he forced himself
out of bed and into a cold bath. He had shaved, gargled with a sharp
mouth-wash, and now, in a battered black and white dogtooth suit, dark
blue Sea Island cotton shirt and black silk knitted tie, he was walking
softly, but not surreptitiously, along the corridor to the head of the
stairs, the square leather case in his left hand.

He found the garage at the back of the house and the big engine of the
Bentley answered with the first pressure on the starter. He motored
slowly across the concrete apron beneath the indifferent gaze of the
curtained windows of the house and pulled up, the engine idling in
neutral, at the edge of the trees. His eyes travelled back to the house
and confirmed his calculation that a man standing on its roof would be
able to see over the top of the blast-wall and get a view of the edge of
the cliff and of the sea beyond.

There was no sign of life round the domed emplacement of the Moonraker,
and the concrete, already beginning to shimmer in the early morning sun,
stretched emptily away towards Deal. It looked like a newly laid
aerodrome or rather, he thought, with its three disparate concrete
'things', the beehive dome, the flat-iron blast-wall, and the distant
cube of the firing point, each casting black pools of shadow towards him
in the early sun, like a Dali desert landscape in which three _objets
trouvs_ reposed at carefully calculated random.

Out at sea, in the early mist that promised a hot day, the South Goodwin
Lightship could just be seen, a dim red barque married for ever to the
same compass point and condemned, like a property ship on the stage of
Drury Lane, to watch the diorama of the waves and clouds sail busily
into the wings while, without papers or passengers or cargo, it lay
anchored for ever to the departure point which was also its destination.

At thirty seconds' interval it blared its sad complaint into the mist, a
long double trumpet note on a falling cadence. A siren song, Bond
reflected, to repel instead of to seduce. He wondered how the seven men
of its crew were now supporting the noise as they munched their pork and
beans. Did they flinch as it punctuated the Housewife's Choice coming at
full strength from the radio in the narrow mess? But a secure life,[1]
Bond decided, although anchored to the gates of a graveyard.

He made a mental note to find out if those seven men had seen or heard
the thing that Tallon had marked on the chart, then he drove quickly on
through the guard posts.

In Dover, Bond pulled up at the Caf Royal, a modest little restaurant
with a modest kitchen but capable, as he knew of old, of turning out
excellent fish and egg dishes. The Italian-Swiss mother and son who ran
it welcomed him as an old friend and he asked for a plate of scrambled
eggs and bacon and plenty of coffee to be ready in half an hour. Then he
drove on to the police station and put a call in to Vallance through the
Scotland Yard switchboard. Vallance was at home having breakfast. He
listened without comment to Bond's guarded talk, but he expressed
surprise that Bond had not had an opportunity to have a talk with Gala
Brand. "She's a bright girl, that," he said. "If Mr K. is up to
something she's sure to have an idea what it is. And if T. heard a noise
on Sunday night, she may have heard it too. Though I'll admit she's said
nothing about it."

Bond said nothing about the reception he had had from Vallance's agent.
"Going to talk to her this morning," he said, "and I'll send up the
chart and the Leica film for you to have a look at. I'll give them to
the Inspector. Perhaps one of the road patrols could bring them up. By
the way, where did T. telephone from when he rang up his employer on
Monday?"

"I'll have the call traced and let you know," said Vallance. "And I'll
have Trinity House ask the South Goodwins and the Coastguards if they
can help. Anything else?"

"No," said Bond. The line went through too many switchboards. Perhaps if
it had been M. he would have hinted more. It seemed ridiculous to talk
to Vallance about moustaches and the creep of danger he had felt the
night before and which the daylight had dissipated. These policemen
wanted hard facts. They were better, he decided, at solving crimes than
at anticipating them. "No. That's all." He hung up.

He felt more cheerful after an excellent breakfast. He read the
_Express_ and _The Times_ and found a bare report of the inquest on
Tallon. The _Express_ had made a big play with the girl's photograph and
he was amused to see what a neutral likeness Vallance had managed to
produce. He decided that he must try and work with her. He would take
her completely into his confidence whether she was receptive or not.
Perhaps she also had her suspicions and intuitions which were so vague
that she was keeping them to herself.

Bond drove back fast to the house. It was just nine o'clock and as he
came through the trees on to the concrete there was the wail of a siren
and from the woods behind the house a double file of twelve men appeared
running, in purposeful unison, towards the launching dome. They marked
time while one of their number rang the bell, then the door opened and
they filed through and out of sight.

Scratch a German and you find precision, thought Bond.

-----

[1] Bond was wrong: Friday, November 26th 1954. R.I.P.




                              CHAPTER XIV
                            ITCHING FINGERS


Half an hour before, Gala Brand had stubbed out her breakfast cigarette,
swallowed the remains of her coffee, left her bedroom and walked across
to the site, looking very much the private secretary in a spotless white
shirt and dark blue pleated skirt.

Punctually at eight-thirty she was in her office. There was a sheaf of
Air Ministry teleprints on her desk and her first action was to transfer
a digest of their contents on to a weather map and walk through the
communicating door into Drax's office and pin the map to the board that
hung in the angle of the wall beside the blank glass wall. Then she
pressed the switch that illuminated the wall map, made some calculations
based on the columns of figures revealed by the light, and entered the
results on the diagram she had pinned to the board.

She had done this, with Air Ministry figures that became more and more
precise as the practice shoot drew nearer, every day since the site was
completed and the building of the rocket that had begun inside it, and
she had become so expert that she now carried in her head the gyro
settings for almost every variation in the weather at the different
altitudes.

So it irritated her all the more that Drax did not seem to accept her
figures. Every day when, punctually at nine, the warning bells clanged
and he came down the steep iron stairway and into his office, his first
action was to call for the insufferable Dr Walter and together they
would work out all her figures afresh and transfer the results to the
thin black notebook that Drax always carried in the hip pocket of his
trousers. She knew that this was an invariable routine and she had
become tired of watching it through an inconspicuous hole she had
drilled, so as to be able to send Vallance a weekly record of Drax's
visitors, in the thin wall between the two offices. The method was
amateurish but effective and she had slowly built up a complete picture
of the daily routine she came to find so irritating. It was irritating
for two reasons. It meant that Drax didn't trust her figures, and it
undermined her chance of having some part, however modest, in the final
launching of the rocket.

It was natural that over the months she should have become as immersed
in her disguise as she was in her real profession. It was fundamental to
the thoroughness of her cover that her personality should be as truly
split as possible. And now, while she spied and probed and sniffed the
wind around Drax for her Chief in London, she was passionately concerned
with the success of the Moonraker and had become as dedicated to its
service as anyone else on the site.

And the rest of her duties as Drax's private secretary were insufferably
dull. Every day there was a big post addressed to Drax in London and
forwarded down by the Ministry, and that morning she had found the usual
batch of about fifty letters waiting on her desk. They would be of three
kinds. Begging letters, letters from rocket cranks, and business letters
from Drax's stockbroker and from other commercial agents. To these Drax
would dictate brief replies and the rest of her day would be occupied
with typing and filing.

So it was natural that her one duty connected with the operation of the
rocket should bulk very large in the dull round, and that morning, as
she checked and rechecked her flight-plan, she was more than ever
determined that her figures should be accepted on The Day. And yet, as
she often reminded herself, perhaps there was no question but that they
would be. Perhaps the daily calculations of Drax and Walter for entry in
the little black book were nothing but a recheck of her own figures.
Certainly Drax had never queried either her weather plan or the gyro
settings she calculated from them. And when one day she had asked
straight out whether her figures were correct he had replied with
evident sincerity, "Excellent, my dear. Most valuable. Couldn't manage
without them."

Gala Brand walked back into her own office and started slitting open the
letters. Only two more flight plans, for Thursday and Friday and then,
on her figures or on a different set, the set in Drax's pocket, the
gyros would be finally adjusted and the switch would be pulled in the
firing point.

She absentmindedly looked at her finger-nails and then stretched her two
hands out with their backs towards her. How often in the course of her
training at the Police College had she been sent out among the other
pupils and told not to come back without a pocketbook, a vanity case, a
fountain pen, even a wristwatch? How often during the courses had the
instructor whipped round and caught her wrist with a 'Now, now, Miss.
That won't do at all. Might have been an elephant looking for sugar in
the keeper's pocket. Try again.'

Coolly she flexed her fingers and then, her mind made up, turned back to
the pile of letters.

At a few minutes to nine the alarm bells rang and she heard Drax arrive
in the office. A moment later she heard him open the double doors again
and call for Walter. Then came the usual mumble of voices whose words
were drowned by the soft whirr of the ventilators.

She arranged the letters in their three piles and sat forward relaxed,
her elbows resting on the desk and her chin in her left hand.

Commander Bond. James Bond. Clearly a conceited young man like so many
of them in the Secret Service. And why had he been sent down instead of
somebody she could work with, one of her friends from the Special
Branch, or even somebody from MI5? The message from the Assistant
Commissioner had said that there was no one else available at short
notice, that this was one of the stars of the Secret Service who had the
complete confidence of the Special Branch and the blessings of MI5. Even
the Prime Minister had had to give permission for him to operate, for
just this one assignment, inside England. But what use could he be in
the short time that was left? He could probably shoot all right and talk
foreign languages and do a lot of tricks that might be useful abroad.
But what good could he do down here without any beautiful spies to make
love to. Because he was certainly good-looking. (Gala Brand
automatically reached into her bag for her vanity case. She examined
herself in the little mirror and dabbed at her nose with a powder puff.)
Rather like Hoagy Carmichael in a way. That black hair falling down over
the right eyebrow. Much the same bones. But there was something a bit
cruel in the mouth, and the eyes were cold. Were they grey or blue? It
had been difficult to say last night. Well, at any rate she had put him
in his place and shown him that she wasn't impressed by dashing young
men from the Secret Service, however romantic they might look. There
were just as good-looking men in the Special Branch, and they were real
detectives, not just people that Phillips Oppenheim had dreamed up with
fast cars and special cigarettes with gold bands on them and
shoulder-holsters. Oh, she had spotted that all right and had even
brushed against him to make sure. Ah well, she supposed she would have
to make some sort of show of working along with him, though in what
direction heaven only knew. If she had been down there ever since the
place had been built without spotting anything, what could this Bond man
hope to discover in a couple of days? And what was there to find out? Of
course there were one or two things she couldn't understand. Should she
tell him about Krebs, for instance? The first thing was to see that he
didn't blow her cover by doing something stupid. She would have to be
cool and firm and extremely careful. But that didn't mean, she decided,
as the buzzer went and she collected her letters and her shorthand book,
that she couldn't be friendly. Entirely on her own terms, of course.

Her second decision made, she opened the communicating door and walked
into the office of Sir Hugo Drax.

When she came back into her room half an hour later she found Bond
sitting back in her chair with _Whitaker's Almanack_ open on the desk in
front of him. She pursed her lips as Bond got up and wished her a
cheerful good morning. She nodded briefly and walked round her desk and
sat down. She moved the _Whitaker's_ carefully aside and put her letters
and notebook in its place.

"You might have a spare chair for visitors," said Bond with a grin which
she defined as impertinent, "and something better to read than reference
books."

She ignored him. "Sir Hugo wants you," said. "I was just going to see if
you had got up yet."

"Liar," said Bond. "You heard me go by at half-past seven. I saw you
peering out between the curtains."

"I did nothing of the sort," she said indignantly. "Why should I be
interested in a car going by?"

"I told you you heard the car," said Bond. He pressed home his
advantage. "And by the way," he said, "you shouldn't scratch your head
with the blunt end of the pencil when you're taking dictation. None of
the best private secretaries do."

Bond glanced significantly at a point against the jamb of the
communicating door. He shrugged his shoulders.

Gala's defences dropped. Damn the man, she thought. She gave him a
reluctant smile. "Oh, well," she said. "Come on. I can't spend all the
morning playing guessing games. He wants both of us and he doesn't like
being kept waiting." She rose and walked over to the communicating door
and opened it. Bond followed her through and shut the door behind him.

Drax was standing looking at the illuminated wall map. He turned as they
came in. "Ah, there you are," he said with a sharp glance at Bond.
"Thought you might have left us. Guards reported you out at seven-thirty
this morning."

"I had to make a telephone call," said Bond. "I hope I didn't disturb
anyone."

"There's a telephone in my study," Drax said curtly. "Tallon found it
good enough."

"Ah, poor Tallon," said Bond non-committally. There was a hectoring note
in Drax's voice that he particularly disliked and that made him
instinctively want to deflate the man. On this occasion he was
successful.

Drax shot him a hard glance which he covered up with a short barking
laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. "Do as you please," he said. "You've
got your job to do. So long as you don't upset the routines down here.
You must remember," he added more reasonably, "all my men are nervous as
kittens just now and I can't have them upset by mysterious goings-on. I
hope you're not wanting to ask them a lot of questions today. I'd rather
they didn't have anything more to worry about. They haven't recovered
from Monday yet. Miss Brand here can tell you all about them, and I
believe all their files are in Tallon's room. Have you had a look at
them yet?"

"No key to the filing cabinet," said Bond truthfully.

"Sorry, my fault," said Drax. He went to the desk and opened a drawer
from which he took a small bunch of keys and handed them to Bond.
"Should have given you these last night. The Inspector chap on the case
asked me to hand them over to you. Sorry."

"Thanks very much," said Bond. He paused, "By the way, how long have you
had Krebs?" He asked the question on an impulse. There was a moment's
quiet in the room.

"Krebs?" repeated Drax thoughtfully. He walked over to his desk and sat
down. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a packet of his
cork-tipped cigarettes. His blunt fingers scrabbled with its cellophane
wrapping. He extracted a cigarette and stuffed it into his mouth under
the fringe of his reddish moustache and lit it.

Bond was surprised. "I didn't realize one could smoke down here," he
said, taking out his own case.

Drax's cigarette, a tiny white faggot in the middle of the big red face,
waggled up and down as he answered without taking it out of his mouth.
"Quite all right in here," he said. "These rooms are air-tight. Doors
lined with rubber. Separate ventilation. Have to keep the workshops and
generators separate from the shaft and anyway," his lips grinned round
the cigarette, "I have to be able to smoke."

Drax took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it. He seemed to
make up his mind. "You were asking about Krebs," he said. "Well," he
looked meaningly up at Bond, "just between ourselves I don't entirely
trust the fellow." He held up an admonitory hand. "Nothing definite, of
course, or I'd have had him put away, but I've found him snooping about
the house and once I caught him in my study going through my private
papers. He had a perfectly good explanation and I let him off with a
warning. But quite honestly I have my suspicions of the man. Of course,
he can't do any harm. He's part of the household staff and none of them
are allowed in here but," he looked candidly into Bond's eyes, "I would
have said you ought to concentrate on him. Bright of you to have bowled
him out so quickly," he added with respect. "What put you on to him?"

"Oh, nothing much," said Bond. "He's got a shifty look. But what you
say's interesting and I'll certainly keep an eye on him."

He turned to Gala Brand who had remained silent ever since they had
entered the room.

"And what do you think of Krebs, Miss Brand?" he asked politely.

The girl spoke to Drax. "I don't know much about these things, Sir
Hugo," she said with a modesty and a touch of impulsiveness which Bond
admired. "But I don't trust the man at all. I hadn't meant to tell you,
but he's been poking around my room, opening letters and so forth. I
know he has."

Drax was shocked. "Has he indeed?" he said. He bashed his cigarette out
in the ashtray and killed the glowing fragments one by one. "So much for
Krebs," he said, without looking up.




                               CHAPTER XV
                             ROUGH JUSTICE


There was a moment's silence in the room during which Bond reflected how
odd it was that suspicions should have fallen so suddenly and so
unanimously on one man. And did that automatically clear all the others?
Might not Krebs be the inside man of a gang? Or was he working on his
own and, if so, with what object? And what did his snooping have to do
with the death of Tallon and Bartsch?

Drax broke the silence. "Well, that seems to settle it," he said,
looking to Bond for confirmation. Bond gave a non-committal nod. "Just
have to leave him to you. At all events, we must see he is kept well
away from the site. As a matter of fact I shall be taking him to London
tomorrow. Last-minute details to be settled with the Ministry and Walter
can't be spared. Krebs is the only man I've got who can do the work of
an ADC. That'll keep him out of trouble. We'll all have to keep an eye
on him until then. Unless of course you want to put him under lock and
key straight away. I'd prefer not," he said candidly. "Don't want to
upset the team any more."

"It shouldn't be necessary," said Bond. "Has he got any particular
friends among the other men?"

"Never seen him speak to any of them except Walter and the household,"
said Drax. "Daresay he considers himself a cut above the others.
Personally, I don't believe there's much harm in the chap or I wouldn't
have kept him. He's left alone in that house all day long and I expect
he's one of those people who like playing the detective and prying into
other people's affairs. What do you say? Perhaps we could leave it like
that?"

Bond nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.

"Well, then," said Drax, obviously glad to leave a distasteful subject
and get back to business, "we've got other things to talk about. Two
more days to go and I'd better tell you the programme." He got up from
his chair and paced heavily up and down the room behind his desk. "Today
is Wednesday," he said. "At one o'clock the site will be closed for
fuelling. This will be supervised by Dr Walter and myself and two men
from the Ministry. Just in case anything goes wrong a television camera
will record everything we do. Then, if there is an explosion, our
successors will know better next time," he barked a short laugh.
"Weather permitting, the roof will be opened tonight to allow the fumes
to clear. My men will stand guard in watches at ten-yard intervals a
hundred yards from the site. There will be three armed men on the beach
opposite the exhaust hole in the cliff. Tomorrow morning the site will
be opened again until midday for a final check and from that moment,
except for the gyro settings, the Moonraker will be ready to go. The
guards will be permanently on duty round the site. On Friday morning I
shall personally supervise the gyro settings. The men from the Ministry
will take over the firing point and the RAF will man the radar. The BBC
will set up their vans behind the firing point and will begin their
running commentary at eleven-forty-five. At midday exactly I shall press
the plunger, a radio beam will break an electric circuit and," he smiled
broadly, "we shall see what we shall see." He paused, fingering his
chin. "Now what else? Well now. Shipping will be cleared from the target
area from midnight on Thursday. The Navy will provide a patrol of the
boundaries of the area all through the morning. There will be a BBC
commentator in one of the Ships. The Ministry of Supply experts will be
in a salvage ship with deep-sea television and after the rocket has
landed they will try to bring up the remains. You may be interested to
know," continued Drax, rubbing his hands with almost childish pleasure,
"that a messenger from the Prime Minister has brought me the very
welcome news that not only will there be a special Cabinet Meeting to
listen to the broadcast, but the Palace will also be listening in to the
launching."

"Splendid," said Bond, pleased for the man's sake.

"Thank you," said Drax. "Now I want to be quite certain that you are
satisfied with my security arrangements on the site itself. I don't
think we need worry about what goes on outside. The RAF and the police
seem to be doing a very thorough job."

"Everything seems to have been taken care of," said Bond. "There doesn't
seem to be very much for me to do in the time that's left."

"Nothing that I can think of," agreed Drax, "except our friend Krebs.
This afternoon he will be in the television van taking notes, so he will
be out of trouble. Why don't you have a look at the beach and the bottom
of the cliff while he's out of action? That's the only weak spot I can
think of. I've often thought that if someone wanted to get into the site
he would try the exhaust pit. Take Miss Brand with you. Two pairs of
eyes, and so forth, and she won't be able to use her office until
tomorrow morning."

"Good," said Bond. "I'd certainly like to have a look at the seaward
side after lunch, and if Miss Brand's got nothing better to do..." He
turned towards her with his eyebrows raised.

Gala Brand looked down her nose. "Certainly, if Sir Hugo wishes," she
said without enthusiasm.

Drax rubbed his hands together. "Then that's settled," he said. "And now
I must get down to work. Miss Brand, would you ask Dr Walter to come
along if he's free. See you at lunch," he said to Bond, on a note of
dismissal.

Bond nodded. "I think I'll walk over and have a look at the firing
point," he said, not quite knowing why he lied. He turned and followed
Gala Brand out through the double doors into the base of the shaft.

A huge black snake of rubber piping meandered over the shining steel
floor and Bond watched the girl pick her way among its coils to where
Walter was standing alone. He was gazing up at the mouth of the fuel
pipe being hoist to where a gantry, outstretched to the threshold of an
access door halfway up the rocket, indicated the main fuel tanks.

She said something to Walter and then stood beside him looking upwards
as the pipe was delicately manhandled through into the interior of the
rocket.

Bond thought she looked very innocent standing there with her brown hair
falling back from her head and the curve of her ivory throat sweeping
down into the plain white shirt. With her hands clasped behind her back,
gazing raptly upwards at the glittering fifty feet of the Moonraker, she
might have been a schoolgirl looking up at a Christmas tree--except for
the impudent pride of the jutting breasts, swept up by the thrown-back
head and shoulders.

Bond smiled to himself as he walked to the foot of the iron stairway and
started to climb. That innocent, desirable girl, he reminded himself, is
an extremely efficient policewoman. She knows how to kick, and where;
she can break my arm probably more easily and quickly than I can break
hers, and at least half of her belongs to the Special Branch of Scotland
Yard. Of course, he reflected, looking down just in time to see her
follow Dr Walters into Drax's office, there is always the other half.

Outside, the brilliant May sunshine seemed particularly golden after the
blue-white of the arcs and Bond could feel it hot on his back as he
walked purposefully across the concrete towards the house. The foghorn
from the Goodwins was silent and the morning was so quiet that he could
hear the rhythmic thump of a ship's engines as a coaster negotiated the
Inner Leads, between the Goodwins and the shore, on its way northwards.

He approached the house under cover of the wide blast-wall and then
quickly crossed the few yards to the front door, the crepe rubber soles
of his shoes making no noise. He eased open the door and left it ajar
and walked softly into the hall and stood listening. There was the early
summer noise of a bumble-bee fussing against the pane of one of the
windows and a distant clatter from the barracks behind the house.
Otherwise the silence was deep and warm and reassuring.

Bond walked carefully across the hall and up the stairs, placing his
feet flat on the ground and using the extreme edges of the steps where
the boards would be less likely to creak. There was no noise in the
corridor but Bond saw that his door at the far end was open. He took his
gun from under his armpit and walked swiftly down the carpeted passage.

Krebs had his back to him. He was kneeling forward in the middle of the
floor with his elbows on the ground. His hands were at the wheels of the
combination lock of Bond's leather case. His whole attention was focused
on the click of the tumblers in the lock.

The target was tempting and Bond didn't hesitate. His teeth showed in a
hard smile, he took two quick paces into the room and his foot lashed
out.

All his force was behind the point of his shoe and his balance and
timing were perfect.

The scream of a jay was driven out of Krebs as, like the caricature of a
leaping frog, he hurtled over Bond's case, across a yard or so of
carpet, and into the front of the mahogany dressing-table. His head hit
the middle of it so hard that the heavy piece of furniture rocked on its
base. The scream was abruptly cut off and he crashed in an inert
spreadeagle on the floor and lay still.

Bond stood looking at him and listening for the sound of hurrying
footsteps, but there was still silence in the house. He walked over to
the sprawling figure and bent down and heaved it over on its back. The
face around the smudge of yellow moustache was pale and some blood had
oozed down over the forehead from a cut in the top of the skull. The
eyes were closed and the breathing was laboured.

Bond knelt down on one knee and went carefully through every pocket of
Krebs's neat grey pinstripe suit, laying the disappointingly meagre
contents on the carpet beside the body. There was no pocketbook and no
papers. The only objects of interest were a bunch of skeleton keys, a
spring knife with a well-sharpened stiletto blade, and an obscene little
truss-shaped black leather cosh. Bond pocketed these and then went to
his bedside table and fetched the untouched bottle of Vichy water.

It took five minutes to revive Krebs and get him into a sitting position
with his back to the dressing-table and another five for him to be
capable of speaking. Gradually the colour came back to his face and the
craftiness to his eyes.

"I answer no questions except to Sir Hugo," he said as Bond started the
interrogation. "You have no right to question me. I was doing my duty."
His voice was surly and assured.

Bond took the empty Vichy bottle by the neck. "Think again," he said.
"Or I'll beat the daylight out of you until this breaks and then use the
neck for some plastic surgery. Who told you to go over my room?"

"_Leck mich am Arsch._" Krebs spat the obscene insult at him.

Bond bent down and cracked him sharply across the shins.

Krebs's body cringed, but, as Bond raised his arm again, he suddenly
shot up from the floor and dived under the descending bottle. The blow
caught him hard on the shoulder, but it didn't check his momentum and he
was out of the door and halfway down the corridor before Bond started in
pursuit.

Bond stopped outside the door and watched the flying figure swerve down
the stairs and out of sight. Then, as he heard the scurrying squeak of
the rubber-soled shoes as they fled down the stairs and across the hall,
he laughed abruptly to himself and went back into his room and locked
the door. Short of beating the man's brains out it hadn't looked as if
he would get much out of Krebs. He had given him something to think
about. Crafty little brute. His injuries couldn't have been so bad after
all. Well, it would be up to Drax to punish him. Unless, of course,
Krebs had been carrying out Drax's orders.

Bond cleaned up the mess in his room and sat down on his bed and gazed
at the opposite wall with unseeing eyes. It had not been only instinct
that had made him tell Drax he was going to the firing point instead of
to the house. It had seriously crossed his mind that the snooping of
Krebs was on Drax's orders, and that Drax ran his own security system.
And yet how did that tally with the deaths of Tallon and Bartsch? Or had
the double killing been a coincidence unrelated to the marks on the
chart and the fingerprints of Krebs?

As if summoned by his thoughts, there came a knock on the door and the
butler came in. He was followed by a police sergeant in road patrol
uniform who saluted and handed Bond a telegram. Bond took it over to the
window. It was signed Baxter, which meant Vallance, and it read:

    FIRSTLY CALL WAS FROM HOUSE SECONDLY FOG REQUIRED
    OPERATION OF FOGHORN SO SHIP HEARD COMMA OBSERVED NOTHING
    THIRDLY YOUR COMPASS RECKONING TOO NEAR SHORE THUS OUT OF SIGHT
    OF SAINT MARGARETS OR DEAL COASTGUARD ENDS.

"Thank you," said Bond. "No answer."

When the door was closed Bond put his lighter to the telegram and
dropped it in the fireplace, scuffing the charred remains into powder
with the sole of his shoe.

Nothing much there except that Tallon's call to the Ministry might
indeed have been heard by someone in the house, which might have
resulted in the search of his room, which might have resulted in his
death. But what about Bartsch? If all this was part of something much
bigger how could it be linked up with an attempt to sabotage the rocket?
Wasn't it much simpler to conclude that Krebs was a natural snooper, or
more likely that he was operating for Drax, who seemed to be
meticulously security-conscious and who might want to be sure of the
loyalty of his secretary, of Tallon, and certainly, after their
encounter at Blades, of Bond? Wasn't it just acting like the chief (and
Bond had known many of them who would fit the picture) of some
super-secret project during the war who had reinforced official security
with his own private spy system?

If that theory was correct there only remained the double killing. Now
that Bond had caught the magic and the tension of the Moonraker the
facts of the hysterical shooting seemed more reasonable. As for the mark
on the chart, that might have been made any day in the past year; the
night-glasses were just night-glasses and the moustaches on the men were
just a lot of moustaches.

Bond sat on in the silent room, shifting the pieces in the jigsaw so
that two entirely different pictures alternated in his mind. In one the
sun shone and all was clear and innocent as the day. The other was a
dark confusion of guilty motives, obscure suspicions, and nightmare
queries.

When the gong sounded for lunch he still did not know which picture to
choose. To shelve a decision he cleared his mind of everything but the
prospect of his afternoon alone with Gala Brand.




                              CHAPTER XVI
                              A GOLDEN DAY


It was a wonderful afternoon of blue and green and gold. When they left
the concrete apron through the guard-gate near the empty firing-point,
now connected by a thick cable with the launching site, they stopped for
a moment on the edge of the great chalk cliff and stood gazing over the
whole corner of England where Caesar had first landed two thousand years
before.

To their left the carpet of green turf, bright with small wildflowers,
sloped gradually down to the long pebble beaches of Walmer and Deal,
which curved off towards Sandwich and the Bay. Beyond, the cliffs of
Margate, showing white through the distant haze that hid the North
Foreland, guarded the grey scar of Manston aerodrome above which
American Thunderjets wrote their white scribbles in the sky. Then came
the Isle of Thanet and, out of sight, the mouth of the Thames.

It was low tide and the Goodwins were golden and tender in the sparkling
blue of the Straits with only the smattering of masts and spars that
stretched along their length to tell the true story. The white lettering
on the South Goodwins Lightship was easy to read and even the name of
her sister ship to the north showed white against the red of her hull.

Between the sands of the coast, along the twelve-fathom channel of the
Inner Leads, there were half a dozen ships beating up through the Downs,
the thud of their engines coming clearly off the quiet sea, and between
the evil sands and the sharp outline of the French coast there were
ships of all registries going about their business--liners, merchantmen,
ungainly Dutch schuyts, and even a slim corvette hastening down south,
perhaps to Portsmouth. As far as the eye could reach the Eastern
Approaches of England were dotted with traffic plying towards near or
distant horizons, towards a home port, or towards the other side of the
world. It was a panorama full of colour and excitement and romance and
the two people on the edge of the cliff were silent as they stood for a
time and watched it all.

The peace was broken by two blasts on the siren from the house and they
turned to gaze back at the ugly concrete world that had been cleaned out
of their minds. As they watched, a red flag was broken out above the
dome of the launching site and two RAF crash-wagons with red crosses on
their sides rolled out of the trees to the edge of the blast-wall and
pulled up.

"Fuelling's going to begin," said Bond. "Let's get on with our walk.
There'll be nothing to see and if there happened to be something we
probably wouldn't survive it at this range."

She smiled at him. "Yes," she said. "And I'm sick of the sight of all
this concrete."

They walked on down the gentle slope and were soon out of sight of the
firing point and the high wire fence.

The ice of Gala's reserve melted quickly in the sunshine.

The exotic gaiety of her clothes, a black and white striped cotton shirt
tucked into a wide hand-stitched black leather belt above a medium
length skirt in shocking pink, seemed to have infected her, and it was
impossible for Bond to recognize the chill woman of the night before in
the girl who now walked beside him and laughed happily at his ignorance
of the names of the wildflowers, the samphire, Viper's bugloss, and
fumitory round their feet.

Triumphantly she found a bee orchis and picked it.

"You wouldn't do that if you knew that flowers scream when they are
picked," said Bond.

Gala looked at him. "What do you mean?" she asked, suspecting a joke.

"Didn't you know?" He smiled at her reaction. "There's an Indian called
Professor Bhose, who's written a treatise on the nervous system of
flowers. He measured their reaction to pain. He even recorded the scream
of a rose being picked. It must be one of the most heartrending sounds
in the world. I heard something like it as you picked that flower."

"I don't believe it," she said, looking suspiciously at the torn root.
"Anyway," she said maliciously, "I wouldn't have thought you were a
person to get sentimental. Don't people in your section of the Service
make a business of killing? And not just flowers either. People."

"Flowers can't shoot back," said Bond.

She looked at the orchis. "Now you've made me feel like a murderer. It's
very unkind of you. But," she admitted reluctantly, "I shall have to
find out about this Indian and if you're right I shall never pick a
flower again as long as I live. What am I to going to do with this one?
You make me feel it's bleeding all over my hands."

"Give it to me," said Bond. "According to you, my hands are dripping
with blood already. A little more won't hurt."

She handed it to him and their hands touched. "You can stick it in the
muzzle of your revolver," she said to cover the flash of contact.

Bond laughed. "So the eyes aren't only for decoration," he said. "Anyway
it's an automatic and I left it in my room." He drew the stalk of the
flower through one of the buttonholes in his blue cotton shirt. "I
thought a shoulder-holster would look a bit conspicuous without a coat
to cover it. And I don't think anyone will be going over my room this
afternoon."

By tacit agreement they edged away from the moment of warmth. Bond told
her of his discovery of Krebs and of the scene in his bedroom.

"Serves him right," she said. "I've never trusted him. But what did Sir
Hugo say?"

"I had a word with him before lunch," said Bond. "Gave him Krebs's knife
and keys as proof. He was furious and went straight off to see the man,
muttering with rage. When he came back he said that Krebs seemed to be
in a pretty bad way and was I satisfied that he'd been punished enough?
All that business about not wanting to upset the team at the last moment
and so forth. So I agreed that he'd be sent back to Germany next week
and that meanwhile he would consider himself under open arrest--only
allowed out of his room under surveillance."

They scrambled down a steep cliff-path to the beach and turned to the
right beside the deserted small-arms range of the Royal Marine Garrison
at Deal. They walked along in silence until they came to the two-mile
stretch of shingle that runs at low tide beneath the towering white
cliffs to St Margaret's Bay.

As they trudged slowly through the deep smooth pebbles Bond told her of
all that had gone through his mind since the previous day. He held
nothing back and he showed each false hare as it had been started and
finally run to earth, leaving nothing but a thin scent of ill-founded
suspicions and a muddle of clues that all ended in the same question
mark... where was a pattern? Where was a plan into which the clues
would fit? And always the same answer, that nothing Bond knew or
suspected seemed to have any conceivable bearing on the security from
sabotage of the Moonraker. And that, when all was said and done, was the
only matter with which he and the girl were concerned. Not with the
death of Tallon and Bartsch, not with the egregious Krebs, but only with
the protection of the whole Moonraker project from its possible enemies.

"Isn't that so?" Bond concluded.

Gala stopped and stood for a moment looking out across the tumbled rocks
and seaweed towards the quiet glimmering swell of the sea. She was hot
and out of breath from the hard going through the shingle and she
thought how wonderful it would be to bathe--to step back for a moment
into those childish days beside the sea before her life had been caught
up in this strange cold profession with its tensions and hollow thrills.
She glanced at the ruthless brown face of the man beside her. Did he
have moments of longing for the peaceful simple things of life? Of
course not. He liked Paris and Berlin and New York and trains and
aeroplanes and expensive food, and, yes certainly, expensive women.

"Well?" said Bond, wondering if she was going to come out with some
piece of evidence that he had overlooked. "What do you think?"

"I'm sorry," said Gala. "I was dreaming. No," she answered his question.
"I think you're right. I've been down here since the beginning and
although there've been odd little things from time to time, and of
course the shooting, I've seen absolutely nothing wrong. Every one of
the team, from Sir Hugo down, is heart and soul behind the rocket. It's
all they live for and it's been wonderful to see the whole thing grow.
The Germans are terrific workers--and I can quite believe that Bartsch
broke under the strain--and they love being driven by Sir Hugo and he
loves driving them. They worship him. And as for security, the place is
solid with it and I'm sure that anyone who tried to get near the
Moonraker would be torn to pieces. I agree with you about Krebs and that
he was probably working under Drax's orders. It was because I believed
that, that I didn't bother to report him when he went through my things.
There was nothing for him to find, of course. Just private letters and
so on. It would be typical of Sir Hugo to make absolutely sure. And I
must say," she said candidly, "that I admire him for it. He's a ruthless
man with deplorable manners and not a very nice face under all that red
hair, but I love working for him and I'm longing for the Moonraker to be
a success. Living with it for so long has made me feel just like his men
do about it."

She looked up to see his reactions.

He nodded. "After only a day I can understand that," he said. "And I
suppose I agree with you. There's nothing to go on except my intuition
and that will have to look after itself. The main thing is that the
Moonraker looks as safe as the Crown Jewels, and probably safer." He
shrugged his shoulders impatiently, dissatisfied with himself for
disowning the intuitions that were so much of his trade. "Come on," he
said, almost roughly. "We're wasting time."

Understanding, she smiled to herself and followed.

Round the next bend of the cliff they came up with the base of the
hoist, encrusted with seaweed and barnacles. Fifty yards further on they
reached the jetty, a strong tubular iron frame paved with latticed iron
strips that ran out over the rocks and beyond.

Between the two, and perhaps twenty feet up the cliff face, yawned the
wide black mouth of the exhaust tunnel which slanted up inside the cliff
to the steel floor beneath the stern of the rocket. From the under-lip
of the cave melted chalk drooled like lava and there were splashes of
the stuff all over the pebbles and rocks below. In his mind's eye Bond
could see the blazing white shaft of flame come howling out of the face
of the cliff and he could hear the sea hiss and bubble as the liquid
chalk poured into the water.

He looked up at the narrow section of the launching dome that showed
above the edge of the cliff two hundred feet up in the sky, and imagined
the four men in their gas-masks and asbestos suits watching the gauges
as the terrible liquid explosive pulsed down the black rubber tube into
the stomach of the rocket. He suddenly realized that they were in range
if anything went wrong with the fuelling.

"Let's get away from here," he said to the girl.

When they had put a hundred yards between themselves and the cave Bond
stopped and looked back. He imagined himself with six tough men and all
the right gear, and he wondered how he would set about attacking the
site from the sea--kyaks to the jetty at low tide; a ladder to the lip
of the cave? and then what? Impossible to climb the polished steel walls
of the exhaust tunnel. It would be a question of firing an anti-tank
weapon through the steel floor beneath the rocket, following up with
some phosphorus shells and hoping that something would catch fire.
Untidy business, but it might be effective. Getting away afterwards
would be nasty. Sitting targets from the top of the cliff. But that
wouldn't worry a Russian suicide squad. It was all quite feasible.

Gala had been standing beside him watching the eyes that measured and
speculated. "It's not as easy as you might think," she said, seeing the
frown on his face. "Even when it's high tide and very rough they have
guards along the top of the cliff at night. And they've got searchlights
and Brens and grenades. Their orders are to shoot and ask questions
afterwards. Of course it would be better to floodlight the cliff at
night. But that would only pinpoint the site. I really believe they've
thought of everything."

Bond was still frowning. "If they had covering fire from a submarine or
an X-craft, a good team could still do it," he said. "It'll be hell, but
I'm going for a swim. The Admiralty chart says there's a twelve-fathom
channel out there, but I'd like to have a look. There must be plenty of
water at the end of the jetty but I'll be happier when I've seen for
myself." He smiled at her. "Why don't you have a bathe too? It's going
to be dam' cold, but it would do you good after stewing inside that
concrete dome all the morning."

Gala's eyes lit up. "Do you think I could?" she asked doubtfully. "I'm
frightfully hot. But what are we going to wear?" She blushed at the
thought of her brief and almost transparent nylon pants and brassire.

"To hell with that," said Bond airily. "You must have got some bits and
pieces on underneath and I've got pants on. We shall be perfectly
respectable and there's no one to see, and I promise not to look," he
lied cheerfully, leading the way round the next bend in the cliff. "You
undress behind that rock and I'll use this one," he said. "Come on.
Don't be a goose. It's all in the line of duty."

Without waiting for her to answer he moved behind the tall rock, taking
off his shirt as he did so.

"Oh, well," said Gala, relieved to have the decision taken out of her
hands. She went behind her rock and slowly unbuttoned her skirt.

When she peered nervously out, Bond was already halfway down the strip
of coarse brown sand that led out among the pools to where the incoming
tide eddied through the green and black moraine of the rocks. He looked
lithe and brown. The blue pants were reassuring.

Gingerly she followed him, and then suddenly she was in the water. At
once nothing else mattered but the velvet ice of the sea and the beauty
of the patches of sand between the waving hair of the seaweed that she
could see in the clear green depths below her as she buried her head and
swam along parallel with the shore in a fast crawl.

When she was level with the jetty she stopped for a moment to get her
breath. There was no sign of Bond whom she had last seen streaking along
a hundred yards ahead of her. She trod water hard to keep up her
circulation and then started back again, unwillingly thinking of him,
thinking of the hard brown body that must be somewhere near her, among
the rocks, perhaps, or diving to the sand to gauge the depth of water
that would be available to an enemy.

She turned back to look for him again and it was then that he suddenly
surged up from the sea beneath her. She felt the quick tight clasp of
his arms round her and the swift hard impact of his lips on hers.

"Damn you," she said furiously, but already he had dived again and by
the time she had spat out a mouthful of seawater and got her bearings he
was swimming blithely twenty yards away.

She turned and swam aloofly out to sea, feeling rather ridiculous but
determined to snub him. It was just as she had thought. These Secret
Service people always seemed to have time for sex however important
their jobs might be.

But her body obstinately tingled with the shock of the kiss and the
golden day seemed to have taken on a new beauty. As she swam further out
to sea and then turned back and looked along the snarling milk-white
teeth of England to the distant arm of Dover and at the black and white
confetti of the ravens and gulls tossed against the vivid backcloth of
green fields, she decided that anything was permissible on such a day
and that, just this once, she would forgive him.

Half an hour later they were lying, waiting for the sun to dry them,
separated by a respectable yard of sand at the foot of the cliff.

The kiss had not been mentioned, but Gala's efforts to preserve an
atmosphere of aloofness had collapsed under the excitement of examining
a lobster that Bond had dived for and caught with his hands. Reluctantly
they put it back into one of the rockpools and watched it scuttle
backwards into the shelter of the seaweed. And now they lay, tired and
exhilarated by their icy swim, and prayed that the sun would not slip
behind the cliff top high above their heads before they were warm and
dry enough to get back into their clothes.

But those were not Bond's only thoughts. The beautiful strapping body of
the girl beside him, incredibly erotic in the tight emphasis of the
clinging brassire and pants, came between him and his concern about the
Moonraker. And anyway there was nothing he could do about the Moonraker
for another hour. It was not yet five o'clock and the fuelling would not
be finished until after six. It would only be then that he could get
hold of Drax and make certain that for the next two nights the guards
were strengthened on the cliff and that they had the right weapons. For
he had seen for himself that there was plenty of water, even at low
tide, for a submarine.

So there was at least a quarter of an hour to spare before they would
have to start back.

Meanwhile this girl. The half-stripped body splayed above him on the
surface as he swam up from below; the soft-hard quick kiss with his arms
about her; the pointed hillocks of her breasts, so close to him, and the
soft flat stomach descending to the mystery of her tightly closed
thighs.

To hell with it.

He wrenched his mind out of its fever and gazed straight up into the
endless blue of the sky, forcing himself to watch the soaring beauty of
the herring gulls as they ranged effortlessly among the air currents
that fountained up over the high clifftop above them. But the soft down
of the birds' white underbellies seduced his thoughts back to her and
gave him no rest.

"Why are you called Gala?" he said to break his hot crouching thoughts.

She laughed. "I was teased about it all through school," she said, and
Bond was impatient at the easy, clear voice, "and then through the Wrens
and then by half the police force of London. But my real name's even
worse. It's Galatea. She was a cruiser my father was serving in when I
was born. I suppose Gala's not too bad. I've almost forgotten what I'm
called. I'm always having to change my name now that I'm in the Special
Branch."

"In the Special Branch." "In the Special Branch." "In the..."

When the bomb falls. When the pilot miscalculates and the plane hits
short of the runway. When the blood leaves the heart and consciousness
goes, there are thoughts in the mind, or words, or perhaps a phrase of
music, which ring on for the few seconds before death like the dying
clang of a bell.

Bond wasn't killed, but the words were still in his mind, several
seconds later, after it had all happened.

Ever since they had lain down on the sand up against the cliff, while
his thoughts had been of Gala, his eyes had been carelessly watching two
gulls playing around a wisp of straw that was the edge of their nest on
a small ledge about ten feet below the distant top of the cliff. They
would crane and bow in their love-play, with only their heads visible to
Bond against the dazzling white of the chalk, and then the male would
soar out and away and at once back to the ledge to take up his
love-making again.

Bond was dreamily watching them as he listened to the girl, when
suddenly both gulls dashed away from the ledge with a single shrill
scream of fear. At the same moment there was a puff of black smoke and a
soft boom from the top of the cliff and a great section of the white
chalk directly above Bond and Gala seemed to sway outwards, zigzag
cracks snaking down its face.

The next thing Bond knew was that he was lying on top of Gala, his face
pressed into her cheek, that the air was full of thunder, that his
breath was stifled and that the sun had gone out. His back was numb and
aching under a great weight and in his left ear, besides the echo of the
thunder, there was the end of a choking scream.

He was barely conscious and he had to wait until his senses came halfway
back to life.

The Special Branch. What was it she had said about the Special Branch?

He made frantic efforts to move. Only in his right arm, the arm nearest
to the cliff, was there any play at all, but as he jerked his shoulder
the arm became freer until at last, with a great backward heave, light
and air reached down to them. Retching in the fog of chalk-dust, he
widened the hole until his head could take its crushing weight off Gala.
He felt the feeble movement as she turned her head sideways towards the
light and air. A growing trickle of dust and stones into the hole he had
cleared made him dig fiercely again. Gradually he enlarged the space
until he could get a purchase on his right elbow and then, coughing so
that he thought his lungs would burst, he heaved his right shoulder up
until suddenly it and his head were free.

His first thought was that there had been an explosion in the Moonraker.
He looked up at the cliff and then along the shore. No. They were a
hundred yards from the site. It was only in the skyline directly above
them that a great mouthful had been bitten out of the cliff.

Then he thought of their immediate danger. Gala moaned and he could feel
the frantic thud of her heart against his chest, but the ghastly white
mask of her face was now free to the air and he wrenched his body from
side to side on top of her to try and ease the pressure on her lungs and
stomach. Slowly, inch by inch, his muscles cracking under the strain, he
worked his way under the pile of dust and rubble towards the cliff face
where he knew the weight would be less.

And then at last his chest was free and he could snake his body into a
kneeling position beside her. Blood dripped from his cut back and arms
and mingled with the chalk dust that continually poured down the sides
of the hole he had made, but he could feel that no bones were broken
and, in the rage of the rescue work, he felt no pain.

Grunting and coughing and without a pause to take breath he heaved her
up into a sitting position and with a bleeding hand wiped some of the
chalk dust from her face. Then, freeing his legs from the tomb of chalk,
he somehow manhandled her up on to the top of the mound with her back
against the cliff.

He knelt and looked at her, at the terrible white scarecrow that minutes
before had been one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen, and as
he looked at her and at the streaks of his blood down her face he prayed
that her eyes would open.

When, seconds later, they did, the relief was so great that Bond turned
away and was rackingly sick.




                              CHAPTER XVII
                             WILD SURMISES


When the paroxysm was over he felt Gala's hand in his hair. He looked
round and saw her wince at the sight of him. She tugged at his hair and
pointed up the cliffs. As she did so a shower of small pieces of chalk
rattled down beside them.

Weakly he got to his knees and then to his feet and together they
scrambled and slid down off the mountain of chalk and away from the
crater against the cliff from which they had escaped.

The harsh sand under their feet was like velvet. They both collapsed
full length and lay clutching at it with their horrible white hands as
if its rough gold would wash the filthy whiteness away. Then Gala too
was mercifully sick and Bond crawled a few paces away to leave her
alone. He hauled himself to his feet against a single lump of chalk as
big as a small motor-car, and at last his bloodshot eyes took in the
hell that had almost engulfed them.

Down to the beginning of the rocks, now lapped by the incoming tide,
sprawled the debris of the cliff face, an avalanche of chalk blocks and
shapes. The white dust of its collapse covered nearly an acre. Above it
a jagged rent had appeared in the cliff and a wedge of blue sky had been
bitten out of the distant top where before the line of the horizon had
been almost straight. There were no longer any seabirds near them and
Bond guessed that the smell of disaster would keep them away from the
place for days.

The nearness of their bodies to the cliff was what had saved them, that
and the slight protection of the overhang below which the sea had bitten
into the base of the cliff. They had been buried by the deluge of
smaller stuff. The heavier chunks, any one of which would have crushed
them, had fallen outwards, the nearest missing them by a few feet. And
their nearness to the cliff was the reason for Bond's right arm having
been comparatively free so that they had been able to burrow out of the
mound before they were stifled. Bond realized that if some reflex had
not hurled him on top of Gala at the moment of the avalanche they would
now both be dead.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. Without looking at her he put his arm
round her waist and together they got down to the blessed sea and let
their bodies fall weakly, thankfully into the shallows.

Ten minutes later it was two comparatively human beings who walked back
up the sand to the rocks where their clothes lay, a few yards away from
the cliff-fall. They were both completely naked. The rags of their
underclothing lay somewhere under the pile of chalk dust, torn off in
their struggle to escape. But, like survivors from a ship-wreck, their
nakedness meant nothing. Washed clean of the cloying gritty chalk dust
and with their hair and mouths scoured with the salt water, they felt
weak and bedraggled, but by the time they had got their clothes on and
had shared Gala's comb there was little to show what they had been
through.

They sat with their backs to a rock and Bond lit a first delicious
cigarette, drinking the smoke deeply into his lungs and expelling it
slowly through his nostrils. When Gala had done the best she could with
her powder and lipstick he lit a cigarette for her and, as he handed it
to her, for the first time they looked into each other's eyes and
smiled. Then they sat and looked silently out to sea, at the golden
panorama that was the same and yet entirely new.

Bond broke the silence.

"Well, by God," he said. "That was close."

"I still don't know what happened," said Gala. "Except that you saved my
life." She put her hand on his and then took it away.

"If you hadn't been there I should be dead," said Bond. "If I'd stayed
where I was--" He shrugged his shoulders.

Then he turned and looked at her. "I suppose you realize," he said
flatly, "that someone pushed the cliff down on us?" She looked back at
him with wide eyes. "If we searched around in all that," he gestured
towards the avalanche of chalk, "we would find the marks of two or three
drill-holes and traces of dynamite. I saw the smoke and I heard the bang
of the explosion a split second before the cliff came down. And so did
the gulls," he added.

"And what's more," continued Bond after a pause, "it can't have been
only Krebs. It was done in full view of the site. And it was done by
several people, well organized, with spies on us from the moment we went
down the cliff path to the beach."

There was comprehension in Gala's eyes and a flash of fear. "What are we
to do?" she asked anxiously. "What's it all about?"

"They want us dead," said Bond calmly. "So we have to stay alive. As to
what it's all about, we'll just have to find that out.

"You see," he went on, "I'm afraid even Vallance isn't going to be much
help. When they made up their minds we were properly buried, they'll
have got away from the top of the cliff as fast as they could. They'd
know that even if someone saw the cliff-fall, or heard it, they wouldn't
get very excited. There are twenty miles of these cliffs and not many
people come here until the summer. If the coastguards heard it they may
have made a note in the log. But in the spring I expect they get plenty
of falls. The winter frosts thaw out in cracks that may be hundreds of
years old. So our friends would wait until we didn't turn up tonight and
then get the police and coastguards to search for us. They'd keep quiet
until the high tide had made porridge out of a good deal of this." He
gestured towards the shambles of fallen chalk. "The whole scheme is
admirable. And even if Vallance believes us, there's not enough evidence
to make the Prime Minister interfere with the Moonraker. The damn
thing's so infernally important. All the world's waiting to see if it'll
work or not. And anyway, what's our story? What the hell's it all about?
Some of those bloody Germans up there seem to want us dead before
Friday. But what for?" He paused. "It's up to us, Gala. It's a lousy
business but we've simply got to solve it ourselves."

He looked into her eyes. "What about it?"

Gala laughed abruptly. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "It's what we're
paid for. Of course we'll take them on. And I agree we'd get nowhere
with London. We'd look absolutely ridiculous telephoning reports about
cliffs falling on our heads. What are we doing down here anyway, fooling
around without any clothes on instead of getting on with our jobs?"

Bond grinned. "We only lay down for ten minutes to get dry," he
protested mildly. "How do you think we ought to have spent the
afternoon? Taking everybody's fingerprints all over again? That's about
all you police think about." He felt ashamed when he saw her stiffen. He
held his hand up. "I didn't really mean that," he said. "But can't you
see what we've done this afternoon? Just what had to be done. We've made
the enemy show his hand. Now we've got to take the next step and find
out who the enemy is and why he wanted us out of the way. And then if
we've got enough evidence that someone's trying to sabotage the
Moonraker we'll have the whole place turned inside out, the practice
shoot postponed, and to hell with politics."

She jumped to her feet. "Oh, of course you're right," she said
impatiently. "It's just that I want to do something about it in a
hurry." She looked for a moment out to sea, away from Bond. "You've only
just come into the picture. I've been living with this rocket for more
than a year and I can't bear the idea that something may happen to it.
So much seems to depend on it. For all of us. I want to get back there
quickly and to find out who wanted to kill us. It may be nothing to do
with the Moonraker, but I want to make sure."

Bond stood up, showing nothing of the pain from the cuts and bruises on
his back and legs. "Come on," he said, "it's nearly six o'clock. The
tide's coming in fast but we can get to St Margaret's before it catches
us. We'll clean up at the Granville there and have a drink and some food
and then we'll go back to the house in the middle of dinner. I shall be
interested to see what sort of a reception we get. After that we'll have
to concentrate on staying alive and seeing what we can see. Can you make
it to St Margaret's?"

"Don't be silly," said Gala. "Policewomen aren't made of gossamer." She
gave a reluctant smile at Bond's ironically respectful 'Of course not',
and they turned towards the distant tower of the South Foreland
lighthouse and set off through the shingle.

At half-past eight the taxi from St Margaret's dropped them at the
second guard gate and they showed their passes and walked quietly up
through the trees on to the expanse of concrete. They both felt keyed up
and in high spirits. A hot bath and an hour's rest at the accommodating
Granville had been followed by two stiff brandies-and-sodas for Gala and
three for Bond followed by delicious fried soles and Welsh rarebits and
coffee. And now, as they confidently approached the house, it would have
needed second sight to tell that they were both dead tired and that they
were naked and bruised under their walking clothes.

They let themselves quietly in through the front door and stood for a
moment in the lighted hall. A cheerful mumble of voices came from the
dining-room. There was a pause followed by a burst of laughter which was
dominated by the harsh bark of Sir Hugo Drax.

Bond's mouth twisted wryly as he led the way across the hall to the door
of the dining-room. Then he fixed a cheerful smile on his face and
opened the door for Gala to pass through.

Drax sat at the head of the table, festive in his plum-coloured
smoking-jacket. A forkful of food, halfway to his open mouth, had
stopped in mid-air as they appeared in the doorway. Unnoticed, the food
slid off the fork and fell with a soft, distinct 'plep' on to the edge
of the table.

Krebs had been in the act of drinking a glass of red wine and the glass,
frozen against his mouth, poured a thin trickle down his chin and thence
on to his brown satin tie and yellow shirt.

Dr Walter had had his back to the door and it was not until he observed
the unusual behaviour of the others, the bulging eyes, the gape of the
mouths, and the blood-drained faces, that he whipped his head round
towards the door. His reactions, thought Bond, were slower than the
others, or else his nerves were steadier. "_Ach so_," he said softly.
"_Die Englnder._"

Drax was on his feet. "My dear chap," he said thickly. "My dear chap. We
were really very worried. Just wondering whether to send out a search
party. Few minutes ago one of the guards came in and reported there
seemed to have been a cliff-fall." He came round towards them, his
napkin in one hand and the fork still erect in the other.

With the movement the blood surged back into his face, which became
first mottled and then its usual red. "You really might have let me
know," he spoke to the girl, anger rising in his voice. "Most
extraordinary behaviour."

"It was my fault," said Bond, moving forward into the room so that he
could keep them all in view. "The walk was longer than I expected. I
thought we might get caught by the tide so we went on to St Margaret's
and had something to eat there and took a taxi. Miss Brand wanted to
telephone but I thought we would be back before eight. You must put the
blame on me. But please go ahead with your dinner. Perhaps I might join
you for coffee and dessert. I expect Miss Brand would prefer to go to
her room. She must be tired after her long day."

Bond walked deliberately round the table and took the chair next to
Krebs. Those pale eyes, he noticed, after the first shock, had been
fixed firmly on his plate. As Bond came up behind him he was delighted
to see a large mound of Elastoplast on the crown of Krebs's head.

"Yes, go to bed, Miss Brand, I will talk to you in the morning," said
Drax testily. Gala obediently left the room and Drax went to his chair
and sat heavily down.

"Most remarkable those cliffs," said Bond blithely. "Quite awe-inspiring
walking along wondering if they're going to choose just that moment to
collapse on one. Reminded me of Russian roulette. And yet one never
reads of people being killed by cliffs falling on them. The odds against
getting hurt must be terrific." He paused. "By the way, what was that
you were saying about a cliff-fall just now?"

There was a faint groan on Bond's right, followed by a crash of glass
and china as Krebs's head fell forward on to the table.

Bond looked at him with polite curiosity.

"Walter," said Drax sharply. "Can't you see that Krebs is ill? Take the
man out and put him to bed. And don't be too soft with him. The man
drinks too much. Hurry up."

Walter, his face crumpled and angry, strode round the table and jerked
Krebs's head out of the debris. He took him by his coat collar and
hauled him to his feet and away from his chair.

"_Du Scheisskerl,_" hissed Walter at the mottled, vacant face.
"_Marsch!_" He turned him round and hustled him to the swing door into
the pantry and rammed him through. There were muffled sounds of
stumbling and cursing and then a door banged and there was silence.

"He must have had a heavy day," said Bond looking at Drax.

The big man was sweating freely. He wiped his face with a circular sweep
of his napkin. "Nonsense," he said shortly. "He drinks."

The butler, erect and unperturbed by the apparition of Krebs and Walter
in his pantry, brought in the coffee. Bond took some and sipped it. He
waited for the pantry door to close again. Another German, he thought.
He'll already have passed the news back to the barracks. Or perhaps all
the team weren't involved. Perhaps there was a team within a team. And
if so, did Drax know about it? His behaviour when Bond and Gala had come
through the door had been inconclusive. Had part of his astonishment
been affronted dignity, the shock of a vain man whose programme had been
upset by a chit of a secretary? He had certainly covered up well. And
all the afternoon he had been down the shaft supervising the fuelling.
Bond decided to probe a little.

"How did the fuelling go?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the other man.

Drax was lighting a long cigar. He glanced up at Bond through the smoke
and the flame of his match.

"Excellently." He puffed at the cigar to get it going. "Everything is
ready now. The guards are out. An hour or two clearing up down there in
the morning and then the site will be closed. By the way," he added. "I
shall be talking Miss Brand up to London in the car tomorrow afternoon.
I shall need a secretary as well as Krebs. Have you got any plans?"

"I have to go to London too," said Bond on an impulse. "I have my final
report to make to the Ministry."

"Oh, really?" said Drax casually. "What about? I thought you were
satisfied with the arrangements."

"Yes," said Bond non-committally.

"That's all right then," said Drax breezily. "And now if you don't
mind," he got up from the table, "I've got some papers waiting for me in
my study. So I'll say good-night."

"Good-night," said Bond to the already retreating back.

Bond finished his coffee and went out into the hall and up to his
bedroom. It was obvious that it had been searched again. He shrugged his
shoulders. There was only the leather case. Its contents would show
nothing except that he had come equipped with the tools of his trade.

His Beretta in its shoulder-holster was still where he had hidden it, in
the empty leather case that belonged to Tallon's night-glasses. He took
the gun out and slipped it under his pillow.

He took a hot bath and used half a bottle of iodine on the cuts and
bruises he could reach. Then he got into bed and turned out the light.
His body hurt and he was exhausted.

For a moment he thought of Gala. He had told her to take a sleeping pill
and lock her door, but otherwise not to worry about anything until the
morning.

Before he emptied his mind for sleep he wondered uneasily about her trip
with Drax the next day to London.

Uneasily, but not desperately. In due course many questions would have
to be answered and many mysteries probed, but the basic facts seemed
solid and unanswerable. This extraordinary millionaire had built this
great weapon. The Ministry of Supply were pleased with it and considered
it sound. The Prime Minister and Parliament thought so too. The rocket
was to be fired in less than thirty-six hours under full supervision and
the security arrangements were as strict as they could possibly be.
Somebody, and probably several people, wanted him and the girl out of
the way. Nerves were stretched down here. There was a lot of tension
about. Perhaps there was jealousy. Perhaps some people actually
suspected them of being saboteurs. But what would that matter so long as
he and Gala kept their eyes open? Not much more than a day to go. They
were right out in the open here, in May, in England, in peacetime. It
was crazy to worry about a few lunatics so long as the Moonraker was out
of danger.

And as for tomorrow, reflected Bond as sleep reached out for him, he
would arrange to meet Gala in London and bring her back with him. Or she
could even stay up in London for the night. Either way he would look
after her until the Moonraker was safely fired and then, before work
began on the Mark II weapon, there would have to be a very thorough
clean-up indeed.

But these were treacherously comforting thoughts. There was danger about
and Bond knew it.

He finally drifted into sleep with one small scene firmly fixed in his
mind.

There had been something very disquieting about the dinner-table
downstairs. It had been laid for only three people.




                     _PART THREE: THURSDAY, FRIDAY_




                             CHAPTER XVIII
                         BENEATH THE FLAT STONE


The Mercedes was a beautiful thing. Bond pulled his battered grey
Bentley up alongside it and inspected it.

It was a Type 300 S, the sports model with a disappearing hood--one of
only half a dozen in England, he reflected. Left-hand drive. Probably
bought in Germany. He had seen a few of them over there. One had hissed
by him on the Munich Autobahn the year before when he was doing a solid
ninety in the Bentley. The body, too short and heavy to be graceful, was
painted white, with red leather upholstery. Garish for England, but Bond
guessed that Drax had chosen white in honour of the famous Mercedes-Benz
racing colours that had already swept the board again since the war at
Le Mans and the Nurburgring.

Typical of Drax to buy a Mercedes. There was something ruthless and
majestic about the cars, he decided, remembering the years from 1934 to
1939 when they had completely dominated the Grand Prix scene, children
of the famous Blitzen Benz that had captured the world's speed record at
142 m.p.h. back in 1911. Bond recalled some of their famous drivers,
Caracciola, Lang, Seaman, Brauschitz, and the days when he had seen them
drifting the fast sweeping bends of Tripoli at 190, or screaming along
the tree-lined straight at Berne with the Auto Unions on their tails.

And yet, Bond looked across at his supercharged Bentley, nearly
twenty-five years older than Drax's car and still capable of beating
100, and yet when Bentleys were racing, before Rolls had tamed them into
sedate town carriages, they had whipped the blown SS-K's almost as they
wished.

Bond had once dabbled on the fringe of the racing world and he was lost
in his memories, hearing again the harsh scream of Caracciola's great
white beast of a car as it howled past the grandstands at Le Mans, when
Drax came out of the house followed by Gala Brand and Krebs.

"Fast car," said Drax, pleased with Bond's look of admiration. He
gestured towards the Bentley. "They used to be good in the old days," he
added with a touch of patronage. "Now they're only built for going to
the theatre. Too well-mannered. Even the Continental. Now then you, get
in the back."

Krebs obediently climbed into the narrow back seat behind the driver. He
sat sideways, his mackintosh up round his ears, his eyes fixed
enigmatically on Bond.

Gala Brand, smart in a dark grey tailor-made and black beret and
carrying a lightweight black raincoat and gloves, climbed into the right
half of the divided front seat. The wide door closed with the rich
double click of a Faberg box.

No sign passed between Bond and Gala. They had made their plans at a
whispered meeting in his room before lunch--dinner in London at
half-past seven and then back to the house in Bond's car. She sat
demurely, her hands in her lap and her eyes to the front, as Drax
climbed in, pressed the starter, and pulled the gleaming lever on the
steering wheel back into third. The car surged away with hardly a purr
from the exhaust and Bond watched it disappear into the trees before he
climbed into the Bentley and moved off in leisurely pursuit.

In the hastening Mercedes, Gala busied herself with her thoughts. The
night had been uneventful and the morning had been devoted to clearing
the launching site of everything that might possibly burn when the
Moonraker was fired. Drax had not referred to the events of the previous
day and there had been no change in his usual manner. She had prepared
her last firing plan (Drax himself was to do it on the morrow) and as
usual Walter had been sent for and through her spy-hole she had seen the
figures being entered in Drax's black book.

It was a hot, sunny day and Drax was driving in his shirt-sleeves. She
glanced down and to the left at the top of the little book protruding
from his hip-pocket. This drive might be her last chance. Since the
evening before she had felt a different person. Perhaps Bond had aroused
her competitive spirit, perhaps it was revulsion from playing the
secretary too long, perhaps it was the shock of the cliff-fall and the
zest of realizing after so many quiet months that she was playing a
dangerous game. But now she felt the time had come to take risks.
Discovery of the Moonraker's flight-plan was a routine affair and it
would give her personal satisfaction to find out the secret of the black
notebook. It would be easy.

Casually she laid her folded coat over the space between herself and
Drax. At the same time she made a show of arranging herself comfortably,
during the course of which she drew an inch or two nearer Drax and her
hand came to rest in the folds of the coat between them. Then she
settled herself to wait.

Her chance came, as she had thought it might, in the congested traffic
of Maidstone. Drax, intent, was trying to beat the traffic lights at the
corner of King Street and Gabriel's Hill, but the line of traffic was
too slow and he was checked behind a battered family saloon. Gala could
see that when the lights changed he was determined to cut in front of
the car in front and teach it a lesson. He was a brilliant driver, but a
vindictive and impatient one who was always anxious for any car that
held him up to be given something to remember.

As the lights went green he gave a blast on his triple horns, pulled out
to the right at the intersection, accelerated brutally and got by,
shaking his head angrily at the driver of the saloon as he passed it.

In the middle of this harsh manoeuvre it was natural for Gala to allow
herself to be thrown towards him. At the same time her left hand dived
under the coat and her fingers touched, felt, and extracted the book in
one flow of motion. Then the hand was back in the folds of the coat
again and Drax, all his feeling in his feet and hands, was seeing
nothing but the traffic ahead and the chances of getting across the
zebra outside the Royal Star without hitting two women and a boy who
were nearly halfway across it.

Now it was a question of facing Drax's growl of rage as with a maidenly
but urgent voice she asked if she could possibly stop for a moment to
powder her nose.

A garage would be dangerous. He might decide to fill up with petrol. And
perhaps he also carried his money in his hip-pocket. But was there an
hotel? Yes, she remembered, the Thomas Wyatt just outside Maidstone. And
it had no petrol pumps. She started to fidget slightly. She pulled the
coat back on to her lap. She cleared her throat.

"Oh, excuse me, Sir Hugo," she said in a strangled voice.

"Yes. What is it?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir Hugo. But could you possibly stop for just a
moment. I want, I mean, I'm terribly sorry but I'd like to powder my
nose. It's terribly stupid of me. I'm so sorry."

"Christ," said Drax. "Why the hell didn't you... Oh, yes. Well, all
right. Find a place." He grumbled on into his moustache, but brought the
big car down into the fifties.

"There's a hotel just around this bend," said Gala nervously. "Thank you
so much, Sir Hugo. It was stupid of me. I won't be a moment. Yes, here
it is."

The car swerved up to the front of the inn and stopped with a jerk.
"Hurry up. Hurry up," said Drax as Gala, leaving the door of the car
open, sped obediently across the gravel, her coat with its precious
secret held tightly in front of her body.

She locked the door of the lavatory and snatched open the notebook.

There they were, just as she had thought. On each page, under the date,
the neat columns of figures, the atmospheric pressure, the wind
velocity, the temperature, just as she had recorded them from the Air
Ministry figures. And at the foot of each page the estimated settings
for the gyro compasses.

Gala frowned. At a glance she could see that they were entirely
different from hers. Drax's figures simply bore no relation to hers
whatsoever.

She turned to the last completed page containing the figures for that
day. Why, she was wrong by nearly ninety degrees on the estimated
course. If the rocket were fired on her flight plan it would land
somewhere in France. She looked wildly at her face in the mirror over
the washbasin. How could she have gone so monstrously wrong? And why
hadn't Drax ever told her? Why, she ran quickly through the book again,
every day she had been ninety degrees out, firing the Moonraker at right
angles to its true course. And yet she simply couldn't have made such a
mistake. Did the Ministry know these secret figures? And why should they
be secret?

Suddenly her bewilderment turned to fright. She must somehow get safely,
quietly to London and tell somebody. Even though she might be called a
fool and a meddler.

Coldly she turned back several pages in the book, took her nail file out
of the bag and, as neatly as she could, cut out a specimen page, rolled
it up into a tight ball and stuffed it into the tip of a finger of one
of her gloves.

She glanced at her face in the mirror. It was pale and she quickly
rubbed her cheeks to bring back the colour. Then she put back the look
of an apologetic secretary and hurried out and ran across the gravel to
the car, clutching the notebook among the folds of her coat.

The engine of the Mercedes was turning over. Drax glowered at her
impatiently as she scrambled back into her seat.

"Come on. Come on," he said, putting the car into third and taking his
foot off the clutch so that she nearly caught her ankle in the heavy
door. The tyres churned up the gravel as he accelerated out of the
parking place and dry-skidded into the London road.

Gala was jerked back, but she remembered to let the coat with her guilty
hand in its folds fall on the seat between her and the driver.

And now the book back into the hip-pocket.

She watched the speedometer hovering in the seventies as Drax flung the
heavy car along the crown of the road.

She tried to remember her lessons. Distracting pressure on some other
part of the body. Distracting the attention. Distraction. The victim
must not be at ease. His senses must be focused away. He must be unaware
of the touch on his body. Anaesthetized by a stronger stimulus.

Like now, for instance. Drax, bent forward over the wheel, was fighting
for a chance to get past a sixty-foot RAF trailer, but the oncoming
traffic was leaving no room on the crown of the road. There was a gap
and Drax rammed the lever into second and took it, his horns braying
imperiously.

Gala's hand reached to the left under the coat.

But another hand struck like a snake.

"Got you."

Krebs was leaning half over the back of the driving seat. His hand was
crushing hers into the slippery cover of the notebook under the folds of
the coat.

Gala sat frozen into black ice. With all her strength she wrenched at
her hand. It was no good. Krebs had all his weight on it now.

Drax had got past the trailer and the road was empty. Krebs said
urgently in German, "Please stop the car, _mein Kapitn_. Miss Brand is
a spy."

Drax gave a startled glance to his right. What he saw was enough. He put
his hand quickly down to his hip-pocket, and then, slowly, deliberately,
put it back on the wheel. The sharp turning to Mereworth was just coming
up on his left. "Hold her," said Drax. He braked so that the tyres
screamed, changed down and wrenched the car into the side-road. A few
hundred yards down it he pulled the car into the side and stopped.

Drax looked up and down the road. It was empty. He reached over one
gloved hand and wrenched Gala's face towards him.

"What is this?"

"I can explain it, Sir Hugo." Gala tried to bluff against the horror and
desperation she knew was in her face. "It's a mistake. I didn't mean
..."

Under cover of an angry shrug of the shoulders, her right hand moved
softly behind her and the guilty pair of gloves were thrust behind the
leather cushion.

"_Sehen sie her, mein Kapitn._ I saw her edging up close to you. It
seemed to me strange."

With his other hand Krebs had whipped the coat away and there were the
bent white fingers of her left hand crushed into the cover of the
notebook still a foot away from Drax's hip-pocket.

"So."

The word was deadly cold and with a shivering finality.

Drax let go her chin, but her horrified eyes remained locked into his.

A kind of frozen cruelty was showing through the jolly faade of red
skin and whiskers. It was a different man. The man behind the mask. The
creature beneath the flat stone that Gala Brand had lifted.

Drax glanced again up and down the empty road.

Then, looking carefully into the suddenly aware blue eyes, he drew the
leather driving gauntlet off his left hand and with his right whipped
her as hard as he could across the face with it.

Only a short cry was forced out of Gala's constricted throat, but tears
of pain ran down her cheeks. Suddenly she began to fight like a mad
woman.

With all her strength she heaved and fought against the two iron arms
that held her. With her free right hand she tried to reach the face that
leant over her hand and get at the eyes. But Krebs easily moved his head
out of her reach and quietly increased the pressure across her throat,
hissing murderously to himself as her nails tore strips of skin off the
backs of his hands, but noting with a scientist's eye as her struggles
became weaker.

Drax watched carefully, with one eye on the road, as Krebs brought her
under control and then he started the car and drove cautiously on along
the wooded road. He grunted with satisfaction as he came upon a
cart-track into the woods and he turned up it and only stopped when he
was well out of sight of the road.

Gala had just realized that there were no noise from the engine when she
heard Drax say 'there'. A finger touched her skull behind the left ear.
Krebs arm came away from her throat and she slumped gratefully forward,
gasping for air. Then something crashed into the back of her head where
the finger had touched it, and there was a flash of wonderfully
releasing pain and blackness.

An hour later passers-by saw a white Mercedes draw up outside a small
house at the Buckingham Palace end of Ebury Street and two kind
gentlemen help a sick girl out and through the front door. Those who
were near could see that the poor girl's face was very pale and that her
eyes were shut and that the kind gentlemen almost had to carry her up
the steps. The big gentleman with the red face and whiskers was heard to
say quite distinctly to the other man that poor Mildred had promised she
wouldn't go out until she was quite well again. Very sad.

Gala came to herself in a large top-floor room that seemed to be full of
machinery. She was tied very securely to a chair and apart from the
searing pain in her head she could feel that her lips and cheek were
bruised and swollen.

Heavy curtains were drawn across the window and there was a musty smell
in the room as if it was rarely used. There was dust on the few pieces
of conventional furniture and only the chromium and ebonite dials on the
machines looked clean and new. She thought that she was probably in
hospital. She closed her eyes and wondered. It was not long before she
remembered. She spent several minutes controlling herself and then she
opened her eyes again.

Drax, his back to her, was watching the dials on a machine that looked
like a very large radio set. There were three more similar machines in
her line of sight and from one of them a thin steel aerial reached up to
a rough hole that had been cut for it in the plaster of the ceiling. The
room was brightly lit by several tall standard lamps, each of which held
a naked high wattage bulb.

To her left there was a noise of tinkering and by swivelling her
half-closed eyes in their sockets, which made the pain in her head much
worse, she saw the figure of Krebs bent over an electric generator on
the floor. Beside it there was a small petrol engine and it was this
that was giving trouble. Every now and then Krebs would grasp the
starting-handle and crank it hard and a feeble stutter would come from
the engine before he went back to his tinkering.

"You dam' fool," said Drax in German, "hurry up. I've got to go and see
those bloody oafs at the Ministry."

"At once, _mein Kapitn_," said Krebs dutifully. He seized the handle
again. This time after two or three coughs the engine started up and
began to purr.

"It won't make too much noise?" asked Drax.

"No, _mein Kapitn_. The room has been soundproofed," answered Krebs.
"Dr Walter assures me that nothing will be heard outside."

Gala closed her eyes and decided that her only hope was to feign
unconscious for as long as possible. Did they intend to kill her? Here
in this room? And what was all this machinery? It looked like wireless,
or perhaps radar. That curved glass screen above Drax's head that had
given an occasional flicker as Drax fiddled with the knobs below the
dials.

Slowly her mind started to work again. Why, for instance, was Drax
suddenly talking perfect German? And why did Krebs address him as _Herr
Kapitn_? And the figures in the black book. Why did they nearly kill
her because she had seen them? What did they mean?

Ninety degrees, ninety degrees.

Lazily her mind turned the problem over.

Ninety degrees difference. Supposing her figures had been right all the
time for the target eighty miles away in the North Sea. Just supposing
she had been right. Then she wouldn't have been aiming the rocket into
the middle of France after all. But Drax's figures. Ninety degrees to
the left of her North Sea target? Somewhere in England presumably.
Eighty miles from Dover. Yes, of course. That was it. Drax's figures.
The firing plan in the little black book. They would drop the Moonraker
just about in the middle of London.

But on London! On London!!

So one's heart really does go into one's throat. How extraordinary. Such
a commonplace and yet there it is and it really does almost stop one
breathing.

And now, let me see, so this is a radar homing device. How ingenious.
The same as there would be on the raft in the North Sea. This would
bring the rocket down within a hundred yards of Buckingham Palace. But
would that matter with a warhead full of instruments?

It was probably the cruelty of Drax's blow across her face that settled
it, but suddenly she _knew_ that somehow it would be a real warhead, an
atomic warhead, and that Drax was an enemy of England and that tomorrow
at noon he was going to destroy London.

Gala made a last effort to understand.

Through this ceiling, through this chair, into the ground. The thin
needle of the rocket. Dropping fast as light out of a clear sky. The
crowds in the streets. The Palace. The nurse-maids in the park. The
birds in the trees. The great bloom of flame a mile wide. And then the
mushroom cloud. And nothing left. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

"No. Oh, _no_!"

But the scream was only in her mind and Gala, her body a twisted black
potato crisp amongst a million others, had already fainted.




                              CHAPTER XIX
                             MISSING PERSON


Bond sat at his favourite restaurant table in London, the right-hand
corner table for two on the first floor, and watched the people and the
traffic in Piccadilly and down the Haymarket.

It was 7.45 and his second Vodka dry Martini with a large slice of lemon
peel had just been brought to him by Baker, the head waiter. He sipped
it, wondering idly why Gala was late. It was not like her. She was the
sort of girl who would telephone if she had been kept at the Yard.
Vallance, whom he had visited at five, had said that Gala was due with
him at six.

Vallance had been very anxious to see her. He was a worried man and when
Bond reported briefly on the security of the Moonraker, Vallance seemed
to be listening with only half his mind.

It appeared that all that day there had been heavy selling of sterling.
It had started in Tangier and quickly spread to Zurich and New York. The
pound had been fluctuating wildly in the money markets of the world and
the arbitrage dealers had made a killing. The net result was that the
pound was a whole three cents down on the day and the forward rates were
still weaker. It was front-page news in the evening papers and at the
close of business the Treasury had got on to Vallance and told him the
extraordinary news that the selling wave had been started by Drax Metals
Ltd. in Tangier. The operation had begun that morning and by close of
business the firm had managed to sell British currency short to the tune
of twenty million pounds. This had been too much for the markets, and
the Bank of England had had to step in and buy in order to stop a still
sharper run. It was then that Drax Metals had come to light as the
seller.

Now the Treasury wanted to know what it was all about--whether it was
Drax himself selling or one of the big commodity interests who were
clients of his firm. The first thing they did was to tackle Vallance.
Vallance could only think that in some way the Moonraker was to be a
failure and that Drax knew it and wanted to profit by his knowledge. He
at once spoke to the Ministry of Supply, but they pooh-poohed the idea.
There was no reason to think the Moonraker would be a failure and even
if its practice flight was not successful the fact would be covered up
with talk of technical hitches and so forth. In any case, whether the
rocket was a success or not, there could be no possible reaction on
British financial credit. No, they certainly wouldn't think of
mentioning the matter to the Prime Minister. Drax Metals was a big
trading organization. They were probably acting for some foreign
government. The Argentine. Perhaps even Russia. Someone with big
sterling balances. Anyway it was nothing to do with the Ministry, or
with the Moonraker, which would be launched punctually at noon the next
day.

This had made sense to Vallance, but he was still worried. He didn't
like mysteries and he was glad to share his concern with Bond. Above all
he wanted to ask Gala if she had seen any Tangier cables and if so
whether Drax had made any comment on them.

Bond was sure Gala would have mentioned anything of the sort to him, and
he said so to Vallance. They had talked some more and then Bond had left
for his headquarters where M. was expecting him.

M. had been interested in everything, even the shaven heads and
moustaches of the men. He questioned Bond minutely and when Bond
finished his story with the gist of his last conversation with Vallance
M. sat for a long time lost in thought.

"007," he said at last, "I don't like any part of this. There's
something going on down there but I can't for the life of me make any
sense out of it. And I don't see where I can possibly interfere. All the
facts are known to the Special Branch and to the Ministry and, God
knows, I've got nothing to add to them. Even if I had a word with the
PM, which would be damned unfair on Vallance, what am I to tell him?
What facts? What's it all about? There's nothing but the smell of it
all. And it's a bad smell. And," he added, "a very big one, if I'm not
mistaken.

"No," he looked across at Bond and his eyes held an unusual note of
urgency. "It looks as if it's all up to you. And that girl. You're lucky
she's a good one. Anything you want? Anything I can do to help?"

"No, thank you, sir," Bond had said and he had walked out through the
familiar corridors and down in the lift to his own office where he had
terrified Loelia Ponsonby by giving her a kiss as he said good-night.
The only times he ever did that were at Christmas, on her birthday, and
just before there was something dangerous to be done.

Bond drank down the rest of his Martini and looked at his watch. Now it
was eight o'clock and suddenly he shivered.

He got straight up from his table and walked out to the telephone.

The switchboard at the Yard said that the Assistant Commissioner had
been trying to reach him. He had had to go to a dinner at the Mansion
House. Could Commander Bond please stay by the telephone? Bond waited
impatiently. All his fears surged up at him from the chunk of black
bakelite. He could see the rows of polite faces. The uniformed waiter
slowly edging his way round to Vallance. The quickly pulled-back chair.
The unobtrusive exit. Those echoing stone lobbies. The discreet booth.

The telephone screamed at him. "That you, Bond? Vallance here. Seen
anything of Miss Brand?"

Bond's heart went cold. "No," he said sharply. "She's half an hour late
for dinner. Didn't she turn up at six?"

"No, and I've had a 'trace' sent out and there's no sign of her at the
usual address she stays at when she comes to London. None of her friends
have seen her. If she left in Drax's car at two-thirty she should have
been in London by half-past four. There's been no crash on the Dover
road during the afternoon and the AA and the RAC are negative." There
was a pause. "Now listen." There was urgent appeal in Vallance's voice.
"She's a good girl that, and I don't want anything to happen to her. Can
you handle it for me? I can't put out a general call for her. The
killing down there has made her news and we'd have the whole Press round
our ears. It will be even worse after ten tonight. Downing Street are
issuing a communiqu about the practice shoot and tomorrow's papers are
going to be nothing but Moonraker. The PM's going to broadcast. Her
disappearance would turn the whole thing into a crime story. Tomorrow's
too important for that and anyway the girl may have had a fainting fit
or something. But I want her found. Well? What do you say? Can you
handle it? You can have all the help you want. I'll tell the Duty
Officer that he's to accept your orders."

"Don't worry," said Bond. "Of course I'll look after it." He paused, his
mind racing. "Just tell me something. What do you know about Drax's
movements?"

"He wasn't expected at the Ministry until seven," said Vallance. "I left
word..." There was a confused noise on the line and Bond heard
Vallance say "Thanks." He came back on the line. "Just got a report
passed on by the City police," he said. "The Yard couldn't get me on the
'phone. Talking to you. Let's see," he read, "'Sir Hugo Drax arrived
Ministry 1900 left at 2000. Left message dining at Blades if wanted.
Back at site 2300.'" Vallance commented: "That means he'll be leaving
London about nine. Just a moment." He read on: "'Sir Hugo stated Miss
Brand felt unwell on arrival in London but at her request he left her at
Victoria Station bus terminal at 16.45. Miss Brand stated she would rest
with some friends, address unknown, and contact Sir Hugo at Ministry at
1900. She had not done so.' And that's all," said Vallance. "Oh, by the
way, we made the inquiry about Miss Brand on your behalf. Said you had
arranged to meet her at six and she hadn't turned up."

"Yes," said Bond, his thoughts elsewhere. "That doesn't seem to get us
anywhere. I'll have to get busy. Just one more thing. Has Drax got a
place in London, flat or anything like that?"

"He always stays at the Ritz nowadays," said Vallance. "Sold his house
in Grosvenor Square when he moved down to Dover. But we happen to know
he's got some sort of an establishment in Ebury Street. We checked
there. But there was no answer to the bell and my man said the house
looked unoccupied. Just behind Buckingham Palace. Some sort of hideout
of his. Keeps it very quiet. Probably takes his women there. Anything
else? I ought to be getting back or all this big brass will think the
Crown Jewels have been stolen."

"You go ahead," said Bond. "I'll do my best and if I get stuck I'll call
on your men to help. Don't worry if you don't hear from me. So long."

"So long," said Vallance with a note of relief in his voice. "And
thanks. Best of luck."

Bond rang off.

He picked up the receiver again and called Blades.

"This is the Ministry of Supply," he said. "Is Sir Hugo Drax in the
club?"

"Yes, sir," it was the friendly voice of Brevett. "He's in the
dining-room. Do you wish to speak to him?"

"No, it's all right," said Bond. "I just wanted to make certain he
hadn't left yet."

Without noticing what he was eating Bond wolfed down some food and left
the restaurant at 8.45. His car was outside waiting for him and he said
good-night to the driver from Headquarters and drove to St James's
Street. He parked under cover of the central row of taxis outside
Boodle's and settled himself behind an evening paper over which he could
keep his eyes on a section of Drax's Mercedes which he was relieved to
see standing in Park Street, unattended.

He had not long to wait. Suddenly a broad shaft of yellow light shone
out from the doorway of Blades and the big figure of Drax appeared. He
wore a heavy ulster up round his ears and a cap pulled down over his
eyes. He walked quickly to the white Mercedes, slammed the door, and was
away across to the left-hand side of St James's Street and braking to
turn opposite St James's Palace while Bond was still in third.

God, the man moves quickly, thought Bond, doing a racing change round
the island in the Mall with Drax already passing the statue in front of
the Palace. He kept the Bentley in third and thundered in pursuit.
Buckingham Palace Gate. So it looked like Ebury Street. Keeping the
white car just in view, Bond made hurried plans. The lights at the
corner of Lower Grosvenor Place were green for Drax and red for Bond.
Bond jumped them and was just in time to see Drax swing left into the
beginning of Ebury Street. Gambling on Drax making a stop at his house,
Bond accelerated to the corner and pulled up just short of it. As he
jumped out of the Bentley, leaving the engine ticking over, and took the
few steps towards Ebury Street, he heard two short blasts on the
Mercedes' horn and as he carefully edged round the corner he was in time
to see Krebs helping the muffled figure of a girl across the pavement.
Then the door of the Mercedes slammed and Drax was off again.

Bond raced back to his car, whipped into third, and went after him.

Thank God the Mercedes was white. There it went, its stop-lights blazing
briefly at the intersections, the headlamps full on and the horn blaring
at any hint of a check in the sparse traffic.

Bond set his teeth and rode his car as if she was a Lipizaner at the
Spanish Riding School in Vienna. He could not use headlights or horn for
fear of betraying his presence to the car in front. He just had to play
on his brakes and gears and hope for the best.

The deep note of his two-inch exhaust thundered back at him from the
houses on either side and his tyres screamed on the tarmac. He thanked
heavens for the new set of racing Michelins that were only a week old.
If only the lights would be kind. He seemed to be getting nothing but
amber and red while Drax was always being swept on by the green. Chelsea
Bridge. So it did look like the Dover road by the South Circular! Could
he hope to keep up with the Mercedes on A20? Drax had two passengers.
His car might not be tuned. But with that independent springing he could
corner better than Bond. The old Bentley was a bit high off the ground
for this sort of work. Bond stamped on his brakes and risked a howl on
his triple klaxons as a homeward-bound taxi started to weave over to the
right. It jerked back to the left and Bond heard a four-letter yell as
he shot past.

Clapham Common and the flicker of the white car through the trees. Bond
ran the Bentley up to eighty along the safe bit of road and saw the
lights go red just in time to stop Drax at the end of it. He put the
Bentley into neutral and coasted up silently. Fifty yards away. Forty,
thirty, twenty. The lights changed and Drax was over the crossing and
away again, but not before Bond had seen that Krebs was beside the
driver and there was no sign of Gala except the hump of a rug over the
narrow back seat.

So there was no question. You don't take a sick girl for a drive like a
sack of potatoes. Not at that speed for the matter of that. So she was a
prisoner. Why? What had she done? What had she discovered? What the
hell, in fact, was all this about?

Each dark conjecture came and for a moment settled like a vulture on
Bond's shoulder and croaked into his ear that he had been a blind fool.
Blind, blind, blind. From the moment he had sat in his office after the
night at Blades and made his mind up about Drax being a dangerous man he
should have been on his toes. At the first smell of trouble, the marks
on the chart for instance, he should have taken action. But what action?
He had passed on each clue, each fear. What could he have done except
kill Drax? And get hanged for his pains? Well, then. What about the
present? Should he stop and telephone the Yard? And let the car get
away? For all he knew Gala was being taken for a ride and Drax planned
to get rid of her on the way to Dover. And that Bond might conceivably
prevent if only his car could take it.

As if to echo his thoughts the tortured rubber screamed as he left the
South Circular road into A20 and took the roundabout at forty. No. He
had told M. that he would stay with it. He had told Vallance the same.
The case had been dumped firmly into his lap and he must do what he
could. At least if he kept up with the Mercedes he might shoot up its
tyres and apologize afterwards. To let it get away would be criminal.

So be it, said Bond to himself.

He had to slow for some lights and he used the pause to pull a pair of
goggles out of the dashboard compartment and cover his eyes with them.
Then he leant over to the left and twisted the big screw on the
windscreen and then eased the one beside his right hand. He pressed the
narrow screen flat down on the bonnet and tightened the screws again.

Then he accelerated away from Swanley Junction and was soon doing ninety
astride the cat's eyes down the Farningham by-pass, the wind howling
past his ears and the shrill scream of his supercharger riding with him
for company.

A mile ahead the great eyes of the Mercedes hooded themselves as they
went over the crest of Wrotham Hill and disappeared down into the
moonlit panorama of the Weald of Kent.




                               CHAPTER XX
                             DRAX'S GAMBIT


There were three separate sources of pain in Gala's body. The throbbing
ache behind her left ear, the bite of the flex at her wrists, and the
chafing of the strap round her ankles.

Every bump in the road, every swerve, every sudden pressure of Drax's
foot on the brakes or the accelerator awoke one or another of these
pains and rasped at her nerves. If only she had been wedged into the
back seat more tightly. But there was just room enough for her body to
roll a few inches on the occasional seat so that she was constantly
having to twist her bruised face away from contact with the walls of
shiny pig-skin.

The air she breathed was stuffy with a smell of new leather upholstery,
exhaust fumes, and the occasional sharp stench of burning rubber as Drax
flayed the tyres on a sharp corner.

And yet the discomfort and pain were nothing.

Krebs! Curiously enough her fear and loathing of Krebs tormented her
most. The other things were too big. The mystery of Drax and his hatred
of England. The riddle of his perfect command of German. The Moonraker.
The secret of the atomic warhead. How to save London. These were matters
which she had long ago put away in the back of her mind as insoluble.

But the afternoon alone with Krebs was present and dreadful and her mind
went back and back to the details of it like a tongue to an aching
tooth.

Long after Drax had gone she had kept up her pretence of
unconsciousness. At first Krebs had occupied himself with the machines,
talking to them in German in a cooing baby-talk. "There, my _Liebchen_.
That's better now, isn't it? A drop of oil for you, my _Pupperl_? But
certainly. Coming up at once. No, no, lazybones. I said a thousand
revolutions. Not nine hundred. Come along now. We can do better than
that, can't we. Yes, my _Schatz_. That's it. Round and round we go. Up
and down. Round and round. Let me wipe your pretty face for you so that
we can see what the little dial is saying. _Jesu Maria, bist du ein
braves Kind!_"

And so it had gone on with intervals of standing in front of Gala,
picking his nose and sucking his teeth in a horribly ruminative way.
Until he stayed longer and longer in front of her, forgetting the
machines, wondering, making up his mind.

And then she had felt his hand undo the top button of her dress and the
automatic recoil of her body had had to be covered by a realistic groan
and a pantomime of consciousness returning.

She had asked for water and he had gone into a bathroom and fetched some
for her in a toothglass. Then he had pulled a kitchen chair up in front
of her and had sat down astride it, his chin resting on the top rail of
its back, and had gazed at her speculatively from under his pale
drooping lids.

She had been the first to break the silence. "Why have I been brought
here?" she asked. "What are all those machines?"

He licked his lips and the little pouting red mouth opened under the
smudge of yellow moustache and formed itself slowly into a
rhomboid-shaped smile. "That is a lure for little birds," he said. "Soon
it will lure a little bird into this warm nest. Then the little bird
will lay an egg. Oh, such a big round egg! Such a beautiful fat egg."
The lower half of his face giggled with delight while his eyes mooned.
"And the pretty girl is here because otherwise she might frighten the
little bird away. And that would be so sad, wouldn't it," he spat out
the next three words, "filthy English bitch?"

His eyes became intent and purposeful. He hitched his chair nearer so
that his face was only a foot away from hers and she was enveloped in
the miasma of his breath. "Now, English bitch. Who are you working for?"
He waited. "You must answer me, you know," he said softly. "We are all
alone here. There is no one to hear you scream."

"Don't be stupid," said Gala desperately. "How could I be working for
anyone except Sir Hugo?" (Krebs smiled at the name.) "I was just curious
about the flight plan..." she went into a rambling explanation about
her figures and Drax's figures and how she had wanted to share in the
success of the Moonraker.

"Try again," whispered Krebs when she had finished. "You must do better
than that," and suddenly his eyes had turned hot with cruelty and his
hands had reached towards her from behind the back of his chair...

In the rear of the hurtling Mercedes Gala ground her teeth together and
whimpered at the memory of the soft crawling fingers on her body,
probing, pinching, pulling, while all the time the hot vacant eyes gazed
curiously into hers until finally she gathered the saliva in her mouth
and spat full in his face.

He hadn't even paused to wipe his face, but suddenly he had really hurt
her and she had screamed once and then mercifully fainted.

And then she had found herself being pushed into the back of the car, a
rug was thrown over her, and they were hurtling through the streets of
London and she could hear other cars near them, the frantic ringing of a
bicycle bell, an occasional shout, the animal growl of an old klaxon,
the whirring putter of a motor-scooter, a scream of brakes, and she had
realized that she was back in the real world, that English people,
friends, were all around her. She had struggled to get to her knees and
scream, but Krebs must have felt her movement because his hands were
suddenly at her ankles, strapping them to the foot-rail along the floor,
and she knew that she was lost and suddenly the tears were pouring down
her cheeks and she was praying that somehow, somebody would be in time.

That had been less than an hour ago and now she could tell from the slow
pace of the car and the noise of other traffic that they had reached a
large town--Maidstone if she was being taken back to the site.

In the comparative silence of their progress through the town she
suddenly heard Krebs's voice. There was a note of urgency in it.

"_Mein Kapitn_," he said. "I have been watching a car for some time. It
is certainly following us. It has seldom been using its lights. It is
only a hundred metres behind us now. I think it is the car of Commander
Bond."

Drax grunted with surprise and she could hear his big body shift round
to get a quick look.

He swore sharply and then there was silence and she could feel the big
car weaving and straining in the thin traffic. "_Ja, sowas!_" said Drax
finally. His voice was thoughtful. "So that old museum-piece of his can
still move. So much the better, my dear Krebs. He seems to be alone." He
laughed harshly. "So we will give him a run for his money and if he
survives it we will get him in the bag with the woman. Turn on the
radio. Home Service. We will soon find out if there is a hitch."

There was a short crackle of static and then Gala could hear the voice
of the Prime Minister, the voice of all the great occasions in her life,
coming through in broken fragments as Drax put the car into third and
accelerated out of the town, '...weapon devised by the ingenuity of
man... a thousand miles into the firmament... area patrolled by
Her Majesty's ships... designed exclusively for the defence of our
beloved island... a long era of peace... development for Man's
great journey away from the confines of this planet... Sir Hugo Drax,
that great patriot and benefactor of our country...'

Gala heard Drax's roar of laughter above the howling of the wind, a
great scornful bray of triumph, and then the set was switched off.

"James," whispered Gala to herself. "There's only you left. Be careful.
But make haste."

Bond's face was a mask of dust and filthy with the blood of flies and
moths that had smashed against it. Often he had had to take a cramped
hand off the wheel to clear his goggles but the Bentley was going
beautifully and he felt sure of holding the Mercedes.

He was touching ninety-five on the straight just before the entrance to
Leeds Castle when great lights were suddenly switched on behind him and
a four-tone windhorn sounded its impudent 'pom-pim-pom-pam' almost in
his ear.

The apparition of a third car in the race was almost unbelievable. Bond
had hardly troubled to look in his driving-mirror since he left London.
No one but a racing-driver or a desperate man could have kept up with
them, and his mind was in a turmoil as he automatically pulled over to
the left and saw out of the corner of his eye a low, fire-engine-red car
come up level with him and draw away with a good ten miles an hour extra
on its clock.

He caught a glimpse of the famous Alfa radiator and along the edge of
the bonnet in bold white script the words _Attaboy II_. Then there was
the grinning face of a youth in shirt-sleeves who stuck two rude fingers
in the air before he pulled away in the welter of sound which an Alfa at
speed compounds from the whine of its supercharger, the Gatling crackle
of its exhaust, and the thunderous howl of its transmission.

Bond grinned in admiration as he raised a hand to the driver. Alfa-Romeo
supercharged straight-eight, he thought to himself. Must be nearly as
old as mine. 'Thirty-two or '33 probably. And only half my c.c. Targa
Florio in 1931 and did well everywhere after that. Probably a hot-rod
type from one of the RAF stations round here. Trying to get back from a
party in time to sign in before he's put on the report. He watched
affectionately as the Alfa wagged its tail in the S-bend abreast of
Leeds Castle and then howled off on the long wide road towards the
distant Charing-fork.

Bond could imagine the grin of delight as the boy came up with Drax.
'Oh, boy. It's a Merc!' And the rage of Drax at the impudent music of
the windhorn. Must be doing 105, reflected Bond. Hope the damn fool
doesn't run out of road. He watched the two sets of tail lights closing
up, the boy in the Alfa preparing for his trick of coming up behind and
suddenly switching everything on when he could see a chance to get by.

There. Four hundred yards away the Mercedes showed white in the sudden
twin shafts from the Alfa. There was a mile of clear road ahead,
straight as a die. Bond could almost feel the boy's feet stamping the
pedal still further into the floorboards. Attaboy!

Up front in the Mercedes Krebs had his mouth close to Drax's ear.
"Another of them," he shouted urgently. "Can't see his face. Coming up
to pass now."

Drax let out a harsh obscenity. His bared teeth showed white in the pale
glimmer from the dashboard. "Teach the swine a lesson," he said, setting
his shoulders and gripping the wheel tightly in the great leather
gauntlets. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the nose of the Alfa
creep up to starboard. 'Pom-pim-pom-pam' chirped the windhorn, softly,
delicately, Drax inched the wheel of the Mercedes to the right and, at
the horrible crash of metal, whipped it back again to correct the slew
of his tail.

"Bravo! Bravo!" screamed Krebs, beside himself with excitement as he
knelt on the seat and looked back. "Double somersault. Jumped the hedge
upside down. I think he's burning already. Yes. There are flames."

"That'll give our fine Mister Bond something to think about," snarled
Drax, breathing heavily.

But Bond, his face a tight mask, had hardly checked his speed and there
was nothing but revenge in his mind as he hurtled on after the flying
Mercedes.

He had seen it all. The grotesque flight of the red car as it turned
over and over, the flying figure of the driver, his arms and legs
spreadeagled as he soared out of the driving seat, and the final thunder
as the car hurdled the hedge upside down and crashed into the field.

As he flashed by, noting the horrible graffiti of the black skid-marks
across the tarmac, his mind recorded one final macabre touch. Somehow
undamaged in the holocaust, the windhorn was still making contact and
its ululations were going on up to the sky, stridently clearing
imaginary roads for the passage of _Attaboy II_--'Pom-pim-pom-pam.'
'Pom-pim-pom-pam...'

So a murder had taken place in front of his eyes. Or at any rate an
attempted murder. So, whatever his motives, Sir Hugo Drax had declared
war and didn't mind Bond knowing it. This made a lot of things easier.
It meant that Drax was a criminal and probably a maniac. Above all it
meant certain danger for the Moonraker. That was enough for Bond. He
reached under the dashboard and from its concealed holster drew out the
long-barrelled 45 Colt Army Special and laid it on the seat beside him.
The battle was now in the open and somehow the Mercedes must be stopped.

Using the road as if it was Donington, Bond rammed his foot down and
kept it there. Gradually, with the needle twitching either side of the
hundred mark he began to narrow the gap.

Drax took the left-hand fork at Charing and hissed up the long hill.
Ahead, in the giant beam of his headlights, one of Bowaters' huge
eight-wheeled AEC Diesel carriers was just grinding into the first bend
of the hairpin, labouring under the fourteen tons of newsprint it was
taking on a night run to one of the East Kent newspapers.

Drax cursed under his breath as he saw the long carrier with the twenty
gigantic rolls, each containing five miles of newsprint, roped to its
platform. Right in the middle of the tricky S-bend at the top of the
hill.

He looked in the driving mirror and saw the Bentley coming into the
fork.

And then Drax had his idea.

"Krebs," the word was a pistol shot. "Get out your knife."

There was a sharp click and the stiletto was in Krebs's hand. One didn't
dawdle when there was that note in the master's voice.

"I am going to slow down behind this lorry. Take your shoes and socks
off and climb out on to the bonnet and when I come up behind the lorry
jump on to it. I shall be going at walking-pace. It will be safe. Cut
the ropes that hold the rolls of paper. The left ones first. Then the
right. I shall have pulled up level with the lorry and when you have cut
the second lot jump into the car. Be careful you are not swept off with
the paper. _Verstanden? Also. Hals und Beinbruch!_"

Drax dowsed his headlights and swept round the bend at eighty. The lorry
was twenty yards ahead and Drax had to brake hard to avoid crashing into
its tail. The Mercedes executed a dry skid until its radiator was almost
underneath the platform of the carrier.

Drax changed down to second. "Now!" He held the car steady as a rock as
Krebs, with bare feet, went over the windscreen and scrambled along the
shining bonnet, his knife in his hand.

With a leap he was up and hacking at the left-hand ropes. Drax pulled
away to the right and crawled up level with the rear wheels of the
Diesel, the oily smoke from its exhaust in his eyes and nostrils.

Bond's lights were just showing round the bend.

There was a series of huge thuds as the left-hand rolls poured off the
back of the lorry into the road and went hurtling off into the darkness.
And more thuds as the right-hand ropes parted. One roll burst as it
landed and Drax heard a tearing rattle as the unwinding paper crashed
back down the one-in-ten gradient.

Released of its load the lorry almost bounded forward and Drax had to
accelerate a little to catch the flying figure of Krebs who landed half
across Gala's back and half in the front seat. Drax stamped his foot
into the floor and sped off up the hill, ignoring a shout from the
lorry-driver above the clatter of the Diesel pistons as he shot ahead.

As he hurtled round the next bend he saw the shaft of two headlights
curve up into the sky above the tops of the trees until they were almost
vertical. They wavered there for an instant and then the beams whirled
away across the sky and went out.

A great barking laugh broke out of Drax as for a split second he took
his eyes off the road and raised his face triumphantly towards the
stars.




                              CHAPTER XXI
                            'THE PERSUADER'


Krebs echoed the maniac laugh with a high giggle. "A master-stroke,
_mein Kapitn_. You should have seen them charge off down the hill. The
one that burst. _Wunderschn!_ Like the lavatory paper of a giant. That
one will have made a pretty parcel of him. He was just coming round the
bend. And the second salvo was as good as the first. Did you see the
driver's face? _Zum Kotzen!_ And the _Firma_ Bowater! A fine paperchase
they have got on their hands."

"You did well," said Drax briefly, his mind elsewhere.

Suddenly he pulled into the side of the road with a scream of protest
from the tyres.

"_Donnerwetter_," he said angrily, as he started to turn the car. "But
we can't leave the man there. We must get him." The car was already
hissing back down the road. "Gun," ordered Drax briefly.

They passed the lorry at the top of the hill. It was stopped and there
was no sign of the driver. Probably telephoning to the company, thought
Drax, slowing up as they went round the first bend. There were lights on
in the two or three houses and a group of people were standing round one
of the rolls of newsprint that lay amongst the ruins of their front
gate. There were more rolls in the hedge on the right side of the road.
On the left a telegraph pole leant drunkenly, snapped in the middle.
Then at the next bend was the beginning of a great confusion of paper
stretching away down the long hill, festooning the hedges and the road
like the sweepings of some elephantine fancy-dress ball.

The Bentley had nearly broken through the railings that fenced off the
right of the bend from a steep bank. Amidst a puzzle of twisted iron
stanchions it hung, nose down, with one wheel, still attached to the
broken back axle, poised crookedly over its rump like a surrealist
umbrella.

Drax pulled up and he and Krebs got out and stood quietly, listening.

There was no sound except the distant rumination of a car travelling
fast on the Ashford road and the chirrup of a sleepless cricket.

With their guns out they walked cautiously over to the remains of the
Bentley, their feet crunching the broken glass on the road. Deep furrows
had been cut across the grass verge and there was a strong smell of
petrol and burnt rubber in the air. The hot metal of the car ticked and
crackled softly and steam was still fountaining from the shattered
radiator.

Bond was lying face downwards at the bottom of the bank twenty feet away
from the car. Krebs turned him over. His face was covered with blood but
he was breathing. They searched him thoroughly and Drax pocketed the
slim Beretta. Then together they hauled him across the road and wedged
him into the back seat of the Mercedes, half on top of Gala.

When she realized who it was she gave a cry of horror.

"_Halt's Maul_," snarled Drax. He got into the front seat and while he
turned the car Krebs leant over from the front seat and busied himself
with a long piece of flex. "Make a good job of it," said Drax. "I don't
want any mistakes." He had an afterthought. "And then go back to the
wreck and get the number plates. Hurry. I will watch the road."

Krebs pulled the rug over the two inert bodies and jumped out of the
car. Using his knife as a screwdriver he was soon back with the plates,
and the big car started to move just as a group of the local residents
appeared walking nervously down the hill shining their torches over the
scene of devastation.

Krebbs grinned happily to himself at the thought of the stupid English
having to clean up all this mess. He settled himself back to enjoy the
part of the drive he had always liked best, the spring woods full of
bluebells and celandines on the way to Chilham.

They had made him particularly happy at night. Lit up amongst the green
torches of the young trees by the great headlamps of the Mercedes, they
made him think of the beautiful forests of the Ardennes and of the
devoted little band with which he had served, and of driving along in a
captured American jeep with, just like tonight, his adored leader at the
wheel. _Der Tag_ had been a long time coming, but now it was here. With
young Krebs in the van. At last the cheering crowds, the medals, the
women, the flowers. He gazed out at the fleeting hosts of bluebells and
felt warm and happy.

Gala could taste Bond's blood. His face was beside hers on the leather
seat and she shifted to give him more room. His breathing was heavy and
irregular and she wondered how badly he was hurt. Tentatively she
whispered into his ear. And then louder. He groaned and his breath came
faster.

"James," she whispered urgently. "James."

He mumbled something and she pushed hard against him.

He uttered a string of obscenities and his body heaved.

He lay still again and she could almost feel him exploring his
sensations.

"It's me, Gala." She felt him stiffen.

"Christ," he said. "Hell of a mess."

"Are you all right? Is anything broken?"

She felt him tense his arms and legs. "Seems all right," he said. "Crack
on the head. Am I talking sense?"

"Of course," said Gala. "Now listen."

Hurriedly she told him all she knew, beginning with the notebook.

His body was as rigid as a board against her, and he hardly breathed as
he listened to the incredible story.

Then they were running into Canterbury and Bond put his mouth to her
ear. "Going to try and chuck myself over the back," he whispered. "Get
to a telephone. Only hope."

He started to heave himself up on his knees, his weight almost grinding
the breath out of the girl.

There was a sharp crack and he fell back on top of her.

"Another move out of you and you're dead," said the voice of Krebs
coming softly between the front seats.

Only another twenty minutes to the site! Gala gritted her teeth and set
about bringing Bond back to consciousness again.

She had only just succeeded when the car drew up at the door of the
launching-dome and Krebs, a gun in his hand, was undoing the bonds round
their ankles.

They had a glimpse of the familiar moonlit cement and of the semi-circle
of guards some distance away before they were hustled through the door
and, when their shoes had been torn off by Krebs, out on to the iron
catwalk inside the launching-dome.

There the gleaming rocket stood, beautiful, innocent, like a new toy for
Cyclops.

But there was a horrible smell of chemicals in the air and to Bond the
Moonraker was a giant hypodermic needle ready to be plunged into the
heart of England. Despite a growl from Krebs he paused on the stairway
and looked up at its glittering nose. A million deaths. A million. A
million. A million.

On his hands? For God's sake! On _his_ hands?

With Krebs's gun prodding him, he went slowly down the steps on the
heels of Gala.

As he turned through the doors of Drax's office, he pulled himself
together. Suddenly his mind was clear and all the lethargy and pain had
left his body. Something, anything, must be done. Somehow he would find
a way. His whole body and mind became focused and sharp as a blade. His
eyes were alive again and defeat sloughed off him like the skin of a
snake.

Drax had gone ahead and was sitting at his desk. He had a Luger in his
hand. It was pointing at a spot halfway between Bond and Gala and it was
steady as a rock.

Behind him, Bond heard the double doors thud shut.

"I was one of the best shots in the Brandenburg Division," said Drax
conversationally. "Tie her to that chair, Krebs. Then the man."

Gala looked desperately at Bond.

"You won't shoot," said Bond. "You'd be afraid of touching off the
fuel." He walked slowly towards the desk.

Drax smiled cheerfully and looked along the barrel at Bond's stomach.
"Your memory is bad, Englishman," he said flatly. "I told you this room
is cut off from the shaft by the double doors. Another step and you will
have no stomach."

Bond looked at the confident, narrowed eyes and stopped.

"Go ahead, Krebs."

When they were both tied securely and painfully to the arms and legs of
two tubular steel chairs a few feet apart beneath the glass wall-map,
Krebs left the room. He came back in a moment with a mechanic's
blowtorch.

He set the ugly machine on the desk, pumped air into it with a few brisk
strokes of the plunger, and set a match to it. A blue flame hissed out a
couple of inches into the room. He picked up the instrument and walked
towards Gala. He stopped a few feet to one side of her.

"Now then," said Drax grimly. "Let's get this over without any fuss. The
good Krebs is an artist with one of those things. We used to call him
_Der Zwangsman_--The Persuader. I shall never forget the way he went
over the last spy we caught together. Just south of the Rhine, wasn't
it, Krebs?"

Bond pricked up his ears.

"Yes, _mein Kapitn_." Krebs chuckled reminiscently. "It was a pig of a
Belgian."

"All right then," said Drax. "Just remember, you two. There's no fair
play down here. No jolly good sports and all that. This is business."
The voice cracked like a whip on the word. "You," he looked at Gala
Brand, "who are you working for?"

Gala was silent.

"Anywhere you like, Krebs."

Krebs's mouth was half open. His tongue ran up and down his lower lip.
He seemed to be having difficulty with his breathing as he took a step
towards the girl.

The little flame roared greedily.

"Stop," said Bond coldly. "She works for Scotland Yard. So do I." These
things were pointless now. They were of no conceivable use to Drax. In
any case, by tomorrow afternoon there might be no Scotland Yard.

"That's better," said Drax. "Now, does anybody know you are prisoners?
Did you stop and telephone anyone?"

If I say yes, thought Bond, he will shoot us both and get rid of the
bodies and the last chance of stopping the Moonraker will be gone. And
if the Yard knows, why aren't they here already? No. Our chance may
come. The Bentley will be found. Vallance may get worried when he
doesn't hear from me.

"No," he said. "If I had, they'd be here by now."

"True," said Drax reflectively. "In that case I am no longer interested
in you and I congratulate you on making the interview so harmonious. It
might have been more difficult if you had been alone. A girl is always
useful on these occasions. Krebs, put that down. You may go. Tell the
others what is necessary. They will be wondering. I shall entertain our
guests for a while and then I shall come up to the house. See the car
gets properly washed down. The back seat. And get rid of the marks on
the right-hand side. Tell them to take the whole panel off if necessary.
Or they can set fire to the dam' thing. We shan't be needing it any
more," he laughed abruptly. "_Verstanden?_"

"Yes, _mein Kapitn_." Krebs reluctantly placed the softly roaring
blowtorch on the desk beside Drax. "In case you need it," he said,
looking hopefully at Gala and Bond. He went out through the double
doors.

Drax put the Luger down on the desk in front of him. He opened a drawer
and took out a cigar and lit it from a Ronson desk lighter. Then he
settled himself comfortably. There was silence in the room for several
minutes while Drax puffed contentedly at his cigar. Then he seemed to
make up his mind. He looked benevolently at Bond.

"You don't know how I have longed for an English audience," he said as
if he was addressing a Press conference. "You don't know how I have
longed to tell my story. As a matter of fact, a full account of my
operations is now in the hands of a very respectable firm of Edinburgh
solicitors. I beg their pardon--Writers to the Signet. Well out of
danger." He beamed from one to the other. "And these good folk have
instructions to open the envelope on the completion of the first
successful flight of the Moonraker. But you lucky people shall have a
preview of what I have written and then, when tomorrow at noon you see
through those open doors," he gestured to his right, "the first wisp of
steam from the turbines and know that you are to be burnt alive in about
half a second, you will have the momentary satisfaction of knowing what
it is all in aid of, as," he grinned wolfishly, "we Englishmen say."

"You can spare us the jokes," said Bond roughly. "Get on with your
story, Kraut."

Drax's eyes blazed momentarily. "A Kraut. Yes, I am indeed a
_Reischsdeutscher_"--the mouth beneath the red moustache savoured the
fine word--"and even England will soon agree that they have been licked
by just one single German. And then perhaps they'll stop calling us
Krauts--BY ORDER!" The words were yelled out and the whole of Prussian
militarism was in the parade-ground bellow.

Drax glowered across the desk at Bond, the great splayed teeth under the
red moustache tearing nervously at one fingernail after another. Then,
with an effort, he crammed his right hand into his trouser pocket, as if
to put it out of temptation, and picked up his cigar with his left. He
puffed at it for a moment and then, his voice still taut, he began.




                              CHAPTER XXII
                             PANDORA'S BOX


"My real name," said Drax, addressing himself to Bond, "is Graf Hugo von
der Drache. My mother was English and because of her I was educated in
England until I was twelve. Then I could stand this filthy country no
longer and I completed my education in Berlin and Leipzig."

Bond could imagine that the hulking bully with the ogre's teeth had not
been very welcome at an English private school. And being a foreign
count with a mouthful of names would not have helped much.

"When I was twenty," Drax's eyes glowed reminiscently, "I went to work
in the family business. It was a subsidiary of the great steel combine
_Rheinmetal Brsig_. Never heard of it, I suppose. Well, if you'd been
hit by an 88 mm. shell during the war it would probably have been one of
theirs. Our subsidiary were experts in special steels and I learned all
about them and a lot about the aircraft industry. Our most exacting
customers. That's when I first heard about Columbite. Worth diamonds in
those days. Then I joined the party and almost immediately we were at
war. A wonderful time. I was twenty-eight and a lieutenant in the 140th
Panzer Regiment. And we ran through the British Army in France like a
knife through butter. Intoxicating."

For a moment Drax puffed luxuriously at his cigar and Bond guessed that
he was seeing the burning villages of Belgium in the smoke.

"Those were great days, my dear Bond." Drax reached out a long arm and
tapped the ash of his cigar off on to the floor. "But then I was picked
out for the Brandenburg Division and I had to leave the girls and the
champagne and go back to Germany and start training for the big
water-jump to England. My English was needed in the Division. We were
all going to be in English uniforms. It would have been fun, but the
damned generals said it couldn't be done and I was transferred to the
Foreign Intelligence Service of the SS. The RSHA it was called, and SS
_Obergruppenfhrer_ Kaltenbrunner had just taken over the command after
Heydrich was assassinated in '42. He was a good man and I was under the
direct orders of a still better one, _Obersturmbannfhrer_," he rolled
out the delicious title with relish, "Otto Skorzeny. His job in the RSHA
was terrorism and sabotage. A pleasant interlude, my dear Bond, during
which I was able to bring many an Englishman to book which," Drax beamed
coldly at Bond, "gave me much pleasure. But then," Drax's fist crashed
down on the desk, "Hitler was betrayed again by those swinish generals
and the English and Americans were allowed to land in France."

"Too bad," said Bond drily.

"Yes, my dear Bond, it was indeed too bad." Drax chose to ignore the
irony. "But for me it was the high-spot of the whole war. Skorzeny
turned all his saboteurs and terrorists into _SS Jagdverbnde_ for use
behind the enemy lines. Each _Jagdverband_ was divided into
_Streifkorps_ and then into _Kommandos_, each carrying the names of its
commanding officer. With the rank of _Oberleutnant_," Drax swelled
visibly, "at the head of _Kommando_ 'Drache' I went right through the
American lines with the famous 150 Panzer Brigade in the Ardennes
break-through in December '44. No doubt you will remember the effect of
this Brigade in its American uniforms and with its captured American
tanks and vehicles. _Kolossal!_ When the Brigade had to withdraw I
stayed where I was and went to ground in the Forests of Ardennes, fifty
miles behind the Allied lines. There were twenty of us, ten good men and
ten Hitlerjugend Werewolves. In their teens, but good lads all of them.
And, by a coincidence, in charge of them was a young man called Krebs
who turned out to have certain gifts which qualified him for the post of
executioner and 'persuader' to our merry little band." Drax chuckled
pleasantly.

Bond licked his lips as he remembered the crack Krebs's head had made
against the dressing-table. Had he kicked him as hard as he possibly
could? Yes, his memory reassured him, with every ounce of strength he
could put into his shoe.

"We stayed in those woods for six months," continued Drax proudly, "and
all the time we reported back to the Fatherland by radio. The location
vans never spotted us. Then one day disaster came." Drax shook his head
at the memory. "There was a big farmhouse a mile away from our hideout
in the forest. A lot of Nissen huts had been built round it and it was
used as a rear headquarters for some sort of liaison group. English and
Americans. A hopeless place. No discipline, no security, and full of
hangers-on and shirkers from all over the place. We had kept an eye on
it for some time and one day I decided to blow it up. It was a simple
plan. In the evening, two of my men, one in American uniform and one in
British, were to drive up in a captured scout car containing two tons of
explosive. There was a car park--no sentries of course--near the mess
hall and they were to run the car in as close to the mess hall as
possible, time the fuse for the seven o'clock dinner hour, and then get
away. All quite easy and I went off that morning on my own business and
left the job to my second in command. I was dressed in the uniform of
your Signal Corps and I set off on a captured British motor-cycle to
shoot a dispatch rider from the same unit who made a daily run along a
near-by road. Sure enough he came along dead on time and I went after
him out of a side road. I caught up with him," said Drax
conversationally, "and shot him in the back, took his papers and put him
on top of his machine in the woods and set fire to him."

Drax saw the fury in Bond's eyes and held up his hand. "Not very
sporting? My dear chap, the man was already dead. However, to continue.
I went on my way and then what should happen? One of our own planes
coming back from a reconnaissance came after me down the road with his
cannon. One of our own planes! Blasted me right off the road. God knows
how long I lay in the ditch. Some time in the afternoon I came to for a
bit and had the sense to hide my cap and jacket and the dispatches. In
the hedge. They're probably still there. I must go and collect them one
day. Interesting souvenirs. Then I set fire to the remains of the
motor-cycle and I must have fainted again because the next thing I knew
I had been picked up by a British vehicle and we were driving into that
damned liaison headquarters! Believe it or not! And there was the scout
car, right up alongside the mess hall! It was too much for me. I was
full of shell splinters and my leg was broken. Well, I fainted and when
I came round there was half the hospital on top of me and I only had
half a face." He put up his hand and stroked the shiny skin on his left
temple and cheek. "After that it was just a question of acting a part.
They had no idea who I was. The car that had picked me up had gone or
been blown to pieces. I was just an Englishman in an English shirt and
trousers who was nearly dead."

Drax paused and took out another cigar and lit it. There was silence in
the room save for the soft diminished roar of the blowtorch. Its
threatening voice was quieter. Pressure running out, reflected Bond.

He turned his head and looked at Gala. For the first time he saw the
ugly bruise behind her left ear. He gave her a smile of encouragement
and she smiled wryly back.

Drax spoke through the cigar smoke: "There is not much more to tell," he
said. "During the year that I was being pushed from one hospital to the
next I made my plans down to the smallest detail. They consisted quite
simply of revenge on England for what she had done to me and to my
country. It gradually became an obsession, I admit it. Every day during
the year of the rape and destruction of my country, my hatred and scorn
for the English grew more bitter." The veins on Drax's face started to
swell and suddenly he pounded on the desk and shouted across at them,
looking with bulging eyes from one to the other. "I loathe and despise
you all. You swine! Useless, idle, decadent fools, hiding behind your
bloody white cliffs while other people fight your battles. Too weak to
defend your colonies, toadying to America with your hats in your hands.
Stinking snobs who'll do anything for money. Hah!" he was triumphant. "I
knew that all I needed was money and the faade of a gentleman.
Gentleman! _Pfui Teufel!_ To me a gentleman is just someone I can take
advantage of. Those bloody fools in Blades for instance. Moneyed oafs.
For months I took thousands of pounds off them, swindled them right
under their noses until you came along and upset the apple-cart."

Drax's eyes narrowed. "What put you on to the cigarette case?" he asked
sharply.

Bond shrugged his shoulders. "My eyes," he said indifferently.

"Ah well," said Drax, "perhaps I was a bit careless that night. But
where was I? Ah yes, in hospital. And the good doctors were so anxious
to help me find out who I really was." He let out a roar of laughter.
"It was easy. So easy." His eyes became cunning. "From the identities
they offered me so helpfully I came upon the name of Hugo Drax. What a
coincidence! From Drache to Drax! Tentatively I thought it _might_ be
me. They were very proud. Yes, they said, _of course_ it is you. The
doctors triumphantly forced me into his shoes. I put them on and walked
out of the hospital in them and I walked round London looking for
someone to kill and rob. And one day, in a little office high above
Piccadilly, a Jewish moneylender." (Now Drax was talking faster. The
words poured excitedly from his lips. Bond watched a fleck of foam
gather at one corner of his mouth and grow.) "Ha. It was easy. Crack on
his bald skull. 15,000 in the safe. And then away and out of the
country, Tangier--where you could do anything, buy anything, fix
anything. Columbite. Rarer than platinum and everyone would want it. The
Jet Age. I knew about these things. I had not forgotten my own
profession. And then by God I worked. For five years I lived for money.
And I was brave as a lion. I took terrible risks. And suddenly the first
million was there. Then the second. Then the fifth. Then the twentieth.
I came back to England. I spent a million of it and London was in my
pocket. And then I went back to Germany. I found Krebs. I found fifty of
them. Loyal Germans. Brilliant technicians. All living under false names
like so many others of my old comrades. I gave them their orders and
they waited, peacefully, innocently. And where was I?" Drax stared
across at Bond, his eyes wide. "I was in Moscow. Moscow! A man with
Columbite to sell can go anywhere. I got to the right people. They
listened to my plans. They gave me Walter, the new genius of their
guided missile station at Peenemunde, and the good Russians started to
build the atomic warhead," he gestured up to the ceiling, "that is now
waiting up there. Then I came back to London." A pause. "The Coronation.
My letter to the Palace. Triumph. Hooray for Drax," he burst into a roar
of laughter. "England at my feet. Every bloody fool in the country! And
then my men come over and we start. Under the very skirts of Britannia.
On top of her famous cliffs. We work like devils. We built a jetty into
your English Channel. For supplies! For supplies from my good friends
the Russians that came in dead on time last Monday night. But then
Tallon had to hear something. The old fool. He talks to the Ministry.
But Krebs is listening. There were fifty volunteers to kill the man.
Lots are drawn and Bartsch dies a hero's death." Drax paused. "He will
not be forgotten." Then he went on. "The new warhead is hoisted into
place. It fits. A perfect piece of design. The same weight. Everything
perfect, and the old one, the tin can full of the Ministry's cherished
instruments, is now in Stettin--behind the Iron Curtain. And the
faithful submarine is on her way back here and will soon," he looked at
his watch, "be creeping under the waters of the English Channel to take
us all off at one minute past midday tomorrow."

Drax wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lay back in his chair
gazing up at the ceiling, his eyes full of visions. Suddenly he chuckled
and squinted quizzically down his nose at Bond.

"And do you know what we shall do first when we go on board? We shall
shave off those famous moustaches you were so interested in. You smelt a
mouse, my dear Bond, where you ought to have smelt a rat. Those shaven
heads and those moustaches we all cultivated so assiduously. Just a
precaution, my dear fellow. Try shaving your own head and growing a big
black moustache. Even your mother wouldn't recognize you. It's the
combination that counts. Just a tiny refinement. Precision, my dear
fellow. Precision in every detail. That has been my watchword." He
chuckled fatly and puffed away at his cigar.

Suddenly he looked sharply, suspiciously up at Bond. "Well. Say
something. Don't sit there like a dummy. What do you think of my story?
Don't you think it's extraordinary, remarkable? For one man to have done
all that? Come on, come on." A hand came up to his mouth and he started
tearing furiously at his nails. Then it was plunged back into his pocket
and his eyes became cruel and cold. "Or do you want me to have to send
for Krebs," he made a gesture towards the house telephone on his desk.
"The Persuader. Poor Krebs. He's like a child who's had his toys taken
away from him. Or perhaps Walter. He would give you both something to
remember. There's no softness in that one. Well?"

"Yes," said Bond. He looked levelly at the great red face across the
desk. "It's a remarkable case-history. Galloping paranoia. Delusions of
jealousy and persecution. Megalomaniac hatred and desire for revenge.
Curiously enough," he went on conversationally, "it may have something
to do with your teeth. Diastema, they call it. Comes from sucking your
thumb when you're a child. Yes. I expect that's what the psychologists
will say when they get you into the lunatic asylum. 'Ogre's teeth.'
Being bullied at school and so on. Extraordinary the effect it has on a
child. Then Nazism helped to fan the flames and then came the crack on
your ugly head. The crack you engineered yourself. I expect that settled
it. From then on you were really mad. Same sort of thing as people who
think they're God. Extraordinary what tenacity they have. Absolute
fanatics. You're almost a genius. Lombroso would have been delighted
with you. As it is you're just a mad dog that'll have to be shot. Or
else you'll commit suicide. Paranoiacs generally do. Too bad. Sad
business."

Bond paused and put all the scorn he could summon into his voice. "And
now let's get on with this farce, you great hairy-faced lunatic."

It worked. With every word Drax's face had become more contorted with
rage, his eyes were red with it, the sweat of fury was dripping off his
jowls on to his shirt, the lips were drawn back from the gaping teeth
and a string of saliva had crept out of his mouth and was hanging down
from his chin. Now, at the last private-school insult that must have
awoken God knows what stinging memories, he leapt up from his chair and
lunged round the desk at Bond, his hairy fists flailing.

Bond gritted his teeth and took it.

When Drax had twice had to pick the chair up with Bond in it, the
tornado of rage suddenly passed. He took out his silk handkerchief and
wiped his face and hands. Then he walked quietly to the door and spoke
across the lolling head of Bond to the girl.

"I don't think you two will give me any more trouble," he said, and his
voice was quite calm and certain. "Krebs never makes a mistake with his
knots." He gesticulated towards the bloody figure in the other chair.
"When he wakes up," he said, "you can tell him that these doors will
open once more, just before noon tomorrow. A few minutes later there
will be nothing left of either of you. Not even," he added as he
wrenched open the inner door, "the stoppings in your teeth."

The outer door slammed.

Bond slowly raised his head and grinned painfully at the girl with his
bloodstained lips.

"Had to get him mad," he said with difficulty. "Didn't want to give him
time to think. Had to work up a brainstorm." Gala looked at him
uncomprehendingly, her eyes wide at the terrible mask of his face.

"'S'all right," said Bond thickly. "Don't worry. London's okay. Got a
plan."

Over on the desk the blowtorch gave a quiet 'plop' and went out.




                             CHAPTER XXIII
                               ZERO MINUS


Through half-closed eyes Bond looked intently at the torch while for a
few precious seconds he sat and let life creep back into his body. His
head felt as if it had been used as a football, but there was nothing
broken. Drax had hit him unscientifically and with the welter of blows
of a drunken man.

Gala watched him anxiously. The eyes in the bloody face were almost
shut, but the line of the jaw was taut with concentration and she could
feel the effort of will he was making.

He gave his head a shake and when he turned towards her she could see
that his eyes were feverish with triumph.

He nodded towards the desk. "The lighter," he said urgently. "I had to
try and make him forget it. Follow me. I'll show you." He started to
rock the light steel chair inch by inch towards the desk. "For God's
sake don't tip over or we've had it. But make it fast or the blowlamp'll
get cold."

Uncomprehendingly, and feeling almost as if they were playing some
ghastly children's game, Gala carefully rocked her way across the floor
in his wake.

Seconds later Bond told her to stop beside the desk while he went
rocking on round to Drax's chair. Then he manoeuvred himself into
position opposite his target and with a sudden lurch heaved himself and
the chair forward so that his head came down.

There was a painful crack as the Ronson desk lighter connected with his
teeth, but his lips held it and the top of it was in his mouth as he
heaved the chair back with just enough force to prevent it spilling
over. Then he started his patient journey back to where Gala was sitting
at the corner of the desk on which Krebs had left the blowlamp.

He rested until his breath was steady again. "Now we come to the
difficult part," he said grimly. "While I try to get this torch going,
you get your chair round so that your right arm is as close in front of
me as possible."

Obediently she edged herself round while Bond swayed his chair so that
it leant against the edge of the desk and allowed his mouth to reach
forward and grip the handle of the blowtorch between his teeth.

Then he eased the torch towards him and after minutes of patient work he
had the torch and the lighter arranged to his liking at the edge of the
desk.

After another rest he bent down, closed the valve of the torch with his
teeth, and proceeded to get pressure back by slowly and repeatedly
pulling up the plunger with his lips and pressing it back with his chin.
His face could feel the warmth in the pre-heater and he could smell the
remnants of gas in it. If only it hadn't cooled off too much.

He straightened up.

"Last lap, Gala," he said, smiling crookedly at her. "I may have to hurt
you a bit. All right?"

"Of course," said Gala.

"Then here goes," said Bond, and he bent forward and released the safety
valve on the left of the canister.

Then he quickly bent forward over the Ronson, which was standing at
right angles and just below the neck of the torch, and with his two
front teeth pressed down sharply on the ignition lever.

It was a horrible manoeuvre and though he whipped back his head with the
speed of a snake he let out a gasp of pain as the jet of blue fire from
the torch seared across his bruised cheek and the bridge of his nose.

But the vaporized paraffin was hissing out its vital tongue of flame and
he shook the water out of his streaming eyes and bent his head almost at
right angles and again got his teeth to the handle of the blowtorch.

He thought his jaw would break with the weight of the thing and the
nerves of his front teeth screamed at him, but he swayed his chair
carefully upright away from the desk and then strained his bent neck
forward until the tip of blue fire from the torch was biting into the
flex that bound Gala's right wrist to the arm of her chair.

He tried desperately to keep the flame steady but the breath rasped
through the girl's teeth as the handle shifted between his jaws and the
flame of the torch brushed her forearm.

But then it was over. Melted by the fierce heat, the copper strands
parted one by one and suddenly Gala's right arm was free and she was
reaching to take the torch out of Bond's mouth.

Bond's head fell back on to his shoulders and he twisted his neck
luxuriously to get the blood moving in the aching muscles.

Almost before he knew it, Gala was bending over his arms and legs and he
too was free.

As he sat still for a moment, his eyes closed, waiting for the life to
come back into his body, he suddenly, delightedly felt Gala's soft lips
on his mouth.

He opened his eyes. She was standing in front of him, her eyes shining.
"That's for what you did," she said seriously.

"You're a wonderful girl," he said simply.

But then, knowing what he was going to have to do, knowing that while
she might conceivably survive, he had only another few minutes to live,
he closed his eyes so that she should not see the hopelessness in them.

Gala saw the expression on his face and she turned away. She thought it
was only exhaustion and the culminative effect of what his body had
suffered, and she suddenly remembered the peroxide in the washroom next
to her office.

She went through the communicating door. How extraordinary it was to see
her familiar things again. It must be someone else who had sat at that
desk and typed letters and powdered her nose. She shrugged her shoulders
and went into the little washroom. God what a sight and God how tired
she felt! But first she took a wet towel and some peroxide and went back
and spent ten minutes attending to the battlefield which was Bond's
face.

He sat silent, a hand resting on her waist, and watched her gratefully.
Then when she had gone back into her room and he heard her shut the door
of the washroom behind her he got up, turned off the still hissing
blowtorch, and walked into Drax's shower, stripped and stood for five
minutes under the icy water. 'Preparing the corpse!' he reflected
ruefully as he surveyed his battered face in the mirror.

He put on his clothes and went back to Drax's desk which he searched
methodically. It yielded only one prize, the 'office bottle', a
half-full bottle of Haig and Haig. He fetched two glasses and some water
and called to Gala.

He heard the door of the washroom open. "What is it?"

"Whisky."

"You drink. I'll be ready in a minute."

Bond looked at the bottle and poured himself three-quarters of a
toothglass and drank it straight down in two gulps. Then he gingerly lit
a blessed cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk and felt the liquor
burn down through his stomach into his legs.

He picked up the bottle again and looked at it. Plenty for Gala and a
whole full glass for himself before he walked out through the door.
Better than nothing. It wouldn't be too bad with that inside him so long
as he walked quickly out and shut the doors behind him. No looking back.

Gala came in, a transformed Gala, looking as beautiful as the night he
had first seen her, except for the lines of exhaustion under the eyes
that the powder could not quite conceal and the angry welts at her
wrists and ankles.

Bond gave her a drink and took another one himself and their eyes smiled
at each other over the rims of their glasses.

Then Bond stood up.

"Listen, Gala," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "We've got to face it
and get it over so I'll make it short and then we'll have another
drink." He heard her catch her breath, but he went on. "In ten minutes
or so I'm going to shut you into Drax's bathroom and put you under the
shower and turn it full on."

"James," she cried. She stepped close to him. "Don't go on. I know
you're going to say something dreadful. Please stop, James."

"Come on, Gala," said Bond roughly. "What the hell does it matter. It's
a bloody miracle we've got the chance." He moved away from her. He
walked to the doors leading out into the shaft.

"And then," he said, and he held up the precious lighter in his right
hand, "I shall walk out of here and shut the doors and go and light a
last cigarette under the tail of the Moonraker."

"God," she whispered. "What are you saying? You're mad." She looked at
him through eyes wide with horror.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Bond impatiently. "What the hell is there
else to do? The explosion will be so terrific that one won't feel
anything. And it's bound to work with all that fuel vapour hanging
around. It's me or a million people in London. The warhead won't go off.
Atom bombs don't explode like that. It'll be melted probably. There's
just a chance you may get away. Most of the explosion will take the line
of least resistance through the roof--and down the exhaust pit, if I can
work the machinery that opens up the floor." He smiled. "Cheer up," he
said, walking over to her and taking one of her hands. "The boy stood on
the burning deck. I've wanted to copy him since I was five."

Gala pulled her hand away. "I don't care what you say," she said
angrily. "We've got to think of something else. You don't trust me to
have any ideas. You just tell me what you think we've got to do." She
walked over to the wall map and pressed down the switch. "Of course if
we have to use the lighter we have to." She gazed at the map of the
false flight plan, barely seeing it. "But the idea of you walking in
there alone and standing in the middle of all those ghastly fumes from
the fuel and calmly flicking that thing and then being blown to dust
... And anyway, if we have to do it, we'll do it together. I'd rather
that than be burnt to death in here. And anyway," she paused, "I'd like
to go with you. We're in this together."

Bond's eyes were tender as he walked towards her and put an arm round
her waist and hugged her to him. "Gala, you're a darling," he said
simply. "And if there's any other way we'll take it. But," he looked at
his watch, "it's past midnight and we've to decide quickly. At any
moment it may occur to Drax to send guards down to see that we're all
right, and God knows what time he'll be coming down to set the gyros."

Gala twisted her body round like a cat. She gazed at him with her mouth
open, her face taut with excitement. "The gyros," she whispered, "to set
the gyros." She leant weakly back again the wall, her eyes searching
Bond's face. "Don't you _see_?" her voice was on the edge of hysteria.
"After he's gone, we could alter the gyros back, back to the old flight
plan, then the rocket will simply fall into the North Sea where it's
supposed to go."

She stepped away from the wall and seized his shirt in both hands and
looked imploringly at him. "Can't we?" she said. "Can't we?"

"Do you know the other settings?" asked Bond sharply.

"Of course I do," she said urgently. "I've been living with them for a
year. We won't have a weather report but we'll just have to chance that.
The forecast this morning said we would have the same conditions as
today."

"By God," said Bond. "We might do it. If only we can hide somewhere and
make Drax think we've escaped. What about the exhaust pit? If I can work
the machine to open the floor."

"It's a straight hundred-foot drop," said Gala, shaking her head. "And
the walls are polished steel. Just like glass. And there's no rope or
anything down here. They cleared everything out of the workshop
yesterday. And anyway there are guards on the beach."

Bond reflected. Then his eyes brightened. "I've got an idea," he said.
"But first of all what about the radar, the homing device in London?
Won't that pull the rocket off its course and back on to London?"

Gala shook her head. "It's only got a range of about a hundred miles,"
she said. "The rocket won't even pick up its signal. If it's aimed into
the North Sea it will get into the orbit of the transmitter on the raft.
There's absolutely nothing wrong with my plans. But where can we hide?"

"One of the ventilator shafts," said Bond. "Come on."

He gave a last look round the room. The lighter was in his pocket. That
would still be the last resort. There was nothing else they would want.
He followed Gala out into the gleaming shaft and made for the instrument
panel which controlled the steel cover to the exhaust pit.

After a quick examination he threw over a heavy lever from '_Zu_' to
'_Auf_'. There was a soft hiss from the hydraulic machinery behind the
wall and the two semi-circles of steel opened beneath the tail of the
rocket and slid back into their grooves. He walked over and looked down.

The arcs in the roof above glinted back at him from the polished walls
of the wide steel funnel until they curved away out of sight towards the
distant hollow boom of the sea.

Bond went back into Drax's office and pulled down the shower curtain in
the bathroom. Then Gala and he tore it into strips and tied them
together. He made a jagged rent at the end of the last strip so as to
give an impression that the escape rope had broken. Then he tied the
other end firmly round the pointed tip of one of the Moonraker's three
fins and dropped the rest so that it hung down the shaft.

It was not much of a false scent, but it might gain some time.

The big round mouths of the ventilator shafts were spaced about ten
yards apart and about four feet off the floor. Bond counted. There were
fifty of them. He carefully opened the hinged grating that covered one
of them and looked up. Forty feet away there was a faint glimmer from
the moonlight outside. He decided that they were tunnelled straight up
inside the wall of the site until they turned at right angles towards
the gratings in the outside walls.

Bond reached up and ran his hand along the surface. It was unfinished
roughcast concrete and he grunted with satisfaction as he felt first one
sharp protuberance and then another. They were the jagged ends of the
steel rods reinforcing the walls, cut off where the shafts had been
bored.

It was going to be a painful business, but there was no doubt they could
inch their way up one of these shafts, like mountaineers up a rock
chimney, and, in the turn at the top, lie hidden from anything but the
sort of painstaking search that would be difficult in the morning with
all the officials from London round the site.

Bond knelt down and the girl climbed on to his back and started up.

An hour later, their feet and shoulders bruised and cut, they lay
exhausted, squeezed tight in each other's arms, their heads inches away
from the circular grating directly above the outside door, and listened
to the guards restlessly shifting their feet in the darkness a hundred
yards away.

Five o'clock, six, seven.

Slowly the sun came up behind the dome and the seagulls started to call
in the cliffs and then suddenly there were the three figures walking
towards them in the distance, passed by a fresh platoon of guards
doubling, chins up, knees up, to relieve the night watch.

The figures came nearer and the squinting, exhausted eyes of the hidden
couple could see every detail of Drax's blood-orange face, the lean,
pale foxiness of Dr Walter, the suety, overslept puffiness of Krebs.

The three men walked like executioners, saying nothing. Drax took out
his key and they silently filed through the door a few feet below the
taut bodies of Bond and Gala.

Then for ten minutes there was silence except for the occasional boom of
voices up the ventilator shaft as the three men moved about down on the
steel floor round the exhaust pit. Bond smiled to himself at the thought
of the rage and consternation on Drax's face; the miserable Krebs
wilting under the lash of Drax's tongue; the bitter accusation in
Walter's eyes. Then the door burst open beneath him and Krebs was
calling urgently to the leader of the guards. A man detached himself
from the semi-circle and ran up.

"_Die Englnder_," Kreb's voice was almost hysterical. "Escaped. The
_Herr Kapitn_ thinks they may be in one of the ventilator shafts. We
are going to take a chance. The dome will be opened again and we will
clear out the fumes from the fuel. And then the _Herr Doktor_ will put
the steam hose up each shaft. If they're there it will finish them.
Choose four men. The rubber gloves and firesuits are down there. We'll
take the pressure off the heating. Tell the others to listen for the
screams. _Verstanden?_"

"_Zu Befehl!_" The man doubled smartly back to his troop and Krebs, the
sweat of anxiety on his face, turned and disappeared back through the
door.

For a moment Bond lay motionless.

There was a heavy rumble above their heads as the dome divided and swung
open.

The steam hose!

He had heard of mutinies in ships being fought with it. Rioters in
factories. Would it reach forty feet? Would the pressure last? How many
boilers fed the heating? Among the fifty ventilator shafts, where would
they choose to begin? Had Bond or Gala left any clue to the one they had
climbed?

He felt that Gala was waiting for him to explain. To do something. To
protect them.

Five men came doubling from the semi-circle of guards. They passed
underneath and disappeared.

Bond put his mouth to Gala's ear. "This may hurt," he said. "Can't say
how much. Can't be helped. Just have to take it. No noise." He felt the
answering tentative pressure from her arms. "Bring your knees up. Don't
be shy. This is no time to be maidenly."

"Shut up," whispered Gala angrily. He felt one knee creep up until it
was locked between his thighs. His own knee followed suit until it would
go no further. She squirmed furiously. "Don't be a bloody fool,"
whispered Bond, pulling her head in close to his chest so that it was
half covered by his open shirt.

He overlay her as much as possible. There was nothing to be done about
their ankles or his hands. He pulled his shirt collar up as far over
their heads as possible. They held tightly to each other.

Hot, cramped, breathless. Waiting, it suddenly occurred to Bond, like
two lovers in the undergrowth. Waiting for the footsteps to go by so
that they could start again. He smiled grimly to himself and listened.

There was silence down the shaft. They must be in the engine room.
Walter would be watching the hose being coupled to the outlet valve. Now
there were distant noises. Where would they start?

Somewhere, not far away, there was a soft, long-drawn-out whisper, like
the inefficient whistle of a distant train.

He drew his shirt collar back and stole a look out through the grating
at the guards. Those he could see were looking straight at the
launching-dome, somewhere to his left.

Again the long harsh whisper. And again.

It was getting louder. He could see the heads of the guards pivoting
towards the grating in the wall which hid him and Gala. They must be
watching, fascinated, as the thick white jets of steam shot out through
the gratings high up in the cement wall, wondering if this one, or that
one, or that one, would be accompanied by a double scream.

He could feel Gala's heart beating against his. She didn't know what was
coming. She trusted him.

"It may hurt," he whispered to her again. "It may burn. It won't kill
us. Be brave. Don't make a sound."

"I'm all right," she whispered angrily. But he could feel her body press
closer in to his.

Whoosh. It was getting closer.

Whoosh! Two away.

WHOOSH!! Next door. A suspicion of the wet smell of steam came to him.

Hold tight, Bond said to himself. He smothered her in towards him and
held his breath.

Now. Quick. Get it over, damn you.

And suddenly there was a great pressure and heat and a roaring in the
ears and a moment of blazing pain.

Then dead silence, a mixture of sharp cold and fire on the ankles and
hands, a feeling of soaking wet and a desperate, choking effort to get
pure air into the lungs.

Their bodies automatically fought to withdraw from each other, to
capture some inches of space and air for the areas of skin that were
already blistering. The breath rattled in their throats and the water
poured off the cement into their open mouths until they bent sideways
and choked the water out to join the trickle that was oozing under their
soaking bodies and along past their scalded ankles and then down the
vertical walls of the shaft up which they had come.

And the howl of the steam pipe drew away from them until it became a
whisper and finally stopped, and there was silence in their narrow
cement prison except for their stubborn breathing and the ticking of
Bond's watch.

And the two bodies lay and waited, nursing their pain.

Half an hour--half a year--later, Walter and Krebs and Drax filed out
below them.

But, as a precaution, the guards had been left behind in the launching
dome.




                              CHAPTER XXIV
                                  ZERO


"Then we're all agreed?"

"Yes, Sir Hugo," it was the Minister of Supply speaking. Bond recognized
the dapper, assured figure. "Those are the settings. My people have
checked them independently with the Air Ministry this morning."

"Then if you'll allow me the privilage," Drax held up the slip of paper
and made to turn towards the launching-dome.

"Hold it, Sir Hugo. Just like that, please. Arm in the air." The bulbs
flashed and the bank of cameras whirred and clicked for the last time
and Drax turned and walked the few yards towards the dome, almost, it
seemed to Bond, looking him straight in the eye through the grating
above the door of the site.

The small crowd of reporters and cameramen dissolved and straggled off
across the concrete apron, leaving only a nervously chatting group of
officials to wait for Drax to emerge.

Bond looked at his watch. 11.45. Hurry up, damn you, he thought.

For the hundredth time he repeated to himself the figures Gala had
taught him during the hours of cramped pain that had followed their
ordeal by steam, and for the hundredth time he shifted his limbs to keep
the circulation going.

"Get ready," he whispered into Gala's ear. "Are you all right?"

He could feel the girl smile. "Fine." She shut her mind to the thought
of her blistered legs and the quick rasping descent back down the
ventilator shaft.

The door clanged shut beneath them followed by the click of the lock
and, preceded by the five guards, the figure of Drax appeared below
striding masterfully towards the group of officials, the slip of lying
figures in his hand.

Bond looked at his watch. 11.47. "Now," he whispered.

"Good luck," she whispered back.

Slither, scrape, rip. His shoulders carefully expanding and contracting;
blistered, bloodstained feet scrabbling for the sharp knobs of iron,
Bond, his lacerated body tearing its way down the forty feet of shaft,
prayed that the girl would have strength to stand it when she followed.

A last ten-foot drop that jarred his spine, a kick at the grating and he
was out on the steel floor and running for the stairs, leaving a trail
of red footprints and a spray of blood-drops from his raw shoulders.

The arcs had been extinguished, but the daylight streamed down through
the open roof and the blue from the sky mingling with the fierce glitter
of the sunshine gave Bond the impression that he was running up inside a
huge sapphire.

The great deadly needle in the centre might have been made of glass.
Looking above him as he sweated and panted up the endless sweep of the
iron stairway, it was difficult for him to see where its tapering nose
ended and the sky began.

Behind the crouching silence that enveloped the shimmering bullet, Bond
could hear a quick, deadly ticking, the hasty tripping of tiny metal
feet somewhere in the body of the Moonraker. It filled the great steel
chamber like the beating heart in Poe's story and Bond knew that
directly Drax at the firing point pressed the switch that sent the radio
beam zinging over two hundred yards to the waiting rocket, the ticking
would suddenly cease, there would be the soft whine of the lighted
pinwheel, a wisp of steam from the turbines, and then the howling jet of
flame on which the rocket would slowly rise and sweep majestically out
on the start of its gigantic acceleration curve.

And then in front of him there was the spidery arm of the gantry folded
back against the wall and Bond's hand was at the lever and the arm was
slowly stretching down and out towards the square hairline on the
glittering skin of the rocket that was the door of the gyro chamber.

Bond, on hands and knees, was along it even before the rubber pads came
to rest against the polished chrome. There was the flush disc the size
of a shilling, just as Gala had described. Press, click, and the tiny
door had flicked open on its hard spring. Inside. Careful not to cut
your head. The gleaming handles beneath the staring compass-roses. Turn.
Twist. Steady. That's for the roll. Now the pitch and yaw. Turn. Twist.
Ever so gently. And steady. A last look. A glance at his watch. Four
minutes to go. Don't panic. Back out. Door click. A cat-like scurry.
Don't look down. Gantry up. Clang against the wall. And now for the
stairs.

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

As Bond shot down he caught a glimpse of Gala's tense, white face as she
stood holding open the outer door of Drax's office. God, how his body
hurt! A final leap and a clumsy swerve to the right. Clang as Gala
slammed the outer door. Another clang and they were across the room and
into the shower and the water was hissing down on their clinging,
panting bodies.

Through the noise of it all, above the beating of his heart, Bond heard
the sudden crackle of static and then the voice of the BBC announcer
coming from the big set in Drax's room a few inches away through the
thin wall of the bathroom. It had been Gala again who had remembered
Drax's wireless and who had found time to throw the switches while Bond
was working on the gyros.

"...be five minutes' delay," said the breezy, excited voice. "Sir
Hugo has been persuaded to say a few words into the microphone." Bond
turned off the shower and the voice came to them more clearly. "He looks
very confident. Just saying something into the Minister's ear. They're
both laughing. Wonder what it was? Ah, here's my colleague with the
latest weather report from the Air Ministry. What's that? Perfect at all
altitudes. Good show. It certainly is a wonderful day down below here.
Haha. Those crowds in the distance by the coastguard station will be
getting quite a sunburn. There must be thousands. What's that you say?
Twenty thousand? Well, it certainly looks like it. And Walmer Beach is
black with them too. The whole of Kent seems to be out. Terrible crick
in the neck we're all going to get, I'm afraid. Worse than Wimbledon.
Haha. Hullo, what's going on down there by the jetty? By jove, there's a
submarine just surfaced alongside. I say, what a sight. One of our
biggest I should say. And Sir Hugo's team is down there too. Lined up on
the jetty as if they were on parade. Magnificent body of men. Now
they're filing on board. Perfect discipline. Must be an idea of the
Admiralty's. Give them a special grandstand out in the Channel. Splendid
show. Wish you could be here to see it. Now Sir Hugo is coming towards
us. In a moment he'll be speaking to you. Fine figure of a man. Everyone
in the firing point is giving him a cheer. I'm sure we all feel like
cheering him today. He's coming into the firing point. I can see the sun
glinting on the nose of the Moonraker way over there behind him. Just
showing out of the top of the launching dome. Hope somebody's got a
camera. Now here he is," a pause. "Sir Hugo Drax."

Bond looked into Gala's dripping face. Soaked and bleeding they stood in
each other's arms, speechless and trembling slightly with the storm of
their emotions. Their eyes were blank and fathomless as they met and
held each other's gaze.

"Your majesty, men and women of England," the voice was a velvet snarl.
"I am about to change the course of England's history." A pause. "In a
few minutes' time the lives of all of you will be altered, in some
cases, ahem, drastically, by the, er, impact of the Moonraker. I am very
proud and pleased that fate has singled me out, from amongst all my
fellow countrymen, to fire this great arrow of vengeance into the skies
and thus to proclaim for all time, and for all the world to witness, the
might of my fatherland. I hope that this occasion will be forever a
warning that the fate of my country's enemies will be written in dust,
in ashes, in tears, and," a pause, "in blood. And now thank you all for
listening and I sincerely hope that those of you who are able will
repeat my words to your children, if you have any, tonight."

A rattle of rather hesitant applause sounded out of the machine and then
came the breezy voice of the announcer. "And that was Sir Hugo Drax
saying a few words to you before he walks across the floor of the firing
point to the switch on the wall which will fire the Moonraker. The first
time he has spoken in public. Very, ahem, forthright. Doesn't mince his
words. However, a lot of us will say there's no harm in that. And now
it's time for me to hand over to the expert, Group Captain Tandy of the
Ministry of Supply, who will describe to you the actual firing of the
Moonraker. After that you will hear Peter Trimble in one of the naval
security patrol, HMS _Merganzer_, describe the scene in the target area.
Group Captain Tandy."

Bond glanced at his watch. "Only a minute more," he said to Gala. "God,
I'd like to get my hands on Drax. Here," he reached for the cake of soap
and gouged some pieces off it. "Stuff this in your ears when the time
comes. The noise is going to be terrific, I don't know about the heat.
It won't last long and the steel walls may stand up to it."

Gala looked at him. She smiled. "If you hold me it won't be too bad,"
she said.

"...and now Sir Hugo has his hand on the switch and he's watching the
chronometer."

"TEN," broke in another voice, heavy and sonorous as the toll of a bell.

Bond turned on the shower and the water hissed down on their clinging
bodies.

"NINE," tolled the voice of the time-keeper.

"...the radar operators are watching the screens. Nothing but a mass
of wavy lines...."

"EIGHT."

"...all wearing ear-plugs. Blockhouse should be indestructable.
Concrete walls are twelve feet thick. Pyramid roof, twenty-seven feet
thick at the point..."

"SEVEN."

"...first the radio beam will stop the time mechanism alongside the
turbines. Set the pinwheel going. Flaming thing like a Catherine
wheel...."

"SIX."

"...valves will open. Liquid fuel. Secret formula. Terrific stuff.
Dynamite. Pours down from the fuel tanks..."

"FIVE."

"...ignited by the pinwheel when the fuel gets to the rocket
motor...."

"FOUR."

"...meanwhile the peroxide and permanganate have mixed, made steam
and the turbine pumps begin to turn..."

"THREE."

"...pumping the flaming fuel through the motor out of the stern of
the rocket into the exhaust pit. Gigantic heat...3500
degrees...."

"TWO."

"...Sir Hugo is about to press the switch. He's staring out through
the slit. Perspiration on his forehead. Absolute silence in here.
Terrific tension."

"ONE."

Nothing but the noise of the water, steadily pouring down on the two
clinging bodies.

FIRE!

Bond's heart jumped into his throat at the shout. He felt Gala shudder.
Silence. Nothing but the hissing of the water....

"...Sir Hugo's left the firing point. Walking calmly over to the edge
of the cliff. So confident. He's stepped on to the hoist. He's going
down. Of course. He must be going out to the submarine. Television
screen shows a little steam coming out of the tail of the rocket. A few
more seconds. Yes, he's out on the jetty. He looked back and raised his
arm in the air. Good old Sir Hu..."

A soft thunder came to Bond and Gala. Louder. Louder. The tiled floor
began to tremble under their feet. A hurricane scream. They were being
pulverized by it. The walls were quaking, steaming. Their legs began
going out of control under their teetering bodies. Hold her up. Hold her
up. Stop it! Stop it!! STOP THAT NOISE!!!

Christ, he was going to faint. The water was boiling. Must turn it off.
Got it. No. Pipe's burst. Steam, smell, iron, paint.

Get her out! Get her out!! Get her out!!!

And then there was silence. Silence you could feel, hold, squeeze. And
they were on the floor of Drax's office. Only the light in the bathroom
still shining out. And the smoke's clearing. And the filthy smell of
burning iron and paint. Being sucked out by the air-conditioner. And the
steel wall is bent towards them like a huge blister. Gala's eyes are
open and she's smiling. But the rocket. What happened? London? North
Sea? The radio. Looks all right. He shook his head and the deafness
slowly cleared. He remembered the soap. Gouged it out.

"...through the sound barrier. Travelling perfectly right in the
centre of the radar screen. A perfect launching. Afraid you couldn't
hear anything because of the noise. Terrific. First of all the great
sheet of flame coming out of the cliff from the exhaust pit and then you
should have seen the nose slowly creep up out of the dome. And there she
was like a great silver pencil. Standing upright on this huge column of
flame and slowly climbing into the air and the flame splashing for
hundreds of yards over the concrete. The howl of the thing must have
nearly burst our microphones. Great bits have fallen off the cliff and
the concrete looks like a spider's web. Terrible vibration. And then she
was climbing faster and faster. A hundred miles an hour. A thousand.
And," he broke off, "what's that you say? Really! And now she's
travelling at over ten thousand miles an hour! She's three hundred miles
up. Can't hear her any more, of course. We could only see her flame for
a few seconds. Like a star. Sir Hugo must be a proud man. He's out there
in the Channel now. The submarine went off like a rocket, haha, must be
doing more than thirty knots. Throwing up a huge wake. Off the East
Goodwins now. Travelling north. She'll soon be up with the patrol ships.
They'll have a view of the launching and of the landing. Quite a
surprise trip that. No one here had an inkling. Even the naval
authorities seem a bit mystified. C-in-C Nore has been on the telephone.
But now that's all I can tell you from here and I'll hand you over to
Peter Trimble on board HMS _Merganzer_ somewhere off the East Coast."

Nothing but the pumping lungs showed that the two limp bodies in the
creeping pool of water on the floor were still alive, but their battered
ear-drums were desperately clinging to the crackle of static that came
briefly from the blistered metal cabinet. Now for the verdict on their
work.

"And this is Peter Trimble speaking. It's a beautiful morning, I
mean--er--afternoon here. Just north of the Goodwin Sands. Calm as a
millpond. No wind. Bright sunshine. And the target area is reported
clear of shipping. Is that right, Commander Edwards? Yes, the Captain
says it's quite clear. Nothing on the radar screens yet. I'm not allowed
to tell you the range we shall pick her up at. Security and all that.
But we shall only catch the rocket for a split second. Isn't that right,
Captain? But the target's just showing on the screen. Out of sight from
the bridge, of course. Must be seventy miles north of here. We could see
the Moonraker going up. Terrific sight. Noise like thunder. Long flame
coming out of the tail. Must have been ten miles away but you couldn't
miss the light. Yes, Captain? Oh yes, I see. Well, that's very
interesting. Big submarine coming up fast. Only about a mile away.
Suppose it's the one they say Sir Hugo's aboard with his men. None of us
here were told anything about her. Captain Edwards says she doesn't
answer the Aldis lamp. Not flying colours. Very mysterious. I've got her
now. Quite clear in my glasses. We've changed course to intercept her.
Captain says she isn't one of ours. Thinks she must be a foreigner.
Hullo! She's broken out her colours. _What's_ that? Good heavens. The
Captain says she's a Russian. I say! And now she's hauled down her
colours and she's submerging. Bang. Did you hear that? We fired a shot
across her bows. But she's disappeared. What's that? The asdic operator
says she's going even faster under water. Twenty-five knots. Terrific.
Well, she can't see much under water. But she's right in the target area
now. Twelve minutes past noon. The Moonraker must have turned and be on
her way down. A thousand miles up. Coming down at ten thousand miles an
hour. She'll be here any second now. Hope there's not going to be a
tragedy. The Russian's well inside the danger zone. The radar operator's
holding up his hand. That means she's due. She's coming. She's COMING
.... Whew! Not even a whisper. GOD! What's that? Look out! Look out!
Terrific explosion. Black cloud going up into the air. There's a tidal
wave coming at us. Great wall of water tearing down. There goes the
submarine. God! Thrown out of the water upside down. It's coming. It's
COMING..."




                              CHAPTER XXV
                               ZERO PLUS


"...Two hundred dead so far and about the same number missing," said
M. "Reports still coming in from the East Coast and there's bad news
from Holland. Breached miles of their sea defences. Most of our losses
were among the patrol craft. Two of them capsized, including the
_Merganzer_. Commanding Officer missing. And that BBC chap. Goodwin
Lightships broke their moorings. No news from Belgium or France yet.
There are going to be some pretty heavy bills to pay when everything
gets sorted out."

It was the next afternoon and Bond, a rubber-tipped stick beside his
chair, was back where he had started--across the desk from the quiet man
with the cold grey eyes who had invited him to dinner and a game of
cards a hundred years ago.

Under his clothes Bond was latticed with surgical tape. Pain burned up
his legs whenever he moved his feet. There was a vivid red streak across
his left cheek and the bridge of his nose, and the tannic ointment
dressing glinted in the light from the window. He held a cigarette
clumsily in one gloved hand. Incredibly M. had invited him to smoke.

"Any news of the submarine, sir?" he asked.

"They've located her," said M. with satisfaction. "Lying on her side in
about thirty fathoms. The salvage ship that was to look after the
remains of the rocket is over her now. The divers have been down and
there's no answer to signals against her hull. The Soviet Ambassador has
been round at the Foreign Office this morning. I gather he says a
salvage ship is on her way down from the Baltic, but we've said that we
can't wait as the wreck's a danger to navigation." M. chuckled. "So she
would be I dare say if anyone happened to be navigating at thirty
fathoms in the Channel. But I'm glad I'm not a member of the Cabinet,"
he added drily. "They've been in session on and off since the end of the
broadcast. Vallance got hold of those Edinburgh solicitors before they'd
opened Drax's message to the world. I gather it's a terrific document.
Reads as if it had been written by Jehovah. Vallance took it to the
Cabinet last night and stayed at No. 10 to fill in the blanks."

"I know," said Bond. "He kept on telephoning me at the hospital for
details until after midnight. I could hardly think straight for all the
dope they'd pushed into me. What's going to happen?"

"They're going to try the biggest cover-up job in history," said M. "A
lot of scientific twaddle about the fuel having been only half used up.
Unexpectedly powerful explosion on impact. Full compensation will be
paid. Tragic loss of Sir Hugo Drax and his team. Great patriot. Tragic
loss of one of HM submarines. Latest experimental model. Orders
misunderstood. Very sad. Fortunately only a skeleton crew. Next of kin
will be informed. Tragic loss of BBC man. Unaccountable error in
mistaking White Ensign for Soviet naval colours. Very similar design.
White Ensign recovered from the wreck."

"But what about the atomic explosion?" asked Bond. "Radiation and atomic
dust and all that. The famous mushroom-shaped cloud. Surely that's going
to be a bit of a problem."

"Apparently it's not worrying them too much," said M. "The cloud is
going to be passed off as the normal formation after an explosion of
that size. The Ministry of Supply know the whole story. Had to be told.
Their men were down on the East Coast all last night with Geiger
counters and there's not been a positive report yet." M. smiled coldly.
"The cloud's got to come down somewhere, of course, but by a happy
chance such wind as there is is drifting it up north. Back home, as you
might say."

Bond smiled painfully. "I see," he said. "How very appropriate."

"Of course," continued M., picking up his pipe and starting to fill it,
"there are going to be some nasty rumours. They've begun already. A lot
of people saw you and Miss Brand being brought out of the site on
stretchers. Then there's the Bowaters' case against Drax for the loss of
all that newsprint. There'll be the inquest on the young man who was
killed in the Alfa Romeo. And somebody's got to explain away the remains
of your car, amongst which," he looked accusingly at Bond, "a
long-barrel Colt was found. And then there's the Ministry of Supply.
Vallance had to call some of their men yesterday to help clean out that
house in Ebury Street. But those people are trained to keep secrets. You
won't get a leak there. Naturally it's going to be a risky business. The
big lie always is. But what's the alternative? Trouble with Germany? War
with Russia? Lots of people on both sides of the Atlantic would be only
too glad of an excuse."

M. paused and put a match to his pipe. "If the story holds," he
continued reflectively, "we shan't come out of this too badly. We've
wanted one of their high-speed U-boats and we'll be glad of the clues we
can pick up about their atom bombs. The Russians know that we know that
their gamble failed. Malenkov's none too firmly in the saddle and this
may mean another Kremlin revolt. As for the Germans. Well, we all knew
there was plenty of Nazism left and this will make the Cabinet go just a
bit more carefully on German rearmament. And, as a very minor
consequence," he gave a wry smile, "it will make Vallance's security
job, and mine for the matter of that, just a little bit easier in the
future. These politicians can't see that the atomic age has created the
most deadly saboteur in the history of the world--the little man with
the heavy suitcase."

"Will the Press wear the story?" asked Bond dubiously.

M. shrugged his shoulders. "The Prime Minister saw the editors this
morning," he said, putting another match to his pipe, "and I gather he's
got away with it so far. If the rumours get bad later on, he'll probably
have to see them again and tell them some of the truth. Then they'll
play all right. They always do when it's important enough. The main
thing is to gain time and stave off the firebrands. For the moment
everyone's so proud of the Moonraker that they're not inquiring too
closely into what went wrong."

There was a soft burr from the intercom, on M.'s desk and a ruby light
winked on and off. M. picked up the single earphone and leant towards
it. "Yes?" he said. There was a pause. "I'll take it on the Cabinet
line." He picked up the white receiver from the bank of four telephones.

"Yes," said M. "Speaking." There was a pause. "Yes, sir? Over." M.
pressed down the button of his scrambler. He held the receiver close to
his ear and not a sound from it reached Bond. There was a long pause
during which M. puffed occasionally at the pipe in his left hand. He
took it out of his mouth. "I agree, sir." Another pause. "I know my man
would have been very proud, sir. But of course it's a rule here." M.
frowned. "If you will allow me to say so, sir, I think it would be very
unwise." A pause, then M.'s face cleared. "Thank you, sir. And of course
Vallance has not got the same problem. And it would be the least she
deserves." Another pause. "I understand. That will be done." Another
pause. "That's very kind of you, sir."

M. put the white receiver back on its cradle and the scrambler button
clicked back to the _en clair_ position.

For a moment M. continued to look at the telephone as if in doubt about
what had been said. Then he twisted his chair away from the desk and
gazed thoughtfully out of the window.

There was silence in the room and Bond shifted in his chair to ease the
pain that was creeping back into his body.

The same pigeon as on Monday, or perhaps another one, came to rest on
the window-sill with the same clatter of wings. It walked up and down,
nodding and cooing, and then planed off towards the trees in the park.
The traffic murmured sleepily in the distance.

How nearly it had come, thought Bond, to being stilled. How nearly there
might be nothing now but the distant clang of the ambulance bells
beneath a lurid black and orange sky, the stench of burning, the screams
of people still trapped in the buildings. The softly beating heart of
London silenced for a generation. And a whole generation of her people
dead in the streets amongst the ruins of a civilization that might not
rise again for centuries.

All that would have come about but for a man who scornfully cheated at
cards to feed the fires of his maniac ego; but for the stuffy chairman
of Blades who detected him; but for M. who agreed to help an old friend;
but for Bond's half-remembered lessons from a card-sharper; but for
Vallance's precautions; but for Gala's head for figures; but for a whole
pattern of tiny circumstances, a whole pattern of chance.

Whose pattern?

There was a shrill squeak as M.'s chair swivelled round. Bond carefully
focused again on the grey eyes across the desk.

"That was the Prime Minister," M. said gruffly. "Says he wants you and
Miss Brand out of the country." M. lowered his eyes and looked stolidly
into the bowl of his pipe. "You're both to be out by tomorrow afternoon.
There are too many people in this case who know your faces. Might put
two and two together, when they see the shape you're both in. Go
anywhere you like. Unlimited expenses for both of you. Any currency you
like. I'll tell the Paymaster. Stay away for a month. But keep out of
circulation. You'd both be gone this afternoon only the girl's got an
appointment at eleven tomorrow morning. At the Palace. Immediate award
of the George Cross. Won't be gazetted until the New Year of course.
Like to meet her one day. Must be a good girl. As a matter of fact,"
M.'s expression as he looked up was unreadable, "the Prime Minister had
something in mind for you. Forgotten that we don't go in for those sort
of things here. So he asked me to thank you for him. Said some nice
things about the Service. Very kind of him."

M. gave one of the rare smiles that lit up his face with quick
brightness and warmth. Bond smiled back. They understood the things that
had to be left unsaid.

Bond knew it was time to go. He got up. "Thank you very much, sir," he
said. "And I'm glad about the girl."

"All right then," said M. on a note of dismissal. "Well, that's the lot.
See you in a month. Oh and by the way," he added casually. "Call in at
your office. You'll find something there from me. Little memento."

James Bond went down in the lift and limped along the familiar corridor
to his office. When he walked through the inner door he found his
secretary arranging some papers on the next desk to his.

"008 coming back?" he asked.

"Yes," she smiled happily. "He's being flown out tonight."

"Well, I'm glad you'll have company," said Bond. "I'm going off again."

"Oh," she said. She looked quickly at his face and then away. "You look
as if you needed a bit of a rest."

"I'm going to get one," said Bond. "A month's exile." He thought of
Gala. "It's going to be pure holiday. Anything for me?"

"Your new car's downstairs. I've inspected it. The man said you'd
ordered it on trial this morning. It looks lovely. Oh, and there's a
parcel from M.'s office. Shall I unpack it?"

"Yes, do," said Bond.

He sat down at his desk and looked at his watch. Five o'clock. He was
feeling tired. He knew he was going to feel tired for several days. He
always got these reactions at the end of an ugly assignment, the
aftermath of days of taut nerves, tension, fear.

His secretary came back into the room with two heavy-looking cardboard
boxes. She put them on his desk and he opened the top one. When he saw
the grease-paper he knew what to expect.

There was a card in the box. He took it out and read it. In M.'s green
ink it said: "You may be needing these." There was no signature.

Bond unwrapped the grease-paper and cradled the shining new Beretta in
his hand. A memento. No. A reminder. He shrugged his shoulders and
slipped the gun under his coat into the empty holster. He got clumsily
to his feet.

"There'll be a long-barrel Colt in the other box," he said to his
secretary. "Keep it until I get back. Then I'll take it down to the
range and fire it in."

He walked to the door. "So long, Lil," he said, "regards to 008 and tell
him to be careful of you. I'll be in France. Station F will have the
address. But only in an emergency."

She smiled at him. "How much of an emergency?" she asked.

Bond gave a short laugh. "Any invitation to a quiet game of bridge," he
said.

He limped out and shut the door behind him.

The 1953 Mark VI had an open touring body. It was battleship grey like
the old 4 litre that had gone to its grave in a Maidstone garage, and
the dark blue leather upholstery gave a luxurious hiss as he climbed
awkwardly in beside the test driver.

Half an hour later the driver helped him out at the corner of Birdcage
Walk and Queen Anne's Gate. "We could get more speed out of her if you
want it, sir," he said. "If we could have her back for a fortnight we
could tune her to do well over the hundred."

"Later," said Bond. "She's sold. On one condition. That you get her over
to the ferry terminal at Calais by tomorrow evening."

The test driver grinned. "Roger," he said. "I'll take her over myself.
See you on the pier, sir."

"Fine," said Bond. "Go easy on A20. The Dover road's a dangerous place
these days."

"Don't worry, sir," said the driver, thinking that this man must be a
bit of a cissy for all that he seemed to know plenty about motor-cars.
"Piece of cake."

"Not every day," said Bond with a smile. "See you at Calais."

Without waiting for a reply, he limped off with his stick through the
dusty bars of evening sunlight that filtered down through the trees in
the park.

Bond sat down on one of the seats opposite the island in the lake and
took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. He looked at his watch.
Five minutes to six. He reminded himself that she was the sort of girl
who would be punctual. He had reserved the corner table for dinner. And
then? But first there would be the long luxurious planning. What would
she like? Where would she like to go? Where had she ever been? Germany,
of course. France? Miss out Paris. They could do that on their way back.
Get as far as they could the first night, away from the Pas de Calais.
There was that farmhouse with the wonderful food between Montreuil and
Etaples. Then the fast sweep down to the Loire. The little places near
the river for a few days. Not the chteau towns. Places like Beaugency,
for instance. Then slowly south, always keeping to the western roads,
avoiding the five-star life. Slowly exploring. Bond pulled himself up.
Exploring what? Each other? Was he getting serious about this girl?

"James."

It was a clear, high, rather nervous voice. Not the voice he had
expected.

He looked up. She was standing a few feet away from him. He noticed that
she was wearing a black beret at a rakish angle and that she looked
exciting and mysterious like someone you see driving by abroad, alone in
an open car, someone unattainable and more desirable than anyone you
have ever known. Someone who is on her way to make love to somebody
else. Someone who is not for you.

He got up and they took each other's hands.

It was she who released herself. She didn't sit down.

"I wish you were going to be there tomorrow, James." Her eyes were soft
as she looked at him. Soft, but, he thought, somehow evasive.

He smiled. "Tomorrow morning or tomorrow night?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she laughed, blushing. "I meant at the Palace."

"What are you going to do afterwards?" asked Bond.

She looked at him carefully. What did the look remind him of? The Morphy
look? The look he had given Drax on that last hand at Blades? No. Not
quite. There was something else there. Tenderness? Regret?

She looked over his shoulder.

Bond turned round. A hundred yards away there was the tall figure of a
young man with fair hair trimmed short. His back was towards them and he
was idling along, killing time.

Bond turned back and Gala's eyes met his squarely.

"I'm going to marry that man," she said quietly. "Tomorrow afternoon."
And then, as if no other explanation was needed, "His name's
Detective-Inspector Vivian."

"Oh," said Bond. He smiled stiffly. "I see."

There was a moment of silence during which their eyes slid away from
each other.

And yet why should he have expected anything else? A kiss. The contact
of two frightened bodies clinging together in the midst of danger. There
had been nothing more. And there had been the engagement ring to tell
him. Why had he automatically assumed that it had only been worn to keep
Drax at bay? Why had he imagined that she shared his desires, his plans?

And now what? wondered Bond. He shrugged his shoulders to shift the pain
of failure--the pain of failure that is so much greater than the
pleasure of success. The exit line. He must get out of these two young
lives and take his cold heart elsewhere. There must be no regrets. No
false sentiment. He must play the role which she expected of him. The
tough man of the world. The Secret Agent. The man who was only a
silhouette.

She was looking at him rather nervously, waiting to be relieved of the
stranger who had tried to get his foot in the door of her heart.

Bond smiled warmly at her. "I'm jealous," he said. "I had other plans
for you tomorrow night."

She smiled back at him, grateful that the silence had been broken. "What
were they?" she asked.

"I was going to take you off to a farmhouse in France," he said. "And
after a wonderful dinner I was going to see if it's true what they say
about the scream of a rose."

She laughed. "I'm sorry I can't oblige. But there are plenty of others
waiting to be picked."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Bond. "Well, goodbye, Gala." He held out his
hand.

"Goodbye, James."

He touched her for the last time and then they turned away from each
other and walked off into their different lives.






[End of Moonraker, by Ian Fleming]
