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Title: Dr. No
Author: Fleming, Ian [Ian Lancaster] (1908-1964)
Date of first publication: 1958
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Pan Books, 1964
   [16th printing; first printed in 1960]
Date first posted: 5 August 2017
Date last updated: 5 August 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1457

This ebook was produced by Al Haines, Cindy Beyer,
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_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout,
and have added a table of contents.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






                                 Dr. No

                             by Ian Fleming





CONTENTS

I. Hear You Loud and Clear
II. Choice of Weapons
III. Holiday Task
IV. Reception Committee
V. Facts and Figures
VI. The Finger on the Trigger
VII. Night Passage
VIII. The Elegant Venus
IX. Close Shaves
X. Dragon Spoor
XI. Amidst the Alien Cane
XII. The Thing
XIII. Mink-Lined Prison
XIV. Come Into My Parlour
XV. Pandora's Box
XVI. Horizons of Agony
XVII. The Long Scream
XVIII. Killing Ground
XIX. A Shower of Death
XX. Slave-Time





                                   I
                         HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR


Punctually at six o'clock the sun set with a last yellow flash behind
the Blue Mountains, a wave of violet shadow poured down Richmond Road,
and the crickets and tree frogs in the fine gardens began to zing and
tinkle.

Apart from the background noise of the insects, the wide empty street
was quiet. The wealthy owners of the big, withdrawn houses--the bank
managers, company directors and top civil servants--had been home since
five o'clock and they would be discussing the day with their wives or
taking a shower and changing their clothes. In half an hour the street
would come to life again with the cocktail traffic, but now this very
superior half mile of 'Rich Road', as it was known to the tradesmen of
Kingston, held nothing but the suspense of an empty stage and the heavy
perfume of night-scented jasmine.

Richmond Road is the 'best' road in all Jamaica. It is Jamaica's Park
Avenue, its Kensington Palace Gardens, its Avenue D'Ina. The 'best'
people live in its big old-fashioned houses, each in an acre or two of
beautiful lawn set, too trimly, with the finest trees and flowers from
the Botanical Gardens at Hope. The long, straight road is cool and quiet
and withdrawn from the hot, vulgar sprawl of Kingston where its
residents earn their money, and, on the other side of the T-intersection
at its top, lie the grounds of King's House, where the Governor and
Commander-in-Chief of Jamaica lives with his family. In Jamaica, no road
could have a finer ending.

On the eastern corner of the top intersection stands No. 1 Richmond
Road, a substantial two-storey house with broad white-painted verandas
running round both floors. From the road a gravel path leads up to the
pillared entrance through wide lawns marked out with tennis courts on
which this evening, as on all evenings, the sprinklers are at work. This
mansion is the social Mecca of Kingston. It is Queen's Club, which, for
fifty years, has boasted the power and frequency of its black-balls.

Such stubborn retreats will not long survive in modern Jamaica. One day
Queen's Club will have its windows smashed and perhaps be burned to the
ground, but for the time being it is a useful place to find in a
sub-tropical island--well run, well staffed and with the finest cuisine
and cellar in the Caribbean.

At that time of day, on most evenings of the year, you would find the
same four motor cars standing in the road outside the club. They were
the cars belonging to the high bridge game that assembled punctually at
five and played until around midnight. You could almost set your watch
by these cars. They belonged, reading from the order in which they now
stood against the kerb, to the Brigadier in command of the Caribbean
Defence Force, to Kingston's leading criminal lawyer, and to the
Mathematics Professor from Kingston University. At the tail of the line
stood the black Sunbeam Alpine of Commander John Strangways, RN (Ret.),
Regional Control Officer for the Caribbean--or, less discreetly, the
local representative of the British Secret Service.

****

Just before six-fifteen, the silence of Richmond Road was softly broken.
Three blind beggars came round the corner of the intersection and moved
slowly down the pavement towards the four cars. They were
Chigroes--Chinese Negroes--bulky men, but bowed as they shuffled along,
tapping at the kerb with their white sticks. They walked in file. The
first man, who wore blue glasses and could presumably see better than
the others, walked in front holding a tin cup against the crook of the
stick in his left hand. The right hand of the second man rested on his
shoulder and the right hand of the third on the shoulder of the second.
The eyes of the second and third men were shut. The three men were
dressed in rags and wore dirty jippa-jappa baseball caps with long
peaks. They said nothing and no noise came from them except the soft
tapping of their sticks as they came slowly down the shadowed pavement
towards the group of cars.

The three blind men would not have been incongruous in Kingston, where
there are many diseased people on the streets, but, in this quiet rich
empty street, they made an unpleasant impression. And it was odd that
they should all be Chinese Negroes. This is not a common mixture of
bloods.

In the cardroom, the sunburned hand reached out into the green pool of
the centre table and gathered up the four cards. There was a quiet snap
as the trick went to join the rest. "Hundred honours," said Strangways,
"and ninety below!" He looked at his watch and stood up. "Back in twenty
minutes. Your deal, Bill. Order some drinks. Usual for me. Don't bother
to cook a hand for me while I'm gone. I always spot them."

Bill Templar, the Brigadier, laughed shortly. He pinged the bell by his
side and raked the cards in towards him. He said, "Hurry up, blast you.
You always let the cards go cold just as your partner's in the money."

Strangways was already out of the door. The three men sat back
resignedly in their chairs. The coloured steward came in and they
ordered drinks for themselves and a whisky and water for Strangways.

There was this maddening interruption every evening at six-fifteen,
about halfway through their second rubber. At this time precisely, even
if they were in the middle of a hand, Strangways had to go to his
'office' and 'make a call'. It was a damned nuisance. But Strangways was
a vital part of their four and they put up with it. It was never
explained what 'the call' was, and no one asked. Strangways's job was
'hush' and that was that. He was rarely away for more than twenty
minutes and it was understood that he paid for his absence with a round
of drinks.

The drinks came and the three men began to talk racing.

****

In fact, this was the most important moment in Strangways's day--the
time of his duty radio contact with the powerful transmitter on the roof
of the building in Regent's Park that is the headquarters of the Secret
Service. Every day, at eighteen-thirty local time, unless he gave
warning the day before that he would not be on the air--when he had
business on one of the other islands in his territory, for instance, or
was seriously ill--he would transmit his daily report and receive his
orders. If he failed to come on the air precisely at six-thirty, there
would be a second call, the 'Blue' call, at seven, and, finally, the
'Red' call at seven-thirty. After this, if his transmitter remained
silent, it was 'Emergency', and Section III, his controlling authority
in London, would urgently get on the job of finding out what had
happened to him.

Even a 'Blue' call means a bad mark for an agent unless his 'Reasons in
Writing' are unanswerable. London's radio schedules round the world are
desperately tight and their minute disruption by even one extra call is
a dangerous nuisance. Strangways had never suffered the ignominy of a
'Blue' call, let alone a 'Red', and was as certain as could be that he
never would do so. Every evening, at precisely six-fifteen, he left
Queen's Club, got into his car and drove for ten minutes up into the
foothills of the Blue Mountains to his neat bungalow with the fabulous
view over Kingston harbour. At six twenty-five he walked through the
hall to the office at the back. He unlocked the door and locked it again
behind him. Miss Trueblood, who passed as his secretary, but was in fact
his No 2 and a former Chief Officer WRNS, would already be sitting in
front of the dials inside the dummy filing cabinet. She would have the
earphones on and would be making first contact, tapping out his
call-sign, WXN, on 14 megacycles. There would be a shorthand pad on her
elegant knees. Strangways would drop into the chair beside her and pick
up the other pair of headphones and, at exactly six twenty-eight, he
would take over from her and wait for the sudden hollowness in the ether
that meant that WWW in London was coming in to acknowledge.

It was an iron routine. Strangways was a man of iron routine.
Unfortunately, strict patterns of behaviour can be deadly if they are
read by an enemy.

Strangways, a tall lean man with a black patch over the right eye and
the sort of aquiline good looks you associate with the bridge of a
destroyer, walked quickly across the mahogany panelled hallway of
Queen's Club and pushed through the light mosquito-wired doors and ran
down the three steps to the path.

There was nothing very much on his mind except the sensual pleasure of
the clean fresh evening air and the memory of the finesse that had given
him his three spades. There was this case, of course, the case he was
working on, a curious and complicated affair that M had rather
nonchalantly tossed over the air at him two weeks earlier. But it was
going well. A chance lead into the Chinese community had paid off. Some
odd angles had come to light--for the present the merest shadows of
angles--but if they jelled, thought Strangways as he strode down the
gravel path and into Richmond Road, he might find himself involved in
something very odd indeed.

Strangways shrugged his shoulders. Of course it wouldn't turn out like
that. The fantastic never materialized in his line of business. There
would be some drab solution that had been embroidered by overheated
imaginations and the usual hysteria of the Chinese.

Automatically, another part of Strangways's mind took in the three blind
men. They were tapping slowly towards him down the sidewalk. They were
about twenty yards away. He calculated that they would pass him a second
or two before he reached his car. Out of shame for his own health and
gratitude for it, Strangways felt for a coin. He ran his thumbnail down
its edge to make sure it was a florin and not a penny. He took it out.
He was parallel with the beggars. How odd, they were all Chigroes! How
very odd! Strangways's hand went out. The coin clanged in the tin cup.

"Bless you, Master," said the leading man. "Bless you," echoed the other
two.

The car key was in Strangways's hand. Vaguely he registered the moment
of silence as the tapping of the white sticks ceased. It was too late.

As Strangways had passed the last man, all three had swivelled. The back
two had fanned out a step to have a clear field of fire. Three
revolvers, ungainly with their sausage-shaped silencers, whipped out of
holsters concealed among the rags. With disciplined precision the three
men aimed at different points down Strangways's spine--one between the
shoulders, one in the small of the back, one at the pelvis.

The three heavy coughs were almost one. Strangways's body was hurled
forward as if it had been kicked. It lay absolutely still in the small
puff of dust from the sidewalk.

It was six-seventeen. With a squeal of tyres, a dingy motor hearse with
black plumes flying from the four corners of its roof took the
T-intersection into Richmond Road and shot down towards the group on the
pavement. The three men had just had time to pick up Strangways's body
when the hearse slid to a stop abreast of them. The double doors at the
back were open. So was the plain deal coffin inside. The three men
manhandled the body through the doors and into the coffin. They climbed
in. The lid was put on and the doors pulled shut. The three Negroes sat
down on three of the four little seats at the corners of the coffin and
unhurriedly laid their white sticks beside them. Roomy black alpaca
coats hung over the backs of the seats. They put the coats on over their
rags. Then they took off their baseball caps and reached down to the
floor and picked up black top hats and put them on their heads.

The driver, who also was a Chinese Negro, looked nervously over his
shoulder.

"Go, man. Go!" said the biggest of the killers. He glanced down at the
luminous dial of his wrist watch. It said six-twenty. Just three minutes
for the job. Dead on time.

The hearse made a decorous U-turn and moved at a sedate speed up to the
intersection. There it turned right and at thirty miles an hour it
cruised genteelly up the tarmac highway towards the hills, its black
plumes streaming the doleful signal of its burden and the three mourners
sitting bolt upright with their arms crossed respectfully over their
hearts.

****

'WXN calling WWW.... WXN calling WWW.... WXN...WXN...WXN....'

The centre finger of Mary Trueblood's right hand stabbed softly,
elegantly, at the key. She lifted her left wrist. Six twenty-eight. He
was a minute late. Mary Trueblood smiled at the thought of the little
open Sunbeam tearing up the road towards her. Now, in a second, she
would hear the quick step, then the key in the lock and he would be
sitting beside her. There would be the apologetic smile as he reached
for the earphones. "Sorry, Mary. Damned car wouldn't start." Or, "You'd
think the blasted police knew my number by now. Stopped me at Halfway
Tree." Mary Trueblood took the second pair of earphones off their hook
and put them on his chair to save him half a second.

'...WXN calling WWW.... WXN calling WWW....' She tuned the
dial a hair's breadth and tried again. Her watch said six-twenty-nine.
She began to worry. In a matter of seconds, London would be coming in.
Suddenly she thought, God, what could she do if Strangways wasn't on
time! It was useless for her to acknowledge London and pretend she was
him--useless and dangerous. Radio Security would be monitoring the call,
as they monitored every call from an agent. Those instruments which
measured the minute peculiarities in an operator's 'fist' would at once
detect it wasn't Strangways at the key. Mary Trueblood had been shown
the forest of dials in the quiet room on the top floor at headquarters,
had watched as the dancing hands registered the weight of each pulse,
the speed of each cipher group, the stumble over a particular letter.
The Controller had explained it all to her when she had joined the
Caribbean station five years before--how a buzzer would sound and the
contact be automatically broken if the wrong operator had come on the
air. It was the basic protection against a Secret Service transmitter
falling into enemy hands. And, if an agent had been captured and was
being forced to contact London under torture, he had only to add a few
hairbreadth peculiarities to his usual 'fist' and they would tell the
story of his capture as clearly as if he had announced it _en clair_.

Now it had come! Now she was hearing the hollowness in the ether that
meant London was coming in. Mary Trueblood glanced at her watch.
Six-thirty. Panic! But now, at last, there were the footsteps in the
hall. Thank God! In a second he would come in. She _must_ protect him!
Desperately she decided to take a chance and keep the circuit open.

'WWW calling WXN.... WWW calling WXN.... Can you hear me?...
can you hear me?' London was coming over strong, searching for the
Jamaica station.

The footsteps were at the door.

Coolly, confidently, she tapped back: 'Hear you loud and clear....
Hear you loud and clear.... Hear you...'

Behind her there was an explosion. Something hit her on the ankle. She
looked down. It was the lock of the door.

Mary Trueblood swivelled sharply on her chair. A man stood in the
doorway. It wasn't Strangways. It was a big Negro with yellowish skin
and slanting eyes. There was a gun in his hand. It ended in a thick
black cylinder.

Mary Trueblood opened her mouth to scream.

The man smiled broadly. Slowly, lovingly, he lifted the gun and shot her
three times in and around the left breast.

The girl slumped sideways off her chair. The earphones slipped off her
golden hair on to the floor. For perhaps a second the tiny chirrup of
London sounded out into the room. Then it stopped. The buzzer at the
Controller's desk in Radio Security had signalled that something was
wrong on WXN.

The killer walked out of the door. He came back carrying a box with a
coloured label on it that said PRESTO FIRE, and a big sugar sack marked
TATE & LYLE. He put the box down on the floor and went to the body and
roughly forced the sack over the head and down to the ankles. The feet
stuck out. He bent them and crammed them in. He dragged the bulky sack
out into the hall and came back. In the corner of the room the safe
stood open, as he had been told it would, and the cipher books had been
taken out and laid on the desk ready for work on the London signals. The
man threw these and all the papers in the safe into the centre of the
room. He tore down the curtains and added them to the pile. He topped it
up with a couple of chairs. He opened the box of Presto firelighters and
took out a handful and tucked them into the pile and lit them. Then he
went out into the hall and lit similar bonfires in appropriate places.
The tinder-dry furniture caught quickly and the flames began to lick up
the panelling. The man went to the front door and opened it. Through the
hibiscus hedge he could see the glint of the hearse. There was no noise
except the zing of crickets and the soft tick-over of the car's engine.
Up and down the road there was no other sign of life. The man went back
into the smoke-filled hall and easily shouldered the sack and came out
again, leaving the door open to make a draught. He walked swiftly down
the path to the road. The back doors of the hearse were open. He handed
in the sack and watched the two men force it into the coffin on lop of
Strangways's body. Then he climbed in and shut the doors and sat down
and put on his top hat.

As the first flames showed in the upper windows of the bungalow, the
hearse moved quietly from the sidewalk and went on its way up towards
the Mona Reservoir. There the weighted coffin would slip down into its
fifty-fathom grave and, in just forty-five minutes, the personnel and
records of the Caribbean station of the Secret Service would have been
utterly destroyed.




                                   II
                            CHOICE OF WEAPONS


Three weeks later, in London, March came in like a rattlesnake.

From first light on March 1st, hail and icy sleet, with a Force 8 gale
behind them, lashed at the city and went on lashing as the people
streamed miserably to work, their legs whipped by the wet hems of their
macintoshes and their faces blotching with the cold.

It was a filthy day and everybody said so--even M, who rarely admitted
the existence of weather even in its extreme forms. When the old black
Silver Wraith Rolls with the nondescript number-plate stopped outside
the tall building in Regent's Park and he climbed stiffly out on to the
pavement, hail hit him in the face like a whiff of small-shot. Instead
of hurrying inside the building, he walked deliberately round the car to
the window beside the chauffeur.

"Won't be needing the car again today, Smith. Take it away and go home.
I'll use the tube this evening. No weather for driving a car. Worse than
one of those PQ convoys."

Ex-Leading Stoker Smith grinned gratefully. "Aye-aye, sir. And thanks."
He watched the elderly erect figure walk round the bonnet of the Rolls
and across the pavement and into the building. Just like the old boy.
He'd always see the men right first. Smith clicked the gear lever into
first and moved off, peering forward through the streaming windscreen.
They didn't come like that any more.

M went up in the lift to the eighth floor and along the thick-carpeted
corridor to his office. He shut the door behind him, took off his
overcoat and scarf and hung them behind the door. He took out a large
blue silk bandanna handkerchief and brusquely wiped it over his face. It
was odd, but he wouldn't have done this in front of the porters or the
liftman. He went over to his desk and sat down and bent towards the
intercom. He pressed a switch. "I'm in, Miss Moneypenny. The signals,
please, and anything else you've got. Then get me Sir James Molony.
He'll be doing his rounds at St Mary's about now. Tell the Chief of
Staff I'll see 007 in half an hour. And let me have the Strangways
file." M waited for the metallic "Yes, sir" and released the switch.

He sat back and reached for his pipe and began filling it thoughtfully.
He didn't look up when his secretary came in with the stack of papers
and he even ignored the half dozen pink Most Immediates on top of the
signal file. If they had been vital he would have been called during the
night.

A yellow light winked on the intercom. M picked up the black telephone
from the row of four. "That you, Sir James? Have you got five minutes?"

"Six, for you." At the other end of the line the famous neurologist
chuckled. "Want me to certify one of Her Majesty's Ministers?"

"Not today." M frowned irritably. The old Navy had respected
governments. "It's about that man of mine you've been handling. We won't
bother about the name. This is an open line. I gather you let him out
yesterday. Is he fit for duty?"

There was a pause on the other end. Now the voice was professional,
judicious. "Physically he's as fit as a fiddle. Leg's healed up.
Shouldn't be any after-effects. Yes, he's all right." There was another
pause. "Just one thing, M. There's a lot of tension there, you know. You
work these men of yours pretty hard. Can you give him something easy to
start with? From what you've told me he's been having a tough time for
some years now."

M said gruffly, "That's what he's paid for. It'll soon show if he's not
up to the work. Won't be the first one that's cracked. From what you
say, he sounds in perfectly good shape. It isn't as if he'd really been
damaged like some of the patients I've sent you--men who've been
properly put through the mangle."

"Of course, if you put it like that. But pain's an odd thing. We know
very little about it. You can't measure it--the difference in suffering
between a woman having a baby and a man having a renal colic. And, thank
God, the body seems to forget fairly quickly. But this man of yours has
been in _real_ pain, M. Don't think that just because nothing's been
broken..."

"Quite, quite." Bond had made a mistake and he had suffered for it. In
any case M didn't like being lectured, even by one of the most famous
doctors in the world, on how he should handle his agents. There had been
a note of criticism in Sir James Molony's voice. M said abruptly, "Ever
hear of a man called Steincrohn--Dr Peter Steincrohn?"

"No, who's he?"

"American doctor. Written a book my Washington people sent over for our
library. This man talks about how much punishment the human body can put
up with. Gives a list of the bits of the body an average man can do
without. Matter of fact, I copied it out for future reference. Care to
hear the list?" M dug into his coat pocket and put some letters and
scraps of paper on the desk in front of him. With his left hand he
selected a piece of paper and unfolded it. He wasn't put out by the
silence on the other end of the line, "Hullo, Sir James! Well, here they
are: 'Gall bladder, spleen, tonsils, appendix, one of his two kidneys,
one of his two lungs, two of his four or five quarts of blood,
two-fifths of his liver, most of his stomach, four of his twenty-three
feet of intestines and half of his brain.'" M paused. When the silence
continued at the other end, he said, "Any comments, Sir James?"

There was a reluctant grunt at the other end of the telephone. "I wonder
he didn't add an arm and a leg, or all of them. I don't see quite what
you're trying to prove."

M gave a curt laugh. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Sir James. It
just struck me as an interesting list. All I'm trying to say is that my
man seems to have got off pretty lightly compared with that sort of
punishment. But," M relented, "don't let's argue about it." He said in a
milder voice, "As a matter of fact I did have it in mind to let him have
a bit of a breather. Something's come up in Jamaica." M glanced at the
streaming windows. "It'll be more of a rest cure than anything. Two of
my people, a man and a girl, have gone off together. Or that's what it
looks like. Our friend can have a spell at being an inquiry agent--in
the sunshine too. How's that?"

"Just the ticket. I wouldn't mind the job myself on a day like this."
But Sir James Molony was determined to get his message through. He
persisted mildly. "Don't think I wanted to interfere, M, but there are
limits to a man's courage. I know you have to treat these men as if they
were expendable, but presumably you don't want them to crack at the
wrong moment. This one I've had here is tough. I'd say you'll get plenty
more work out of him. But you know what Moran has to say about courage
in that book of his."

"Don't recall."

"He says that courage is a capital sum reduced by expenditure. I agree
with him. All I'm trying to say is that this particular man seems to
have been spending pretty hard since before the war. I wouldn't say he's
overdrawn--not yet, but there, are limits."

"Just so." M decided that was quite enough of that. Nowadays, softness
was everywhere. "That's why I'm sending him abroad. Holiday in Jamaica.
Don't worry, Sir James. I'll take care of him. By the way, did you ever
discover what the stuff was that Russian woman put into him?"

"Got the answer yesterday." Sir James Molony also was glad the subject
had been changed. The old man was as raw as the weather. Was there any
chance that he had got his message across into what he described to
himself as M's thick skull? "Taken us three months. It was a bright chap
at the School of Tropical Medicine who came up with it. The drug was
_fugu_ poison. The Japanese use it for committing suicide. It comes from
the sex organs of the Japanese globe-fish. Trust the Russians to use
something no one's ever heard of. They might just as well have used
curare. It has much the same effect--paralysis of the central nervous
system. _Fugu's_ scientific name is Tetrodotoxin. It's terrible stuff
and very quick. One shot of it like your man got and in a matter of
seconds the motor and respiratory muscles are paralysed. At first the
chap sees double and then he can't keep his eyes open. Next he can't
swallow. His head falls and he can't raise it. Dies of respiratory
paralysis."

"Lucky he got away with it."

"Miracle. Thanks entirely to that Frenchman who was with him. Got your
man on the floor and gave him artificial respiration as if he was
drowning. Somehow kept his lungs going until the doctor came. Luckily
the doctor had worked in South America. Diagnosed curare and treated him
accordingly. But it was a chance in a million. By the same token, what
happened to the Russian woman?"

M said shortly, "Oh, she died. Well, many thanks, Sir James. And don't
worry about your patient. I'll see he has an easy time of it. Goodbye."

M hung up. His face was cold and blank. He pulled over the signal file
and went quickly through it. On some of the signals he scribbled a
comment. Occasionally he made a brief telephone call to one of the
Sections. When he had finished he tossed the pile into his _Out_ basket
and reached for his pipe and the tobacco jar made out of the base of a
fourteen-pounder shell. Nothing remained in front of him except a buff
folder marked with the Top Secret red star. Across the centre of the
folder was written in block capitals: CARIBBEAN STATION, and underneath,
in italics, _Strangways and Trueblood_.

A light winked on the intercom. M pressed down the switch. "Yes?"

"007's here, sir."

"Send him in. And tell the Armourer to come up in five minutes."

M sat back. He put his pipe in his mouth and set a match to it. Through
the smoke he watched the door to his secretary's office. His eyes were
very bright and watchful.

James Bond came through the door and shut it behind him. He walked over
to the chair across the desk from M and sat down.

"'Morning, 007."

"Good morning, sir."

There was silence in the room except for the rasping of M's pipe. It
seemed to be taking a lot of matches to get it going. In the background
the fingernails of the sleet slashed against the two broad windows.

It was all just as Bond had remembered it through the months of being
shunted from hospital to hospital, the weeks of dreary convalescence,
the hard work of getting his body back into shape. To him this
represented stepping back into life. Sitting here in this room opposite
M was the symbol of normality he had longed for. He looked across
through the smoke clouds into the shrewd grey eyes. They were watching
him. What was coming? A post-mortem on the shambles which had been his
last case? A curt relegation to one of the home sections for a spell of
desk work? Or some splendid new assignment M had been keeping on ice
while waiting for Bond to get back to duty?

M threw the box of matches down on the red leather desk. He leant back
and clasped his hands behind his head.

"How do you feel? Glad to be back?"

"Very glad, sir. And I feel fine."

"Any final thoughts about your last case? Haven't bothered you with it
till you got well. You heard I ordered an inquiry. I believe the Chief
of Staff took some evidence from you. Anything to add?"

M's voice was businesslike, cold. Bond didn't like it. Something
unpleasant was coming. He said, "No, sir. It was a mess. I blame myself
for letting that woman get me. Shouldn't have happened."

M took his hands from behind his neck and slowly leant forward and
placed them flat on the desk in front of him. His eyes were hard. "Just
so." The voice was velvet, dangerous. "Your gun got stuck, if I recall.
This Beretta of yours with the silencer. Something wrong there, 007.
Can't afford that sort of mistake if you're to carry an 00 number. Would
you prefer to drop it and go back to normal duties?"

Bond stiffened. His eyes looked resentfully into M's. The licence to
kill for the Secret Service, the double-0 prefix, was a great honour. It
had been earned hardly. It brought Bond the only assignments he enjoyed,
the dangerous ones. "No, I wouldn't, sir."

"Then we'll have to change your equipment. That was one of the findings
of the Court of Inquiry. I agree with it. D'you understand?"

Bond said obstinately, "I'm used to that gun, sir. I like working with
it. What happened could have happened to anyone. With any kind of gun."

"I don't agree. Nor did the Court of Inquiry. So that's final. The only
question is what you're to use instead." M bent forward to the intercom.
"Is the Armourer there? Send him in."

M sat back. "You may not know it, 007, but Major Boothroyd's the
greatest small-arms expert in the world. He wouldn't be here if he
wasn't. We'll hear what he has to say."

The door opened. A short slim man with sandy hair came in and walked
over to the desk and stood beside Bond's chair. Bond looked up into his
face. He hadn't often seen the man before, but he remembered the very
wide apart clear grey eyes that never seemed to flicker. With a
non-committal glance down at Bond, the man stood relaxed, looking across
at M. He said "Good morning, sir," in a flat, unemotional voice.

"'Morning, Armourer. Now I want to ask you some questions." M's voice
was casual. "First of all, what do you think of the Beretta, the .25?"

"Ladies' gun, sir."

M raised ironic eyebrows at Bond. Bond smiled thinly.

"Really! And why do you say that?"

"No stopping power, sir. But it's easy to operate. A bit fancy looking
too, if you know what I mean, sir. Appeals to the ladies."

"How would it be with a silencer?"

"Still less stopping power, sir. And I don't like silencers. They're
heavy and get stuck in your clothing when you're in a hurry. I wouldn't
recommend anyone to try a combination like that, sir. Not if they were
meaning business."

M said pleasantly to Bond, "Any comment, 007?"

Bond shrugged his shoulders. "I don't agree. I've used the .25 Beretta
for fifteen years. Never had a stoppage and I haven't missed with it
yet. Not a bad record for a gun. It just happens that I'm used to it and
I can point it straight. I've used bigger guns when I've had to--the .45
Colt with the long barrel, for instance. But for close-up work and
concealment I like the Beretta." Bond paused. He felt he should give way
somewhere. "I'd agree about the silencer, sir. They're a nuisance. But
sometimes you have to use them."

"We've seen what happens when you do," said M drily. "And as for
changing your gun, it's only a question of practice. You'll soon get the
feel of a new one." M allowed a trace of sympathy to enter his voice.
"Sorry, 007. But I've decided. Just stand up a moment. I want the
Armourer to get a look at your build."

Bond stood up and faced the other man. There was no warmth in the two
pairs of eyes. Bond's showed irritation. Major Boothroyd's were
indifferent, clinical. He walked round Bond. He said "Excuse me" and
felt Bond's biceps and forearms. He came back in front of him and said,
"Might I see your gun?"

Bond's hand went slowly into his coat. He handed over the taped Beretta
with the sawn barrel. Boothroyd examined the gun and weighed it in his
hand. He put it down on the desk. "And your holster?"

Bond took off his coat and slipped off the chamois leather holster and
harness. He put his coat on again.

With a glance at the lips of the holster, perhaps to see if they showed
traces of snagging. Boothroyd tossed the holster down beside the gun
with a motion that sneered. He looked across at M. "I think we can do
better than this, sir." It was the sort of voice Bond's first expensive
tailor had used.

Bond sat down. He just stopped himself gazing rudely at the ceiling.
Instead he looked impassively across at M.

"Well, Armourer, what do you recommend?"

Major Boothroyd put on the expert's voice. "As a matter of fact, sir,"
he said modestly, "I've just been testing most of the small automatics.
Five thousand rounds each at twenty-five yards. Of all of them, I'd
choose the Walther PPK 7.65 mm. It only came fourth after the Japanese
M-14, the Russian Tokarev and the Sauer M-38. But I like its light
trigger pull and the extension spur of the magazine gives a grip that
should suit 007. It's a real stopping gun. Of course it's about a .32
calibre as compared with the Beretta's .25, but I wouldn't recommend
anything lighter. And you can get ammunition for the Walther anywhere in
the world. That gives it an edge on the Japanese and the Russian guns."

M turned to Bond. "Any comments?"

"It's a good gun, sir," Bond admitted. "Bit more bulky than the Beretta.
How does the Armourer suggest I carry it?"

"Berns Martin Triple-draw holster," said Major Boothroyd succinctly.
"Best worn inside the trouser band to the left. But it's all right below
the shoulder. Stiff saddle leather. Holds the gun in with a spring.
Should make for a quicker draw than that," he gestured towards the desk.
"Three-fifths of a second to hit a man at twenty feet would be about
right."

"That's settled then." M's voice was final. "And what about something
bigger?"

"There's only one gun for that, sir," said Major Boothroyd stolidly.
"Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight. Revolver. .38 calibre. Hammerless,
so it won't catch in clothing. Overall length of six and a half inches
and it only weighs thirteen ounces. To keep down the weight, the
cylinder holds only five cartridges. But by the time they're gone,"
Major Boothroyd allowed himself a wintry smile, "somebody's been killed.
Fires the .38 S & W Special. Very accurate cartridge indeed. With
standard loading it has a muzzle velocity of eight hundred and sixty
feet per second and muzzle energy of two hundred and sixty foot-pounds.
There are various barrel lengths, three and a half inch, five inch..."

"All right, all right." M's voice was testy. "Take it as read. If you
say it's the best I'll believe you. So it's the Walther and the Smith &
Wesson. Send up one of each to 007. With the harness. And arrange for
him to fire them in. Starting today. He's got to be expert in a week.
All right? Then thank you very much, Armourer. I won't detain you."

"Thank you, sir," said Major Boothroyd. He turned and marched stiffly
out of the room.

There was a moment's silence. The sleet tore at the windows. M swivelled
his chair and watched the streaming panes. Bond took the opportunity to
glance at his watch. Ten o'clock. His eyes slid to the gun and holster
on the desk. He thought of his fifteen years' marriage to the ugly bit
of metal. He remembered the times its single word had saved his
life--and the times when its threat alone had been enough. He thought of
the days when he had literally dressed to kill--when he had dismantled
the gun and oiled it and packed the bullets carefully into the
springloaded magazine and tried the action once or twice, pumping the
cartridges out on to the bedspread in some hotel bedroom somewhere round
the world. Then the last wipe of a dry rag and the gun into the little
holster and a pause in front of the mirror to see that nothing showed.
And then out of the door and on his way to the rendezvous that was to
end with either darkness or light. How many times had it saved his life?
How many death sentences had it signed? Bond felt unreasonably sad. How
could one have such ties with an inanimate object, an ugly one at that,
and, he had to admit it, with a weapon that was not in the same class as
the ones chosen by the Armourer? But he had the ties and M was going to
cut them.

M swivelled back to face him. "Sorry, James," he said, and there was no
sympathy in his voice. "I know how you like that bit of iron. But I'm
afraid it's got to go. Never give a weapon a second chance--any more
than a man. I can't afford to gamble with the double-0 section. They've
got to be properly equipped. You understand that? A gun's more important
than a hand or a foot in your job."

Bond smiled thinly. "I know, sir. I shan't argue. I'm just sorry to see
it go."

"All right then. We'll say no more about it. Now I've got some more news
for you. There's a job come up. In Jamaica. Personnel problem. Or that's
what it looks like. Routine investigation and report. The sunshine'll do
you good and you can practise your new guns on the turtles or whatever
they have down there. You can do with a bit of holiday. Like to take it
on?"

Bond thought: He's got it in for me over the last job. Feels I let him
down. Won't trust me with anything tough. Wants to see. Oh well! He
said: "Sounds rather like the soft life, sir. I've had almost too much
of that lately. But if it's got to be done... If you say so, sir..."

"Yes," said M. "I say so."




                                  III
                              HOLIDAY TASK


It was getting dark. Outside the weather was thickening. M reached over
and switched on the green-shaded desklight. The centre of the room
became a warm yellow pool in which the leather top of the desk glowed
blood-red.

M pulled the thick file towards him. Bond noticed it for the first time.
He read the reversed lettering without difficulty. What had Strangways
been up to? Who was Trueblood?

M pressed a button on his desk. "I'll get the Chief of Staff in on
this," he said. "I know the bones of the case, but he can fill in the
flesh. It's a drab little story, I'm afraid."

The Chief of Staff came in. He was a colonel in the Sappers, a man of
about Bond's age, but his hair was prematurely grey at the temples from
the endless grind of work and responsibility. He was saved from a
nervous breakdown by physical toughness and a sense of humour. He was
Bond's best friend at headquarters. They smiled at each other.

"Bring up a chair, Chief of Staff. I've given 007 the Strangways case.
Got to get the mess cleared up before we make a new appointment there.
007 can be acting Head of Station in the meantime. I want him to leave
in a week. Would you fix that with the Colonial Office and the Governor?
And now let's go over the case." He turned to Bond. "I think you knew
Strangways, 007. See you worked with him on that treasure business about
five years ago. What did you think of him?"

"Good man, sir. Bit highly strung, I'd have thought he'd have been
relieved by now. Five years is a long time in the tropics."

M ignored the comment. "And his number two, this girl Trueblood, Mary
Trueblood. Ever come across her?"

"No, sir."

"I see she's got a good record. Chief Officer WRNS and then came to us.
Nothing against her on her Confidential Record. Good-looker to judge
from her photographs. That probably explains it. Would you say
Strangways was a bit of a womanizer?"

"Could have been," said Bond carefully, not wanting to say anything
against Strangways, but remembering the dashing good looks. "But what's
happened to them, sir?"

"That's what we want to find out," said M. "They've gone, vanished into
thin air. Both went on the same evening about three weeks ago. Left
Strangways's bungalow burned to the ground--radio, codebooks, files.
Nothing left but a few charred scraps. The girl left all her things
intact. Must have taken only what she stood up in. Even her passport was
in her room. But it would have been easy for Strangways to cook up two
passports. He had plenty of blanks. He was Passport Control Officer for
the island. Any number of planes they could have taken--to Florida or
South America or one of the other islands in his area. Police are still
checking the passenger lists. Nothing's come up yet, but they could
always have gone to ground for a day or two and then done a bunk. Dyed
the girl's hair and so forth. Airport security doesn't amount to much in
that part of the world. Isn't that so, Chief of Staff?"

"Yes, sir." The Chief of Staff sounded dubious. "But I still can't
understand that last radio contact." He turned to Bond. "You see, they
began to make their routine contact at eighteen-thirty Jamaican time.
Someone, Radio Security thinks it was the girl, acknowledged our WWW and
then went off the air. We tried to regain contact but there was
obviously something fishy and we broke off. No answer to the Blue Call,
or to the Red. So that was that. Next day Section III sent 258 down from
Washington. By that time the police had taken over and the Governor had
already made up his mind and was trying to get the case hushed up. It
all seemed pretty obvious to him. Strangways has had occasional girl
trouble down there. Can't blame the chap myself. It's a quiet station.
Not much to occupy his time. The Governor jumped to the obvious
conclusions. So, of course, did the local police. Sex and machete fights
are about all they understand. 258 spent a week down there and couldn't
turn up a scrap of contrary evidence. He reported accordingly and we
sent him back to Washington. Since then the police have been scraping
around rather ineffectually and getting nowhere." The Chief of Staff
paused. He looked apologetically at M. "I know you're inclined to agree
with the Governor, sir, but that radio contact sticks in my throat. I
just can't see where it fits into the runaway-couple picture. And
Strangways's friends at his club say he was perfectly normal. Left in
the middle of a rubber of bridge--always did, when he was getting close
to his deadline. Said he'd be back in twenty minutes. Ordered drinks all
round--again just as he always did--and left the club dead on
six-fifteen, exactly to schedule. Then he vanished into thin air. Even
left his car in front of the club. Now, why should he set the rest of
his bridge four looking for him if he wanted to skip with the girl? Why
not leave in the morning, or better still, late at night, after they'd
made their radio call and tidied up their lives? It just doesn't make
sense to me."

M grunted non-committally. "People in--er--love do stupid things," he
said gruffly. "Act like lunatics sometimes. And anyway, what other
explanation is there? Absolutely no trace of foul play--no reason for it
that anyone can see. It's a quiet station down there. Same routines
every month--an occasional communist trying to get into the island from
Cuba, crooks from England thinking they can hide away just because
Jamaica's so far from London. I don't suppose Strangways has had a big
case since 007 was there." He turned to Bond. "On what you've heard,
what do you think, 007? There's not much else to tell you."

Bond was definite. "I just can't see Strangways flying off the handle
like that, sir. I daresay he was having an affair with the girl, though
I wouldn't have thought he was a man to mix business with pleasure. But
the Service was his whole life. He'd never have let it down. I can see
him handing in his papers, and the girl doing the same, and then going
off with her after you'd sent out reliefs. But I don't believe it was in
him to leave us in the air like this. And from what you say of the girl,
I'd say it would be much the same with her. Chief Officers WRNS don't go
out of their senses."

"Thank you, 007." M's voice was controlled. "These considerations had
also crossed my mind. No one's been jumping to conclusions without
weighing all the possibilities. Perhaps you can suggest another
solution."

M sat back and waited. He reached for his pipe and began filling it. The
case bored him. He didn't like personnel problems, least of all messy
ones like this. There were plenty of other worries waiting to be coped
with round the world. It was only to give Bond the pretence of a job,
mixed with a good rest, that he had decided to send him out to Jamaica
to close the case. He put the pipe in his mouth and reached for the
matches. "Well?"

Bond wasn't going to be put off his stride. He had liked Strangways and
he was impressed by the points the Chief of Staff had made. He said:
"Well, sir. For instance, what was the last case Strangways was working
on? Had he reported anything, or was there anything Section III had
asked him to look into. Anything at all in the last few months?"

"Nothing whatsoever." M was definite. He took the pipe out of his mouth
and cocked it at the Chief of Staff. "Right?"

"Right, sir," said the Chief of Staff. "Only that damned business about
the birds."

"Oh that," said M contemptuously. "Some rot from the Zoo or somebody.
Got wished on us by the Colonial Office. About six weeks ago, wasn't
it?"

"That's right, sir. But it wasn't the Zoo. It was some people in America
called the Audubon Society. They protect rare birds from extinction or
something like that. Got on to our Ambassador in Washington, and the FO
passed the buck to the Colonial Office. They shoved it on to us. Seems
these bird people are pretty powerful in America. They even got an atom
bombing range shifted on the West Coast because it interfered with some
birds' nests."

M snorted. "Damned thing called a Whooping Crane. Read about in the
papers."

Bond persisted. "Could you tell me about it, sir? What did the Audubon
people want us to do?"

M waved his pipe impatiently. He picked up the Strangways file and
tossed it down in front of the Chief of Staff. "You tell him, Chief of
Staff," he said wearily. "It's all in there."

The Chief of Staff took the file and riffled through the pages towards
the back. He found what he wanted and bent the file in half. There was
silence in the room while he ran his eye over three pages of typescript
which Bond could see were headed with the blue and white cipher of the
Colonial Office. Bond sat quietly, trying not to feel M's coiled
impatience radiating across the desk.

The Chief of Staff slapped the file shut. He said, "Well, this is the
story as we passed it to Strangways on January 20th. He acknowledged
receipt, but after that we heard nothing from him." The Chief of Staff
sat back in his chair. He looked at Bond. "It seems there's a bird
called a Roseate Spoonbill. There's a coloured photograph of it in here.
Looks like a sort of pink stork with an ugly flat bill which it uses for
digging for food in the mud. Not many years ago these birds were dying
out. Just before the war there were only a few hundred left in the
world, mostly in Florida and thereabouts. Then somebody reported a
colony of them on an island called Crab Key between Jamaica and Cuba.
It's British territory--a dependency of Jamaica. Used to be a guano
island, but the quality of the guano was too low for the cost of digging
it. When the birds were found there, it had been uninhabited for about
fifty years. The Audubon people went there and ended up by leasing a
corner as a sanctuary for these spoonbills. Put two wardens in charge
and persuaded the airlines to stop flying over the island and disturbing
the birds. The birds flourished and at the last count there were about
five thousand of them on the island. Then came the war. The price of
guano went up and some bright chap had the idea of buying the island and
starting to work it again. He negotiated with the Jamaican Government
and bought the place for ten thousand pounds with the condition that he
didn't disturb the lease of the sanctuary. That was in 1943. Well, this
man imported plenty of cheap labour and soon had the place working at a
profit and it's gone on making a profit until recently. Then the price
of guano took a dip and it's thought that he must be having a hard time
making both ends meet."

"Who is this man?"

"Chinaman, or rather half Chinese and half German. Got a daft name.
Calls himself Doctor No--Doctor Julius No."

"No? Spelt like Yes?"

"That's right."

"Any facts about him?"

"Nothing except that he keeps very much to himself. Hasn't been seen
since he made his deal with the Jamaican Government. And there's no
traffic with the island. It's his and he keeps it private. Says he
doesn't want people disturbing the guanay birds who turn out his guano.
Seems reasonable. Well, nothing happened until just before Christmas
when one of the Audubon wardens, a Barbadian, good solid chap
apparently, arrived on the north shore of Jamaica in a canoe. He was
very sick. He was terribly burned--died in a few days. Before he died he
told some crazy story about their camp having been attacked by a dragon,
with flames coming out of its mouth. This dragon had killed his pal and
burned up the camp and gone roaring off into the bird sanctuary belching
fire among the birds and scaring them off to God knows where. He had
been badly burned but he'd escaped to the coast and stolen a canoe and
sailed all one night to Jamaica. Poor chap was obviously off his rocker.
And that was that, except that a routine report had to be sent off to
the Audubon Society. And they weren't satisfied. Sent down two of their
big brass in a Beechcraft from Miami to investigate. There's an airstrip
on the island. This Chinaman's got a Grumman Amphibian for bringing in
supplies..."

M interjected sourly. "All these people seem to have a hell of a lot of
money to throw about on their damned birds."

Bond and the Chief of Staff exchanged smiles. M had been trying for
years to get the Treasury to give him an Auster for the Caribbean
Station.

The Chief of Staff continued: "And the Beechcraft crashed on landing and
killed the two Audubon men. Well, that aroused these bird people to a
fury. They got a corvette from the US Training Squadron in the Caribbean
to make a call on Doctor No. That's how powerful these people are. Seems
they've got quite a lobby in Washington. The captain of the corvette
reported that he was received very civilly by Doctor No but was kept
well away from the guano workings. He was taken to the airstrip and
examined the remains of the plane. Smashed to pieces, but nothing
suspicious--came in to land too fast probably. The bodies of the two men
and the pilot had been reverently embalmed and packed in handsome
coffins which were handed over with quite a ceremony. The captain was
very impressed by Doctor No's courtesy. He asked to see the wardens'
camp and he was taken out there and shown the remains of it. Doctor No's
theory was that the two men had gone mad because of the heat and the
loneliness, or at any rate that one of them had gone mad and burned down
the camp with the other inside it. This seemed possible to the captain
when he'd seen what a godforsaken bit of marsh the men had been living
in for ten years or more. There was nothing else to see and he was
politely steered back to his ship and sailed away." The Chief of Staff
spread his hands. "And that's the lot except that the captain reported
that he saw only a handful of roseate spoonbills. When his report got
back to the Audubon Society it was apparently the loss of their blasted
birds that infuriated these people most of all, and ever since then
they've been nagging at us to have an inquiry into the whole business.
Of course nobody at the Colonial Office or in Jamaica's in the least
interested. So in the end the whole fairy story was dumped in our lap."
The Chief of Staff shrugged his shoulders with finality. "And that's how
this pile of bumf," he waved the file, "or at any rate the guts of it,
got landed on Strangways."

M looked morosely at Bond. "See what I mean, 007? Just the sort of
mares' nest these old women's societies are always stirring up. People
start preserving something--churches, old houses, decaying pictures,
birds--and there's always a hullabaloo of some sort. The trouble is
these sort of people get really worked up about their damned birds or
whatever it is. They get the politicians involved. And somehow they all
seem to have stacks of money. God knows where it comes from. Other old
women, I suppose. And then there comes a point when someone has to do
something to keep them quiet. Like this case. It gets shunted off on to
me because the place is British territory. At the same time it's private
land. Nobody wants to interfere officially. So I'm supposed to do what?
Send a submarine to the island? For what? To find out what's happened to
a covey of pink storks." M snorted. "Anyway, you asked about
Strangways's last case and that's it." M leant forward belligerently.
"Any questions? I've got a busy day ahead."

Bond grinned. He couldn't help it. M's occasional outbursts of rage were
so splendid. And nothing set him going so well as any attempt to waste
the time and energies and slim funds of the Secret Service. Bond got to
his feet. "Perhaps if I could have the file, sir," he said placatingly.
"It just strikes me that four people seem to have died more or less
because of these birds. Perhaps two more did--Strangways and the
Trueblood girl. I agree it sounds ridiculous, but we've got nothing else
to go on."

"Take it, take it," said M impatiently. "And hurry up and get your
holiday over. You may not have noticed it, but the rest of the world
happens to be in a bit of a mess."

Bond reached across and picked up the file. He also made to pick up his
Beretta and the holster. "No," said M sharply. "Leave that. And mind
you've got the hang of the other two guns by the time I see you again."

Bond looked across into M's eyes. For the first time in his life he
hated the man. He knew perfectly well why M was being tough and mean. It
was deferred punishment, for having nearly got killed on his last job.
Plus getting away from this filthy weather into the sunshine. M couldn't
bear his men to have an easy time. In a way Bond felt sure he was being
sent on this cushy assignment to humiliate him. The old bastard.

With the anger balling up inside him like cats' fur, Bond said, "I'll
see to it, sir," and turned and walked out of the room.




                                   IV
                           RECEPTION COMMITTEE


The sixty-eight tons deadweight of the Super Constellation hurtled high
above the green and brown chequerboard of Cuba and, with only another
hundred miles to go, started its slow declining flight towards Jamaica.

Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and
the water below him turn from the dark blue of the Cuba Deep to the
azure and milk of the inshore shoals. Then they were over the North
Shore, over its rash of millionaire hotels, and crossing the high
mountains of the interior. The scattered dice of small-holdings showed
on the slopes and in clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun
flashed gold on the bright worms of tumbling rivers and streams.
'Xaymaca' the Arawak Indians had called it--'The Land of Hills and
Rivers'. Bond's heart lifted with the beauty of one of the most fertile
islands in the world.

The other side of the mountains was in deep violet shadow. Lights were
already twinkling in the foothills and spangling the streets of
Kingston, but, beyond, the far arm of the harbour and the airport were
still touched with the sun against which the Port Royal lighthouse
blinked ineffectually. Now the Constellation was getting its nose down
into a wide sweep beyond the harbour. There was a slight thump as the
tricycle landing gear extended under the aircraft and locked into
position, and a shrill hydraulic whine as the brake flaps slid out of
the trailing edge of the wings. Slowly the great aircraft turned in
again towards the land and for a moment the setting sun poured gold into
the cabin. Then, the plane had dipped below the level of the Blue
Mountains and was skimming down towards the single north-south runway.
There was a glimpse of a road and telephone wires. Then the concrete,
scarred with black skid-marks, was under the belly of the plane and
there was the soft double thump of a perfect landing and the roar of
reversing props as they taxied in towards the low white airport
buildings.

The sticky fingers of the tropics brushed Bond's face as he left the
aircraft and walked over to Health and Immigration. He knew that by the
time he had got through Customs he would be sweating. He didn't mind.
After the rasping cold of London, the stuffy, velvet heat was easily
bearable.

Bond's passport described him as 'Import and Export Merchant'.

"What company, sir?"

"Universal Export."

"Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?"

"Pleasure."

"I hope you enjoy your stay, sir." The Negro immigration officer handed
Bond his passport with indifference.

"Thank you."

Bond walked out into the Customs hall. At once he saw the tall
brown-skinned man against the barrier. He was wearing the same old faded
blue shirt and probably the same khaki twill trousers he had been
wearing when Bond first met him five years before.

"Quarrel!"

From behind the barrier the Cayman Islander gave a broad grin. He lifted
his right forearm across his eyes in the old salute of the West Indians.
"How you, cap'n?" he called delightedly.

"I'm fine," said Bond. "Just wait till I get my bag through. Got the
car?"

"Sure, cap'n."

The Customs officer who, like most men from the waterfront, knew
Quarrel, chalked Bond's bag without opening it and Bond picked it up and
went out through the barrier. Quarrel took it from him and held out his
right hand. Bond took the warm dry calloused paw and looked into the
dark grey eyes that showed descent from a Cromwellian soldier or a
pirate of Morgan's time. "You haven't changed, Quarrel," he said
affectionately. "How's the turtle fishing?"

"Not so bad, cap'n, an' not so good. Much de same as always." He looked
critically at Bond. "Yo been sick, or somepun?"

Bond was surprised. "As a matter of fact I have. But I've been fit for
weeks. What made you say that?"

Quarrel was embarrassed. "Sorry, cap'n," he said, thinking he might have
offended Bond. "Dere some pain lines in yo face since de las' time."

"Oh well," said Bond. "It was nothing much. But I could do with a spell
of your training. I'm not as fit as I ought to be."

"Sho ting, cap'n."

They were moving towards the exit when there came the sharp crack and
flash of a Press camera. A pretty Chinese girl in Jamaican dress was
lowering her Speed Graphic. She came up to them. She said with synthetic
charm, "Thank you, gentlemen. I am from the _Daily Gleaner_." She
glanced down at a list in her hand. "Mister Bond, isn't it? And how long
will you be with us, Mister Bond?"

Bond was offhand. This was a bad start. "In transit," he said shortly.
"I think you'll find there were more interesting people on the plane."

"Oh no, I'm sure not, Mister Bond. You look very important. And what
hotel will you be staying at?"

Damn, thought Bond. He said "Myrtle Bank" and moved on.

"Thank you, Mister Bond," said the tinkling voice. "I hope you'll
enjoy..."

They were outside. As they walked towards the parking place Bond said,
"Ever seen that girl at the airport before?"

Quarrel reflected. "Reck'n not, cap'n. But de _Gleaner_ have plenty
camera gals."

Bond was vaguely worried. There was no earthly reason why his picture
should be wanted by the Press. It was five years since his last
adventures on the island, and anyway his name had been kept out of the
papers.

They got to the car. It was a black Sunbeam Alpine. Bond looked sharply
at it and then at the number plate. Strangways's car. What the hell?
"Where did you get this, Quarrel?"

"ADC tell me fe to take him, cap'n. Him say hit de only spare car dey
have. Why, cap'n? Him no good?"

"Oh, it's all right, Quarrel," said Bond resignedly. "Come on, let's get
going."

Bond got into the passenger seat. It was entirely his fault. He might
have guessed at the chance of getting this car. But it would certainly
put the finger on him and on what he was doing in Jamaica if anyone
happened to be interested.

They moved off down the long cactus-fringed road towards the distant
lights of Kingston. Normally, Bond would have sat and enjoyed the beauty
of it all--the steady zing of the crickets, the rush of warm, scented
air, the ceiling of stars, the necklace of yellow lights shimmering
across the harbour--but now he was cursing his carelessness and knowing
what he shouldn't have done.

What he _had_ done was to send one signal through the Colonial Office to
the Governor. In it he had first asked that the ADC should get Quarrel
over from the Cayman Islands for an indefinite period on a salary of ten
pounds a week. Quarrel had been with Bond on his last adventure in
Jamaica. He was an invaluable handyman with all the fine seaman's
qualities of the Cayman Islander, and he was a passport into the lower
strata of coloured life which would otherwise be closed to Bond.
Everybody loved him and he was a splendid companion. Bond knew that
Quarrel was vital if he was to get anywhere on the Strangways
case--whether it was a case or just a scandal. Then Bond had asked for a
single room and shower at the Blue Hills Hotel, for the loan of a car
and for Quarrel to meet him with the car at the airport. Most of this
had been wrong. In particular Bond should have taken a taxi to his hotel
and made contact with Quarrel later. Then he would have seen the car and
had a chance to change it.

As it was, reflected Bond, he might just as well have advertised his
visit and its purpose in the _Gleaner_. He sighed. It was the mistakes
one made at the beginning of a case that were the worst. They were the
irretrievable ones, the ones that got you off on the wrong foot, that
gave the enemy the first game. But was there an enemy? Wasn't he being
over-cautious? On an impulse Bond turned in his seat. A hundred yards
behind were two dim sidelights. Most Jamaicans drive with their
headlights full on. Bond turned back. He said, "Quarrel. At the end of
the Palisadoes, where the left fork goes to Kingston and right to
Morant, I want you to turn quickly down the Morant road and stop at once
and turn your lights off. Right? And now go like hell."

"Okay, cap'n." Quarrel's voice sounded pleased. He put his foot down to
the floorboards. The little car gave a deep growl and tore off down the
white road.

Now they were at the end of the straight. The car skidded round the
curve where the corner of the harbour bit into the land. Another five
hundred yards and they would be at the intersection. Bond looked back.
There was no sign of the other car. Here was the signpost. Quarrel did a
racing change and hurled the car round on a tight lock. He pulled in to
the side and dowsed his lights. Bond turned and waited. At once he heard
the roar of a big car at speed. Lights blazed on, looking for them. Then
the car was past and tearing on towards Kingston. Bond had time to
notice that it was a big American type taxicab and that there was no one
in it but the driver. Then it was gone.

The dust settled slowly. They sat for ten minutes saying nothing. Then
Bond told Quarrel to turn the car and take the Kingston road. He said,
"I think that car was interested in us, Quarrel. You don't drive an
empty taxi back from the airport. It's an expensive run. Keep a watch
out. He may find we've fooled him and be waiting for us."

"Sho ting, cap'n," said Quarrel happily. This was just the sort of life
he had hoped for when he got Bond's message.

They came into the stream of Kingston traffic--buses, cars, horse-drawn
carts, pannier-laden donkeys down from the hills, and the hand-drawn
barrows selling violent coloured drinks. In the crush it was impossible
to say if they were being followed. They turned off to the right and up
towards the hills. There were many cars behind them. Any one of them
could have been the American taxi. They drove for a quarter of an hour
up to Halfway Tree and then on to the Junction Road, the main road
across the island. Soon there was a neon sign of a green palm tree and
underneath 'Blue Hills. THE hotel'. They drove in and up the drive lined
with neatly rounded bushes of bougainvillaea.

A hundred yards higher up the road the black taxi waved the following
drivers on and pulled in to the left. It made a U-turn in a break in the
traffic and swept back down the hill towards Kingston.

The Blue Hills was a comfortable old-fashioned hotel with modern
trimmings. Bond was welcomed with deference because his reservation had
been made by King's House. He was shown to a fine corner room with a
balcony looking out over the distant sweep of Kingston harbour.
Thankfully he took off his London clothes, now moist with perspiration,
and went into the glass-fronted shower and turned the cold water full on
and stood under it for five minutes during which he washed his hair to
remove the last dirt of big-city life. Then he pulled on a pair of Sea
Island cotton shorts and, with sensual pleasure at the warm soft air on
his nakedness, unpacked his things and rang for the waiter.

Bond ordered a double gin and tonic and one whole green lime. When the
drink came he cut the lime in half, dropped the two squeezed halves into
the long glass, almost filled the glass with ice cubes and then poured
in the tonic. He took the drink out on to the balcony, and sat and
looked out across the spectacular view. He thought how wonderful it was
to be away from headquarters, and from London, and from hospitals, and
to be here, at this moment, doing what he was doing and knowing, as all
his senses told him, that he was on a good tough case again.

He sat for a while, luxuriously, letting the gin relax him. He ordered
another and drank it down. It was seven-fifteen. He had arranged for
Quarrel to pick him up at seven-thirty. They were going to have dinner
together. Bond had asked Quarrel to suggest a place. After a moment of
embarrassment, Quarrel had said that whenever he wanted to enjoy himself
in Kingston he went to a waterfront nightspot called the Joy Boat. "Hit
no great shakes, cap'n," he had said apologetically, "but da food an'
drinks an' music is good and I got a good fren' dere. Him owns de joint.
Dey calls him 'Pus-Feller' seein' how him once fought wit' a big
hoctopus."

Bond smiled to himself at the way Quarrel, like most West Indians, added
an 'h' where it wasn't needed and took it off when it was. He went into
his room and dressed in his old dark blue tropical worsted suit, a
sleeveless white cotton shirt and a black knitted tie, looked in the
glass to see that the Walther didn't show under his armpit and went down
and out to where the car was waiting.

They swooped down quietly through the soft singing dusk into Kingston
and turned to the left along the harbour side. They passed one or two
smart restaurants and night clubs from which came the throb and twang of
calypso music. There was a stretch of private houses that dwindled into
a poor-class shopping centre and then into shacks. Then, where the road
curved away from the sea, there was a blaze of golden neon in the shape
of a Spanish galleon above green lettering that said 'The Joy Boat'.
They pulled into a parking place and Bond followed Quarrel through the
gate into a small garden of palm trees growing out of lawn. At the end
was the beach and the sea. Tables were dotted about under the palms, and
in the centre was a small deserted cement dance floor to one side of
which a calypso trio in sequined scarlet shirts was softly improvising
on 'Take her to Jamaica where the rum comes from'.

Only half the tables were filled, mostly by coloured people. There was a
sprinkling of British and American sailors with their girls. An
immensely fat Negro in a smart white dinner jacket left one of the
tables and came to meet them.

"Hi, Mister Q. Long time no see. Nice table for two?"

"That's right, Pus-Feller. Closer to da kitchen dan da music."

The big man chuckled. He led them down towards the sea and placed them
at a quiet table under a palm tree that grew out of the base of the
restaurant building. "Drinks gemmun?"

Bond ordered his gin and tonic with a lime, and Quarrel a Red Stripe
beer. They scanned the menu and both decided on broiled lobster followed
by a rare steak with native vegetables.

The drinks came. The glasses were dripping with condensation. The small
fact reminded Bond of other times in hot climates. A few yards away the
sea lisped on the flat sand. The three-piece began playing 'Kitch'.
Above them the palm fronds clashed softly in the night breeze. A gecko
chuckled somewhere in the garden. Bond thought of the London he had left
the day before. He said, "I like this place, Quarrel."

Quarrel was pleased. "Him a good fren of mine, da Pus-Feller. Him knows
mostly what goes hon hin Kingston case you got hany questions, cap'n.
Him come from da Caymans. Him an' me once share a boat. Then him go hoff
one day catching boobies' heggs hat Crab Key. Went swimmin' to a rock
for more heggs an' dis big hoctopus get him. Dey mos'ly small fellers
roun' here but dey come bigger at da Crab seein' how its alongside de
Cuba Deep, da deepest waters roun' dese parts. Pus-Feller have himself a
bad time wit dis hanimal. Bust one lung cuttin' hisself free. Dat scare
him an' him sell me his half of da boat an' come to Kingston. Dat were
'fore da war. Now him rich man whiles I go hon fishin'." Quarrel
chuckled at the quirk of fate.

"Crab Key," said Bond. "What sort of a place is that?"

Quarrel looked at him sharply. "Dat a bad luck place now, cap'n," he
said shortly. "Chinee gemmun buy hit durin' da war and bring in men and
dig bird-dirt. Don' let nobody land dere and don' let no one get hoff.
We gives it a wide bert'."

"Why's that?"

"Him have plenty watchmen. An' guns--machine guns. An' a radar. An' a
spottin' plane. Frens o' mine have landed dere and him never been seen
again. Dat Chinee keep him island plenty private. Tell da trut', cap'n,"
Quarrel was apologetic, "dat Crab Key scare me plenty."

Bond said thoughtfully, "Well, well."

The food came. They ordered another round of drinks and ate. While they
ate, Bond gave Quarrel an outline of the Strangways case. Quarrel
listened carefully, occasionally asking questions. He was particularly
interested in the birds on Crab Key, and what the watchmen had said, and
how the plane was supposed to have crashed. Finally he pushed his plate
away. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He took out a
cigarette and lit it. He leant forward. "Cap'n," he said softly, "I no
mind if hit was birds or butterflies or bees. If dey was on Crab Key and
da Commander was stickin' his nose into da business, yo kin bet yo
bottom dollar him been mashed. Him and him girl. Da Chinee mash dem for
sho."

Bond looked carefully into the urgent grey eyes. "What makes you so
certain?"

Quarrel spread his hands. To him the answer was simple. "Dat Chinee love
him privacy. Him want be left alone. I know him kill ma frens order keep
folk away from da Crab. Him a mos' powerful man. Him kill hanyone what
hinterfere with him."

"Why?"

"Don' rightly know, cap'n," said Quarrel indifferently. "People dem want
different tings in dis world. An' what dem want sufficient dem gits."

A glint of light caught the corner of Bond's eye. He turned quickly. The
Chinese girl from the airport was standing in the nearby shadows. Now
she was dressed in a tight-fitting sheath of black satin slashed up one
side almost to her hip. She had a Leica with a flash attachment in one
hand. The other was in a leather case at her side. The hand came out
holding a flashbulb. The girl slipped the base into her mouth to wet it
and improve the contact and made to screw it into the reflector.

"Get that girl," said Bond quickly.

In two strides Quarrel was up with her. He held out his hand. "Evenin',
missy," he said softly.

The girl smiled. She let the Leica hang on the thin strap round her
neck. She took Quarrel's hand. Quarrel swung her round like a ballet
dancer. Now he had her hand behind her back and she was in the crook of
his arm.

She looked up at him angrily. "Don't. You're hurting."

Quarrel smiled down into the flashing dark eyes in the pale,
almond-shaped face. "Cap'n like you take a drink wit' we," he said
soothingly. He came back to the table, moving the girl along with him.
He hooked a chair out with his foot and sat her down beside him, keeping
the grip on her wrist behind her back. They sat bolt upright, like
quarrelling lovers.

Bond looked into the pretty, angry little face. "Good evening. What are
you doing here? Why do you want another picture of me?"

"I'm doing the nightspots," the Cupid's bow of a mouth parted
persuasively. "The first picture of you didn't come out. Tell this man
to leave me alone."

"So you work for the _Gleaner_? What's your name?"

"I won't tell you."

Bond cocked an eyebrow at Quarrel.

Quarrel's eyes narrowed. His hand behind the girl's back turned slowly.
The girl struggled like an eel, her teeth clenched on her lower lip.
Quarrel went on twisting. Suddenly she said "Ow!" sharply and gasped,
"I'll tell!" Quarrel eased his grip. The girl looked furiously at Bond:
"Annabel Chung."

Bond said to Quarrel, "Call the Pus-Feller."

Quarrel picked up a fork with his free hand and clanged it against a
glass. The big Negro hurried up.

Bond looked up at him. "Ever seen this girl before?"

"Yes, boss. She come here sometimes. She bein' a nuisance? Want for me
to send her away?"

"No. We like her," said Bond amiably, "but she wants to take a studio
portrait of me and I don't know if she's worth the money. Would you call
up the _Gleaner_ and ask if they've got a photographer called Annabel
Chung? If she really is one of their people she ought to be good
enough."

"Sure, boss." The man hurried away.

Bond smiled at the girl. "Why didn't you ask that man to rescue you?"

The girl glowered at him.

"I'm sorry to have to exert pressure," said Bond, "but my export manager
in London said that Kingston was full of shady characters. I'm sure
you're not one of them, but I really can't understand why you're so
anxious to get my picture. Tell me why."

"What I told you," said the girl sulkily. "It's my job."

Bond tried other questions. She didn't answer them.

The Pus-Feller came up. "That's right, boss. Annabel Chung. One of their
freelance girls. They say she takes fine pictures. You'll be okay with
her." He looked bland. Studio portrait! Studio bed, more like.

"Thanks," said Bond. The Negro went away. Bond turned back to the girl.
"Freelance," he said softly. "That still doesn't explain who wanted my
picture." His face went cold. "Now give!"

"No," said the girl sullenly.

"All right, Quarrel. Go ahead." Bond sat back. His instincts told him
that this was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. If he could get
the answer out of the girl he might be saved weeks of legwork.

Quarrel's right shoulder started to dip downwards. The girl squirmed
towards him to ease the pressure, but he held her body away with his
free hand. The girl's face strained towards Quarrel's. Suddenly she spat
full in his eyes. Quarrel grinned and increased the twist. The girl's
feet kicked wildly under the table. She hissed out words in Chinese.
Sweat beaded on her forehead.

"Tell," said Bond softly. "Tell and it will stop and we'll be friends
and have a drink." He was getting worried. The girl's arm must be on the
verge of breaking.

"---- you." Suddenly the girl's left hand flew up and into Quarrel's
face. Bond was too slow to stop her. Something glinted and there was a
sharp explosion. Bond snatched at her arm and dragged it back. Blood was
streaming down Quarrel's cheek. Glass and metal tinkled on to the table.
She had smashed the flashbulb on Quarrel's face. If she had been able to
reach an eye it would have been blinded.

Quarrel's free hand went up and felt his cheek. He put it in front of
his eyes and looked at the blood. "Aha!" There was nothing but
admiration and a feline pleasure in his voice. He said equably to Bond,
"We get nuthin out of dis gal, cap'n. She plenty tough. You want fe me
to break she's arm?"

"Good God, no." Bond let go the arm he was holding. "Let her go." He
felt angry with himself for having hurt the girl and still failed. But
he had learned something. Whoever was behind her held his people by a
steel chain.

Quarrel brought the girl's right arm from behind her back. He still held
on to the wrist. Now he opened the girl's hand. He looked into her eyes.
His own were cruel. "You mark me, Missy. Now I mark you." He brought up
his other hand and took the Mount of Venus, the soft lozenge of flesh in
the palm below her thumb, between his thumb and forefinger. He began to
squeeze it. Bond could see his knuckles go white with the pressure. The
girl gave a yelp. She hammered at Quarrel's hand and then at his face.
Quarrel grinned and squeezed harder. Suddenly he let go. The girl shot
to her feet and backed away from the table, her bruised hand at her
mouth. She took her hand down and hissed furiously. "He'll get you, you
bastards!" Then, her Leica dangling, she ran off through the trees.

Quarrel laughed shortly. He took a napkin and wiped it down his cheek
and threw it on the ground and took up another. He said to Bond, "She's
Love Moun' be sore long after ma face done get healed. Dat a fine piece
of a woman, de Love Moun'. When him fat like wit' dat girl you kin tell
her'll be good in bed. You know dat, cap'n?"

"No," said Bond. "That's new to me."

"Sho ting. Dat piece of da han' most hindicative. Don' you worry 'bout
she," he added, noticing the dubious expression on Bond's face. "Hers
got nuttin but a big bruise on she's Love Moun'. But boy, was dat a fat
Love Moun'! I come back after dat girl sometime, see if ma teory is da
troof."

Appropriately the band started playing 'Don' touch me tomato'. Bond said
"Quarrel, it's time you married and settled down. And you leave that
girl alone or you'll get a knife between your ribs. Now come on. We'll
get the check and go. It's three o'clock in the morning in London where
I was yesterday. I need a night's sleep. You've got to start getting me
into training. I think I'm going to need it. And it's about time you put
some plaster on that cheek of yours. She's written her name and address
on it."

Quarrel grunted reminiscently. He said with quiet pleasure, "Dat were
some tough baby." He picked up a fork and clanged it against his glass.




                                   V
                            FACTS AND FIGURES


'He'll get you.... He'll get you.... He'll get you, you bastards.'

The words were still ringing in Bond's brain the next day as he sat on
his balcony and ate a delicious breakfast and gazed out across the riot
of tropical gardens to Kingston, five miles below him.

Now he was sure that Strangways and the girl had been killed. Someone
had needed to stop them looking any further into his business, so he had
killed them and destroyed the records of what they were investigating.
The same person knew or suspected that the Secret Service would follow
up Strangways's disappearance. Somehow he had known that Bond had been
given the job. He had wanted a picture of Bond and he had wanted to know
where Bond was staying. He would be keeping an eye on Bond to see if
Bond picked up any of the leads that had led to Strangways's death. If
Bond did so, Bond would also have to be eliminated. There would be a car
smash or a street fight or some other innocent death. And how, Bond
wondered, would this person react to their treatment of the Chung girl?
If he was as ruthless as Bond supposed, that would be enough. It showed
that Bond was on to something. Perhaps Strangways had made a preliminary
report to London before he was killed. Perhaps someone had leaked. The
enemy would be foolish to take chances. If he had any sense, after the
Chung incident, he would deal with Bond and perhaps also with Quarrel
without delay.

Bond lit his first cigarette of the day--the first Royal Blend he had
smoked for five years--and let the smoke come out between his teeth in a
luxurious hiss. That was his 'Enemy Appreciation'. Now, who was this
enemy?

Well, there was only one candidate, and a pretty insubstantial one at
that, Doctor No, Doctor Julius No, the German Chinese who owned Crab Key
and made his money out of guano. There had been nothing on this man in
Records and a signal to the FBI had been negative. The affair of the
roseate spoonbills and the trouble with the Audubon Society meant
precisely nothing except, as M had said, that a lot of old women had got
excited about some pink storks. All the same, four people had died
because of these storks and, most significant of all to Bond, Quarrel
was scared of Doctor No and his island. That was very odd indeed. Cayman
Islanders, least of all Quarrel, did not scare easily. And why had
Doctor No got this mania for privacy? Why did he go to such expense and
trouble to keep people away from his guano island? Guano--bird dung. Who
wanted the stuff? How valuable was it? Bond was due to call on the
Governor at ten o'clock. After he had made his number he would get hold
of the Colonial Secretary and try and find out all about the damned
stuff and about Crab Key and, if possible, about Doctor No.

There was a double knock on the door. Bond got up and unlocked it. It
was Quarrel, his left cheek decorated with a piratical cross of
sticking-plaster. "Mornin', cap'n. Yo said eight-tirty."

"Yes, come on in, Quarrel. We've got a busy day. Had some breakfast?"

"Yes, tank you, cap'n. Salt fish an' ackee an' a tot of rum."

"Good God," said Bond. "That's tough stuff to start the day on."

"Mos' refreshin'," said Quarrel stolidly.

They sat down outside on the balcony. Bond offered Quarrel a cigarette
and lit one himself. "Now then," he said. "I'll be spending most of the
day at King's House and perhaps at the Jamaica Institute. I shan't need
you till tomorrow morning, but there are some things for you to do
downtown. All right?"

"Okay, cap'n. Jes' yo say."

"First of all, that car of ours is hot. We've got to get rid of it. Go
down to Motta's or one of the other hire people and pick up the newest
and best little self-drive car you can find, the one with the least
mileage. Saloon. Take it for a month. Right? Then hunt around the
waterfront and find two men who look as near as possible like us. One
must be able to drive a car. Buy them both clothes, at least for their
top halves, that look like ours. And the sort of hats we might wear. Say
we want a car taken over to Montego tomorrow morning--by the Spanish
Town, Ocho Rios road. To be left at Levy's garage there. Ring up Levy
and tell him to expect it and keep it for us. Right?"

Quarrel grinned. "Yo want fox someone?"

"That's right. They'll get ten pounds each. Say I'm a rich American and
I want my car to arrive in Montego Bay driven by a respectable couple of
men. Make me out a bit mad. They must be here at six o'clock tomorrow
morning. You'll be here with the other car. See they look the part and
send them off in the Sunbeam with the roof down. Right?"

"Okay, cap'n."

"What's happened to that house we had on the North Shore last time--Beau
Desert at Morgan's Harbour? Do you know if it's let?"

"Couldn't say, cap'n. Hit's well away from de tourist places and dey
askin' a big rent for it."

"Well, go to Graham Associates and see if you can rent it for a month,
or another bungalow near by. I don't mind what you pay. Say it's for a
rich American, Mr James. Get the keys and pay the rent and say I'll
write and confirm. I can telephone them if they want more details." Bond
reached into his hip pocket and brought out a thick wad of notes. He
handed half of it to Quarrel. "Here's two hundred pounds. That should
cover all this. Get in touch if you want some more. You know where I'll
be."

"Tanks, cap'n," said Quarrel, awestruck by the big sum. He stowed it
away inside his blue shirt and buttoned the shirt up to his neck.
"Anyting helse?"

"No, but take a lot of trouble about not being followed. Leave the car
somewhere downtown and walk to these places. And watch out particularly
for any Chinese near you." Bond got up and they went to the door. "See
you tomorrow morning at six-fifteen and we'll get over to the North
Coast. As far as I can see that's going to be our base for a while."

Quarrel nodded. His face was enigmatic. He said "Okay, cap'n" and went
off down the corridor.

Half an hour later Bond went downstairs and took a taxi to King's House.
He didn't sign the Governor's book in the cool hall. He was put in a
waiting room for the quarter of an hour necessary to show him that he
was unimportant. Then the ADC came for him and took him up to the
Governor's study on the first floor.

It was a large cool room smelling of cigar smoke. The Acting Governor,
in a cream tussore suit and an inappropriate wing collar and spotted bow
tie, was sitting at a broad mahogany desk on which there was nothing but
the _Daily Gleaner_, the _Times Weekly_ and a bowl of hibiscus blossoms.
His hands lay flat on the desk in front of him. He was sixtyish with a
red, rather petulant face and bright, bitter blue eyes. He didn't smile
or get up. He said, "Good morning, Mr--er--Bond. Please sit down."

Bond took the chair across the desk from the Governor and sat down. He
said, "Good morning, sir," and waited. A friend at the Colonial Office
had told him his reception would be frigid. 'He's nearly at retiring
age. Only an interim appointment. We had to find an Acting Governor to
take over at short notice when Sir Hugh Foot was promoted. Foot was a
great success. This man's not even trying to compete. He knows he's only
got the job for a few months while we find someone to replace Foot. This
man's been passed over for the Governor Generalship of Rhodesia. Now all
he wants is to retire and get some directorships in the City. Last thing
he wants is any trouble in Jamaica. He keeps on trying to close this
Strangways case of yours. Won't like you ferreting about.'

The Governor cleared his throat. He recognized that Bond wasn't one of
the servile ones. "You wanted to see me?"

"Just to make my number, sir," said Bond equably. "I'm here on the
Strangways case. I think you had a signal from the Secretary of State."
This was a reminder that the people behind Bond were powerful people.
Bond didn't like attempts to squash him or his Service.

"I recall the signal. And what can I do for you? So far as we're
concerned here the case is closed."

"In what way 'closed', sir?"

The Governor said roughly, "Strangways obviously did a bunk with the
girl. Unbalanced sort of fellow at the best of times. Some of
your--er--colleagues don't seem to be able to leave women alone." The
Governor clearly included Bond. "Had to bail the chap out of various
scandals before now. Doesn't do the Colony any good, Mr--er--Bond. Hope
your people will be sending us a rather better type of man to take his
place. That is," he added coldly, "if a Regional Control man is really
needed here. Personally I have every confidence in our police."

Bond smiled sympathetically. "I'll report your views, sir. I expect my
Chief will like to discuss them with the Minister of Defence and the
Secretary of State. Naturally, if you would like to take over these
extra duties it will be a saving in manpower so far as my Service is
concerned. I'm sure the Jamaican Constabulary is most efficient."

The Governor looked at Bond suspiciously. Perhaps he had better handle
this man a bit more carefully. "This is an informal discussion, Mr Bond.
When I have decided on my views I will communicate them myself to the
Secretary of State. In the meantime, is there anyone you wish to see on
my staff?"

"I'd like to have a word with the Colonial Secretary, sir."

"Really? And why, pray?"

"There's been some trouble on Crab Key. Something about a bird
sanctuary. The case was passed to us by the Colonial Office. My Chief
asked me to look into it while I'm here."

The Governor looked relieved. "Certainly, certainly. I'll see that Mr
Pleydell-Smith receives you straight away. So you feel we can leave the
Strangways case to sort itself out? They'll turn up before long, never
fear." He reached over and rang a bell. The ADC came in. "This gentleman
would like to see the Colonial Secretary, ADC. Take him along, would
you? I'll call Mr Pleydell-Smith myself and ask him to make himself
available." He got up and came round the desk. He held out his hand.
"Goodbye, then Mr Bond. And I'm so glad we see eye to eye. Crab Key, eh?
Never been there myself, but I'm sure it would repay a visit."

Bond shook hands. "That was what I was thinking. Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye, goodbye." The Governor watched Bond's back retreating out of
the door and himself returned well satisfied to his desk. "Young
whippersnapper," he said to the empty room. He sat down and said a few
peremptory words down the telephone to the Colonial Secretary. Then he
picked up the _Times Weekly_ and turned to the Stock Exchange prices.

The Colonial Secretary was a youngish shaggy-haired man with bright,
boyish eyes. He was one of those nervous pipe smokers who are constantly
patting their pockets for matches, shaking the box to see how many are
left in it, or knocking the dottle out of their pipes. After he had gone
through this routine two or three times in his first ten minutes with
Bond, Bond wondered if he ever got any smoke into his lungs at all.

After pumping energetically at Bond's hand and waving vaguely at a
chair, Pleydell-Smith walked up and down the room scratching his temple
with the stem of his pipe. "Bond. Bond. Bond! Rings a bell. Now let me
see. Yes, by jove! You were the chap who was mixed up in that treasure
business here. By jove, yes! Four, five years ago. Found the file lying
around only the other day. Splendid show. What a lark! I say, wish you'd
start another bonfire like that here. Stir the place up a bit. All they
think of nowadays is Federation and their bloody self-importance.
Self-determination indeed! They can't even run a bus service. And the
colour problem! My dear chap, there's far more colour problem between
the straight-haired and the crinkly-haired Jamaicans than there is
between me and my black cook. However--" Pleydell-Smith came to rest
beside his desk. He sat down opposite Bond and draped one leg over the
arm of his chair. Reaching for a tobacco jar with the arms of King's
College, Cambridge, on it, he dug into it and started filling his
pipe--"I mean to say I don't want to bore you with all that. You go
ahead and bore me. What's your problem? Glad to help. I bet it's more
interesting than this muck," he waved at the pile of papers in his _In_
tray.

Bond grinned at him. This was more like it. He had found an ally, and an
intelligent one at that. "Well," he said seriously, "I'm here on the
Strangways case. But first of all I want to ask you a question that may
sound odd. Exactly how did you come to be looking at that other case of
mine? You say you found the file lying about. How was that? Had someone
asked for it? I don't want to be indiscreet, so don't answer if you
don't want to. I'm just inquisitive."

Pleydell-Smith cocked an eye at him. "I suppose that's your job." He
reflected, gazing at the ceiling. "Well, now I come to think of it I saw
it on my secretary's desk. She's a new girl. Said she was trying to get
up to date with the files. Mark you," the Colonial Secretary hastened to
exonerate his girl, "there were plenty of other files on her desk. It
was just this one that caught my eye."

"Oh, I see," said Bond. "It was like that." He smiled apologetically.
"Sorry, but various people seem to be rather interested in me being
here. What I really wanted to talk to you about was Crab Key. Anything
you know about the place. And about this Chinaman, Doctor No, who bought
it. And anything you can tell me about his guano business. Rather a tall
order, I'm afraid, but any scraps will help."

Pleydell-Smith laughed shortly through the stem of his pipe. He jerked
the pipe out of his mouth and talked while he tamped down the burning
tobacco with his matchbox. "Bitten off a bit more than you can chew on
guano. Talk to you for hours about it. Started in the Consular before I
transferred to the Colonial Office. First job was in Peru. Had a lot to
do with their people who administer the whole trade--_Campania
Aministradora del Guano_. Nice people." The pipe was going now and
Pleydell-Smith threw his matchbox down on the table. "As for the rest,
it's just a question of getting the file." He rang a bell. In a minute
the door opened behind Bond. "Miss Taro, the file on Crab Key, please.
The one on the sale of the place and the other one on that warden fellow
who turned up before Christmas. Miss Longfellow will know where to find
them."

A soft voice said, "Yes, sir." Bond heard the door close.

"Now then, guano." Pleydell-Smith tilted his chair back. Bond prepared
to be bored. "As you know, it's bird dung. Comes from the rear end of
two birds, the masked booby and the guanay. So far as Crab Key is
concerned, it's only the guanay, otherwise known as the green cormorant,
same bird as you find in England. The guanay is a machine for converting
fish into guano. They mostly eat anchovies. Just to show you how much
fish they eat, they've found up to seventy anchovies inside one bird!"
Pleydell-Smith took out his pipe and pointed it impressively at Bond.
"The whole population of Peru eats four thousand tons of fish a year.
The sea birds of the country eat five hundred thousand tons!"

Bond pursed his lips to show he was impressed. "Really."

"Well, now," continued the Colonial Secretary, "every day each one of
these hundreds of thousands of guanays eat a pound or so of fish and
deposit an ounce of guano on the guanera--that's the guano island."

Bond interrupted, "Why don't they do it in the sea?"

"Don't know." Pleydell-Smith took the question and turned it over in his
mind. "Never occurred to me. Anyway they don't. They do it on the land
and they've been doing it since before Genesis. That makes the hell of a
lot of bird dung--millions of tons of it on the Pescadores and the other
guanera. Then, around 1850 someone discovered it was the greatest
natural fertilizer in the world--stuffed with nitrates and phosphates
and what have you. And the ships and the men came to the guaneras and
simply ravaged them for twenty years or more. It's a time known as the
'Saturnalia' in Peru. It was like the Klondyke. People fought over the
muck, hi-jacked each other's ships, shot the workers, sold phoney maps
of secret guano islands--anything you like. And people made fortunes out
of the stuff."

"Where does Crab Key come in?" Bond wanted to get down to cases.

"That was the only worthwhile guanera so far north. It was worked too,
God knows who by. But the stuff had a low nitrate content. Water's not
as rich round here as it is down along the Humboldt Current. So the fish
aren't so rich in chemicals. So the guano isn't so rich either. Crab Key
got worked on and off when the price was high enough, but the whole
industry went bust, with Crab Key and the other poor-quality deposits in
the van, when the Germans invented artificial chemical manure. By this
time Peru had realized that she had squandered a fantastic capital asset
and she set about organizing the remains of the industry and protecting
the guanera. She nationalized the industry and protected the birds, and
slowly, very slowly, the supplies built up again. Then people found that
there were snags about the German stuff, it impoverishes the soil, which
guano doesn't do, and gradually the price of guano improved and the
industry staggered back to its feet. Now it's going fine, except that
Peru keeps most of the guano to herself, for her own agriculture. And
that was where Crab Key came in again."

"Ah."

"Yes," said Pleydell-Smith, patting his pockets for the matches, finding
them on the desk, shaking them against his ear, and starting his
pipe-filling routine, "at the beginning of the war, this Chinaman, who
must be a wily devil, by the way, got the idea that he could make a good
thing out of the old guanera on Crab Key. The price was about fifty
dollars a ton on this side of the Atlantic and he bought the island from
us, for about ten thousand pounds as I recall it, brought in labour and
got to work. Been working it ever since. Must have made a fortune. He
ships direct to Europe, to Antwerp. They send him a ship once a month.
He's installed the latest crushers and separators. Sweats his labour, I
daresay. To make a decent profit, he'd have to. Particularly now. Last
year I heard he was only getting about thirty-eight to forty dollars a
ton c.i.f. Antwerp. God knows what he must pay his labour to make a
profit at that price. I've never been able to find out. He runs that
place like a fortress--sort of forced labour camp. No one ever gets off
it. I've heard some funny rumours, but no one's ever complained. It's
his island, of course, and he can do what he likes on it."

Bond hunted for clues. "Would it really be so valuable to him, this
place? What do you suppose it's worth?"

Pleydell-Smith said, "The guanay is the most valuable bird in the world.
Each pair produces about two dollars' worth of guano in a year without
any expense to the owner. Each female lays an average of three eggs and
raises two young. Two broods a year. Say they're worth fifteen dollars a
pair, and say there are one hundred thousand birds on Crab Key, which is
a reasonable guess on the old figures we have. That makes his birds
worth a million and a half dollars. Pretty valuable property. Add the
value of the installations, say another million, and you've got a small
fortune on that hideous little place. Which reminds me," Pleydell-Smith
pressed the bell, "what the hell has happened to those files? You'll
find all the dope you want in them."

The door opened behind Bond.

Pleydell-Smith said irritably, "Really, Miss Taro. What about those
files?"

"Very sorry, sir," said the soft voice. "But we can't find them
anywhere."

"What do you mean 'can't find them'? Who had them last?"

"Commander Strangways, sir."

"Well, I remember distinctly him bringing them back to this room. What
happened to them then?"

"Can't say, sir," the voice was unemotional. "The covers are there but
there's nothing inside them."

Bond turned in his chair. He glanced at the girl and turned back. He
smiled grimly to himself. He knew where the files had gone. He also knew
why the old file on himself had been out on the Secretary's desk. He
also guessed how the particular significance of 'James Bond, Import and
Export Merchant' seemed to have leaked out of King's House, the only
place where the significance was known.

Like Doctor No, like Miss Annabel Chung, the demure, efficient-looking
little secretary in the horn-rimmed glasses was a Chinese.




                                   VI
                        THE FINGER ON THE TRIGGER


The Colonial Secretary gave Bond lunch at Queen's Club. They sat in a
corner of the elegant mahogany panelled dining-room with its four big
ceiling fans and gossiped about Jamaica. By the time coffee came,
Pleydell-Smith was delving well below the surface of the prosperous,
peaceful island the world knows.

"It's like this." He began his antics with the pipe. "The Jamaican is a
kindly lazy man with the virtues and vices of a child. He lives on a
very rich island but he doesn't get rich from it. He doesn't know how to
and he's too lazy. The British come and go and take the easy pickings,
but for about two hundred years no Englishman has made a fortune out
here. He doesn't stay long enough. He takes a fat cut and leaves. It's
the Portuguese Jews who make the most. They came here with the British
and they've stayed. But they're snobs and they spend too much of their
fortunes on building fine houses and giving dances. They're the names
that fill the social column in the _Gleaner_ when the tourists have
gone. They're in rum and tobacco and they represent the big British
firms over here--motor cars, insurance and so forth. Then come the
Syrians, very rich too, but not such good businessmen. They have most of
the stores and some of the best hotels. They're not a very good risk.
Get overstocked and have to have an occasional fire to get liquid again.
Then there are the Indians with their usual flashy trade in soft goods
and the like. They're not much of a lot. Finally there are the Chinese,
solid, compact, discreet--the most powerful clique in Jamaica. They've
got the bakeries and the laundries and the best food stores. They keep
to themselves and keep their strain pure." Pleydell-Smith laughed. "Not
that they don't take the black girls when they want them. You can see
the result all over Kingston--Chigroes--Chinese Negroes and Negresses.
The Chigroes are a tough, forgotten race. They look down on the Negroes
and the Chinese look down on them. One day they may become a nuisance.
They've got some of the intelligence of the Chinese and most of the
vices of the black man. The police have a lot of trouble with them."

Bond said, "That secretary of yours. Would she be one of them?"

"That's right. Bright girl and very efficient. Had her for about six
months. She was far the best of the ones that answered our
advertisement."

"She looks bright," said Bond non-committally. "Are they organized,
these people? Is there some head of the Chinese Negro community?"

"Not yet. But someone'll get hold of them one of these days. They'd be a
useful little pressure group." Pleydell-Smith glanced at his watch.
"That reminds me. Must be getting along. Got to go and read the riot act
about those files. Can't think what happened to them. I distinctly
remember..." He broke off. "However, main point, is that I haven't
been able to give you much dope about Crab Key and this doctor fellow.
But I can tell you there wasn't much you'd have found out from the
files. He seems to have been a pleasant spoken chap. Very businesslike.
Then there was that argument with the Audubon Society. I gather you know
all about that. As for the place itself, there was nothing on the files
but one or two pre-war reports and a copy of the last ordnance survey.
God-forsaken bloody place it sounds. Nothing but miles of mangrove
swamps and a huge mountain of bird dung at one end. But you said you
were going down to the Institute. Why don't I take you there and
introduce you to the fellow who runs the map section?"

An hour later Bond was ensconced in a corner of a sombre room with the
ordnance survey map of Crab Key, dated 1910, spread out on a table in
front of him. He had a sheet of the Institute's writing-paper and had
made a rough sketch-map and was jotting down the salient points.

The overall area of the island was about fifty square miles.
Three-quarters of this, to the east, was swamp and shallow lake. From
the lake a flat river meandered down to the sea and came out halfway
along the south coast into a small sandy bay. Bond guessed that
somewhere at the headwaters of the river would be a likely spot for the
Audubon wardens to have chosen for their camp. To the west, the island
rose steeply to a hill stated to be five hundred feet high and ended
abruptly with what appeared to be a sheer drop to the sea. A dotted line
led from this hill to a box in the corner of the map which contained the
words _Guano deposits. Last workings 1880._

There was no sign of a road, or even of a track on the island, and no
sign of a house. The relief map showed that the island looked rather
like a swimming water rat--a flat spine rising sharply to the
head--heading west. It appeared to be about thirty miles due north of
Galina Point on the north shore of Jamaica and about sixty miles south
of Cuba.

Little else could be gleaned from the map. Crab Key was surrounded by
shoal water except below the western cliff where the nearest marking was
five hundred fathoms. After that came the plunge into the Cuba Deep.
Bond folded the map and handed it in to the librarian.

Suddenly he felt exhausted. It was only four o'clock, but it was
roasting in Kingston and his shirt was sticking to him. Bond walked out
of the Institute and found a taxi and went back up into the cool hills
to his hotel. He was well satisfied with his day, but nothing else could
be done on this side of the island. He would spend a quiet evening at
his hotel and be ready to get up early next morning and be away.

Bond went to the reception desk to see if there was a message from
Quarrel. "No messages, sir," said the girl. "But a basket of fruit came
from King's House. Just after lunch. The messenger took it up to your
room."

"What sort of a messenger?"

"Coloured man, sir. Said he was from the ADC's office."

"Thank you." Bond took his key and went up the stairs to the first
floor. It was ridiculously improbable. His hand on the gun under his
coat, Bond softly approached his door. He turned the key and kicked the
door open. The empty room yawned at him. Bond shut and locked the door.
On his dressing table was a large, ornate basket of fruit--tangerines,
grapefruit, pink bananas, soursop, star-apples and even a couple of
hot-house nectarines. Attached to a broad ribbon on the handle was a
white envelope. Bond removed it and held it up to the light. He opened
it. On a plain sheet of expensive white writing paper was typed 'With
the Compliments of His Excellency the Governor'.

Bond snorted. He stood looking at the fruit. He bent his ear to it and
listened. He then took the basket by the handle and tipped its contents
out on to the floor. The fruit bounced and rolled over the coconut
matting. There was nothing but fruit in the basket. Bond grinned at his
precautions. There was a last possibility. He picked up one of the
nectarines, the most likely for a greedy man to choose first, and took
it into the bathroom. He dropped it in the washbasin and went back to
the bedroom and, after inspecting the lock, unlocked the wardrobe.
Gingerly he lifted out his suitcase and stood it in the middle of the
room. He knelt down and looked for the traces of talcum powder he had
dusted round the two locks. They were smeared and there were minute
scratches round the keyholes. Bond sourly examined the marks. These
people were not as careful as some others he had had to deal with. He
unlocked the case and stood it up on end. There were four innocent
copper studs in the welting at the front right-hand corner of the lid.
Bond prised at the top one of these studs with his nail and it eased
out. He took hold of it and pulled out three feet of thick steel wire
and put it on the floor beside him. This wire threaded through small
wire loops inside the lid and sewed the case shut. Bond lifted the lid
and verified that nothing had been disturbed. From his 'tool case' he
took out a jeweller's glass and went back into the bathroom and switched
on the light over the shaving mirror. He screwed the glass into his eye
and gingerly picked the nectarine out of the washbasin and revolved it
slowly between finger and thumb.

Bond stopped turning the nectarine. He had come to a minute pinhole, its
edges faintly discoloured brown. It was in the crevice of the fruit,
invisible except under a magnifying glass. Bond put the nectarine
carefully down in the washbasin. He stood for a moment and looked
thoughtfully into his eyes in the mirror.

So it _was_ war! Well, well. How very interesting. Bond felt the slight
tautening of the skin at the base of his stomach. He smiled thinly at
his reflection in the mirror. So his instincts and his reasoning had
been correct. Strangways and the girl had been murdered and their
records destroyed because they had got too hot on the trail. Then Bond
had come on the scene and, thanks to Miss Taro, they had been waiting
for him. Miss Chung, and perhaps the taxi driver, had picked up the
scent. He had been traced to the Blue Hills hotel. The first shot had
been fired. There would be others. And whose finger was on the trigger?
Who had got him so accurately in his sights? Bond's mind was made up.
The evidence was nil. But he was certain of it. This was long-range
fire, from Crab Key. The man behind the gun was Doctor No.

Bond walked back into the bedroom. One by one he picked up the fruit and
took each piece back to the bathroom and examined it through his glass.
The pin-prick was always there, concealed in the stalk-hole or a
crevice. Bond rang down and asked for a cardboard box and paper and
string. He packed the fruit carefully in the box and picked up the
telephone and called King's House. He asked for the Colonial Secretary.
"That you, Pleydell-Smith? James Bond speaking. Sorry to bother you. Got
a bit of a problem. Is there a public analyst in Kingston? I see. Well,
I've got something I want analysed. If I sent the box down to you, would
you be very kind and pass it on to this chap? I don't want my name to
come into this. All right? I'll explain later. When you get his report
would you send me a short telegram telling me the answer? I'll be at
Beau Desert, over at Morgan's Harbour, for the next week or so. Be glad
if you'd keep that to yourself too. Sorry to be so damned mysterious.
I'll explain everything when I see you next. I expect you'll get a clue
when you see what the analyst has to say. And by the way, tell him to
handle the specimens carefully, would you. Warn him there's more in them
than meets the eye. Very many thanks. Lucky I met you this morning.
Goodbye."

Bond addressed the parcel and went down and paid a taxi to deliver it at
once to King's House. It was six o'clock. He went back to his room and
had a shower and changed and ordered his first drink. He was about to
take it out on the balcony when the telephone rang. It was Quarrel.

"Everyting fixed, cap'n."

"Everything? That's wonderful. That house all right?"

"Everyting okay." Quarrel repeated, his voice careful. "See yo as yo
done said, cap'n."

"Fine," said Bond. He was impressed with Quarrel's efficiency and a
sense of security. He put down the telephone and went out on to the
balcony.

The sun was just setting. The wave of violet shadow was creeping down
towards the town and the harbour. When it hits the town, thought Bond,
the lights will go on. It happened as he had expected. Above him there
was the noise of a plane. It came into sight, a Super Constellation, the
same flight that Bond had been on the night before. Bond watched it
sweep out over the sea and then turn and come in to land at the
Palisadoes airport. What a long way he had come since-that moment, only
twenty-four hours before, when the door of the plane had clanged open
and the loudspeaker had said, 'This is Kingston, Jamaica. Will
passengers please remain seated until the aircraft has been cleared by
the Health Authorities.'

Should he tell M how the picture had changed? Should he make a report to
the Governor? Bond thought of the Governor and dismissed that idea. But
what about M? Bond had his own cipher. He could easily send M a signal
through the Colonial Office. What would he say to M? That Doctor No had
sent him some poisoned fruit? But he didn't even know that it was
poisoned, or, for the matter of that, that it had come from Doctor No.
Bond could see M's face as he read the signal. He saw him press down the
lever on the intercom: "Chief of Staff, 007's gone round the bend. Says
someone's been trying to feed him a poisoned banana. Fellow's lost his
nerve. Been in hospital too long. Better call him home."

Bond smiled to himself. He got up and rang down for another drink. It
wouldn't be quite like that, of course. But still... No, he'd wait
until he had something more to show. Of course if something went badly
wrong, and he hadn't sent a warning, he'd be in trouble. It was up to
him to see that nothing did go wrong.

Bond drank his second drink and thought over the details of his plan.
Then he went down and had dinner in the half-deserted dining-room and
read the _Handbook of the West Indies_. By nine o'clock he was half
asleep. He went back to his room and packed his bag ready for the
morning. He telephoned down and arranged to be called at five-thirty.
Then he bolted the door on the inside, and also shut and bolted the
slatted jalousies across the windows. It would mean a hot, stuffy night.
That couldn't be helped. Bond climbed naked under the single cotton
sheet and turned over on his left side and slipped his right hand on to
the butt of the Walther PPK under the pillow. In five minutes he was
asleep.

The next thing Bond knew was that it was three o'clock in the morning.
He knew it was three o'clock because the luminous dial of his watch was
close to his face. He lay absolutely still. There was not a sound in the
room. He strained his ears. Outside, too, it was deathly quiet. Far in
the distance a dog started to bark. Other dogs joined in and there was a
brief hysterical chorus which stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Then
it was quite quiet again. The moon coming through the slats in the
jalousies threw black and white bars across the corner of the room next
to his bed. It was as if he was lying in a cage. What had woken him up?
Bond moved softly, preparing to slip out of bed.

Bond stopped moving. He stopped as dead as a live man can.

Something had stirred on his right ankle. Now it was moving up the
inside of his shin. Bond could feel the hairs on his leg being parted.
It was an insect of some sort. A very big one. It was long, five or six
inches--as long as his hand. He could feel dozens of tiny feet lightly
touching his skin. What was it?

Then Bond heard something he had never heard before--the sound of the
hair on his head rasping up on the pillow. Bond analysed the noise. It
couldn't be! It simply couldn't! Yes, his hair was standing on end. Bond
could even feel the cool air reaching his scalp between the hairs. How
extraordinary! How very extraordinary! He had always thought it was a
figure of speech. But why? Why was it happening to him?

The thing on his leg moved. Suddenly Bond realized that he was afraid,
terrified. His instincts, even before they had communicated with his
brain, had told his body that he had a centipede on him.

Bond lay frozen. He had once seen a tropical centipede in a bottle of
spirit on the shelf in a museum. It had been pale brown and very flat
and five or six inches long--about the length of this one. On either
side of the blunt head there had been curved poison claws. The label on
the bottle had said that its poison was mortal if it hit an artery. Bond
had looked curiously at the corkscrew of dead cuticle and had moved on.

The centipede had reached his knee. It was starting up his thigh.
Whatever happened he mustn't move, mustn't even tremble. Bond's whole
consciousness had drained down to the two rows of softly creeping feet.
Now they had reached his flank. God, it was turning down towards his
groin! Bond set his teeth! Supposing it liked the warmth there!
Supposing it tried to crawl into the crevices! Could he stand it?
Supposing it chose that place to bite? Bond could feel it questing
amongst the first hairs. It tickled. The skin on Bond's belly fluttered.
There was nothing he could do to control it. But now the thing was
turning up and along his stomach. Its feet were gripping tighter to
prevent it falling. Now it was at his heart. If it bit there, surely it
would kill him. The centipede trampled steadily on through the thin
hairs on Bond's right breast up to his collar bone. It stopped. What was
it doing? Bond could feel the blunt head questing blindly to and fro.
What was it looking for? Was there room between his skin and the sheet
for it to get through? Dare he lift the sheet an inch to help it. No.
Never! The animal was at the base of his jugular. Perhaps it was
intrigued by the heavy pulse there. Christ, if only he could control the
pumping of his blood. Damn you! Bond tried to communicate with the
centipede. It's nothing. It's not dangerous, that pulse. It means you no
harm. Get on out into the fresh air!

As if the beast had heard, it moved on up the column of the neck and
into the stubble on Bond's chin. Now it was at the corner of his mouth,
tickling madly. On it went, up along the nose. Now he could feel its
whole weight and length. Softly Bond closed his eyes. Two by two the
pairs of feet, moving alternately, trampled across his right eyelid.
When it got off his eye, should he take a chance and shake it off--rely
on its feet slipping in his sweat? No, for God's sake! The grip of the
feet was endless. He might shake one lot off, but not the rest.

With incredible deliberation the huge insect ambled across Bond's
forehead. It stopped below the hair. What the hell was it doing now?
Bond could feel it nuzzling at his skin. It was drinking! Drinking the
beads of salt sweat. Bond was sure of it. For minutes it hardly moved.
Bond felt weak with the tension. He could feel the sweat pouring off the
rest of his body on to the sheet. In a second his limbs would start to
tremble. He could feel it coming on. He would start to shake with an
ague of fear. Could he control it, could he? Bond lay and waited, the
breath coming softly through his open, snarling mouth.

The centipede started to move again. It walked into the forest of hair.
Bond could feel the roots being pushed aside as it forced its way along.
Would it like it there? Would it settle down? How did centipedes sleep?
Curled up, or at full length? The tiny centipedes he had known as a
child, the ones that always seemed to find their way up the plughole
into the empty bath, curled up when you touched them. Now it had come to
where his head lay against the sheet. Would it walk out on to the pillow
or would it stay on in the warm forest? The centipede stopped. Out! OUT!
Bond's nerves screamed at it.

The centipede stirred. Slowly it walked out of his hair on to the
pillow.

Bond waited a second. Now he could hear the rows of feet picking softly
at the cotton. It was a tiny scraping noise, like soft fingernails.

With a crash that shook the room Bond's body jackknifed out of bed and
on to the floor.

At once Bond was on his feet and at the door. He turned on the light. He
found he was shaking uncontrollably. He staggered to the bed. There it
was crawling out of sight over the edge of the pillow. Bond's first
instinct was to twitch the pillow on to the floor. He controlled
himself, waiting for his nerves to quieten. Then softly, deliberately,
he picked up the pillow by one corner and walked into the middle of the
room and dropped it. The centipede came out from under the pillow. It
started to snake swiftly away across the matting. Now Bond was
uninterested. He looked round for something to kill it with. Slowly he
went and picked up a shoe and came back. The danger was past. His mind
was now wondering how the centipede had got into his bed. He lifted the
shoe and slowly, almost carelessly, smashed it down. He heard the crack
of the hard carapace.

Bond lifted the shoe.

The centipede was whipping from side to side in its agony--five inches
of grey-brown, shiny death. Bond hit it again. It burst open, yellowly.

Bond dropped the shoe and ran for the bathroom and was violently sick.




                                  VII
                              NIGHT PASSAGE


"By the way, Quarrel--" Bond dared a bus with 'Brown Bomber' painted
above its windshield. The bus pulled over and roared on down the hill
towards Kingston sounding a furious chord on its triple windhorn to
restore the driver's ego, "--what do you know about centipedes?"

"Centipedes, cap'n?" Quarrel squinted sideways for a clue to the
question. Bond's expression was casual. "Well, we got some bad ones here
in Jamaica. Tree, fo, five inches long. Dey kills folks. Dey mos'ly
lives in de old houses in Kingston. Dey loves de rotten wood an' de
mouldy places. Dey hoperates mos'ly at night. Why, cap'n? Yo seen one?"

Bond dodged the question. He had also not told Quarrel about the fruit.
Quarrel was a tough man, but there was no reason to sow the seeds of
fear. "Would you expect to find one in a modern house, for instance? In
your shoe, or in a drawer, or in your bed?"

"Nossir." Quarrel's voice was definite. "Not hunless dem put dere a
purpose. Dese hinsecks love de holes and de crannies. Dey not love de
clean places. Dey dirty-livin' hinsecks. Mebbe yo find dem in de bush,
under logs an' stones. But never in de bright places."

"I see." Bond changed the subject. "By the way, did those two men get
off all right in the Sunbeam?"

"Sho ting, cap'n. Dey plenty happy wid de job. An' dey look plenty like
yo an' me, cap'n." Quarrel chuckled. He glanced at Bond and said
hesitantly, "I fears dey weren't very good citizens, cap'n. Had to find
de two men wheres I could. Me, I'm a beggarman, cap'n. An' fo you,
cap'n, I get a misrable no-good whiteman from Betsy's."

"Who's Betsy?"

"She done run de lousiest brothel in town, cap'n," Quarrel spat
emphatically out of the window. "Dis whiteman, he does de book-keepin'."

Bond laughed. "So long as he can drive a car. I only hope they get to
Montego all right."

"Don' yo worry," Quarrel misunderstood Bond's concern. "I say I tell de
police dey stole de car if dey don'."

They were at the saddleback at Stony Hill where the Junction Road dives
down through fifty S-bends towards the North Coast. Bond put the little
Austin A.30 into second gear and let it coast. The sun was coming up
over the Blue Mountain peak and dusty shafts of gold lanced into the
plunging valley. There were few people on the road--an occasional man
going off to his precipitous smallholding on the flank of a hill, his
three-foot steel cutlass dangling from his right hand, chewing at his
breakfast, a foot of raw sugar cane held in his left, or a woman
sauntering up the road with a covered basket of fruit or vegetables for
Stony Hill market, her shoes on her head, to be donned when she got near
the village. It was a savage, peaceful scene that had hardly changed,
except for the surface of the road, for two hundred years or more. Bond
almost smelled the dung of the mule train in which he would have been
riding over from Port Royal to visit the garrison at Morgan's Harbour in
1750.

Quarrel interrupted his thoughts. "Cap'n," he said apologetically,
"beggin' yo pardon, but kin yo tell me what yo have in mind for we? I'se
bin puzzlin' an' Ah caint seem to figger hout yo game."

"I've hardly figured it out myself, Quarrel." Bond changed up into top
and dawdled through the cool, beautiful glades of Castleton Gardens. "I
told you I'm here because Commander Strangways and his secretary have
disappeared. Most people think they've gone off together. I think
they've been murdered."

"Dat so?" said Quarrel unemotionally. "Who yo tink done hit?"

"I've come to agree with you. I think Doctor No, that Chinaman on Crab
Key, had it done. Strangways was poking his nose into this man's
affairs--something to do with the bird sanctuary. Doctor No has this
mania for privacy. You were telling me so yourself. Seems he'll do
anything to stop people climbing over his wall. Mark you, it's not more
than a guess about Doctor No. But some funny things happened in the last
twenty-four hours. That's why I sent the Sunbeam over to Montego, to lay
a false scent. And that's why we're going to hide out at the Beau Desert
for a few days."

"Den what, cap'n?"

"First of all I want you to get me absolutely fit--the way you trained
me the last time I was here. Remember?"

"Sho, cap'n. Ah kin do dat ting."

"And then I was thinking you and me might go and take a look at Crab
Key."

Quarrel whistled. The whistle ended on a downward note.

"Just sniff around. We needn't get too close to Doctor No's end. I want
to take a look at this bird sanctuary. See for myself what happened to
the wardens' camp. If we find anything wrong, we'll get away again and
come back by the front door--with some soldiers to help. Have a
full-dress inquiry. Can't do that until we've got something to go on.
What do you think?"

Quarrel dug into his hip pocket for a cigarette. He made a fuss about
lighting it. He blew a cloud of smoke through his nostrils and watched
it whip out of the window. He said, "Cap'n, Ah tink yo'se plumb crazy to
trespass hon dat island." Quarrel had wound himself up. He paused. There
was no comment. He looked sideways at the quiet profile. He said more
quietly, in an embarrassed voice, "Jess one ting, cap'n. Ah have some
folks back in da Caymans. Would yo consider takin' hout a life
hinsurance hon me afore we sail?"

Bond glanced affectionately at the strong brown face. It had a deep
cleft of worry between the eyes. "Of course, Quarrel. I'll fix it at
Port Maria tomorrow. We'll make it big, say five thousand pounds. Now
then, how shall we go? Canoe?"

"Dat's right, cap'n." Quarrel's voice was reluctant. "We need a calm sea
an' a light wind. Come hin on de Nor-easterly Trades. Mus' be a dark
night. Dey startin' right now. By end of da week we git da secon' moon
quarter. Where yo reckon to land, cap'n?"

"South shore near the mouth of the river. Then we'll go up the river to
the lake. I'm sure that's where the wardens' camp was. So as to have
fresh water and be able to get down to the sea to fish."

Quarrel grunted without enthusiasm. "How long we stayin', cap'n? Caint
take a whole lot of food wit us. Bread, cheese, salt pork. No
tobacco--caint risk da smoke an' light. Dat's mighty rough country,
cap'n. Marsh an' mangrove."

Bond said: "Better plan for three days. Weather may break and stop us
getting off for a night or two. Couple of good hunting knives. I'll take
a gun. You never can tell."

"No, sir," said Quarrel emphatically. He relapsed into a brooding
silence which lasted until they got to Port Maria.

They went through the little town and on round the headland to Morgan's
Harbour. It was just as Bond remembered--the sugar-loaf of the Isle of
Surprise rising out of the calm bay, the canoes drawn up beside the
mounds of empty conch shells, the distant boom of the surf on the reef
which had so nearly been his grave. Bond, his mind full of memories,
took the car down the little side road and through the cane fields in
the middle of which the gaunt ruin of the old Great House of Beau Desert
Plantation stood up like a stranded galleon.

They came to the gate leading to the bungalow. Quarrel got out and
opened the gate, and Bond drove through and pulled up in the yard behind
the white single-storeyed house. It was very quiet. Bond walked round
the house and across the lawn to the edge of the sea. Yes, there it was,
the stretch of deep, silent water--the submarine path he had taken to
the Isle of Surprise. It sometimes came back to him in nightmares. Bond
stood looking at it and thinking of Solitaire, the girl he had brought
back, torn and bleeding, from that sea. He had carried her across the
lawn to the house. What had happened to her? Where was she? Brusquely
Bond turned and walked back into the house, driving the phantoms away
from him.

It was eight-thirty. Bond unpacked his few things and changed into
sandals and shorts. Soon there was the delicious smell of coffee and
frying bacon. They ate their breakfast while Bond fixed his training
routine--up at seven, swim a quarter of a mile, breakfast, an hour's
sunbathing, run a mile, swim again, lunch, sleep, sunbathe, swim a mile,
hot bath and massage, dinner and asleep by nine.

After breakfast the routine began.

Nothing interrupted the grinding week except a brief story in the _Daily
Gleaner_ and a telegram from Pleydell-Smith. The _Gleaner_ said that a
Sunbeam Talbot, H. 2473, had been involved in a fatal accident on the
Devil's Racecourse, a stretch of winding road between Spanish Town and
Ochos Rio--on the Kingston-Montego route. A runaway lorry, whose driver
was being traced, had crashed into the Sunbeam as it came round a bend.
Both vehicles had left the road and hurtled into the ravine below. The
two occupants of the Sunbeam, Ben Gibbons of Harbour Street, and Josiah
Smith, no address, had been killed. A Mr Bond, an English visitor, who
had been lent the car, was asked to contact the nearest police station.

Bond burned that copy of the _Gleaner_. He didn't want to upset Quarrel.

With only one day to go, the telegram came from Pleydell-Smith. It said:

          EACH OBJECT CONTAINED ENOUGH CYANIDE TO KILL A HORSE
          STOP SUGGEST YOU CHANGE YOUR GROCER STOP GOOD LUCK
                                 SMITH

Bond also burned the telegram.

Quarrel hired a canoe and they spent three days sailing it. It was a
clumsy shell cut out of a single giant cotton tree. It had two thin
thwarts, two heavy paddles and a small sail of dirty canvas. It was a
blunt instrument. Quarrel was pleased with it.

"Seven, eight hours, cap'n," he said. "Den we bring down de sail an' use
de paddles. Less target for de radar to see."

The weather held. The forecast from Kingston radio was good. The nights
were as black as sin. The two men got in their stores. Bond fitted
himself out with cheap black canvas jeans and a dark blue shirt and
rope-soled shoes.

The last evening came. Bond was glad he was on his way. He had only once
been out of the training camp--to get the stores and arrange Quarrel's
insurance--and he was chafing to get out of the stable and on to the
track. He admitted to himself that this adventure excited him. It had
the right ingredients--physical exertion, mystery, and a ruthless enemy.
He had a good companion. His cause was just. There might also be the
satisfaction of throwing the 'holiday in the sun' back in M's teeth.
That had rankled. Bond didn't like being coddled.

The sun blazed beautifully into its grave.

Bond went into his bedroom and took out his two guns and looked at them.
Neither was a part of him as the Beretta had been--an extension of his
right hand--but he already knew them as better weapons. Which should he
take? Bond picked up each in turn, hefting them in his hand. It had to
be the heavier Smith & Wesson. There would be no close shooting, if
there was any shooting, on Crab Key. Heavy, long-range stuff--if
anything. The brutal, stumpy revolver had an extra twenty-five yards
over the Walther. Bond fitted the holster into the waistband of his
jeans and clipped in the gun. He put twenty spare rounds in his pocket.
Was it over-insurance to take all this metal on what might only be a
tropical picnic?

Bond went to the icebox and took a pint of Canadian Club Blended Rye and
some ice and soda-water and went and sat in the garden and watched the
last light flame and die.

The shadows crept from behind the house and marched across the lawn and
enveloped him. The Undertaker's Wind that blows at night from the centre
of the island, clattered softly in the tops of the palm trees. The frogs
began to tinkle among the shrubs. The fireflies, the 'blink-a-blinks',
as Quarrel called them, came out and began flashing their sexual morse.
For a moment the melancholy of the tropical dusk caught at Bond's heart.
He picked up the bottle and looked at it. He had drunk a quarter of it.
He poured another big slug into his glass and added some ice. What was
he drinking for? Because of the thirty miles of black sea he had to
cross tonight? Because he was going into the unknown? Because of Doctor
No?

Quarrel came up from the beach. "Time, cap'n."

Bond swallowed his drink and followed the Cayman Islander down to the
canoe. It was rocking quietly in the water, its bows on the sand.
Quarrel went aft and Bond climbed into the space between the forrard
thwart and the bows. The sail, wrapped round the short mast, was at his
back. Bond took up his paddle and pushed off, and they turned slowly and
headed out for the break in the softly creaming waves that was the
passage through the reef. They paddled easily, in unison, the paddles
turning in their hands so that they did not leave the water on the
forward stroke. The small waves slapped softly against the bows.
Otherwise they made no noise. It was dark. Nobody saw them go. They just
left the land and went off across the sea.

Bond's only duty was to keep paddling. Quarrel did the steering. At the
opening through the reef there was a swirl and suck of conflicting
currents and they were in amongst the jagged niggerheads and coral
trees, bared like fangs by the swell. Bond could feel the strength of
Quarrel's great sweeps with the paddle as the heavy craft wallowed and
plunged. Again and again Bond's own paddle thudded against rock, and
once he had to hold on as the canoe hit a buried mass of brain coral and
slid off again. Then they were through, and far below the boat there
were indigo patches of sand and around them the solid oily feel of deep
water.

"Okay, cap'n," said Quarrel softly. Bond shipped his paddle and got down
off one knee and sat with his back to the thwart. He heard the
scratching of Quarrel's nails against canvas as he unwrapped the sail
and then the sharp flap as it caught the breeze. The canoe straightened
and began to move. It tilted slowly. There was a soft hiss under the
bows. A handful of spray tossed up into Bond's face. The wind of their
movement was cool and would soon get cold. Bond hunched up his knees and
put his arms round them. The wood was already beginning to bite into his
buttocks and his back. It crossed his mind that it was going to be the
hell of a long and uncomfortable night.

In the darkness ahead Bond could just make out the rim of the world.
Then came a layer of black haze above which the stars began, first
sparsely and then merging into a dense bright carpet. The Milky Way
soared overhead. How many stars? Bond tried counting a finger's length
and was soon past the hundred. The stars lit the sea into a faint grey
road and then arched away over the tip of the mast towards the black
silhouette of Jamaica. Bond looked back. Behind the hunched figure of
Quarrel there was a faraway cluster of lights which would be Port Maria.
Already they were a couple of miles out. Soon they would be a tenth of
the way, then a quarter, then half. That would be around midnight when
Bond would take over. Bond sighed and put his head down to his knees and
closed his eyes.

He must have slept because he was awakened by the clonk of a paddle
against the boat. He lifted his arm to show that he had heard and
glanced at the luminous blaze of his watch. Twelve-fifteen. Stiffly he
unbent his legs and turned and scrambled over the thwart.

"Sorry, Quarrel," he said, and it was odd to hear his voice. "You ought
to have shaken me up before."

"Hit don signify, cap'n," said Quarrel with a grey glint of teeth. "Do
yo good to sleep."

Gingerly they slipped past each other and Bond settled in the stern and
picked up the paddle. The sail was secured to a bent nail beside him. It
was flapping. Bond brought the bows into the wind and edged them round
so that the North Star was directly over Quarrel's bent head in the
bows. For a time this would be fun. There was something to do.

There was no change in the night except that it seemed darker and
emptier. The pulse of the sleeping sea seemed slower. The heavy swell
was longer and the troughs deeper. They were running through a patch of
phosphorus that winked at the bows and dripped jewels when Bond lifted
the paddle out of the water. How safe it was, slipping through the night
in this ridiculously vulnerable little boat. How kind and soft the sea
could be. A covey of flying fish broke the surface in front of the bows
and scattered like shrapnel. Some kept going for a time beside the
canoe, flying as much as twenty yards before they dived into the wall of
the swell. Was some bigger fish after them or did they think the canoe
was a fish, or were they just playing? Bond thought of what was going on
in the hundreds of fathoms below the boat, the big fish, the shark and
barracuda and tarpon and sailfish quietly cruising, the shoals of
kingfish and mackerel and bonito and, far below in the grey twilight of
the great depths, the phosphorous jellied boneless things that were
never seen, the fifty-foot squids, with eyes a foot, wide, that streamed
along like zeppelins, the last real monsters of the sea, whose size was
only known from the fragments found inside whales. What would happen if
a wave caught the canoe broadside and capsized them? How long would they
last? Bond took an ounce more pains with his steering and put the
thought aside.

One o'clock, two o'clock, three, four. Quarrel awoke and stretched. He
called softly to Bond. "Ah smells land, cap'n." Soon there was a
thickening of the darkness ahead. The low shadow slowly took on the
shape of a huge swimming rat. A pale moon rose slowly behind them. Now
the island showed distinctly, a couple of miles away, and there was the
distant grumble of surf.

They changed places. Quarrel brought down the sail and they took up the
paddles. For at least another mile, thought Bond, they would be
invisible in the troughs of the waves. Not even radar would distinguish
them from the crests. It was the last mile they would have to hurry over
with the dawn not far off.

Now he too could smell the land. It had no particular scent. It was just
something new in the nose after hours of clean sea. He could make out
the white fringe of surf. The swell subsided and the waves became
choppier. "Now, cap'n," called Quarrel, and Bond, the sweat already
dropping off his chin, dug deeper and more often. God, it was hard work!
The hulking log of wood which had sped along so well under the sail now
seemed hardly to move. The wave at the bows was only a ripple. Bond's
shoulders were aching like fire. The one knee he was resting on was
beginning to bruise. His hands were cramped on the clumsy shaft of a
paddle made of lead.

It was incredible, but they were coming up with the reef. Patches of
sand showed deep under the boat. Now the surf was a roar. They followed
along the edge of the reef, looking for an opening. A hundred yards
inside the reef, breaking the sandline, was the shimmer of water running
inland. The river! So the landfall had been all right. The wall of surf
broke up. There was a patch of black oily current swelling over hidden
coral heads. The nose of the canoe turned towards it and into it. There
was a turmoil of water and a series of grating thuds, and then a sudden
rush forward into peace and the canoe was moving slowly across a smooth
mirror towards the shore.

Quarrel steered the boat towards the lee of a rocky promontory where the
beach ended. Bond wondered why the beach didn't shine white under the
thin moon. When they grounded and Bond climbed stiffly out he understood
why. The beach was black. The sand was soft and wonderful to the feet
but it must have been formed out of volcanic rock, pounded over the
centuries, and Bond's naked feet on it looked like white crabs.

They made haste. Quarrel took three short lengths of thick bamboo out of
the boat and laid them up the flat beach. They heaved the nose of the
canoe on to the first and pushed the boat up the rollers. After each
yard of progress, Bond picked up the back roller and brought it to the
front. Slowly the canoe moved up the sand until at last it was over the
back tideline and among the rocks and turtle grass and low sea-grape
bushes. They pushed it another twenty yards inland into the beginning of
the mangrove. There they covered it with dried seaweed and bits of
driftwood from the tideline. Then Quarrel cut lengths of screwpalm and
went back over their tracks, sweeping and tidying.

It was still dark, but the breath of grey in the east would soon be
turning to pearl. It was five o'clock. They were dead tired. They
exchanged a few words and Quarrel went off among the rocks on the
promontory. Bond scooped out a depression in the fine dry sand under a
thick bush of seagrape. There were a few hermit crabs beside his bed. He
picked up as many as he could find and hurled them into the mangrove.
Then, not caring what other animals or insects might come to his smell
and his warmth, he lay down full length in the sand and rested his head
on his arm.

He was at once asleep.




                                  VIII
                            THE ELEGANT VENUS


Bond awoke lazily. The feel of the sand reminded him where he was. He
glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. The sun through the round thick
leaves of the sea-grape was already hot. A larger shadow moved across
the dappled sand in front of his face. Quarrel? Bond shifted his head
and peered through the fringe of leaves and grass that concealed him
from the beach. He stiffened. His heart missed a beat and then began
pounding so that he had to breathe deeply to quieten it. His eyes, as he
stared through the blades of grass, were fierce slits.

It was a naked girl, with her back to him. She was not quite naked. She
wore a broad leather belt round her waist with a hunting knife in a
leather sheath at her right hip. The belt made her nakedness
extraordinarily erotic. She stood not more than five yards away on the
tideline looking down at something in her hand. She stood in the
classical relaxed pose of the nude, all the weight on the right leg and
the left knee bent and turning slightly inwards, the head to one side as
she examined the things in her hand.

It was a beautiful back. The skin was a very light uniform _caf au
lait_ with the sheen of dull satin. The gentle curve of the backbone was
deeply indented, suggesting more powerful muscles than is usual in a
woman, and the behind was almost as firm and rounded as a boy's. The
legs were straight and beautiful and no pinkness showed under the
slightly lifted left heel. She was not a coloured girl.

Her hair was ash blonde. It was cut to the shoulders and hung there and
along the side of her bent cheek in thick wet strands. A green diving
mask was pushed back above her forehead, and the green rubber thong
bound her hair at the back.

The whole scene, the empty beach, the green and blue sea, the naked girl
with the strands of fair hair, reminded Bond of something. He searched
his mind. Yes, she was Botticelli's Venus, seen from behind.

How had she got there? What was she doing? Bond looked up and down the
beach. It was not black, he now saw, but a deep chocolate brown. To the
right he could see as far as the river mouth, perhaps five hundred yards
away. The beach was empty and featureless except for a scattering of
small pinkish objects. There were a lot of them, shells of some sort
Bond supposed, and they looked decorative against the dark brown
background. He looked to the left, to where, twenty yards away, the
rocks of the small headland began. Yes, there was a yard or two of
groove in the sand where a canoe had been drawn up into the shelter of
the rocks. It must have been a light one or she couldn't have drawn it
up alone. Perhaps the girl wasn't alone. But there was only one set of
footprints leading down from the rocks to the sea and another set coming
out of the sea and up the beach to where she now stood on the tideline.
Did she live here, or had she too sailed over from Jamaica that night?
Hell of a thing for a girl to do. Anyway, what in God's name _was_ she
doing here?

As if to answer him, the girl made a throwaway gesture of the right hand
and scattered a dozen shells on the sand beside her. They were violent
pink and seemed to Bond to be the same as he had noticed on the beach.
The girl looked down into her left hand and began to whistle softly to
herself. There was a happy note of triumph in the whistle. She was
whistling 'Marion', a plaintive little calypso that has now been cleaned
up and made famous outside Jamaica. It had always been one of Bond's
favourites. It went:

             All day, all night, Marion,
             Sittin' by the seaside siftin' sand...

The girl broke off to stretch her arms out in a deep yawn. Bond smiled
to himself. He wetted his lips and took up the refrain:

            "The water from her eyes could sail a boat,
            The hair on her head could tie a goat..."

The hands flew down and across her chest. The muscles of her behind
bunched with tension. She was listening, her head, still hidden by the
curtain of hair, cocked to one side.

Hesitantly she began again. The whistle trembled and died. At the first
note of Bond's echo, the girl whirled round. She didn't cover her body
with the two classical gestures. One hand flew downwards, but the other,
instead of hiding her breasts, went up to her face, covering it below
the eyes, now wide with fear. "Who's that?" The words came out in a
terrified whisper.

Bond got to his feet and stepped out through the sea-grape. He stopped
on the edge of the grass. He held his hands open at his sides to show
they were empty. He smiled cheerfully at her. "It's only me. I'm another
trespasser. Don't be frightened."

The girl dropped her hand down from her face. It went to the knife at
her belt. Bond watched the fingers curl round the hilt. He looked up at
her face. Now he realized why her hand had instinctively gone to it. It
was a beautiful face, with wide-apart deep blue eyes under lashes paled
by the sun. The mouth was wide and when she stopped pursing the lips
with tension they would be full. It was a serious face and the jawline
was determined--the face of a girl who fends for herself. And once,
reflected Bond, she had failed to fend. For the nose was badly broken,
smashed crooked like a boxer's. Bond stiffened with revolt at what had
happened to this supremely beautiful girl. No wonder this was her shame
and not the beautiful firm breasts that now jutted towards him without
concealment.

The eyes examined him fiercely. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
There was the slight lilt of a Jamaican accent. The voice was sharp and
accustomed to being obeyed.

"I'm an Englishman. I'm interested in birds."

"Oh," the voice was doubtful. The hand still rested on the knife. "How
long have you been watching me? How did you get here?"

"Ten minutes, but no more answers until you tell me who _you_ are."

"I'm no one in particular. I come from Jamaica. I collect shells."

"I came in a canoe. Did you?"

"Yes. Where is your canoe?"

"I've got a friend with me. We've hidden it in the mangroves."

"There are no marks of a canoe landing."

"We're careful. We covered them up. Not like you." Bond gestured towards
the rocks. "You ought to take more trouble. Did you use a sail? Right up
to the reef?"

"Of course. Why not? I always do."

"Then they'll know you're here. They've got radar."

"They've never caught me yet." The girl took her hand away from her
knife. She reached up and stripped off the diving mask and stood
swinging it. She seemed to think she had the measure of Bond. She said,
with some of the sharpness gone from her voice, "What's your name?"

"Bond. James Bond. What's yours?"

She reflected. "Rider."

"What Rider?"

"Honeychile."

Bond smiled.

"What's so funny about it?"

"Nothing. Honeychile Rider. It's a pretty name."

She unbent. "People call me 'Honey'."

"Well, I'm glad to meet you."

The prosaic phrase seemed to remind her of her nakedness. She blushed.
She said uncertainly, "I must get dressed." She looked down at the
scattered shells around her feet. She obviously wanted to pick them up.
Perhaps she realized that the movement might be still more revealing
than her present pose. She said sharply, "You're not to touch those
while I'm gone."

Bond smiled at the childish challenge. "Don't worry, I'll look after
them."

The girl looked at him doubtfully and then turned and walked
stiff-legged over to the rocks and disappeared behind them.

Bond walked the few steps down the beach and bent and picked up one of
the shells. It was alive and the two halves were shut tight. It appeared
to be some kind of a cockle, rather deeply ribbed and coloured a
mauve-pink. Along both edges of the hinge, thin horns stood out, about
half a dozen to each side. It didn't seem to Bond a very distinguished
shell. He replaced it carefully with the others.

He stood looking down at the shells and wondering. Was she really
collecting them? It certainly looked like it. But what a risk to take to
get them--the voyage over alone in the canoe and then back again. And
she seemed to realize that this was a dangerous place. "They've never
caught me yet." What an extraordinary girl. Bond's heart warmed and his
senses stirred as he thought of her. Already, as he had found so often
when people had deformities, he had almost forgotten her broken nose. It
had somehow slipped away behind his memory of her eyes and her mouth and
her amazingly beautiful body. Her imperious attitude and her quality of
attack were exciting. The way she had reached for her knife to defend
herself! She was like an animal whose cubs are threatened. Where did she
live? Who were her parents? There was something uncared for about her--a
dog that nobody wants to pet. Who was she?

Bond heard her footsteps riffling the sand. He turned to look at her.
She was dressed almost in rags--a faded brown shirt with torn sleeves
and a knee-length patched brown cotton skirt held in place by the
leather belt with the knife. She had a canvas knapsack slung over one
shoulder. She looked like a principal girl dressed as Man Friday.

She came up with him and at once went down on one knee and began picking
up the live shells and stowing them in the knapsack.

Bond said, "Are those rare?"

She sat back on her haunches and looked up at him. She surveyed his
face. Apparently she was satisfied. "You promise you won't tell anybody?
Swear?"

"I promise," said Bond.

"Well then, yes, they are rare. Very. You can get five dollars for a
perfect specimen. In Miami. That's where I deal with. They're called
_Venus Elegans_--The Elegant Venus." Her eyes sparkled up at him with
excitement. "This morning I found what I wanted. The bed where they
live," she waved towards the sea. "You wouldn't find it though," she
added with sudden carefulness. "It's very deep and hidden away. I doubt
if you could dive that deep. And anyway," she looked happy, "I'm going
to clear the whole bed today. You'd only get the imperfect ones if you
came back here."

Bond laughed. "I promise I won't steal any. I really don't know anything
about shells. Cross my heart."

She stood up, her work completed. "What about these birds of yours? What
sort are they? Are they valuable too? I won't tell either if you tell
me. I only collect shells."

"They're called roseate spoonbills," said Bond. "Sort of pink stork with
a flat beak. Ever seen any?"

"Oh, _those_," she said scornfully. "There used to be thousands of them
here. But you won't find many now. They scared them all away." She sat
down on the sand and put her arms round her knees, proud of her superior
knowledge and now certain that she had nothing to fear from this man.

Bond sat down a yard away. He stretched out and turned towards her,
resting on his elbow. He wanted to preserve the picnic atmosphere and
try to find out more about this queer, beautiful girl. He said, easily,
"Oh, really. What happened? Who did it?"

She shrugged impatiently. "The people here did it. I don't know who they
are. There's a Chinaman. He doesn't like birds or something. He's got a
dragon. He sent the dragon after the birds and scared them away. The
dragon burned up their nesting places. There used to be two men who
lived with the birds and looked after them. They got scared away too, or
killed or something."

It all seemed quite natural to her. She gave the facts indifferently,
staring out to sea.

Bond said, "This dragon. What kind is he? Have you ever seen him?"

"Yes, I've seen him." She screwed up her eyes and made a wry face as if
she was swallowing bitter medicine. She looked earnestly at Bond to make
him share her feelings. "I've been coming here for about a year, looking
for shells and exploring. I only found these," she waved at the beach,
"about a month ago. On my last trip. But I've found plenty of other good
ones. Just before Christmas I thought I'd explore the river. I went up
it to the top, where the birdmen had their camp. It was all broken up.
It was getting late and I decided to spend the night there. In the
middle of the night I woke up. The dragon was coming by only a few
chains away from me. It had two great glaring eyes and a long snout. It
had sort of short wings and a pointed tail. It was all black and gold."
She frowned at the expression on Bond's face. "There was a full moon. I
could see it quite clearly. It went by me. It was making a sort of
roaring noise. It went over the marsh and came to some thick mangrove
and it simply climbed over the bushes and went on. A whole flock of
birds got up in front of it and suddenly a lot of fire came out of its
mouth and it burned a lot of them up and all the trees they'd been
roosting in. It was horrible. The most horrible thing I've ever seen."

The girl leant sideways and peered at Bond's face. She sat up straight
again and stared obstinately out to sea. "I can see you don't believe
me," she said in a furious, tense voice. "You're one of these city
people. You don't believe anything. Ugh," she shuddered with dislike of
him.

Bond said reasonably, "Honey, there just aren't such things as dragons
in the world. You saw something that looked very like a dragon. I'm just
wondering what it was."

"How do you know there aren't such things as dragons?" Now he had made
her really angry. "Nobody lives on this end of the island. One could
easily have survived here. Anyway, what do you think you know about
animals and things? I've lived with snakes and things since I was a
child. Alone. Have you ever seen a praying mantis eat her husband after
they've made love? Have you ever seen the mongoose dance? Or an octopus
dance? How long is a humming bird's tongue? Have you ever had a pet
snake that wore a bell round its neck and rang it to wake you? Have you
seen a scorpion get sunstroke and kill itself with its own sting? Have
you seen the carpet of flowers under the sea at night? Do you know that
a John Crow can smell a dead lizard a mile away...?" The girl had
fired these questions like scornful jabs with a rapier. Now she stopped,
out of breath. She said hopelessly, "Oh, you're just city folk like all
the rest."

Bond said, "Honey, now look here. You know these things. I can't help it
that I live in towns. I'd like to know about your things too. I just
haven't had that sort of life. I know other things instead. Like..."
Bond searched his mind. He couldn't think of anything as interesting as
hers. He finished lamely, "Like for instance that this Chinaman is going
to be more interested in your visit this time. This time he's going to
try and stop you getting away." He paused and added. "And me for the
matter of that."

She turned and looked at him with interest. "Oh. Why? But then it
doesn't really matter. One just hides during the day and gets away at
night. He's sent dogs after me and even a plane. He hasn't got me yet."
She examined Bond with a new interest. "Is it you he's after?"

"Well, yes," admitted Bond. "I'm afraid it is. You see we dropped the
sail about two miles out so that their radar wouldn't pick us up. I
think the Chinaman may have been expecting a visit from me. Your sail
will have been reported and I'd bet anything he'll think your canoe was
mine. I'd better go and wake my friend up and we'll talk it over. You'll
like him. He's a Cayman Islander, name of Quarrel."

The girl said, "Well, I'm sorry if..." the sentence trailed away.
Apologies wouldn't come easy to someone so much on the defensive. "But
after all I couldn't know, could I?" She searched his face.

Bond smiled into the questing blue eyes. He said reassuringly, "Of
course you couldn't. It's just bad luck--bad luck for you too. I don't
suppose he minds too much about a solitary girl who collects shells. You
can be sure they've had a good look at your footprints and found clues
like that"--he waved at the scattered shells on the beach. "But I'm
afraid he'd take a different view of me. Now he'll try and hunt me down
with everything he's got. I'm only afraid he may get you into the net in
the process. Anyway," Bond grinned reassuringly, "we'll see what Quarrel
has to say. You stay here."

Bond got to his feet. He walked along the promontory and cast about him.
Quarrel had hidden himself well. It took Bond five minutes to find him.
He was lying in a grassy depression between two big rocks, half covered
by a board of grey driftwood. He was still fast asleep, the brown head,
stern in sleep, cradled on his forearm. Bond whistled softly and smiled
as the eyes sprang wide open like an animal's. Quarrel saw Bond and
scrambled to his feet, almost guiltily. He rubbed his big hands over his
face as if he was washing it.

"Mornin', cap'n," he said. "Guess Ah been down deep. Dat China girl come
to me."

Bond smiled. "I got something different," he said. They sat down and
Bond told him about Honeychile Rider and her shells and the fix they
were in. "And now it's eleven o'clock," Bond added. "And we've got to
make a new plan."

Quarrel scratched his head. He looked sideways at Bond. "Yo don' plan we
jess ditch dis girl?" he asked hopefully. "Ain't nuttin to do wit we..."
Suddenly he stopped. His head swivelled round and pointed like a dog's.
He held up a hand for silence, listening intently.

Bond held his breath. In the distance, to the eastwards, there was a
faint droning.

Quarrel jumped to his feet. "Quick, cap'n," he said urgently. "Dey's a
comin'."




                                   IX
                              CLOSE SHAVES


Ten minutes later the bay was empty and immaculate. Small waves curled
lazily in across the mirrored water inside the reef and flopped
exhausted on the dark sand where the mauve shells glittered like shed
toenails. The heap of discarded shells had gone and there was no longer
any trace of footprints. Quarrel had cut branches of mangrove and had
walked backwards sweeping carefully as he went. Where he had swept, the
sand was of a different texture from the rest of the beach, but not too
different as to be noticed from outside the reef. The girl's canoe had
been pulled deeper among the rocks and covered with seaweed and
driftwood.

Quarrel had gone back to the headland. Bond and the girl lay a few feet
apart under the bush of sea-grape where Bond had slept, and gazed
silently out across the water to the corner of the headland round which
the boat would come.

The boat was perhaps a quarter of a mile away. From the slow pulse of
the twin diesels Bond guessed that every cranny of the coastline was
being searched for signs of them. It sounded a powerful boat. A big
cabin cruiser, perhaps. What crew would it have? Who would be in command
of the search? Doctor No? Unlikely. He would not trouble himself with
this kind of police work.

From the west a wedge of cormorants appeared, flying low over the sea
beyond the reef. Bond watched them. They were the first evidence he had
seen of the guanay colony at the other end of the island. These,
according to Pleydell-Smith's description, would be scouts for the
silver flash of the anchovy near the surface. Sure enough, as he
watched, they began to back-pedal in the air and then go into shallow
dives, hitting the water like shrapnel. Almost at once a fresh file
appeared from the west, then another and another that merged into a long
stream and then into a solid black river of birds. For minutes they
darkened the skyline and then they were down on the water, covering
several acres of it, screeching and fighting and plunging their heads
below the surface, cropping at the solid field of anchovy like piranha
fish feasting on a drowned horse.

Bond felt a gentle nudge from the girl. She gestured with her head. "The
Chinaman's hens getting their corn."

Bond examined the happy, beautiful face. She had seemed quite
unconcerned by the arrival of the search party. To her it was only the
game of hide-and-seek she had played before. Bond hoped she wasn't going
to get a shock.

The iron thud of the diesels was getting louder. The boat must be just
behind the headland. Bond took a last look round the peaceful bay and
then fixed his eyes, through the leaves and grass, on the point of the
headland inside the reef.

The knife of white bows appeared. It was followed by ten yards of empty
polished deck, glass windshields, a low raked cabin with a siren and a
blunt radio mast, the glimpse of a man inside at the wheel, then the
long flat well of the stern and a drooping red ensign. Converted MTB,
British Government surplus?

Bond's eyes went to the two men standing in the stern. They were
pale-skinned Negroes. They wore neat khaki ducks and shirts, broad
belts, and deep visored baseball caps of yellow straw. They were
standing side by side, bracing themselves against the slow swell. One of
them was holding a long black loud-hailer with a wire attached. The
other was manning a machine gun on a tripod. It looked to Bond like a
Spandau.

The man with the loud-hailer let it fall so that it swung on a strap
round his neck. He picked up a pair of binoculars and began inching them
along the beach. The low murmur of his comments just reached Bond above
the glutinous flutter of the diesels.

Bond watched the eyes of the binoculars begin with the headland and then
sweep the sand. The twin eyes paused among the rocks and moved on. They
came back. The murmur of comment rose to a jabber. The man handed the
glasses to the machine gunner who took a quick glance through them and
gave them back. The scanner shouted something to the helmsman. The cabin
cruiser stopped and backed up. Now she lay outside the reef exactly
opposite Bond and the girl. The scanner again levelled the binoculars at
the rocks where the girl's canoe lay hidden. Again the excited jabber
came across the water. Again the glasses were passed to the machine
gunner who glanced through. This time he nodded decisively.

Bond thought: now we've had it. These men know their job.

Bond watched the machine gunner pull the bolt back to load. The double
click came to him over the bubbling of the diesels.

The scanner lifted his loud-hailer and switched it on. The twanging echo
of the amplifier moaned and screeched across the water. The man brought
it up to his lips. The voice roared across the bay.

"Okay, folks! Come on out and you won't get hurt."

It was an educated voice. There was a trace of American accent.

"Now then, folks," the voice thundered, "make it quick! We've seen where
you came ashore. We've spotted the boat under the driftwood. We ain't
fools an' we ain't fooling. Take it easy. Just walk out with your hands
up. You'll be okay."

Silence fell. The waves lapped softly on the beach. Bond could hear the
girl breathing. The thin screeching of the cormorants came to them muted
across the mile of sea. The diesels bubbled unevenly as the swell
covered the exhaust pipe and then opened it again.

Softly Bond reached over to the girl and tugged at her sleeve. "Come
close," he whispered. "Smaller target." He felt her warmth nearer to
him. Her cheek brushed against his forearm. He whispered, "Burrow into
the sand. Wriggle. Every inch'll help." He began to worm his body
carefully deeper into the depression they had scooped out for
themselves. He felt her do the same. He peered out. Now his eyes were
only just above the skyline of the top of the beach.

The man was lifting his loud-hailer. The voice roared. "Okay, folks!
Just so as you'll know this thing isn't for show." He lifted his thumb.
The machine gunner trained his gun into the tops of the mangroves behind
the beach. There came the swift rattling roar Bond had last heard coming
from the German lines in the Ardennes. The bullets made the same old
sound of frightened pigeons whistling overhead. Then there was silence.

In the distance Bond watched the black cloud of cormorants take to the
air and begin circling. His eyes went back to the boat. The machine
gunner was feeling the barrel of his gun to see if it had warmed. The
two men exchanged some words. The scanner picked up his loud-hailer.

"'Kay, folks," he said harshly. "You've been warned. This is it."

Bond watched the snout of the Spandau swing and depress. The man was
going to start with the canoe among the rocks. Bond whispered to the
girl, "All right, Honey. Stick it. Keep right down. It won't last long."
He felt her hand squeeze his arm. He thought: poor little bitch, she's
in this because of me. He leant to the right to cover her head and
pushed his face deep into the sand.

This time the crash of noise was terrific. The bullets howled into the
corner of the headland. Fragments of splintered rock whined over the
beach like hornets. Ricochets twanged and buzzed off into the
hinterland. Behind it all there was the steady road-drill hammer of the
gun.

There was a pause. New magazine, thought Bond. Now it's us. He could
feel the girl clutching at him. Her body was trembling along his flank.
Bond reached out an arm and pressed her to him.

The roar of the gun began again. The bullets came zipping along the
tideline towards them. There was a succession of quick close thuds. The
bush above them was being torn to shreds. 'Zwip. Zwip. Zwip.' It was as
if the thong of a steel whip was cutting the bush to pieces. Bits
scattered around them, slowly covering them. Bond could smell the cooler
air that meant they were now lying in the open. Were they hidden by the
leaves and debris? The bullets marched away along the shoreline. In less
than a minute the racket stopped.

The silence sang. The girl whimpered softly. Bond hushed her and held
her tighter.

The loud-hailer boomed. "Okay, folks. If you still got ears, we'll be
along soon to pick up the bits. And we'll be bringing the dogs. 'Bye for
now."

The slow thud of the diesel quickened. The engine accelerated into a
hasty roar and through the fallen leaves Bond watched the stern of the
launch settle lower in the water as it made off to the west. Within
minutes it was out of earshot.

Bond cautiously raised his head. The bay was serene, the beach unmarked.
All was as before except for the stench of cordite and the sour smell of
blasted rock. Bond pulled the girl to her feet. There were tear streaks
down her face. She looked at him aghast. She said solemnly, "That was
horrible. What did they do it for? We might have been killed."

Bond thought, this girl has always had to fend for herself, but only
against nature. She knows the world of animals and insects and fishes
and she's got the better of it. But it's been a small world, bounded by
the sun and the moon and the seasons. She doesn't know the big world of
the smoke-filled room, of the bullion broker's parlour, of the corridors
and waiting-rooms of government offices, of careful meetings on park
seats--she doesn't know about the struggle for big power and big money
by the big men. She doesn't know that she's been swept out of her rock
pool into the dirty waters.

He said, "It's all right, Honey. They're just a lot of bad men who are
frightened of us. We can manage them." Bond put his arm round her
shoulders, "And you were wonderful. As brave as anything. Come on now,
we'll look for Quarrel and make some plans. Anyway, it's time we had
something to eat. What do you eat on these expeditions?"

They turned and walked up the beach to the headland. After a minute she
said in a controlled voice, "Oh, there's stacks of food about. Sea
urchins mostly. And there are wild bananas and things. I eat and sleep
for two days before I come out here. I don't need anything."

Bond held her more closely. He dropped his arm as Quarrel appeared on
the skyline. Quarrel scrambled down among the rocks. He stopped, looking
down. They came up with him. The girl's canoe was sawn almost in half by
the bullets. The girl gave a cry. She looked desperately at Bond, "My
boat! How am I to get back?"

"Don't you worry, missy." Quarrel appreciated the loss of a canoe better
than Bond. He guessed it might be most of the girl's capital. "Cap'n fix
you up wit' anudder. An' yo come back wit' we. Us got a fine boat in de
mangrove. Hit not get broke. Ah's bin to see him." Quarrel looked at
Bond. Now his face was worried. "But cap'n, yo sees what I means about
dese folk. Dey mighty tough men an' dey means business. Dese dogs dey
speak of. Dose is police-houns--Pinschers dey's called. Big bastards.
Mah frens tell me as der's a pack of twenty or moh. We better make plans
quick--an' good."

"All right, Quarrel. But first we must have something to eat. And I'm
damned if I'm going to be scared off the island before I've had a good
look. We'll take Honey with us." He turned to the girl. "Is that all
right with you, Honey? You'll be all right with us. Then we'll sail home
together."

The girl looked doubtfully at him. "I guess there's no alternative. I
mean. I'd love to go with you if I won't be in the way. I really don't
want anything to eat. But will you take me home as soon as you can? I
don't want to see any more of those people. How long are you going to be
looking at these birds?"

Bond said evasively, "Not long. I've got to find out what happened to
them and why. Then we'll be off." He looked at his watch. "It's twelve
now. You wait here. Have a bathe or something. Don't walk about leaving
footprints. Come on, Quarrel, we'd better get that boat hidden."

It was one o'clock before they were ready. Bond and Quarrel filled the
canoe with stones and sand until it sank in a pool among the mangroves.
They smeared over their footprints. The bullets had left so much litter
behind the shoreline that they could do most of their walking on broken
leaves and twigs. They ate some of their rations--avidly, the girl
reluctantly--and climbed across the rocks and into the shallow water
off-shore. Then they trudged along the shallows towards the river mouth
three hundred yards away down the beach.

It was very hot. A harsh, baking wind had sprung up from the north-east.
Quarrel said this wind blew daily the year round. It was vital to the
guanera. It dried the guano. The glare from the sea and from the shiny
green leaves of the mangroves was dazzling. Bond was glad he had taken
trouble to get his skin hardened to the sun.

There was a sandy bar at the river mouth and a long deep stagnant pool.
They could either get wet or strip. Bond said to the girl, "Honey, we
can't be shy on this trip. We'll keep our shirts on because of the sun.
Wear what's sensible and walk behind us." Without waiting for her reply
the two men took off their trousers. Quarrel rolled them and packed them
in the knapsack with the provisions and Bond's gun. They waded into the
pool, Quarrel in front, then Bond, then the girl. The water came up to
Bond's waist. A big silver fish leaped out of the pool and fell back
with a splash. There were arrows on the surface where others fled out of
their way. "Tarpon," commented Quarrel.

The pool converged into a narrow neck over which the mangroves touched.
For a time they waded through a cool tunnel, and then the river
broadened into a deep sluggish channel that meandered ahead among the
giant spider-legs of the mangroves. The bottom was muddy and at each
step their feet sank inches into slime. Small fish or shrimps wriggled
and fled from under their feet, and every now and then they had to stoop
to brush away leeches before they got hold. But otherwise it was easy
going and quiet and cool among the bushes and, at least to Bond, it was
a blessing to be out of the sun.

Soon, as they got away from the sea, it began to smell bad with the bad
egg, sulphuretted hydrogen smell of marsh gas. The mosquitoes and
sandflies began to find them. They liked Bond's fresh body. Quarrel told
him to dip himself in the river water. "Dem like dere meat wid salt on
him," he explained cheerfully. Bond took off his shirt and did as he was
told. Then it was better and after a while Bond's nostrils even got used
to the marsh gas, except when Quarrel's feet disturbed some aged pocket
in the mud and a vintage bubble wobbled up from the bottom and burst
stinking under his nose.

The mangroves became fewer and sparser and the river slowly opened out.
The water grew shallower and the bottom firmer. Soon they came round a
bend and into the open. Honey said, "Better watch out now. We'll be
easier to see. It goes on like this for about a mile. Then the river
gets narrower until the lake. Then there's the sandspit the birdmen
lived on."

They stopped in the shadow of the mangrove tunnel and looked out. The
river meandered sluggishly away from them towards the centre of the
island. Its banks, fringed with low bamboo and sea-grape, would give
only half shelter. From its western bank the ground rose slowly and then
sharply up to the sugar-loaf about two miles away which was the guanera.
Round the base of the mountain there was a scattering of Quonset huts. A
zigzag of silver ran down the hillside to the huts--a Decauville Track,
Bond guessed, to bring the guano from the diggings down to the crusher
and separator. The summit of the sugar-loaf was white, as if with snow.
From the peak flew a smoky flag of guano dust. Bond could see the black
dots of cormorants against the white background. They were landing and
taking off like bees at a hive.

Bond stood and gazed at the distant glittering mountain of bird dung. So
this was the kingdom of Doctor No! Bond thought he had never seen a more
godforsaken landscape in his life.

He examined the ground between the river and the mountain. It seemed to
be the usual grey dead coral broken, where there was a pocket of earth,
by low scrub and screwpalm. No doubt a road or a track led down the
mountainside to the central lake and the marshes. It looked bad stuff to
cross unless there was. Bond noticed that all the vegetation was bent to
the westwards. He imagined living the year round with that hot wind
constantly scouring the island, the smell of the marsh gas and the
guano. No penal colony could have a worse site than this.

Bond looked to the east. There the mangroves in the marshland seemed
more hospitable. They marched away in a solid green carpet until they
lost their outline in the dancing heat haze on the horizon. Over them a
thick froth of birds tossed and settled and tossed again. Their steady
scream carried over on the harsh wind.

Quarrel's voice broke in on Bond's thoughts. "Dey's a comin', cap'n."

Bond followed Quarrel's eyes. A big lorry was racing down from the huts,
dust streaming from its wheels. Bond followed it for ten minutes until
it disappeared amongst the mangroves at the head of the river. He
listened. The baying of dogs came down on the wind.

Quarrel said, "Dey'll come down de ribber, cap'n. Dem'll know we caint
move 'cept up de ribber, assumin" we ain't dead. Dey'll surely come down
de ribber to de beach and look for de pieces. Den mos' likely de boat
come wit' a dinghy an' take de men and dogs off. Leastways, dat's what
Ah'd do in dere place."

Honey said, "That's what they do when they look for me. It's quite all
right. You cut a piece of bamboo and when they get near you go under the
water and breathe through the bamboo till they've gone by."

Bond smiled at Quarrel. He said, "Supposing you get the bamboo while I
find a good mangrove clump."

Quarrel nodded dubiously. He started off upstream towards the bamboo
thickets. Bond turned back into the mangrove tunnel.

Bond had avoided looking at the girl. She said impatiently, "You needn't
be so careful of looking at me. It's no good minding those things at a
time like this. You said so yourself."

Bond turned and looked at her. Her tattered shirt came down to the
waterline. There was a glimpse of pale wavering limbs below. The
beautiful face smiled at him. In the mangroves the broken nose seemed
appropriate in its animalness.

Bond looked at her slowly. She understood. He turned and went on
downstream and she followed him.

Bond found what he wanted, a crack in the wall of mangrove that seemed
to go deeper. He said, "Don't break a branch." He bent his head and
waded in. The channel went in ten yards. The mud under their feet became
deeper and softer. Then there was a solid wall of roots and they could
go no farther. The brown water flowed slowly through a wide, quiet,
pool. Bond stopped. The girl came close to him. "This is real hide and
seek," she said tremulously.

"Yes, isn't it." Bond was thinking of his gun. He was wondering how well
it would shoot after a bath in the river--how many dogs and men he could
get if they were found. He felt a wave of disquiet. It had been a bad
break coming across this girl. In combat, like it or not, a girl is your
extra heart. The enemy has two targets against your one.

Bond remembered his thirst. He scooped up some water. It was brackish
and tasted of earth. It was all right. He drank some more. The girl put
out her hand and stopped him. "Don't drink too much. Wash your mouth out
and spit. You could get fever."

Bond looked at her quietly. He did as she told him.

Quarrel whistled from somewhere in the main stream. Bond answered and
waded out towards him. They came back along the channel. Quarrel
splashed the mangrove roots with water where their bodies might have
brushed against them. "Kill da smell of us," he explained briefly. He
produced his handful of bamboo lengths and began whittling and cutting
them. Bond looked to his gun and the spare ammunition. They stood still
in the pool so as not to stir up more mud.

The sunlight dappled down through the thick roof of leaves. The shrimps
nibbled softly at their feet. Tension built up in the hot, crouching
silence.

It was almost a relief to hear the baying of the dogs.




                                   X
                              DRAGON SPOOR


The search party was coming fast down the river. The two men in bathing
trunks and tall waders were having to run to keep up with the dogs. They
were big Chinese Negroes wearing shoulder holsters across their naked
sweating chests. Occasionally they exchanged shouts that were mostly
swear-words. Ahead of them the pack of big Dobermann Pinschers swam and
floundered through the water, baying excitedly. They had a scent and
they quested frenziedly, the diamond-shaped ears erect on the smooth,
serpentine heads.

"May be a ----ing crocodile," yelled the leading man though the hubbub.
He was carrying a short whip which he occasionally cracked like a
whipper-in on the hunting field.

The other man converged towards him. He shouted excitedly, "For my money
it's the ----ing limey! Bet ya he's lying up in the mangrove. Mind he
doesn't give us a ----ing ambush." The man took the gun put of its
holster and put it under his armpit and kept his hand on the butt.

They were coming out of the open river into the mangrove tunnel. The
first man had a whistle. It stuck out of his broad face like a cigar
butt. He blew a shrill blast. When the dogs swept on he laid about him
with the whip. The dogs checked, whimpering as the slow current forced
them to disobey orders. The two men took their guns and waded slowly
downstream through the straggly legs of the mangroves.

The leading man came to the narrow break that Bond had found. He grasped
a dog by the collar and swung it into the channel. The dog snorted
eagerly and paddled forward. The man's eyes squinted at the mangrove
roots on either side of the channel to see if they were scratched.

The dog and the man came into the small enclosed pool at the end of the
channel. The man looked round disgustedly. He caught the dog by the
collar and pulled him back. The dog was reluctant to leave the place.
The man lashed down into the water with his whip.

The second man had been waiting at the entrance to the little channel.
The first man came out. He shook his head and they went on downstream,
the dogs, now less excited, streaming ahead.

Slowly the noise of the hunt grew less and vanished.

For another five minutes nothing moved in the mangrove pool, then, in
one corner among the roots, a thin periscope of bamboo rose slowly out
of the water. Bond's face emerged, the forehead streaked with wet hair,
like the face of a surfacing corpse. In his right hand under the water
the gun was ready. He listened intently. There was dead silence, not a
sound. Or was there? What was that soft swish out in the main stream?
Was someone wading very quietly along in the wake of the hunt? Bond
reached out on either side of him and softly touched the other two
bodies that lay among the roots on the edge of the pool. As the two
faces surfaced he put his finger to his lips. It was too late. Quarrel
had coughed and spat. Bond made a grimace and nodded urgently towards
the main stream. They all listened. There was dead silence. Then the
soft swishing began again. Whoever it was was coming into the
side-channel. The tubes of bamboo went back into the three mouths and
the heads softly submerged again.

Underwater, Bond rested his head in the mud, pinched his nostrils with
his left hand and pursed his lips round the tube. He knew the pool had
been examined once already. He had felt the disturbance of the swimming
dog. That time they had not been found. Would they get away with it
again? This time there would have been less chance for the stirred mud
to seep away out of the pool. If this searcher saw the darker brown
stain, would he shoot into it or stab into it? What weapons would he
have? Bond decided that he wouldn't take chances. At the first movement
in the water near him he would get to his feet and shoot and hope for
the best.

Bond lay and focused all his senses. What hell this controlled breathing
was and how maddening the soft nibbling of the shrimps! It was lucky
none of them had a sore on their bodies or the damned things would have
eaten into it. But it had been a bright idea of the girl's. Without it
the dogs would have got to them wherever they had hidden.

Suddenly Bond cringed. A rubber boot had stepped on his shin and slid
off. Would the man think it was a branch? Bond couldn't chance it. With
one surge of motion he hurled himself upwards, spitting out the length
of bamboo.

Bond caught a quick impression of a huge body standing almost on top of
him and of a swirling rifle butt. He lifted his left arm to protect his
head and felt the jarring blow on his forearm. At the same time his
right hand lunged forward and as the muzzle of his gun touched the
glistening right breast below the hairless aureole he pulled the
trigger.

The kick of the explosion, pent up against the man's body, almost broke
Bond's wrist, but the man crashed back like a chopped tree into the
water. Bond caught a glimpse of a huge rent in his side as he went
under. The rubber waders thrashed once and the head, a Chinese Negroid
head, broke the surface, its eyes turned up and water pouring from its
silently yelling mouth. Then the head went under again and there was
nothing but muddy froth and a slowly widening red stain that began to
seep away downstream.

Bond shook himself. He turned. Quarrel and the girl were standing behind
him, water streaming from their bodies. Quarrel was grinning from ear to
ear, but the girl's knuckles were at her mouth and her eyes were staring
horror-struck at the reddened water.

Bond said curtly, "I'm sorry, Honey. It had to be done. He was right on
top of us. Come on, let's get going." He took her roughly by the arm and
thrust her away from the place and out into the main stream, only
stopping when they had reached the open river at the beginning of the
mangrove tunnel.

The landscape was empty again. Bond glanced at his watch. It had stopped
at three o'clock. He looked at the westering sun. It might be four
o'clock now. How much farther had they to go? Bond suddenly felt tired.
Now he'd torn it. Even if the shot hadn't been heard--and it would have
been well muffled by the man's body and by the mangroves--the man would
be missed when the others rendezvoused, if Quarrel's guess was right, at
the river mouth to be taken off to the launch. Would they come back up
the river to look for the missing man? Probably not. It would be getting
dark before they knew for certain that he was missing. They'd send out a
search party in the morning. The dogs would soon get the body. Then
what?

The girl tugged at his sleeve. She said angrily, "It's time you told me
what all this is about! Why's everybody trying to kill each other? And
who are you? I don't believe all this story about birds. You don't take
a revolver after birds."

Bond looked down into the angry, wide-apart eyes. "I'm sorry, Honey. I'm
afraid I've got you into a bit of a mess. I'll tell you all about it
this evening when we get to the camp. It's just bad luck you being mixed
up with me like this. I've got a bit of a war on with these people. They
seem to want to kill me. Now I'm only interested in seeing us all off
the island without anyone else getting hurt. I've got enough to go on
now so that next time I can come back by the front door."

"What do you mean? Are you some sort of a policeman? Are you trying to
send this Chinaman to prison?"

"That's about it," Bond smiled down at her. "At least you're on the side
of the angels. And now you tell me something. How much farther to the
camp?"

"Oh, about an hour."

"Is it a good place to hide? Could they find us there easily?"

"They'd have to come across the lake or up the river. It'll be all right
so long as they don't send their dragon after us. He can go through the
water. I've seen him do it."

"Oh well," said Bond diplomatically, "let's hope he's got a sore tail or
something."

The girl snorted. "All right, Mr Know-all," she said angrily. "Just you
wait."

Quarrel splashed out of the mangroves. He was carrying a rifle. He said
apologetically. "No harm'n havin' anudder gun, cap'n. Looks like us may
need hit."

Bond took it. It was a U.S. Army Remington Carbine, .300. These people
certainly had the right equipment. He handed it back.

Quarrel echoed his thoughts. "Dese is sly folks, cap'n. Dat man mus' of
come sneakin' down soffly behind de udders to ketch us comin' out after
de dawgs had passed. He sho is a sly mongoose, dat Doctor feller."

Bond said thoughtfully, "He must be quite a man." He shrugged away his
thoughts. "Now let's get going. Honey says there's another hour to the
camp. Better keep to the left bank so as to get what cover we can from
the hill. For all we know they've got glasses trained on the river."
Bond handed his gun to Quarrel who stowed it in the sodden knapsack.
They moved off again with Quarrel in the lead and Bond and the girl
walking together.

They got some shade from the bamboo and bushes along the western bank,
but now they had to face the full force of the scorching wind. They
splashed water over their arms and faces to cool the burns. Bond's eyes
were bloodshot with the glare and his arm ached intolerably where the
gun butt had struck. And he was not looking forward to his dinner of
soaking bread and cheese and salt pork. How long would they be able to
sleep? He hadn't had much last night. It looked like the same ration
again. And what about the girl? She had had none. He and Quarrel would
have to keep watch and watch. And then tomorrow. Off into the mangrove
again and work their way slowly back to the canoe across the eastern end
of the island. It looked like that. And sail the following night. Bond
thought of hacking a way for five miles through solid mangroves. What a
prospect! Bond trudged on, thinking of M's 'holiday in the sunshine'.
He'd certainly give something for M to be sharing it with him now.

The river grew narrower until it was only a stream between the bamboo
clumps. Then it widened out into a flat marshy estuary beyond which the
five square miles of shallow lake swept away to the other side of the
island in a ruffled blue-grey mirror. Beyond, there was the shimmer of
the airstrip and the glint of the sun on a single hangar. The girl told
them to keep to the east and they worked their way slowly along inside
the fringe of bushes.

Suddenly Quarrel stopped, his face pointing like a gun-dog's at the
marshy ground in front of him. Two deep parallel grooves were cut into
the mud, with a fainter groove in the centre. They were the tracks of
something that had come down from the hill and gone across the marsh
towards the lake.

The girl said indifferently. "That's where the dragon's been."

Quarrel turned the whites of his eyes towards her.

Bond walked slowly along the tracks. The outside ones were quite smooth
with an indented curve. They could have been made by wheels, but they
were vast--at least two feet across. The centre track was of the same
shape but only three inches across, about the width of a motor tyre. The
tracks were without a trace of tread, and they were fairly fresh. They
marched along in a dead straight line and the bushes they crossed were
squashed flat as if a tank had gone over them.

Bond couldn't imagine what kind of vehicle, if it was a vehicle, had
made them. When the girl nudged him and whispered fiercely "I told you
so", he could only say thoughtfully, "Well, Honey, if it isn't a dragon,
it's something else I've never seen before."

Farther on, she tugged urgently at his sleeve. "Look," she whispered.
She pointed forward to a big clump of bushes beside which the tracks
ran. They were leafless and blackened. In the centre there showed the
charred remains of birds' nests. "He breathed on them," she said
excitedly.

Bond walked up to the bushes and examined them. "He certainly did," he
admitted. Why had this particular clump been burned? It was all very
odd.

The tracks swerved out towards the lake and disappeared into the water.
Bond would have liked to follow them but there was no question of
leaving cover. They trudged on, wrapped in their different thoughts.

Slowly the day began to die behind the sugar-loaf, and at last the girl
pointed ahead through the bushes and Bond could see a long spit of sand
running out into the lake. There were thick bushes of sea-grape along
its spine and, halfway, perhaps a hundred yards from the shore, the
remains of a thatched hut. It looked a reasonably attractive place to
spend the night and it was well protected by the water on both sides.
The wind had died and the water was soft and inviting. How heavenly it
was going to be to take off their filthy shirts and wash in the lake,
and, after the hours of squelching through the mud and stench of the
river and the marsh, be able to lie down on the hard dry sand!

The sun blazed yellowly and sank behind the mountain. The day was still
alive at the eastern tip of the island, but the black shadow of the
sugar-loaf was slowly marching across the lake and would soon reach out
and kill that too. The frogs started up, louder than in Jamaica, until
the thick dusk was shrill with them. Across the lake a giant bull frog
began to drum. The eerie sound was something between a tom-tom and an
ape's roar. It sent out short messages that were suddenly throttled.
Soon it fell silent. It had found what it had sent for.

They reached the neck of the sandspit and filed out along a narrow
track. They came to the clearing with the smashed remains of the wattle
hut. The big mysterious tracks led out of the water on both sides and
through the clearing and over the nearby bushes as if the thing,
whatever it was, had stampeded the place. Many of the bushes were burned
or charred. There were the remains of a fireplace made of lumps of coral
and a few scattered cooking pots and empty tins. They searched in the
debris and Quarrel unearthed a couple of unopened tins of Heinz pork and
beans. The girl found a crumpled sleeping-bag. Bond found a small
leather purse containing five one-dollar notes, three Jamaica pounds and
some silver. The two men had certainly left in a hurry.

They left the place and moved farther along to a small sandy clearing.
Through the bushes they could see lights winking across the water from
the mountain, perhaps two miles away. To the eastward there was nothing
but the soft black sheen of water under the darkening sky.

Bond said, "As long as we don't show a light we should be fine here. The
first thing is to have a good wash. Honey, you take the rest of the
sandspit and we'll have the landward end. See you for dinner in about
half an hour."

The girl laughed. "Will you be dressing?"

"Certainly," said Bond. "Trousers."

Quarrel said, "Cap'n, while dere's henough light I'll get dese tins open
and get tings fixed for de night." He rummaged in the knapsack. "Here's
yo trousers and yo gun. De bread don't feel so good but hit only wet.
Hit eat okay an' mebbe hit dry hout come de mornin'. Guess we'd better
eat de tins tonight an' keep de cheese an' pork. Dose tins is heavy an'
we got plenty footin' tomorrow."

Bond said, "All right, Quarrel. I'll leave the menu to you." He took the
gun and the damp trousers and walked down into the shallow water and
back the way they had come. He found a hard dry stretch of sand and took
off his shirt and stepped back into the water and lay down. The water
was soft but disgustingly warm. He dug up handfuls of sand and scrubbed
himself with it, using it as soap. Then he lay and luxuriated in the
silence and the loneliness.

The stars began to shine palely, the stars that had brought them to the
island last night, a year ago, the stars that would take them away again
tomorrow night, a year away. What a trip! But at least it had already
paid off. Now he had enough evidence, and witnesses, to go back to the
Governor and get a full-dress inquiry going into the activities of
Doctor No. One didn't use machine guns on people, even on trespassers.
And, by the same token, what was this thing of Doctor No's that had
trespassed on the leasehold of the Audubon Society, the thing that had
smashed their property and had possibly killed one of their wardens?
That would have to be investigated too. And what would he find when he
came back to the island through the front door, in a destroyer, perhaps,
and with a detachment of marines? What would be the answer to the riddle
of Doctor No? What was he hiding? What did he fear? Why was privacy so
important to him that he would murder, again and again, for it? Who
_was_ Doctor No?

Bond heard splashing away to his right. He thought of the girl. And who,
for the matter of that, was Honeychile Rider? That, he decided, as he
climbed out on to dry land, was at least something that he ought to be
able to find out before the night was over.

Bond pulled on his clammy trousers and sat down on the sand and
dismantled his gun. He did it by touch, using his shirt to dry each part
and each cartridge. Then he reassembled the gun and clicked the trigger
round the empty cylinder. The sound was healthy. It would be days before
it rusted. He loaded it and tucked it into the holster inside the
waistband of his trousers and got up and walked back to the clearing.

The shadow of Honey reached up and pulled him down beside her. "Come
on," she said, "we're starving. I got one of the cooking pots and
cleaned it out and we poured the beans into it. There's about two full
handfuls each and a cricket ball of bread. And I'm not feeling guilty
about eating your food because you made me work far harder than I would
if I'd been alone. Here, hold out your hand."

Bond smiled at the authority in her voice. He could just make out her
silhouette in the dusk. Her head looked sleeker. He wondered what her
hair looked like when it was combed and dry. What would she be like when
she was wearing clean clothes over that beautiful golden body? He could
see her coming into a room or across the lawn at Beau Desert. She would
be a beautiful, ravishing, Ugly Duckling. Why had she never had the
broken nose mended? It was an easy operation. Then she would be the most
beautiful girl in Jamaica.

Her shoulder brushed against him. Bond reached out and put his hand down
in her lap, open. She picked up his hand and Bond felt the cold mess of
beans being poured into it.

Suddenly he smelled her warm animal smell. It was so sensually thrilling
that his body swayed against her and for a moment his eyes closed.

She gave a short laugh in which there was shyness and satisfaction and
tenderness. She said "There," maternally, and carried his laden hand
away from her and back to him.




                                   XI
                          AMIDST THE ALIEN CANE


It would be around eight o'clock, Bond thought. Apart from the
background tinkle of the frogs it was very quiet. In the far corner of
the clearing he could see the dark outline of Quarrel. There was the
soft clink of metal as he dismantled and dried the Remington.

Through the bushes the distant yellow lights from the guanera made
festive pathways across the dark surface of the lake. The ugly wind had
gone and the hideous scenery lay drowned in darkness. It was cool.
Bond's clothes had dried on him. The three big handfuls of food had
warmed his stomach. He felt comfortable and drowsy and at peace.
Tomorrow was a long way off and presented no problems except a great
deal of physical exercise. Life suddenly felt easy and good.

The girl lay beside him in the sleeping-bag. She was lying on her back
with her head cradled in her hands, looking up at the roof of stars. He
could just make out the pale pool of her face. She said, "James. You
promised to tell me what this is all about. Come on. I shan't go to
sleep until you do."

Bond laughed. "I'll tell if you'll tell. I want to know what you're all
about."

"I don't mind. I've got no secrets. But you first."

"All right then." Bond pulled his knees up to his chin and put his arms
round them. "It's like this. I'm a sort of policeman. They send me out
from London when there's something odd going on somewhere in the world
that isn't anybody else's business. Well, not long ago one of the
Governor's staff in Kingston, a man called Strangways, friend of mine,
disappeared. His secretary, who was a pretty girl, did too. Most people
thought they'd run away together. I didn't. I..."

Bond told the story in simple terms, with good men and bad men, like an
adventure story out of a book. He ended, "So you see, Honey, it's just a
question of getting back to Jamaica tomorrow night, all three of us in
the canoe, and then the Governor will listen to us and send over a lot
of soldiers to get this Chinaman to own up. I expect that'll mean he'll
go to prison. He'll know that too and that's why he's trying to stop us.
That's all. Now it's your turn."

The girl said, "You seem to live a very exciting life. Your wife can't
like you being away so much. Doesn't she worry about you getting hurt?"

"I'm not married. The only people who worry about me getting hurt are my
insurance company."

She probed, "But I suppose you have girls."

"Not permanent ones."

"Oh."

There was a pause. Quarrel came over to them. "Cap'n, Ah'll take de fust
watch if dat suits. Be out on de point of de sandspit. Ah'll come call
yo around midnight. Den mebbe yo take on till five and den we all git
goin'. Need to get well away from dis place afore it's light."

"Suits me," said Bond. "Wake me if you see anything. Gun all right?"

"Him's jess fine," said Quarrel happily. He said, "Sleep well, missy,"
with a hint of meaning, and melted noiselessly away into the shadows.

"I like Quarrel," said the girl. She paused, then, "Do you really want
to know about me? It's not as exciting as your story."

"Of course I do. And don't leave anything out."

"There's nothing to leave out. You could get my whole life on to the
back of a postcard. To begin with I've never been out of Jamaica. I've
lived all my life at a place called Beau Desert on the North Coast near
Morgan's Harbour."

Bond laughed. "That's odd. So do I. At least for the moment. I didn't
notice you about. Do you live up a tree?"

"Oh, I suppose you've taken the beach house. I never go near the place.
I live in the Great House."

"But there's nothing left of it. It's a ruin in the middle of the cane
fields."

"I live in the cellars. I've lived there since I was five. It was burned
down then and my parents were killed. I can't remember anything about
them so you needn't say you're sorry. At first I lived there with my
black nanny. She died when I was fifteen. For the last five years I've
lived there alone."

"Good heavens." Bond was appalled. "But wasn't there anyone else to look
after you? Didn't your parents leave any money?"

"Not a penny." There was no bitterness in the girl's voice--pride if
anything. "You see the Riders were one of the old Jamaican families. The
first one had been given the Beau Desert lands by Cromwell for having
been one of the people who signed King Charles's death warrant. He built
the Great House and my family lived in it on and off ever since. But
then sugar collapsed and I suppose the place was badly run, and by the
time my father inherited it there was nothing but debts--mortgages and
things like that. So when my father and mother died the property was
sold up. I didn't mind. I was too young. Nanny must have been wonderful.
They wanted people to adopt me, the clergyman and the legal people did,
but Nanny collected the sticks of furniture that hadn't been burned and
we settled down in the ruins and after a bit no one came and interfered
with us. She did a bit of sewing and laundry in the village and grew a
few plantains and bananas and things and there was a big breadfruit tree
up against the old house. We ate what the Jamaicans eat. And there was
the sugar cane all round us and she made a fishpot which we used to go
and take up every day. It was all right. We had enough to eat. Somehow
she taught me to read and write. There was a pile of old books left from
the fire. There was an encyclopedia. I started with A when I was about
eight. I've got as far as the middle of T." She said defensively. "I bet
I know more than you do about a lot of things."

"I bet you do." Bond was lost in the picture of the little flaxen-haired
girl pattering about the ruins with the obstinate old Negress watching
over her and calling her in to do the lessons that must have been just
as much a riddle to the old woman. "Your nanny must have been a
wonderful person."

"She was a darling." It was a flat statement. "I thought I'd die when
she did. It wasn't such fun after that. Before, I'd led a child's life;
then I suddenly had to grow up and do everything for myself. And men
tried to catch me and hurt me. They said they wanted to make love to
me." She paused. "I used to be pretty then."

Bond said seriously, "You're one of the most beautiful girls I've ever
seen."

"With this nose? Don't be silly."

"You don't understand." Bond tried to find words that she would believe.
"Of course anyone can see your nose is broken. But since this morning
I've hardly noticed it. When you look at a person you look into their
eyes or at their mouth. That's where the expressions are. A broken nose
isn't any more significant than a crooked ear. Noses and ears are bits
of face-furniture. Some are prettier than others, but they're not nearly
as important as the rest. They're part of the background of the face. If
you had a beautiful nose as well as the rest of you you'd be the most
beautiful girl in Jamaica."

"Do you mean that?" her voice was urgent. "Do you think I could be
beautiful? I know some of me's all right, but when I look in the glass I
hardly see anything except my broken nose. I'm sure it's like that with
other people who are, who are--well--sort of deformed."

Bond said impatiently, "You're not deformed! Don't talk such nonsense.
And anyway you can have it put right by a simple operation. You've only
got to get over to America and it would be done in a week."

She said angrily, "How do you expect me to do that? I've got about
fifteen pounds under a stone in my cellar. I've got three skirts and
three shirts and a knife and a fishpot. I know all about these
operations. The doctor at Port Maria found out for me. He's a nice man.
He wrote to America. Do you know, to have it properly done it would cost
me about five hundred pounds, what with the fare to New York and the
hospital and everything?" Her voice became hopeless. "How do you expect
me to find that amount of money?"

Bond had already made up his mind what would have to be done about that.
Now he merely said tenderly, "Well, I expect there are ways. But anyway,
go on with your story. It's very exciting--far more interesting than
mine. You'd got to where your Nanny died. What happened then?"

The girl began again reluctantly.

"Well, it's your fault for interrupting. And you mustn't talk about
things you don't understand. I suppose people tell you you're
good-looking. I expect you get all the girls you want. Well you wouldn't
if you had a squint or a hare-lip or something. As a matter of fact," he
could hear the smile in her voice, "I think I shall go to the obeahman
when we get back and get him to put a spell on you and give you
something like that." She added lamely, "Then we should be more alike."

Bond reached out. His hand brushed against her. "I've got other plans,"
he said. "But come on. I want to hear the rest of the story."

"Oh well," the girl sighed, "I'll have to go back a bit. You see all the
property is in cane and the old house stands in the middle of it. Well,
about twice a year they cut the cane and send it off to the mill. And
when they do that all the animals and insects and so on that live in the
cane fields go into a panic and most of them have their houses destroyed
and get killed. At cutting time some of them took to coming to the ruins
of the house and hiding. My Nanny was terrified of them to begin with,
the mongooses and the snakes and the scorpions and so on, but I made a
couple of the cellar rooms into sort of homes for them. I wasn't
frightened of them and they never hurt me. They seemed to understand
that I was looking after them. They must have told their friends or
something because after a bit it was quite natural for them all to come
trooping into their rooms and settling down there until the young cane
had started to grow again. Then they all filed out and went back to
living in the fields. I gave them what food we could spare when they
were staying with us and they behaved very well except for making a bit
of a smell and sometimes fighting amongst each other. But they all got
quite tame with me, and their children did, too, and I could do anything
with them. Of course the cane-cutters found out about this and saw me
walking about with snakes round my neck and so forth, and they got
frightened of me and thought I was obeah. So they left us absolutely
alone." She paused. "That's where I found out so much about animals and
insects. I used to spend a lot of time in the sea finding out about
those people too. It was the same with birds. If you find out what all
these people like to eat and what they're afraid of, and if you spend
all your time with them you can make friends." She looked up at him.
"You miss a lot not knowing about these things."

"I'm afraid I do," said Bond truthfully. "I expect they're much nicer
and more interesting than humans."

"I don't know about that," said the girl thoughtfully. "I don't know
many human people. Most of the ones I have met have been hateful. But I
suppose they can be interesting too." She paused. "I hadn't every really
thought of liking them like I like the animals. Except for Nanny, of
course. Until..." She broke off with a shy laugh. "Well, anyway we
all lived happily together until I was fifteen and Nanny died and then
things got difficult. There was a man called Mander. A horrible man. He
was the white overseer for the people who own the property. He kept
coming to see me. He wanted me to move up to his house near Port Maria.
I hated him and I used to hide when I heard his horse coming through the
cane. One night he came on foot and I didn't hear him. He was drunk. He
came into the cellar and fought with me because I wouldn't do what he
wanted me to do. You know, the things people in love do."

"Yes, I know."

"I tried to kill him with my knife, but he was very strong and he hit me
as hard as he could in the face and broke my nose. He knocked me
unconscious and then I think he did things to me. I mean I know he did.
Next day I wanted to kill myself when I saw my face and when I found
what he had done. I thought I would have a baby. I would certainly have
killed myself if I'd had a baby by that man. Anyway, I didn't, so that
was that. I went to the doctor and he did what he could for my nose and
didn't charge me anything. I didn't tell him about the rest. I was too
ashamed. The man didn't come back. I waited and did nothing until the
next cane-cutting. I'd got my plan. I was waiting for the Black Widow
spiders to come in for shelter. One day they came. I caught the biggest
of the females and shut her in a box with nothing to eat. They're the
bad ones, the females. Then I waited for a dark night without any moon.
I took the box with the spider in it and walked and walked until I came
to the man's house. It was very dark and I was frightened of the duppies
I might meet on the road but I didn't see any. I waited in his garden in
the bushes and watched him go up to bed. Then I climbed a tree and got
on to his balcony. I waited there until I heard him snoring and then I
crept through the window. He was lying naked on the bed under the
mosquito net. I lifted the edge and opened the box and shook the spider
out on to his stomach. Then I went away and came home."

"God Almighty!" said Bond reverently. "What happened to him?"

She said happily, "He took a week to die. It must have hurt terribly.
They do, you know. The obeahmen say there's nothing like it." She
paused. When Bond made no comment, she said anxiously, "You don't think
I did wrong, do you?"

"It's not a thing to make a habit of," said Bond mildly. "But I can't
say I blame you the way it was. So what happened then?"

"Well then I just settled down again," her voice was matter-of-fact. "I
had to concentrate on getting enough food, and of course all I wanted to
do was save up money to get my nose made good again." She said
persuasively, "It really was quite a pretty nose before. Do you think
the doctors can put it back to how it was?"

"They can make it any shape you like," said Bond definitely. "What did
you make money at?"

"It was the encyclopedia. It told me that people collect sea-shells.
That one could sell the rare ones. I talked to the local schoolmaster,
without telling him my secret of course, and he found out that there's
an American magazine called _Nautilus_ for shell collectors. I had just
enough money to subscribe to it and I began looking for the shells that
people said they wanted in the advertisements. I wrote to a dealer in
Miami and he started buying from me. It was thrilling. Of course I made
some awful mistakes to begin with. I thought people would like the
prettiest shells, but they don't. Very often they want the ugliest. And
then when I found rare ones I cleaned them and polished them to make
them look better. That's wrong too. They want shells just as they come
out of the sea, with the animal in and all. So I got some formalin from
the doctor and put it into the live shells to stop them smelling and
sent them off to this man in Miami. I only got it right about a year ago
and I've already made fifteen pounds. I'd worked out that now I knew how
they wanted them, and if I was lucky, I ought to make at least fifty
pounds a year. Then in ten years I would be able to go to America and
have the operation. And then," she giggled delightedly, "I had a
terrific stroke of luck. I went over to Crab Key. I'd been there before,
but this was just before Christmas, and I found these purple shells.
They didn't look very exciting, but I sent one or two to Miami and the
man wrote back at once and said he could take as many as I could get at
five dollars each for the whole ones. He said that I must keep the place
where they live a dead secret as otherwise we'd what he called 'spoil
the market' and the price would get cheaper. It's just like having one's
private gold mine. Now I may be able to save up the money in five years.
That's why I was so suspicious of you when I found you on my beach. I
thought you'd come to steal my shells."

"You gave me a bit of a shock. I thought you must be Doctor No's girl
friend."

"Thanks very much."

"But when you've had the operation, what are you going to do then? You
can't got on living alone in a cellar all your life."

"I thought I'd be a call girl." She said it as she might have said
'nurse' or 'secretary'.

"Oh, what do you mean by that?" Perhaps she had picked up the expression
without understanding it.

"One of those girls who has a beautiful flat and lovely clothes. You
know what I mean," she said impatiently. "People ring them up and come
and make love to them and pay them for it. They get a hundred dollars
for each time in New York. That's where I thought I'd start. Of course,"
she admitted, "I might have to do it for less to begin with. Until I
learned to do it really well. How much do you pay the untrained ones?"

Bond laughed. "I really can't remember. It's quite a long time since I
had one."

She sighed. "Yes, I suppose you can have as many women as you want for
nothing. I suppose it's only the ugly men that pay. But that can't be
helped. Any kind of job in the big towns must be dreadful. At least you
can earn much more being a call girl. Then I can come back to Jamaica
and buy Beau Desert. I'd be rich enough to find a nice husband and have
some children. Now that I've found these Venus shells I've worked out
that I might be back in Jamaica by the time I'm thirty. Won't that be
lovely?"

"I like the last part of the plan. But I'm not so sure of the first.
Anyway, where did you find out about these call girls? Were they under C
in the encyclopedia?"

"Of course not. Don't be silly. There was a big case about them in New
York about two years ago. There was a rich playboy called Jelke. He had
a whole string of girls. There was a lot about the case in the
_Gleaner_. They gave all the prices and everything. And anyway, there
are thousands of those sort of girls in Kingston, only of course not
such good ones. They only get about five shillings and they have nowhere
to go and do it except the bush. My Nanny told me about them. She said I
mustn't grow up like them or I'd be very unhappy. I can see that for
only five shillings. But for a hundred dollars...!"

Bond said, "You wouldn't be able to keep all of that. You'd have to have
a sort of manager to get the men, and then you'd have to bribe the
police to leave you alone. And you could easily go to prison if
something went wrong. I really don't think you'd like the work. I'll
tell you what, with all you know about animals and insects and so on you
could get a wonderful job looking after them in one of the American
zoos. Or what about the Jamaica Institute? I'm sure you'd like that
better. You'd be just as likely to meet a nice husband. Anyway you
mustn't think of being a call girl any more. You've got a beautiful
body. You must keep it for the men you love."

"That's what people say in books," she said doubtfully. "The trouble is
there aren't any men to love at Beau Desert." She said shyly, "You're
the first Englishman I've ever talked to. I liked you from the
beginning. I don't mind telling you these things at all. I suppose there
are plenty of other people I should like if I could get away."

"Of course there are. Hundreds. And you're a wonderful girl. I thought
so directly I saw you."

"Saw my behind, you mean." The voice was getting drowsy, but it was full
of pleasure.

Bond laughed. "Well, it was a wonderful behind. And the other side was
wonderful too." Bond's body began to stir with the memory of how she had
been. He said gruffly, "Now come on, Honey. It's time to go to sleep.
There'll be plenty of time to talk when we get back to Jamaica."

"Will there?" she said sleepily. "Promise?"

"Promise."

He heard her stir in the sleeping-bag. He looked down. He could just
make out the pale profile turned towards him. She gave the deep sigh of
a child before it falls asleep.

There was silence in the clearing. It was getting cold. Bond put his
head down on his hunched knees. He knew it was no good trying to get to
sleep. His mind was full of the day and of this extraordinary Girl
Tarzan who had come into his life. It was as if some beautiful animal
had attached itself to him. There would be no dropping the leash until
he had solved her problems for her. He knew it. Of course there would be
no difficulty about most of them. He could fix the operation--even, with
the help of friends, find a proper job and a home for her. He had the
money. He would buy her dresses, have her hair done, get her started in
the big world. It would be fun. But what about the other side? What
about the physical desire he felt for her? One could not make love to a
child. But was she a child? There was nothing childish about her body or
her personality. She was fully grown and highly intelligent in her
fashion, and far more capable of taking care of herself than any girl of
twenty Bond had ever met.

Bond's thoughts were interrupted by a tug at his sleeve. The small voice
said, "Why don't you go to sleep? Are you cold?"

"No, I'm fine."

"It's nice and warm in the sleeping-bag. Would you like to come in?
There's plenty of room."

"No thank you, Honey. I'll be all right."

There was a pause, then, almost in a whisper, "If you're thinking...
I mean--you don't have to make love to me... We could go to sleep
back to front, you know, like spoons."

"Honey, darling, you go to sleep. It'd be lovely to be like that, but
not tonight. Anyway I'll have to take over from Quarrel soon."

"Yes, I see." The voice was grudging. "Perhaps when we get back to
Jamaica."

"Perhaps."

"Promise. I won't go to sleep until you promise."

Bond said desperately, "Of course I promise. Now go to sleep,
Honeychile."

The voice whispered triumphantly, "Now you owe me slave-time. You've
promised. Good night, darling James."

"Good night, darling Honey."




                                  XII
                                THE THING


The grip on Bond's shoulder was urgent. He was instantly on his feet.

Quarrel whispered fiercely, "Somepn comin' across de water, cap'n! It de
dragon fo sho!"

The girl woke up. She said anxiously, "What's happened?"

Bond said, "Stay here, Honey! Don't move. I'll be back." He broke
through the bushes on the side away from the mountain and ran along the
sand with Quarrel at his elbow.

They came to the tip of the sandspit, twenty yards from the clearing.
They stopped under cover of the final bushes. Bond parted them and
looked through.

What was it? Half a mile away, coming across the lake, was a shapeless
thing with two glaring orange eyes with black pupils. From between
these, where the mouth might be, fluttered a yard of blue flame. The
grey luminescence of the stars showed some kind of domed head above two
short batlike wings. The thing was making a low moaning roar that
overlaid another noise, a deep rhythmic thud. It was coming towards them
at about ten miles an hour, throwing up a creamy wake.

Quarrel whispered, "Gawd, cap'n! What's dat fearful ting?"

Bond stood up. He said shortly, "Don't know exactly. Some sort of
tractor affair dressed up to frighten. It's running on a diesel engine,
so you can forget about dragons. Now let's see." Bond spoke half to
himself. "No good running away. The thing's too fast for us and we know
it can go over mangroves and swamps. Have to fight it here. What'll its
weak spots be? The drivers. Of course they'll have protection. We don't
know how much. Quarrel, you start firing at that dome on top when it
gets to two hundred yards. Aim carefully and keep on firing. I'll go for
its headlights when it gets to fifty yards. It's not running on tracks.
Must have some kind of giant tyres, aeroplane tyres probably. I'll go
for them too. Stay here. I'll go ten yards along. They may start firing
back and we've got to keep the bullets away from the girl. Okay?" Bond
reached out and squeezed the big shoulder. "And don't worry too much.
Forget about dragons. It's just some gadget of Doctor No's. We'll kill
the drivers and capture the damn thing and ride it down to the coast.
Save us shoe-leather. Right?"

Quarrel laughed shortly. "Okay, cap'n. Since you says so. But Ah sho
hopes de Almighty knows he's no dragon too!"

Bond ran down the sand. He broke through the bushes until he had a clear
field of fire. He called softly, "Honey!"

"Yes, James." There was relief in the nearby voice.

"Make a hole in the sand like we did on the beach. Behind the thickest
roots. Get into it and lie down. There may be some shooting. Don't worry
about dragons. This is just a painted up motor car with some of Doctor
No's men in it. Don't be frightened. I'm quite close."

"All right, James. Be careful." The voice was high with fright.

Bond knelt on one knee in the leaves and sand and peered out.

Now the thing was only about three hundred yards away and its yellow
headlights were lighting up the sandspit. Blue flames were still
fluttering from the mouth. They were coming from a long snout mocked-up
with gaping jaws and gold paint to look like a dragon's mouth.
Flame-thrower! That would explain the burned bushes and the warden's
story. The blue flames would be coming from some kind of an
after-burner. The apparatus was now in neutral. What would its range be
when the compression was unleashed?

Bond had to admit that the thing was an awesome sight as it moaned
forward through the shallow lake. It was obviously designed to terrify.
It would have frightened him but for the earthy thud of the diesel.
Against native intruders it would be devastating. But how vulnerable
would it be to people with guns who didn't panic?

He was answered at once. There came the crack of Quarrel's Remington. A
spark flew off the domed cabin and there was a dull clang. Quarrel fired
another single shot and then a burst. The bullets hammered ineffectually
against the cabin. There was not even a check in speed. The thing rolled
on, swerving slightly to make for the source of the gunfire. Bond
cradled the Smith & Wesson on his forearm and took careful aim. The deep
cough of his gun sounded above the rattle of the Remington. One of the
headlamps shattered and went out. He fired four shots at the other and
got it with the fifth and last round in the cylinder. The thing didn't
care. It rolled straight on towards Quarrel's hiding place. Bond
reloaded and began firing at the huge bulge of the tyres under the bogus
black and gold wings. The range was now only thirty yards and he could
have sworn that he hit the nearest wheel again and again. No effect.
Solid rubber? The first breath of fear stirred Bond's skin.

He reloaded. Was the damn thing vulnerable from the rear? Should he dash
out into the lake and try and board it? He took a step forward through
the bushes. Then he froze, incapable of movement.

Suddenly, from the dribbling snout, a yellow-tipped bolt of blue flame
had howled out towards Quarrel's hiding place. There was a single puff
of orange and red flame from the bushes to Bond's right and one
unearthly scream, immediately choked. Satisfied, the searing tongue of
fire licked back into the snout. The thing turned on its axis and
stopped dead. Now the blue hole of its mouth aimed straight at Bond.

Bond stood and waited for his unspeakable end. He looked into the blue
jaws of death and saw the glowing red filament of the firer deep inside
the big tube. He thought of Quarrel's body--there was no time to think
of Quarrel--and imagined the blackened, smoking figure lying in the
melted sand. Soon he, too, would flame like a torch. The single scream
would be wrung from him and his limbs would jerk into the dancing pose
of burned bodies. Then it would be Honey's turn. Christ, what had he led
them into! Why had he been so insane as to take on this man with his
devastating armoury. Why hadn't he been warned by the long finger that
had pointed at him in Jamaica? Bond set his teeth. Hurry up, you
bastards. Get it over.

There came the twang of a loud-hailer. A voice howled metallically,
"Come on out, Limey. And the doll. Quick, or you'll fry in hell like
your pal." To rub in the command, the bolt of flame spat briefly towards
him. Bond stepped back from the searing heat. He felt the girl's body
against his back. She said hysterically, "I had to come. I had to come."

Bond said, "It's all right, Honey. Keep behind me."

He had made up his mind. There was no alternative. Even if death was to
come later it couldn't be worse than this kind of death. Bond reached
for the girl's hand and drew her after him out on to the sand.

The voice howled. "Stop there. Good boy. And drop the pea-shooter. No
tricks or the crabs'll be getting a cooked breakfast."

Bond dropped his gun. So much for the Smith & Wesson. The Beretta would
have been just as good against this thing. The girl whimpered. Bond
squeezed her hand. "Stick it, Honey," he said. "We'll get out of this
somehow." Bond sneered at himself for the lie.

There was the clang of an iron door being opened. From the back of the
dome a man dropped into the water and walked towards them. There was a
gun in his hand. He kept out of the line of fire of the flame-thrower.
The fluttering blue flame lit up his sweating face. He was a Chinese
Negro, a big man, clad only in trousers. Something dangled from his left
hand. When he came closer, Bond saw it was handcuffs.

The man stopped a few yards away. He said, "Hold out your hands. Wrists
together. Then walk towards me. You first, Limey. Slowly or you get an
extra navel."

Bond did as he was told. When he was within sweat-smell of the man, the
man put his gun between his teeth and reached out and snapped the
handcuffs on Bond's wrists. Bond looked into the face, gumnetal-coloured
from the blue flames. It was a brutal, squinting face. It sneered at
him. "Dumb bastard," said the man.

Bond turned his back on the man and started walking away. He was going
to see Quarrel's body. He had to say goodbye to it. There was the roar
of a gun. A bullet kicked up sand close to his feet. Bond stopped and
turned slowly round. "Don't be nervous," he said. "I'm going to take a
look at the man you've just murdered. I'll be back."

The man lowered his gun. He laughed harshly. "Okay. Enjoy yourself.
Sorry we ain't got a wreath. Come back quick or we give the doll a
toastin'. Two minutes."

Bond walked on towards the smoking clump of bushes. He got there and
looked down. His eyes and mouth winced. Yes, it had been just as he had
visualized. Worse. He said softly, "I'm sorry, Quarrel." He kicked into
the ground and scooped up a handful of cool sand between his manacled
hands and poured it over the remains of the eyes. Then he walked slowly
back and stood beside the girl.

The man waved them forward with his gun. They walked round the back of
the machine. There was a small square door. A voice from inside said,
"Get in and sit on the floor. Don't touch anything or you get your
fingers broke."

They scrambled into the iron box. It stank of sweat and oil. There was
just room for them to sit with their knees hunched up. The man with the
gun followed them in and banged the door. He switched on a light and sat
down on an iron tractor seat beside the driver. He said, "Okay, Sam.
Let's get goin'. You can put out the fire. It's light enough to steer
by."

There was a row of dials and switches on the instrument panel. The
driver reached forward and pulled down a couple of the switches. He put
the machine into gear and peered out through a narrow slit in the iron
wall in front of him. Bond felt the machine turn. There came a faster
beat from the engine and they moved off.

The girl's shoulder pressed against his. "Where are they taking us?" The
whisper trembled.

Bond turned his head and looked at her. It was the first time he had
been able to see her hair when it was dry. Now it was disarrayed by
sleep, but it was no longer a bunch of rats' tails. It hung heavily
straight down to her shoulders, where it curled softly inwards. It was
of the palest ash blonde and shone almost silver under the electric
light. She looked up at him. The skin round her eyes and at the corners
of her mouth was white with fear.

Bond shrugged with an indifference he didn't feel. He whispered, "Oh, I
expect we're going to see Doctor No. Don't worry too much, Honey. These
men are just little gangsters. It'll be different with him. When we get
to him don't you say anything, I'll talk for both of us." He pressed her
shoulder. "I like the way you do your hair. I'm glad you don't cut it
too short."

Some of the tension went out of her face. "How can you think of things
like that?" She half smiled at him. "But I'm glad you like it. I wash it
in coconut oil once a week." At the memory of her other life her eyes
grew bright with tears. She bent her head down to her manacled hands to
hide her tears. She whispered almost to herself, "I'll try to be brave.
It'll be all right as long as you're there."

Bond shifted so that he was right up against her. He brought his
handcuffed hands close up to his eyes and examined them. They were the
American police model. He contracted his left hand, the thinner of the
two, and tried to pull it through the squat ring of steel. Even the
sweat on his skin was no help. It was hopeless.

The two men sat on their iron seats with their backs to them,
indifferent. They knew they had total command. There wasn't room for
Bond to give any trouble. Bond couldn't stand up or get enough momentum
into his hands to do any damage to the backs of their heads with his
handcuffs. If Bond somehow managed to open the hatch and drop into the
water, where would that get him? They would at once feel the fresh air
on their backs and stop the machine, and either burn him in the water or
pick him up. It annoyed Bond that they didn't worry about him, that they
knew he was utterly in their power. He also didn't like the idea that
these men were intelligent enough to know that he presented no threat.
Stupider men would have sat over him with a gun out, would have trussed
him and the girl with inexpert thoroughness, might even have knocked
them unconscious. These two knew their business. They were
professionals, or had been trained to be professionals.

The two men didn't talk to each other. There was no nervous chatter
about how clever they had been, about their destination, about how tired
they were. They just drove the machine quietly, efficiently along,
finishing their competent job.

Bond still had no idea what this contraption was. Under the black and
gold paint and the rest of the fancy dress it was some sort of a
tractor, but of a kind he had never seen or heard of. The wheels, with
their vast smooth rubber tyres, were nearly twice as tall as himself. He
had seen no trade name on the tyres, it had been too dark, but they were
certainly either solid or filled with porous rubber. At the rear there
had been a small trailing wheel for stability. An iron fin, painted
black and gold, had been added to help the dragon effect. The high
mudguards had been extended into short backswept wings. A long metal
dragon's head had been added to the front of the radiator and the
headlamps had been given black centres to make 'eyes'. That was all
there was to it, except that the cabin had been covered with an armoured
dome and the flame-thrower added. It was, as Bond had thought, a tractor
dressed up to frighten and burn--though why it had a flame-thrower
instead of a machine gun he couldn't imagine. It was clearly the only
sort of vehicle that could travel the island. Its huge wide wheels would
ride over mangrove and swamp and across the shallow lake. It would
negotiate the rough coral uplands and, since its threat would be at
night, the heat in the iron cabin would remain at least tolerable.

Bond was impressed. He was always impressed by professionalism. Doctor
No was obviously a man who took immense pains. Soon Bond would be
meeting him. Soon he would be up against the secret of Doctor No. And
then what? Bond smiled grimly to himself. He wouldn't be allowed to get
away with his knowledge. He would certainly be killed unless he could
escape or talk his way out. And what about the girl? Could Bond prove
her innocence and have her spared? Conceivably, but she would never be
let off the island. She would have to stay there for the rest of her
life, as the mistress or wife of one of the men, or Doctor No himself if
she appealed to him.

Bond's thoughts were interrupted by rougher going under the wheels. They
had crossed the lake and were on the track that led up the mountain to
the huts. The cabin tilted and the machine began to climb. In five
minutes they would be there.

The co-driver glanced over his shoulder at Bond and the girl. Bond
smiled cheerfully up at him. He said, "You'll get a medal for this."

The brown and yellow eyes looked impassively into his. The purple,
blubbery lips parted in a sneer in which there was slow hate: "Shut your
----ing mouth." The man turned back.

The girl nudged him and whispered, "Why are they so rude? Why do they
hate us so much?"

Bond grinned down at her, "I expect it's because we made them afraid.
Perhaps they're still afraid. That's because we don't seem to be
frightened of them. We must keep them that way."

The girl pressed against him. "I'll try."

Now the climb was getting steeper. Grey light showed through the slots
in the armour. Dawn was coming up. Outside, another day of brazen heat
and ugly wind and the smell of marsh gas would be beginning. Bond
thought of Quarrel, the brave giant who would not be seeing it, with
whom they should now be setting off for the long trek through the
mangrove swamps. He remembered the life insurance. Quarrel had smelled
his death. Yet he had followed Bond unquestioningly. His faith in Bond
had been stronger than his fear. And Bond had let him down. Would Bond
also be the death of the girl?

The driver reached forward to the dashboard. From the front of the
machine there sounded the brief howl of a police siren. It meandered
into a dying moan. After a minute the machine stopped, idling in
neutral. The man pressed a switch and took a microphone off a hook
beside him. He spoke into it and Bond could hear the echoing voice of
the loud-hailer outside. "Okay. Got the Limey and the girl. Other man's
dead. That's the lot. Open up."

Bond heard a door being pulled sideways on iron rollers. The driver put
in the clutch and they rolled slowly forward a few yards and stopped.
The man switched off the engine. There was a clang as the iron hatch was
opened from the outside. A gush of fresh air and a flood of brighter
light came into the cabin. Hands took hold of Bond and dragged him
roughly out backwards on to a cement floor. Bond stood up. He felt the
prod of a gun in his side. A voice said, "Stay where you are. No
tricks." Bond looked at the man. He was another Chinese Negro, from the
same stable as the others. The yellow eyes examined him curiously. Bond
turned away indifferently. Another man was prodding the girl with his
gun. Bond said sharply, "Leave the girl alone." He walked over and stood
beside her. The two men seemed surprised. They stood, pointing their
guns indecisively.

Bond looked around him. They were in one of the Quonset huts he had seen
from the river. It was a garage and workshop. The 'dragon' had been
halted over an examination pit in the concrete. A dismantled outboard
motor lay on one of the benches. Strips of white sodium lighting ran
along the ceiling. There was a smell of oil and exhaust smoke. The
driver and his mate were examining the machine. Now they sauntered up.

One of the guards said, "Passed the message along. The word is to send
them through. Everything go okay?"

The co-driver, who seemed to be the senior man present, said, "Sure. Bit
of gunfire. Lights gone. May be some holes in the tyres. Get the boys
crackin'--full overhaul. I'll put these two through and go get myself
some shuteye." He turned to Bond. "Okay, git moving," he gestured down
the long hut.

Bond said, "Get moving yourself. Mind your manners. And tell those apes
to take their guns off us. They might let one off by mistake. They look
dumb enough."

The man came closer. The other three closed up behind him. Hate shone
redly in their eyes. The leading man lifted a clenched fist as big as a
small ham and held it under Bond's nose. He was controlling himself with
an effort. He said tensely, "Listen, mister. Sometimes us boys is
allowed to join in the fun at the end. I'm just praying this'll be one
of those times. Once we made it last a whole week. An' Jees, if I get
you..." He broke off. His eyes were alight with cruelty. He looked
past Bond at the girl. The eyes became mouths that licked their lips. He
wiped his hands down the sides of his trousers. The tip of his tongue
showed pinkly between the purple lips. He turned to the other three.
"What say, fellers?"

The three men were also looking at the girl. They nodded dumbly, like
children in front of a Christmas tree.

Bond longed to run berserk among them, laying into their faces with his
manacled wrists, accepting their bloody revenge. But for the girl he
would have done it. Now all he had achieved with his brave words was to
get her frightened. He said, "All right, all right. You're four and
we're two and we've got our hands tied. Come on. We won't hurt you. Just
don't push us around too much. Doctor No might not be pleased."

At the name, the men's faces changed. Three pairs of eyes looked whitely
from Bond to the leader. For a minute the leader stared suspiciously at
Bond, wondering, trying to fathom whether perhaps Bond had got some edge
on their boss. His mouth opened to say something. He thought better of
it. He said lamely, "Okay, okay. We was just kiddin'." He turned to the
men for confirmation. "Right?"

"Sure! Sure thing." It was a ragged mumble. The men looked away.

The leader said gruffly, "This way, mister." He walked off down the long
hut.

Bond took the girl's wrist and followed. He was impressed with the
weight of Doctor No's name. That was something to remember if they had
any more dealings with the staff.

The man came to a rough wooden door at the end of the hut. There was a
bellpush beside it. He rang twice and waited. There came a click and the
door opened to reveal ten yards of carpeted rock passage with another
door, smarter and cream-painted, at the end.

The man stood aside. "Straight ahead, mister. Knock on the door. The
receptionist'll take over." There was no irony in his voice and his eyes
were impassive.

Bond led the girl into the passage. He heard the door shut behind them.
He stopped and looked down at her. He said, "Now what?"

She smiled tremulously. "It's nice to feel carpet under one's feet."

Bond squeezed her wrist. He walked forward to the cream-painted door and
knocked.

The door opened. Bond went through with the girl at his heels. When he
stopped dead in his tracks, he didn't feel the girl bump into him. He
just stood and stared.




                                  XIII
                            MINK-LINED PRISON


It was the sort of reception room the largest American corporations have
on the President's floor in their New York skyscrapers. It was of
pleasant proportions, about twenty feet square. The floor was
close-carpeted in the thickest wine-red Wilton and the walls and ceiling
were painted a soft dove grey. Colour lithograph reproductions of Degas
ballet sketches were well hung in groups on the walls and the lighting
was by tall modern standard lamps with dark green silk shades in a
fashionable barrel design.

To Bond's right was a broad mahogany desk with a green leather top,
handsome matching desk furniture and the most expensive type of
intercom. Two tall antique chairs waited for visitors. On the other side
of the room was a refectory-type table with shiny magazines and two more
chairs. On both the desk and the table were tall vases of freshly cut
hibiscus. The air was fresh and cool and held a slight, expensive
fragrance.

There were two women in the room. Behind the desk, with pen poised over
a printed form, sat an efficient-looking Chinese girl with horn-rimmed
spectacles below a bang of black hair cut short. Her eyes and mouth wore
the standard receptionist's smile of welcome--bright, helpful,
inquisitive.

Holding the door through which they had come, and waiting for them to
move farther into the room so that she could close it, stood an older,
rather matronly woman of about forty-five. She also had Chinese blood.
Her appearance, wholesome, bosomy, eager, was almost excessively
gracious. Her square cut pince-nez gleamed with the hostess's desire to
make them feel at home.

Both women were dressed in spotless white, with white stockings and
white suede brogues, like assistants in the most expensive American
beauty-parlours. There was something soft and colourless about their
skins as if they rarely went out of doors.

While Bond took in the scene, the woman at the door twittered
conventional phrases of welcome as if they had been caught in a storm
and had arrived late at a party.

"You poor dears. We simply didn't know when to expect you. We kept on
being told you were on your way. First it was teatime yesterday, then
dinner, and it was only half an hour ago we heard you would only be here
in time for breakfast. You must be famished. Come along now and help
Sister Rose fill in your forms and then I'll pack you both straight off
to bed. You must be tired out."

Clucking softly, she closed the door and ushered them forward to the
desk. She got them seated in the chairs and rattled on. "Now I'm Sister
Lily and this is Sister Rose. She just wants to ask you a few questions.
Now, let me see, a cigarette?" She picked up a tooled leather box. She
opened it and put it on the desk in front of them. It had three
compartments. She pointed with a little finger. "Those are American, and
those are Players, and those are Turkish." She picked up an expensive
desk-lighter and waited.

Bond reached out his manacled hands to take a Turkish cigarette.

Sister Lily gave a squeak of dismay. "Oh, but really." She sounded
genuinely embarrassed. "Sister Rose, the key, quickly. I've said again
and again that patients are never to be brought in like that." There was
impatience and distaste in her voice. "Really, that outside staff! It's
time they had a talking to."

Sister Rose was just as much put out. Hastily, she scrabbled in a drawer
and handed a key across to Sister Lily who, with much cooing and
tut-tutting, unlocked the two pairs of handcuffs and walked behind the
desk and dropped them as if they were dirty bandages into the wastepaper
basket.

"Thank you." Bond was unable to think of any way to handle the situation
except to fall in with what was happening on the stage. He reached out
and took a cigarette and lit it. He glanced at Honeychile Rider who sat
looking dazed and nervously clutching the arms of her chair. Bond gave
her a reassuring smile.

"Now, if you please." Sister Rose bent over a long printed form on
expensive paper. "I promise to be as quick as I can. Your name please
Mister--er..."

"Bryce, John Bryce."

She wrote busily. "Permanent address?"

"Care of the Royal Zoological Society, Regent's Park, London, England."

"Profession."

"Ornithologist."

"Oh dear," she dimpled at him, "could you please spell that?"

Bond did so.

"Thank you so much. Now, let me see, Purpose of Visit?"

"Birds," said Bond. "I am also a representative of the Audubon Society
of New York. They have a lease of part of this island."

"Oh, really." Bond watched the pen writing down exactly what he had
said. After the last word she put a neat query in brackets.

"And," Sister Rose smiled politely in the direction of Honeychile, "your
wife? Is she also interested in birds?"

"Yes, indeed."

"And her first name?"

"Honeychile."

Sister Rose was delighted. "What a pretty name." She wrote busily. "And
now just your next of kin and then we're finished."

Bond gave M's real name as next of kin for both of them. He described
him as 'uncle' and gave his address as 'Managing Director, Universal
Export, Regent's Park, London'.

Sister Rose finished writing and said, "There, that's done. Thank you so
much, Mr Bryce, and I do hope you both enjoy your stay."

"Thank you very much. I'm sure we will." Bond got up. Honeychile Rider
did the same, her face still expressionless.

Sister Lily said, "Now come along with me, you poor dears." She walked
to a door in the far wall. She stopped with her hand on the cut-glass
doorknob. "Oh deary me, now I've gone and forgotten the number of their
rooms! It's the Cream Suite, isn't it, Sister?"

"Yes, that's right. Fourteen and fifteen."

"Thank you, my dear. And now," she opened the door, "if you'll just
follow me. I'm afraid it's a terribly long walk." She shut the door
behind them and led the way. "The Doctor's often talked of putting in
one of those moving stairway things, but you know how it is with a busy
man," she laughed gaily. "So many other things to think of."

"Yes, I expect so," said Bond politely.

Bond took the girl's hand and they followed the motherly bustling figure
down a hundred yards of lofty corridor in the same style as the
reception room but lit at frequent intervals by discreetly expensive
wall-brackets.

Bond answered with polite monosyllables the occasional twittering
comments Sister Lily threw over her shoulder. His whole mind was focused
on the extraordinary circumstances of their reception. He was quite
certain the two women had been genuine. Not a look or a word had been
dropped that was out of place. It was obviously a front of some kind,
but a solid one, meticulously supported by the decor and the cast. The
lack of resonance in the room, and now in the corridor, suggested that
they had stepped from the Quonset hut into the side of the mountain and
that they were now walking through its base. At a guess they would be
walking towards the west--towards the cliff-face with which the island
ended. There was no moisture on the walls and the air was cool and pure
with a strongish breeze coming towards them. A lot of money and good
engineering had gone into the job. The pallor of the two women suggested
that they spent all their time inside the mountain. From what Sister
Lily had said it sounded as if they were part of an inside staff that
had nothing to do with the strong-arm squad outside and perhaps didn't
even understand what sort of men they were.

It was grotesque, concluded Bond as they came nearer to a door at the
end of the corridor, dangerously grotesque, but it was no good wondering
about it. He could only follow the lines of the gracious script. At
least this was better than the backstage of the island outside.

At the door, Sister Lily rang. They had been expected. The door opened
at once. An enchanting Chinese girl in a mauve and white flowered kimono
stood smiling and bowing as Chinese girls are supposed to do. Again
there was nothing but warmth and welcome in the pale, flowerlike face.
Sister Lily cried, "Here they are at last, May! Mr and Mrs John Bryce.
And I know they must be exhausted so we must take them straight to their
rooms for some breakfast and a sleep." She turned to Bond. "This is May.
Such a dear girl. She will be looking after you both. Anything you want,
just ring for May. She's a favourite with all our patients."

Patients, thought Bond. That's the second time she's used the word. He
smiled politely at the girl. "How do you do. Yes, we'd certainly both of
us like to get to our rooms."

May embraced them both with a warm smile. She said in a low, attractive
voice, "I do hope you'll both be comfortable, Mr Bryce. I took the
liberty of ordering breakfast as soon as I heard you had come in. Shall
we...?" Corridors branched off to left and right of double
lift-doors set in the wall opposite. The girl led the way to the right.
Bond and Honeychile followed with Sister Lily taking up the rear.

Numbered doors led off the corridor on either side. Now the decor was in
the lightest pink with a dove grey carpet. The numbers on the doors were
in the tens. The corridor came to an abrupt end with two doors side by
side, 14 and 15. May opened the door of 14, and they followed her in.

It was a charming double bedroom in modern Miami style with dark green
walls, dark polished mahogany floor with occasional thick white rugs,
and well-designed bamboo furniture with a chintz of large red roses on a
white background. There was a communicating door into a more masculine
dressing-room and another that led into an extremely luxurious modern
bathroom with a step-down bath and a bidet.

It was like being shown into the very latest Florida hotel suite--except
for two details which Bond noticed. There were no windows and no inside
handles to the doors.

May looked hopefully from one to the other.

Bond turned to Honeychile. He smiled at her. "It looks very comfortable,
don't you think, darling?"

The girl played with the edge of her skirt. She nodded, not looking at
him.

There was a timid knock on the door and another girl, as pretty as May,
tripped in with a loaded tray balanced on her upturned hand. She put it
down on the centre table and pulled up two chairs. She whisked off the
speckless linen cloth that covered the dishes and pattered out of the
room. There was a delicious smell of bacon and coffee.

May and Sister Lily backed to the door. The older woman stopped on the
threshold. "And now we'll leave you two dear people in peace. If you
want anything, just ring. The bells are by the bed. Oh, and by the way,
you'll find plenty of fresh clothes in the cupboards. Chinese style, I'm
afraid," she twinkled apologetically, "but I hope they're the right
sizes. The wardrobe room only got the measurements yesterday evening.
The Doctor has given strict orders that you're not to be disturbed. He'd
be delighted if you'd join him for dinner this evening. He wants you to
have the whole of the rest of the day to yourselves--to get settled
down, you know." She paused and looked from one to the other smiling
inquiry. "Shall I say you...?"

"Yes, please," said Bond. "Tell the Doctor we shall be delighted to join
him for dinner."

"Oh, I know he'll be so pleased." With a last twitter the two women
softly withdrew and closed the door behind them.

Bond turned towards Honeychile. She looked embarrassed. She still
avoided his eyes. It occurred to Bond that she could never have met such
soft treatment or seen such luxury in her life. To her, all this must be
far more strange and terrifying than what they had gone through outside.
She stood and fiddled at the hem of her Man Friday skirt. There were
streaks of dried sweat and salt and dust on her face. Her bare legs were
filthy and Bond noticed that her toes were moving softly as they gripped
nervously into the wonderful thick pile carpet.

Bond laughed. He laughed with real pleasure that her fear had been
drowned in the basic predicament of clothes and how to behave, and he
laughed at the picture they made--she in her rags and he in his dirty
blue shirt and black jeans and muddy canvas shoes.

He went to her and took her hands. They were cold. He said, "Honey,
we're a couple of scarecrows. There's only one problem. Shall we have
breakfast first while it's hot, or shall we get out of these rags and
have a bath and eat the breakfast when it's cold? Don't worry about
anything else. We're here in this wonderful little house and that's all
that matters. Now then, what shall we do?"

She smiled uncertainly. The blue eyes searched his face for reassurance.
"You're not worried about what's going to happen to us?" She nodded at
the room. "Don't you think this is all a trap?"

"If it's a trap we're in it. There's nothing we can do now but eat the
cheese. The only question is whether we eat it hot or cold." He pressed
her hands. "Really, Honey. Leave the worrying to me. Just think where we
were an hour ago. Isn't this better? Now come on and decide the really
important things. Bath or breakfast?"

She said reluctantly, "Well, if you think... I mean--I'd rather get
clean first." She added quickly, "But you've got to help me." She jerked
her head towards the bathroom door. "I don't know how to work one of
those places. What do you do?"

Bond said seriously, "It's quite easy. I'll fix it all ready for you.
While you're having your bath, I'll have my breakfast. I'll keep yours
warm." Bond went to one of the built-in clothes cupboards and ran the
door back. There were half a dozen kimonos, some silk and some linen. He
took out a linen one at random. "You take off your clothes and get into
this and I'll get the bath ready. Later on you can choose the things you
want to wear for bed and dinner."

She said gratefully, "Oh yes, James. If you'll just show me..." She
started to unbutton her shirt.

Bond wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. Instead he said
abruptly, "That's fine, Honey," and went into the bathroom and turned on
the taps.

There was everything in the bathroom--Floris Lime bath essence for men
and Guerlain bathcubes for women. He crushed a cube into the water and
at once the room smelled like an orchid house. The soap was Guerlain's
Sapoceti, _Fleurs des Alpes_. In a medicine cupboard behind the mirror
over the washbasin were toothbrushes and toothpaste, Steradent
toothpicks, Rose mouthwash, dental floss, aspirin and Milk of Magnesia.
There was also an electric razor, Lentheric aftershave lotion, and two
nylon hairbrushes and combs. Everything was brand new and untouched.

Bond looked at his filthy unshaven face in the mirror and smiled grimly
into the grey, sunburned castaway's eyes. The coating on the pill was
certainly of the very finest sugar. It would be wise to expect that the
medicine inside would be of the bitterest.

He turned back to the bath and felt the water. It would be too hot for
someone who presumably had never had a hot bath before. He let in some
cold. As he bent over, two arms were thrown round his neck. He stood up.
The golden body blazed in the white tiled bathroom. She kissed him hard
and clumsily on the lips. He put his arms round her and crushed her to
him, his heart pounding. She said breathlessly at his ear. "The Chinese
dress felt strange. Anyway, you told that woman we were married."

Bond's hand was on her left breast. Its peak was hard with passion. Her
stomach pressed against his. Why not? Why not? Don't be a fool! This is
a crazy time for it. You're both in deadly danger. You must stay cold as
ice to have any chance of getting out of this mess. Later! Later! Don't
be weak.

Bond took his hand away from her breast and put it round her neck. He
rubbed his face against hers and then brought his mouth round to hers
and gave her one long kiss.

He stood away and held her at arm's length. For a moment they looked at
each other, their eyes bright with desire. She was breathing fast, her
lips parted so that he could see the glint of teeth. He said unsteadily,
"Honey, get into that bath before I spank you."

She smiled. Without saying anything she stepped down into the bath and
lay at full length. She looked up. The fair hair on her body glittered
up through the water like golden sovereigns. She said provocatively,
"You've got to wash me. I don't know what to do. You've got to show me."

Bond said desperately, "Shut up, Honey. And stop flirting. Just take the
soap and the sponge and start scrubbing. Damn you! This isn't the time
for making love. I'm going to have breakfast." He reached for the door
handle and opened the door. She said softly, "James!" He looked back.
She was sticking her tongue out at him. He grinned savagely back at her
and slammed the door.

Bond went into the dressing-room and stood in the middle of the floor
and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He rubbed his hands over his
face and shook his head to get rid of the thought of her.

To clear his mind he went carefully over both rooms looking for exits,
possible weapons, microphones--anything that would add to his knowledge.
There were none of these things. There was an electric clock on the wall
which said eight-thirty and a row of bells beside the double bed. They
said, Room Service, Coiffeur, Manicurist, Maid. There was no telephone.
High up in a corner of both rooms was a small ventilator grille. Each
was about two feet square. Useless. The doors appeared to be of some
light metal, painted to match the walls. Bond threw the whole weight of
his body against one of them. It didn't give a millimetre. Bond rubbed
his shoulder. The place was a prison--an exquisite prison. It was no
good arguing. The trap had shut tight on them. Now the only thing for
the mice to do was to make the most of the cheese.

Bond sat down at the breakfast table. There was a large tumbler of
pineapple juice in a silver-plated bowl of crushed ice. He swallowed it
down and lifted the cover off his individual hot-plate. Scrambled eggs
on toast, four rashers of bacon, a grilled kidney and what looked like
an English pork sausage. There were also two kinds of hot toast, rolls
inside a napkin, marmalade, honey and strawberry jam. The coffee was
boiling hot in a large Thermos decanter. The cream smelled fresh.

From the bathroom came the sound of the girl crooning 'Marion'. Bond
closed his ears to the sound and started on the eggs.

Ten minutes later, Bond heard the bathroom door open. He put down his
toast and marmalade and covered his eyes with his hands. She laughed.
She said, "He's a coward. He's frightened of a simple girl." Bond heard
her rummaging in the cupboards. She went on talking, half to herself. "I
wonder why he's frightened. Of course if I wrestled with him I'd win
easily. Perhaps he's frightened of that. Perhaps he's really not very
strong. His arms and his chest look strong enough. I haven't seen the
rest yet. Perhaps it's weak. Yes, that must be it. That's why he doesn't
dare take his clothes off in front of me. H'm, now let's see, would he
like me in this?" She raised her voice. "Darling James, would you like
me in white with pale blue birds flying all over me?"

"Yes, damn you," said Bond through his hands. "Now stop chattering to
yourself and come and have breakfast. I'm getting sleepy."

She gave a cry. "Oh, if you mean it's time for us to go to bed, of
course I'll hurry."

There was a flurry of feet and Bond heard her sit down opposite. He took
his hands down. She was smiling at him. She looked ravishing. Her hair
was dressed and combed and brushed to kill, with one side falling down
the side of the cheek and the other slicked back behind her ear. Her
skin sparkled with freshness and the big blue eyes were alight with
happiness. Now Bond loved the broken nose. It had become part, of his
thoughts of her and it suddenly occurred to him that he would be sad
when she was just an immaculately beautiful girl like other beautiful
girls. But he knew it would be no good trying to persuade her of that.
She sat demurely, with her hands in her lap below the end of a cleavage
which showed half her breasts and a deep vee of her stomach.

Bond said severely, "Now, listen, Honey. You look wonderful, but that
isn't the way to wear a kimono. Pull it up right across your body and
tie it tight and stop trying to look like a call girl. It just isn't
good manners at breakfast."

"Oh, you are a stuffy old beast." She pulled her kimono an inch or two
closer. "Why don't you like playing? I want to play at being married."

"Not at breakfast time," said Bond firmly. "Come on and eat up. It's
delicious. And anyway, I'm filthy. I'm going to shave and have a bath."
He got up and walked round the table and kissed the top of her head.
"And as for playing, as you call it, I'd rather play with you than
anyone in the world. But not now." Without waiting for her answer he
walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Bond shaved and had a bath and a shower. He felt desperately sleepy.
Sleep came to him in waves so that from time to time he had to stop what
he was doing and bend his head down between his knees. When he came to
brush his teeth he could hardly do it. Now he recognized the signs. He
had been drugged. In the coffee or in the pineapple juice? It didn't
matter. Nothing mattered. All he wanted to do was lie down on the tiled
floor and shut his eyes. Bond weaved drunkenly to the door. He forgot
that he was naked. That didn't matter either. Anyway the girl had
finished her breakfast. She was in bed. He staggered over to her,
holding on to the furniture. The kimono was lying in a pile on the
floor. She was fast asleep, naked under a single sheet.

Bond gazed dreamily at the empty pillow beside her head. No! He found
the switches and turned out the lights. Now he had to crawl across the
floor and into his room. He got to his bed and pulled himself on to it.
He reached out an arm of lead and jabbed at the switch on the bed-light.
He missed it. The lamp crashed to the floor and the bulb burst. With a
last effort Bond turned on his side and let the waves sweep over his
head.

The luminous figures on the electric clock in the double room said
nine-thirty.

****

At ten o'clock the door of the double room opened softly. A very tall
thin figure was silhouetted against the lighted corridor. It was a man.
He must have been six feet six tall. He stood on the threshold with his
arms folded, listening. Satisfied, he moved slowly into the room and up
to the bed. He knew the way exactly. He bent down and listened to the
quiet breathing of the girl. After a moment he reached up to his chest
and pressed a switch. A flashlight with a very broad diffused beam came
on. The flashlight was attached to him by a belt that held it above the
breast bone. He bent forward so that the soft light shone on the girl's
face.

The intruder examined the girl's face for several minutes. One of his
hands came up and took the sheet at her chin and softly drew the sheet
down to the end of the bed. The hand that drew down the sheet was not a
hand. It was a pair of articulated steel pincers at the end of a metal
stalk that disappeared into a black silk sleeve. It was a mechanical
hand.

The man gazed for a long time at the naked body, moving his chest to and
fro so that every corner of the body came under the light. Then the claw
came out again and delicately lifted a corner of the sheet from the
bottom of the bed and drew it back over the girl. The man stood for
another moment gazing down at the sleeping face, then he switched off
the torch on his chest and moved quietly away across the room to the
open door through which Bond was sleeping.

The man spent longer beside Bond's bed. He scrutinized every line, every
shadow on the dark, rather cruel face that lay drowned, almost extinct,
on the pillow. He watched the pulse in the neck and counted it and, when
he had pulled down the sheet, he did the same with the area round the
heart. He gauged the curve of the muscles on Bond's arms and thighs and
looked thoughtfully at the hidden strength in the flat stomach. He even
bent down close over the outflung open right hand and examined its life
and fate lines.

Finally, with infinite care, the steel claw drew the sheet back up to
Bond's neck. For another minute the tall figure stood over the sleeping
man, then it swished softly away and out into the corridor and the door
closed with a click.




                                  XIV
                          COME INTO MY PARLOUR


The electric clock in the cool dark room in the heart of the mountain
showed four-thirty.

Outside the mountain, Crab Key had sweltered and stunk its way through
another day. At the eastern end of the island, the mass of birds,
Louisiana herons, pelicans, avocets, sandpipers, egrets, flamingoes and
the few roseate spoonbills, went on with building their nests or fished
in the shallow waters of the lake. Most of the birds had been disturbed
so often that year that they had given up any idea of building. In the
past few months they had been raided at regular intervals by the monster
that came at night and burned down their roosting places and the
beginnings of their nests. This year many would not breed. There would
be vague movements to migrate and many would die of the nervous hysteria
that seizes bird colonies when they no longer have peace and privacy.

At the other end of the island, on the guanera that gave the mountain
its snow-covered look, the vast swarm of cormorants had passed their
usual day of gorging themselves with fish and paying back the ounce of
precious manure to their owner and protector. Nothing had interfered
with _their_ nesting season. Now they were noisily fiddling with the
untidy piles of sticks that would be their nests--each pile at exactly
sixty centimetres from the next, for the guanay is a quarrelsome bird
and this sixty-centimetre ring represents their sparring space. Soon the
females would be laying the three eggs from which their master's flock
would be increased by an average of two young cormorants.

Below the peak, where the diggings began, the hundred or so Negro men
and women who were the labour force were coming to the end of the day's
shift. Another fifty cubic yards of guano had been dug out of the
mountainside and another twenty yards of terrace had been added to the
working level. Below, the mountainside looked like terraced vineyards in
Upper Italy, except that here there were no vines, only deep barren
shelves cut in the mountainside. And here, instead of the stink of marsh
gas on the rest of the island, there was a strong ammoniac smell, and
the ugly hot wind that kept the diggings dry blew the freshly turned
whitish-brown dust into the eyes and ears and noses of the diggers. But
the workers were used to the smell and the dust, and it was easy,
healthy work. They had no complaints.

The last iron truck of the day started off on the Decauville Track that
snaked down the mountainside to the crusher and separator. A whistle
blew and the workers shouldered their clumsy picks and moved lazily down
towards the high-wired group of Quonset huts that was their compound.
Tomorrow, on the other side of the mountain, the monthly ship would be
coming in to the deep-water quay they had helped to build ten years
before, but which, since then, they had never seen. That would mean
fresh stores and fresh goods and cheap jewellery at the canteen. It
would be a holiday. There would be rum and dancing and a few fights.
Life was good.

Life was good, too, for the senior outside staff--all Chinese Negroes
like the men who had hunted Bond and Quarrel and the girl. They also
stopped work in the garage and the machine shops and at the guard posts
and filtered off to the 'officers'' quarters. Apart from watch and
loading duties, tomorrow would also be a holiday for most of them. They
too would have their drinking and dancing, and there would be a new
monthly batch of girls from 'inside'. Some 'marriages' from the last lot
would continue for further months or weeks according to the taste of the
'husband', but for the others there would be a fresh choice. There would
be some of the older girls who had had their babies in the creche and
were coming back for a fresh spell of duty 'outside', and there would be
a sprinkling of young ones who had come of age and would be 'coming out'
for the first time. There would be fights over these and blood would be
shed, but in the end the officers' quarters would settle down for
another month of communal life, each officer with his woman to look
after his needs.

Deep down in the cool heart of the mountain, far below this
well-disciplined surface life, Bond awoke in his comfortable bed. Apart
from a slight nembutal headache he felt fit and rested. Lights were on
in the girl's room and he could hear her moving about. He swung his feet
to the ground and, avoiding the fragments of glass from the broken lamp,
walked softly over to the clothes cupboard and put on the first kimono
that came to his hand. He went to the door. The girl had a pile of
kimonos out on the bed and was trying them on in front of the wall
mirror. She had on a very smart one in sky-blue silk. It looked
wonderful against the gold of her skin. Bond said, "That's the one."

She whirled round, her hand at her mouth. She took it down. "Oh, it's
you!" She smiled at him. "I thought you'd never wake up. I've been to
look at you several times. I'd made up my mind to wake you at five. It's
half-past four and I'm hungry. Can you get us something to eat?"

"Why not," Bond walked across to her bed. As he passed her he put his
arm round her waist and took her with him. He examined the bells. He
pressed the one marked 'Room Service'. He said, "What about the others?
Let's have the full treatment."

She giggled. "But what's a manicurist?"

"Someone who does your nails. We must look our best for Doctor No." At
the back of Bond's mind was the urgent necessity to get his hands on
some kind of weapon--a pair of scissors would be better than nothing.
Anything would do.

He pressed two more bells. He let her go and looked round the room.
Someone had come while they were asleep and taken away the breakfast
things. There was a drink tray on a sideboard against the wall. Bond
went over and examined it. It had everything. Propped among the bottles
were two menus, huge double-folio pages covered with print. They might
have been from the Savoy Grill, or the '21', or the Tour d'Argent. Bond
ran his eye down one of them. It began with _Caviar double de Beluga_
and ended with _Sorbet  la Champagne_. In between was every dish whose
constituents would not be ruined by a deep freeze. Bond tossed it down.
One certainly couldn't grumble about the quality of the cheese in the
trap!

There was a knock on the door and the exquisite May came in. She was
followed by two other twittering Chinese girls. Bond brushed aside their
amiabilities, ordered tea and buttered toast for Honeychile and told
them to look after her hair and nails. Then he went into the bathroom
and had a couple of Aspirins and a cold shower. He put on his kimono
again, reflected that he looked idiotic in it, and went back into the
room. A beaming May asked if he would be good enough to select what he
and Mrs Bryce could care to have for dinner. Without enthusiasm, Bond
ordered caviar, grilled lamb cutlets and salad, and angels on horseback
for himself. When Honeychile refused to make any suggestions, he chose
melon, roast chicken  l'Anglaise and vanilla ice cream with hot
chocolate sauce for her.

May dimpled her enthusiasm and approval. "The Doctor asks if seven
forty-five for eight would be convenient."

Bond said curtly that it would.

"Thank you so much, Mr Bryce. I will call for you at seven forty-four."

Bond walked over to where Honeychile was being ministered to at the
dressing table. He watched the busy delicate fingers at work on her hair
and her nails. She smiled at him excitedly in the mirror. He said
gruffly, "Don't let them make too much of a monkey out of you," and went
to the drink tray. He poured himself out a stiff Bourbon and soda and
took it into his own room. So much for his idea of getting hold of a
weapon. The scissors and files and probes were attached to the
manicurist's waist by a chain. So were the scissors of the hairdresser.
Bond sat down on his rumpled bed and lost himself in drink and gloomy
reflections.

The women went. The girl looked in at him. When he didn't lift his head
she went back into her room and left him alone. In due course Bond came
into her room to get himself another drink. He said perfunctorily,
"Honey, you look wonderful." He glanced at the clock on the wall and
went back and drank his drink and put on another of the idiotic kimonos,
a plain black one.

In due course there came the soft knock on the door and the two of them
went silently out of the room and along the empty, gracious corridor.
May stopped at the lift. Its doors were held open by another eager
Chinese girl. They walked in and the doors shut. Bond noticed that the
lift was made by Waygood Otis. Everything in the prison was de luxe. He
gave an inward shudder of distaste. He noticed the reaction. He turned
to the girl. "I'm sorry, Honey. Got a bit of a headache." He didn't want
to tell her that all this luxury play-acting was getting him down, that
he hadn't the smallest idea what it was all about, that he knew it was
bad news, and that he hadn't an inkling of a plan of how to get them out
of whatever situation they were in. That was the worst of it. There was
nothing that depressed Bond's spirit so much as the knowledge that he
hadn't one line of either attack or defence.

The girl moved closer to him. She said, "I'm sorry, James. I hope it
will go away. You're not angry with me about anything?"

Bond dredged up a smile. He said, "No, darling. I'm only angry with
myself." He lowered his voice: "Now, about this evening. Just leave the
talking to me. Be natural and don't be worried by Doctor No. He may be a
bit mad."

She nodded solemnly. "I'll do my best."

The lift sighed to a stop. Bond had no idea how far down they had
gone--a hundred feet, two hundred? The automatic doors hissed back and
Bond and the girl stepped out into a large room.

It was empty. It was a high-ceilinged room about sixty feet long, lined
on three sides with books to the ceiling. At first glance, the fourth
wall seemed to be made of solid blue-black glass. The room appeared to
be a combined study and library. There was a big paper-strewn desk in
one corner and a central table with periodicals and newspapers.
Comfortable club chairs, upholstered in red leather, were dotted about.
The carpet was dark green, and the lighting, from standard lamps, was
subdued. The only odd feature was that the drink tray and sideboard were
up against the middle of the long glass wall, and chairs and occasional
tables with ashtrays were arranged in a semi-circle round it so that the
room was centred in front of the empty wall.

Bond's eye caught a swirl of movement in the dark glass. He walked
across the room. A silvery spray of small fish with a bigger fish in
pursuit fled across the dark blue. They disappeared, so to speak, off
the edge of the screen. What was this? An aquarium? Bond looked upwards.
A yard below the ceiling, small waves were lapping at the glass. Above
the waves was a strip of greyer blue-black, dotted with sparks of light.
The outlines of Orion were the clue. This was not an aquarium. This was
the sea itself and the night sky. The whole of one side of the room was
made of armoured glass. They were under the sea, looking straight into
its heart, twenty feet down.

Bond and the girl stood transfixed. As they watched, there was the
glimpse of two great goggling orbs. A golden sheen of head and deep
flank showed for an instant and was gone. A big grouper? A silver swarm
of anchovies stopped and hovered and sped away. The twenty-foot tendrils
of a Portuguese man-o'-war drifted slowly across the window, glinting
violet as they caught the light. Up above there was the dark mass of its
underbelly and the outline of its inflated bladder, steering with the
breeze.

Bond walked along the wall, fascinated by the idea of living with this
slow, endlessly changing moving picture. A big tulip shell was
progressing slowly up the window from the floor level, a frisk of
demoiselles and angel fish and a ruby-red moonlight snapper were nudging
and rubbing themselves against a corner of the glass and a sea centipede
quested along, nibbling at the minute algae that must grow every day on
the outside of the window. A long dark shadow paused in the centre of
the window and then moved slowly away. If only one could see more!

Obediently, two great shafts of light, from off the 'screen', lanced out
into the water. For an instant they searched independently. Then they
converged on the departing shadow and the dull grey torpedo of a
twelve-foot shark showed up in all its detail. Bond could even see the
piglike pink eyes roll inquisitively in the light and the slow pulse of
the slanting gill-rakers. For an instant the shark turned straight into
the converged beam and the white half-moon mouth showed below the
reptile's flat head. It stood poised for a second and then, with an
elegant, disdainful swirl, the great swept-back tail came round and with
a lightning quiver the shark had gone.

The searchlights went out. Bond turned slowly. He expected to see Doctor
No, but still the room was empty. It looked static and lifeless compared
with the pulsing mysteries outside the window. Bond looked back. What
must this be like in the colours of day, when one could see everything
perhaps for twenty yards or more? What must it be like in a storm when
the waves crashed noiselessly against the glass, delving almost to the
floor and then sweeping up and out of sight. What must it be like in the
evening when the last golden shafts of the sun shone into the upper half
of the room and the waters below were full of dancing motes and tiny
water insects? What an amazing man this must be who had thought of this
fantastically beautiful conception, and what an extraordinary
engineering feat to have carried it out! How had he done it? There could
only be one way. He must have built the glass wall deep inside the cliff
and then delicately removed layer after layer of the outside rock until
the divers could prise off the last skin of coral. But how thick was the
glass? Who had rolled it for him? How had he got it to the island? How
many divers had he used? How much, God in heaven, could it have cost?

"One million dollars."

It was a cavernous, echoing voice, with a trace of American accent.

Bond turned slowly, almost reluctantly, away from the window.

Doctor No had come through a door behind his desk. He stood looking at
them benignly, with a thin smile on his lips.

"I expect you were wondering about the cost. My guests usually think
about the material side after about fifteen minutes. Were you?"

"I was."

Still smiling (Bond was to get used to that thin smile), Doctor No came
slowly out from behind the desk and moved towards them. He seemed to
glide rather than take steps. His knees did not dent the matt, gunmetal
sheen of his kimono and no shoes showed below the sweeping hem.

Bond's first impression was of thinness and erectness and height. Doctor
No was at least six inches taller than Bond, but the straight immovable
poise of his body made him seem still taller. The head also was
elongated and tapered from a round, completely bald skull down to a
sharp chin so that the impression was of a reversed raindrop--or rather
oildrop, for the skin was of a deep almost translucent yellow.

It was impossible to tell Doctor No's age: as far as Bond could see,
there were no lines on the face. It was odd to see a forehead as smooth
as the top of the polished skull. Even the cavernous indrawn cheeks
below the prominent cheekbones looked as smooth as fine ivory. There was
something Dali-esque about the eyebrows, which were fine and black and
sharply upswept as if they had been painted on as makeup for a conjurer.
Below them, slanting jet black eyes stared out of the skull. They were
without eyelashes. They looked like the mouths of two small revolvers,
direct and unblinking and totally devoid of expression. The thin fine
nose ended very close above a wide compressed wound of a mouth which,
despite its almost permanent sketch of a smile, showed only cruelty and
authority. The chin was indrawn towards the neck. Later Bond was to
notice that it rarely moved more than slightly away from centre, giving
the impression that the head and the vertebra were in one piece.

The bizarre, gliding figure looked like a giant venomous worm wrapped in
grey tin-foil, and Bond would not have been surprised to see the rest of
it trailing slimily along the carpet behind.

Doctor No came within three steps of them and stopped. The wound in the
tall face opened. "Forgive me for not shaking hands with you," the deep
voice was flat and even. "I am unable to." Slowly the sleeves parted and
opened. "I have no hands."

The two pairs of steel pincers came out on their gleaming stalks and
were held up for inspection like the hands of a praying mantis. Then the
two sleeves joined again.

Bond felt the girl at his side give a start.

The black apertures turned towards her. They slid down to her nose. The
voice said flatly, "It is a misfortune." The eyes came back to Bond.
"You were admiring my aquarium." It was a statement, not a question.
"Man enjoys the beasts and the birds. I decided to enjoy also the fish.
I find them far more varied and interesting. I am sure you both share my
enthusiasm."

Bond said, "I congratulate you. I shall never forget this room."

"No." Again a statement, perhaps with a sardonic inflection, of fact.
"But we have much to talk about. And so little time. Please sit down.
You will have a drink? Cigarettes are beside your chairs."

Doctor No moved to a high leather chair and folded himself down on to
the seat. Bond took the chair opposite. The girl sat between them and
slightly back.

Bond felt a movement behind him. He looked over his shoulder. A short
man, a Chinese Negro, with the build of a wrestler, stood at the drink
tray. He was dressed in black trousers and a smart white jacket. Black
almond eyes in a wide moon face met his and slid incuriously away.

Doctor No said, "This is my bodyguard. He is expert in many things.
There is no mystery about his sudden appearance. I always carry what is
known as a walkie-talkie here," he inclined his chin towards the bosom
of his kimono. "Thus I can summon him when he is needed. What will the
girl have?"

Not 'Your Wife'. Bond turned to Honeychile. Her eyes were wide and
staring. She said quietly, "A Coca-Cola, please."

Bond felt a moment of relief. At least she was not being got down by the
performance. Bond said, "And I would like a medium Vodka dry
Martini--with a slice of lemon peel. Shaken and not stirred, please. I
would prefer Russian or Polish vodka."

Doctor No gave his thin smile an extra crease. "I see you are also a man
who knows what he wants. On this occasion your desires will be
satisfied. Do you not find that it is generally so? When one wants a
thing one gets it? That is my experience."

"The small things."

"If you fail at the large things it means you have not large ambitions.
Concentration, focus--that is all. The aptitudes come, the tools forge
themselves. 'Give me a fulcrum and I will move the world'--but only if
the desire to move the world is there." The thin lips bent minutely
downwards in deprecation. "But this is chatter. We are making
conversation. Instead, let us talk. Both of us, I am sure, prefer talk
to conversation. Is the Martini to your liking? You have
cigarettes--enough and the right sort to cosset your cancer? So be it.
Sam-sam, put the shaker beside the man and another bottle of Coca-Cola
beside the girl. It should now be eight-ten. We will have dinner at nine
o'clock precisely."

Doctor No sat slightly more upright in his chair. He inclined himself
forward, staring at Bond. There was a moment's silence in the room. Then
Doctor No said, "And now Mister James Bond of the Secret Service, let us
tell each other our secrets. First, to show you that I hide nothing, I
will tell you mine. Then you will tell me yours." Doctor No's eyes
blazed darkly. "But let us tell each other the truth." He drew one steel
claw out of the wide sleeve and held it upwards. He paused, "I shall do
so. But you must do the same. If you do not, these," he pointed the claw
at his eyes, "will know that you are lying."

Doctor No brought the steel claw delicately in front of each eye and
tapped the centre of each eyeball.

Each eyeball in turn emitted a dull ting. "These," said Doctor No, "see
everything."




                                   XV
                              PANDORA'S BOX


James Bond picked up his glass and sipped at it thoughtfully. It seemed
pointless to go on bluffing. His story of representing the Audubon
Society was anyway a thin one which could be punctured by anyone who
knew about birds. It was obvious that his own cover was in shreds. He
must concentrate on protecting the girl. To begin with he must reassure
her.

Bond smiled at Doctor No. He said, "I know about your contact in King's
House, Miss Taro. She is your agent. I have recorded the fact and it
will be divulged in certain circumstances"--Doctor No's expression
showed no interest--"as will other facts. But, if we are to have a talk,
let us have it without any more stage effects. You are an interesting
man. But it is not necessary to make yourself more interesting than you
are. You have suffered the misfortune of losing your hands. You wear
mechanical hands. Many men wounded in the war wear them. You wear
contact lenses instead of spectacles. You use a walkie-talkie instead of
a bell to summon your servant. No doubt you have other tricks. But,
Doctor No, you are still a man who sleeps and eats and defecates like
the rest of us. So no more conjuring tricks, please. I am not one of
your guano diggers and I am not impressed by them."

Doctor No inclined his head a fraction. "Bravely spoken, Mister Bond. I
accept the rebuke. I have no doubt developed annoying mannerisms from
living too long in the company of apes. But do not mistake these
mannerisms for bluff. I am a technician. I suit the tool to the
material. I possess also a range of tools for working with refractory
materials. However," Doctor No raised his joined sleeves an inch and let
them fall back in his lap, "let us proceed with our talk. It is a rare
pleasure to have an intelligent listener and I shall enjoy telling you
the story of one of the most remarkable men in the world. You are the
first person to hear it. I have not told it before. You are the only
person I have ever met who will appreciate my story and also--" Doctor
No paused for the significance of the last words to make itself
felt--"keep it to himself." He continued, "The second of these
considerations also applies to the girl."

So that was it. There had been little doubt in Bond's mind ever since
the Spandau had opened up on them, and since, even before then, in
Jamaica, where the attempts on him had not been half-hearted. Bond had
assumed from the first that this man was a killer, that it would be a
duel to the death. He had had his usual blind faith that he would win
the duel--all the way until the moment when the flame-thrower had
pointed at him. Then he had begun to doubt. Now he knew. This man was
too strong, too well equipped.

Bond said, "There is no point in the girl hearing this. She has nothing
to do with me. I found her yesterday on the beach. She is a Jamaican
from Morgan's Harbour. She collects shells. Your men destroyed her canoe
so I had to bring her with me. Send her away now and then back home. She
won't talk. She will swear not to."

The girl interrupted fiercely. "I _will_ talk! I shall tell everything.
I'm not going to move. I'm going to stay with you."

Bond looked at her. He said icily, "I don't want you."

Doctor No said softly, "Do not waste your breath on these heroics.
Nobody who comes to this island has ever left it. Do you understand?
Nobody--not even the simplest fisherman. It is not my policy. Do not
argue with me or attempt to bluff me. It is entirely useless."

Bond examined the face. There was no anger in it, no obstinacy--nothing
but a supreme indifference. He shrugged his shoulders. He looked at the
girl and smiled. He said, "All right, Honey. And I didn't mean it. I'd
hate you to go away. We'll stay together and listen to what the maniac
has to say."

The girl nodded happily. It was as if her lover had threatened to send
her out of the cinema and now had relented.

Doctor No said, in the same soft resonant voice, "You are right, Mister
Bond. That is just what I am, a maniac. All the greatest men are
maniacs. They are possessed by a mania which drives them forward towards
their goal. The great scientists, the philosophers, the religious
leaders--all maniacs. What else but a blind singleness of purpose could
have given focus to their genius, would have kept them in the groove of
their purpose? Mania, my dear Mister Bond, is as priceless as genius.
Dissipation of energy, fragmentation of vision, loss of momentum, the
lack of follow-through--these are the vices of the herd." Doctor No sat
slightly back in his chair. "I do not possess these vices. I am, as you
correctly say, a maniac--a maniac, Mister Bond, with a mania for power.
That"--the black holes glittered blankly at Bond through the contact
lenses--"is the meaning of my life. That is why I am here. That is why
you are here. That is why here exists."

Bond picked up his glass and drained it. He filled it again from the
shaker. He said, "I'm not surprised. It's the old business of thinking
you're the King of England, or the President of the United States, or
God. The asylums are full of them. The only difference is that instead
of being shut up, you've built your own asylum and shut yourself up in
it. But why did you do it? Why does sitting shut up in this cell give
you the illusion of power?"

Irritation flickered at the corner of the thin mouth. "Mister Bond,
power is sovereignty. Clausewitz's first principle was to have a secure
base. From there one proceeds to freedom of action. Together, that is
sovereignty. I have secured these things and much besides. No one else
in the world possesses them to the same degree. They _cannot_ have them.
The world is too public. These things can only be secured in privacy.
You talk of kings and presidents. How much power do they possess? As
much as their people will allow them. Who in the world has the power of
life or death over his people? Now that Stalin is dead, can you name any
man except myself? And how do I possess that power, that sovereignty?
Through privacy. Through the fact that nobody _knows_. Through the fact
that I have to account to no one."

Bond shrugged. "That is only the illusion of power, Doctor No. Any man
with a loaded revolver has the power of life and death over his
neighbour. Other people beside you have murdered in secret and got away
with it. In the end they generally get their deserts. A greater power
than they possess is exerted upon them by the community. That will
happen to you, Doctor No. I tell you, your search for power is an
illusion because power itself is an illusion."

Doctor No said equably, "So is beauty, Mister Bond. So is art, so is
money, so is death. And so, probably, is life. These concepts are
relative. Your play upon words does not shake me. I know philosophy, I
know ethics, and I know logic--better than you do, I daresay. But let us
move away from this sterile debate. Let us return to where I began, with
my mania for power, or, if you wish it, for the illusion of power. And
please, Mister Bond," again the extra crease in the fixed smile, "please
do not imagine that half an hour's conversation with you will alter the
pattern of my life. Interest yourself rather in the history of my
pursuit, let us put it, of an illusion."

"Go ahead." Bond glanced at the girl. She caught his eyes. She put her
hand up to her mouth as if to conceal a yawn. Bond grinned at her. He
wondered when it would amuse Doctor No to crack her pose of
indifference.

Doctor No said benignly, "I shall endeavour not to bore you. Facts are
so much more interesting than theories, don't you agree?" Doctor No was
not expecting a reply. He fixed his eye on the elegant tulip shell that
had now wandered half way up the outside of the dark window. Some small
silver fish squirted across the black void. A bluish prickle of
phosphorescence meandered vaguely. Up by the ceiling, the stars shone
more brightly through the glass.

The artificiality of the scene inside the room--the three people sitting
in the comfortable chairs, the drinks on the sideboard, the rich carpet,
the shaded lights, suddenly seemed ludicrous to Bond. Even the drama of
it, the danger, were fragile things compared with the progress of the
tulip shell up the glass outside. Supposing the glass burst. Supposing
the stresses had been badly calculated, the workmanship faulty.
Supposing the sea decided to lean a little more heavily against the
window.

Doctor No said, "I was the only son of a German Methodist missionary and
a Chinese girl of good family. I was born in Pekin, but on what is known
as 'the wrong side of the blanket'. I was an encumbrance. An aunt of my
mother was paid to bring me up." Doctor No paused. "No love, you see,
Mister Bond. Lack of parental care." He went on, "The seed was sown. I
went to work in Shanghai. I became involved with the Tongs, with their
illicit proceedings. I enjoyed the conspiracies, the burglaries, the
murders, the arson of insured properties. They represented revolt
against the father figure who had betrayed me. I loved the death and
destruction of people and things. I became adept in the technique of
criminality--if you wish to call it that. Then there was trouble. I had
to be got out of the way. The Tongs considered me too valuable to kill.
I was smuggled to the United States. I settled in New York. I had been
given a letter of introduction, in code, to one of the two most powerful
Tongs in America--the Hip Sings. I never knew what the letter said, but
they took me on at once as a confidential clerk. In due course, at the
age of thirty, I was made the equivalent of treasurer. The treasury
contained over a million dollars. I coveted this money. Then began the
great Tong wars of the late 'twenties. The two great New York Tongs, my
own, the Hip Sings, and our rival, the On Lee Ongs, joined in combat.
Over the weeks hundreds on both sides were killed and their houses and
properties burned to the ground. It was a time of torture and murder and
arson in which I joined with delight. Then the riot squads came. Almost
the whole police force of New York was mobilized. The two underground
armies were prised apart and the headquarters of the two Tongs were
raided and the ringleaders sent to jail. I was tipped off about the raid
on my own Tong, the Hip Sings. A few hours before it was due, I got to
the safe and rifled the million dollars in gold and disappeared into
Harlem and went to ground. I was foolish. I should have left America,
gone to the farthest corner of the earth. Even from the condemned cells
in Sing Sing the heads of my Tong reached out for me. They found me. The
killers came in the night. They tortured me. I would not say where the
gold was. They tortured me all through the night. Then, when they could
not break me, they cut off my hands to show that the corpse was that of
a thief, and they shot me through the heart and went away. But they did
not know something about me. I am the one man in a million who has his
heart on the right side of his body. Those are the odds against it, one
in a million. I lived. By sheer willpower I survived the operation and
the months in hospital. And all the time I planned and planned how to
get away with the money--how to keep it, what to do with it."

Doctor No paused. There was a slight flush at his temples. His body
fidgeted inside his kimono. His memories had excited him. For a moment
he closed his eyes, composing himself. Bond thought, now! Shall I leap
at him and kill him? Break off my glass and do it with the jagged stem?

The eyes opened. "I am not boring you? You are sure? For an instant I
felt your attention wandering."

"No." The moment had passed. Would there be others? Bond measured the
inches of the leap: noted that the jugular vein was in full view above
the neck of the kimono.

The thin purple lips parted and the story went on. "It was, Mister Bond,
a time for clear, firm decisions. When they let me out of the hospital I
went to Silberstein, the greatest stamp dealer in New York. I bought an
envelope, just one envelope, full of the rarest postage stamps in the
world. I took weeks to get them together. But I didn't mind what I
paid--in New York, London, Paris, Zurich. I wanted my gold to be mobile.
I invested it all in these stamps. I had foreseen the World War. I knew
there would be inflation. I knew the best would appreciate, or at least
hold its value. And meanwhile I was changing my appearance. I had all my
hair taken out by the roots, my thick nose made thin, my mouth widened,
my lips sliced. I could not get smaller, so I made myself taller. I wore
built up shoes. I had weeks of traction on my spine. I held myself
differently. I put away my mechanical hands and wore hands of wax inside
gloves. I changed my name to Julius No--the Julius after my father and
the No for my rejection of him and of all authority. I threw away my
spectacles and wore contact lenses--one of the first pairs ever built.
Then I went to Milwaukee, where there are no Chinamen, and enrolled
myself in the faculty of medicine. I hid myself in the academic world,
the world of libraries and laboratories and classrooms and campuses. And
there, Mister Bond, I lost myself in the study of the human body and the
human mind. Why? Because I wished to know what this clay is capable of.
I had to learn what my tools were before I put them to use on my next
goal--total security from physical weaknesses, from material dangers and
from the hazards of living. Then, Mister Bond, from that secure base,
armoured even against the casual slings and arrows of the world, I would
proceed to the achievement of power--the power, Mister Bond, to do unto
others what had been done unto me, the power of life and death, the
power to decide, to judge, the power of absolute independence from
outside authority. For that, Mister Bond, whether you like it or not, is
the essence of temporal power."

Bond reached for the shaker and poured himself a third drink. He looked
at Honeychile. She seemed composed and indifferent--as if her mind was
on other things. She smiled at him.

Doctor No said benignly. "I expect you are both hungry. Pray be patient.
I will be brief. So, if you recall, there I was, in Milwaukee. In due
course, I completed my studies and I left America and went by easy
stages round the world. I called myself 'doctor' because doctors receive
confidences and they can ask questions without arousing suspicion. I was
looking for my headquarters. It had to be safe from the coming war, it
had to be an island, it had to be entirely private, and it had to be
capable of industrial development. In the end I purchased Crab Key. And
here I have remained for fourteen years. They have been secure and
fruitful years, without a cloud on the horizon. I was entertained by the
idea of converting bird dung into gold, and I attacked the problem with
passion. It seemed to me the ideal industry. There was a constant demand
for the product. The birds require no care except to be left in peace.
Each one is a simple factory for turning fish into dung. The digging of
the guano is only a question of not spoiling the crop by digging too
much. The sole problem is the cost of the labour. It was 1942. The
simple Cuban and Jamaican labourer was earning ten shillings a week
cutting cane. I tempted a hundred of them over to the island by paying
them twelve shillings a week. With guano at fifty dollars a ton I was
well placed. But on one condition--that the wages remained constant. I
ensured that by isolating my community from world inflation. Harsh
methods have had to be used from time to time, but the result is that my
men are content with their wages because they are the highest wages they
have ever known. I brought in a dozen Chinese Negroes with their
families to act as overseers. They receive a pound a week per man. They
are tough and reliable. On occasion I had to be ruthless with them, but
they soon learned. Automatically my people increased in numbers. I added
some engineers and some builders. We set to work on the mountain.
Occasionally I brought in teams of specialists on high wages. They were
kept apart from the others. They lived inside the mountain until their
work was done and then left by ship. They put in the lighting and the
ventilation and the lift. They built this room. Stores and furnishings
came in from all over the world. These people built the sanatorium
faade which will cover my operations in case one day there is a
shipwreck or the Governor of Jamaica decides to pay me a call." The lips
glazed into a smile. "You must admit that I am able, if I wish, to
accord visitors a most fragrant reception--a wise precaution for the
future! And gradually, methodically, my fortress was built while the
birds defecated on top of it. It has been hard, Mister Bond." The black
eyes did not look for sympathy or praise. "But by the end of last year
the work was done. A secure, well-camouflaged base had been achieved. I
was ready to proceed to the next step--an extension of my power to the
outside world."

Doctor No paused. He lifted his arms an inch and dropped them again
resignedly in his lap. "Mister Bond, I said that there was not a cloud
in the sky during all these fourteen years. But one was there, all the
time, below the horizon. And do you know what it was? It was a bird, a
ridiculous bird called a roseate spoonbill! I will not weary you with
the details, Mister Bond. You are already aware of some of the
circumstances. The two wardens, miles away in the middle of the lake,
were provisioned by launch from Cuba. They sent out their reports by the
launch. Occasionally, ornithologists from America came by the launch and
spent some days at the camp. I did not mind. The area is out of bounds
to my men. The wardens were not allowed near my compounds. There was no
contact. From the first I made it clear to the Audubon Society that I
would not meet their representatives. And then what happens? One day,
out of a clear sky, I get a letter by the monthly boat. The roseate
spoonbills have become one of the bird wonders of the world. The Society
gives me formal notification that they intend to build a hotel on their
leasehold, near the river up which you came. Bird lovers from all over
the world will come to observe the birds. Films will be taken. Crab Key,
they told me in their flattering, persuasive letter, would become
famous.

"Mister Bond," the arms were raised and dropped back. Irony gathered at
the edges of the set smile. "Can you believe it? This privacy I had
achieved! The plans I had for the future! To be swept aside because of a
lot of old women and their birds! I examined the lease. I wrote offering
a huge sum to buy it. They refused. So I studied these birds. I found
out about their habits. And suddenly the solution was there. And it was
easy. Man had always been the worst predator on these birds. Spoonbills
are extremely shy. They frighten easily. I sent to Florida for a marsh
buggy--the vehicle that is used for oil prospecting, that will cover any
kind of terrain. I adapted it to frighten and to burn--not only birds,
but humans as well, for the wardens would have to go too. And, one night
in December, my marsh buggy howled off across the lake. It smashed the
camp, both wardens were reported killed--though one, it turned out,
escaped to die in Jamaica--it burned the nesting places, it spread
terror among the birds. Complete success! Hysteria spread among the
spoonbills. They died in thousands. But then I get a demand for a plane
to land on my airstrip. There was to be an investigation. I decide to
agree. It seemed wiser. An accident is arranged. A lorry goes out of
control down the airstrip as the plane is coming in. The plane is
destroyed. All signs of the lorry are removed. The bodies are reverently
placed in coffins and I report the tragedy. As I expected, there is
further investigation. A destroyer arrives. I receive the captain
courteously. He and his officers are brought round by sea and then led
inland. They are shown the remains of the camp. My men suggest that the
wardens went mad with loneliness and fought each other. The survivor set
fire to the camp and escaped in his fishing canoe. The airstrip is
examined. My men report that the plane was coming in too fast. The tyres
must have burst on impact. The bodies are handed over. It is very sad.
The officers are satisfied. The ship leaves. Peace reigns again."

Doctor No coughed delicately. He looked from Bond to the girl and back
again, "And that, my friends, is my story--or rather the first chapter
of what I am confident will be a long and interesting tale. Privacy has
been re-established. There are now no roseate spoonbills, so there will
be no wardens. No doubt the Audubon Society will decide to accept my
offer for the rest of their lease. No matter. If they start their puny
operations again, other misfortunes will befall them. This has been a
warning to me. There will be no more interference."

"Interesting," said Bond. "An interesting case history. So that was why
Strangways had to be removed. What did you do with him and his girl?"

"They are at the bottom of the Mona Reservoir. I sent three of my best
men. I have a small but efficient machine in Jamaica. I need it. I have
established a watch on the intelligence services in Jamaica and Cuba. It
is necessary for my further operations. Your Mister Strangways became
suspicious and started ferreting about. Fortunately, by this time, the
routines of this man were known to me. His death and the girl's were a
simple matter of timing. I had hoped to deal with you with similar
expedition. You were fortunate. But I knew what type of a man you were
from the files at King's House. I guessed that the fly would come to the
spider. I was ready for you, and when the canoe showed up on the radar
screen I knew you would not get away."

Bond said, "Your radar is not very efficient. There were two canoes. The
one you saw was the girl's. I tell you she had nothing to do with me."

"Then she is unfortunate. I happen to be needing a white woman for a
small experiment. As we agreed earlier, Mister Bond, one generally gets
what one wants."

Bond looked thoughtfully at Doctor No. He wondered if it was worth while
even trying to make a dent in this impregnable man. Was it worth wasting
breath by threatening or bluffing? Bond had nothing but a miserable two
of clubs up his sleeve. The thought of playing it almost bored him.
Casually, indifferently he threw it down.

"Then you're out of luck, Doctor No. You are now a file in London. My
thoughts on this case, the evidence of the poisoned fruit and the
centipede and the crashed motor car, are on record. So are the names of
Miss Chung and Miss Taro. Instructions were left with someone in Jamaica
that my report should be opened and acted upon if I failed to return
from Crab Key within three days."

Bond paused. The face of Doctor No was impassive. Neither the eyes nor
the mouth had flickered. The jugular vein throbbed evenly. Bond bent
forward. He said softly, "But because of the girl, and only because of
her, Doctor No, I will strike a bargain. In exchange for our safe return
to Jamaica, you may have a week's start. You may take your aeroplane and
your packet of stamps and try to get away."

Bond sat back. "Any interest, Doctor No?"




                                  XVI
                            HORIZONS OF AGONY


A voice behind Bond said quietly, "Dinner is served."

Bond swung round. It was the bodyguard. Beside him was another man who
might have been his twin. They stood there, two stocky barrels of
muscle, their hands buried in the sleeves of their kimonos, and looked
over Bond's head at Doctor No.

"Ah, nine o'clock already." Doctor No rose slowly to his feet. "Come
along. We can continue our conversation in more intimate surroundings.
It is kind of you both to have listened to me with such exemplary
patience. I hope the modesty of my cuisine and my cellar will not prove
a further imposition."

Double doors stood open in the wall behind the two white-jacketed men.
Bond and the girl followed Doctor No through into a small octagonal
mahogany panelled room lit by a central chandelier in silver with storm
glasses round the candles. Beneath it was a round mahogany table laid
for three. Silver and glass twinkled warmly. The plain dark blue carpet
was luxuriously deep. Doctor No took the centre high-backed chair and
bowed the girl into the chair on his right. They sat down and unfolded
napkins of white silk.

The hollow ceremony and the charming room maddened Bond. He longed to
break it up with his own hands--to wind his silk napkin round Doctor
No's throat and squeeze until the contact lenses popped out of the
black, damnable eyes.

The two guards wore white cotton gloves. They served the food with a
suave efficiency that was prompted by an occasional word in Chinese from
Doctor No.

At first, Doctor No seemed preoccupied. He slowly ate through three
bowls of different soup, feeding himself with a spoon with a short
handle that fitted neatly between the pincers. Bond concentrated on
hiding his fears from the girl. He sat relaxed and ate and drank with a
forced good appetite. He talked cheerfully to the girl about
Jamaica--about the birds and the animals and the flowers which were an
easy topic for her. Occasionally his feet felt for hers under the table.
She became almost gay. Bond thought they were putting on an excellent
imitation of an engaged couple being given dinner by a detested uncle.

Bond had no idea if his thin bluff had worked. He didn't give much for
their chances. Doctor No, and Doctor No's story, exuded impregnability.
The incredible biography rang true. Not a word of it was impossible.
Perhaps there were other people in the world with their private
kingdoms--away from the beaten track, where there were no witnesses,
where they could do what they liked. And what did Doctor No plan to do
next, after he had squashed the flies that had come to annoy him? And
if--when--he killed Bond and the girl, would London pick up the threads
that Bond had picked up? Probably they would. There would be
Pleydell-Smith. The evidence of the poisoned fruit. But where would
Bond's replacement get with Doctor No? Not far. Doctor No would shrug
his shoulders over the disappearance of Bond and Quarrel. Never heard of
them. And there would be no link with the girl. In Morgan's Harbour they
would think she had been drowned on one of her expeditions. It was hard
to see what could interfere with Doctor No--with the second chapter of
his life, whatever it was.

Underneath his chatter with the girl, Bond prepared for the worst. There
were plenty of weapons beside his plate. When the cutlets came,
perfectly cooked, Bond fiddled indecisively with the knives and chose
the bread knife to eat them with. While he ate and talked, he edged the
big steel meat knife towards him. An expansive gesture of his right hand
knocked over his glass of champagne and in the split second of the crash
his left hand flicked the knife into the deep sleeve of his kimono. In
the midst of Bond's apologies and the confusion as he and the bodyguard
mopped up the spilled champagne, Bond raised his left arm and felt the
knife slip back to below his armpit and then fall inside the kimono
against his ribs. When he had finished his cutlets he tightened the silk
belt round his waist, shifting the knife across his stomach. The knife
nestled comfortingly against his skin and gradually the steel grew warm.

Coffee came and the meal was ended. The two guards came and stood close
behind Bond's chair and the girl's. They stood with their arms crossed
on their chests, impassive, motionless, like executioners.

Doctor No put his cup softly down on his saucer. He laid his two steel
claws down on the table in front of him. He sat a fraction more upright.
He turned his body an inch in Bond's direction. Now there was no
preoccupation in his face. The eyes were hard, and direct. The thin
mouth creased and opened. "You have enjoyed your dinner, Mister Bond?"

Bond took a cigarette from the silver box in front of him and lit it. He
played with the silver table-lighter. He smelled bad news coming. He
must somehow pocket the lighter. Fire might perhaps be another weapon.
He said easily, "Yes. It was excellent." He looked across at the girl.
He leant forward in his chair and rested his forearms on the table. He
crossed them, enveloping the lighter. He smiled at her. "I hope I
ordered what you like."

"Oh yes, it was lovely." For her the party was still going on.

Bond smoked busily, agitating his hands and forearms to create an
atmosphere of movement. He turned to Doctor No. He stubbed out his
cigarette and sat back in his chair. He folded his arms across his
chest. The lighter was in his left armpit. He smiled cheerfully. "And
what happens now, Doctor No?"

"We can proceed to our after-dinner entertainment, Mister Bond." The
thin smile creased and vanished. "I have examined your proposition from
every angle. I do not accept it."

Bond shrugged his shoulders. "You are unwise."

"No, Mister Bond. I suspect that your proposition is a gold brick.
People in your trade do not behave as you suggest. They make routine
reports to their headquarters. They keep their chief aware of the
progress of their investigations. I know these things. Secret agents do
not behave as you suggest you have done. You have been reading too many
novels of suspense. Your little speech reeked of grease-paint and
cardboard. No, Mister Bond, I do not accept your story. If it is true, I
am prepared to face the consequences. I have too much at stake to be
turned from my path. So the police come, the soldiers come. Where are a
man and a girl? What man and what girl? I know nothing. Please go away.
You are disturbing my guanera. Where is your evidence? Your search
warrant? The English law is strict, gentlemen. Go home and leave me in
peace with my beloved cormorants. You see, Mister Bond? And let us even
say that the worst comes to the worst. That one of my agents talks,
which is highly improbable (Bond remembered the fortitude of Miss
Chung). What have I to lose? Two more deaths on the charge sheet. But,
Mister Bond, a man can only be hanged once." The tall pear-shaped head
shook gently from side to side. "Have you anything else to say? Any
questions to ask? You both have a busy night ahead of you. Your time is
getting short. And I must get my sleep. The monthly ship is putting in
tomorrow and I have the loading to supervise. I shall have to spend the
whole day down on the quay. Well, Mister Bond?"

Bond looked across at the girl. She had gone deathly pale. She was
gazing at him, waiting for the miracle he would work. He looked down at
his hands. He examined his nails carefully. He said, playing for time,
"And then what? After your busy day with the bird dung, what comes next
on your programme? What is the next chapter you think you're going to
write?"

Bond didn't look up. The deep quiet authoritative voice came to him as
if it was coming down from the night sky.

"Ah, yes. You must have been wondering, Mister Bond. You have the habit
of inquiry. It persists even to the last, even into the shadows. I
admire such qualities in a man with only a few hours to live. So I will
tell you. I will turn over the next page. It will console you. There is
more to this place than bird dung. Your instincts did not betray you."
Doctor No paused for emphasis. "This island, Mister Bond, is about to be
developed into the most valuable technical intelligence centre in the
world."

"Really?" Bond kept his eyes bent on his hands.

"Doubtless you know that Turks Island, about three hundred miles from
here through the Windward Passage, is the most important centre for
testing the guided missiles of the United States?"

"It is an important centre, yes."

"Perhaps you have read of the rockets that have been going astray
recently? The multi-stage SNARK, for instance, that ended its flight in
the forests of Brazil instead of the depths of the South Atlantic?"

"Yes."

"You recall that it refused to obey the telemetred instructions to
change its course, even to destroy itself. It developed a will of its
own?"

"I remember."

"There have been other failures, decisive failures, from the long list
of prototypes--the ZUNI, MATADOR, PETREL, REGULUS, BOMARC--so many
names, so many changes, I can't even remember them all. Well, Mister
Bond," Doctor No could not keep a note of pride out of his voice, "it
may interest you to know that the vast majority of those failures have
been caused from Crab Key."

"Is that so?"

"You do not believe me? No matter. Others do. Others who have seen the
complete abandonment of one series, the MASTODON, because of its
recurring navigational errors, its failure to obey the radio directions
from Turks Island. Those others are the Russians. The Russians are my
partners in this venture. They trained six of my men, Mister Bond. Two
of those men are on watch at this moment, watching the radio
frequencies, the beams on which these weapons travel. There is a million
dollars' worth of equipment up above us in the rock galleries, Mister
Bond, sending fingers up into the Heavyside Layer, waiting for the
signals, jamming them, countering beams with other beams. And from time
to time a rocket soars up on its way a hundred, five hundred miles into
the Atlantic. And we track it, as accurately as they are tracking it in
the Operations Room on Turks Island. Then, suddenly, our pulses go out
to the rocket, its brain is confused, it goes mad, it plunges into the
sea, it destroys itself, it roars off at a tangent. Another test has
failed. The operators are blamed, the designers, the manufacturers.
There is panic in the Pentagon. Something else must be tried, different
frequencies, different metals, a different radio brain. Of course,"
Doctor No was fair, "we too have our difficulties. We track many
practice shoots without being able to get through to the brain of the
new rocket. But then we communicate urgently with Moscow. Yes, they have
even given us a cipher machine with our own frequencies and routines.
And the Russians get thinking. They make suggestions. We try them out.
And then, one day, Mister Bond, it is like catching the attention of a
man in a crowd. Up in the stratosphere the rocket acknowledges our
signal. We are recognized and we can speak to it and change its mind."
Doctor No paused. "Do you not find that interesting, Mister Bond, this
little sideline to my business in guano? It is, I assure you, most
profitable. It might be still more so. Perhaps Communist China will pay
more. Who knows? I already have my feelers out."

Bond lifted his eyes. He looked thoughtfully at Doctor No. So he _had_
been right. There _had_ been more, much more, in all this than met the
eye. This was a big game, a game that explained everything, a game that
was certainly, in the international espionage market, well worth the
candle. Well, well! Now the pieces in the puzzle fell firmly into place.
For this it was certainly worth scaring away a few birds and wiping out
a few people. Privacy? Of course Doctor No would have to kill him and
the girl. Power? This was it. Doctor No had really got himself into
business.

Bond looked into the two black holes with a new respect. He said,
"You'll have to kill a lot more people to keep this thing in your hands,
Doctor No. It's worth a lot of money. You've got a good property here--a
better one than I thought. People are going to want to cut themselves a
piece of this cake. I wonder who will get to you first and kill you.
Those men up there," he gestured towards the ceiling, "who were trained
in Moscow? They're the technicians. I wonder what Moscow is telling them
to do? You wouldn't know that, would you?"

Doctor No said, "You persist in underestimating me, Mister Bond. You are
an obstinate man, and stupider than I had expected. I am aware of these
possibilities. I have taken one of these men and made him into a private
monitor. He has duplicates of the ciphers and of the cipher machine. He
lives in another part of the mountain. The others think that he died. He
watches on all the routine times. He gives me a second copy of all the
traffic that passes. So far, the signals from Moscow have been innocent
of any sign of conspiracy. I am thinking of these things constantly,
Mister Bond. I take precautions and I shall take further precautions. As
I said, you underestimate me."

"I don't underestimate you, Doctor No. You're a very careful man, but
you've got too many files open on you. In my line of business, the same
thing applies to me. I know the feeling. But you've got some really bad
ones. The Chinese one, for instance. I wouldn't like to have that one.
The FBI should be the least painful--robbery and false identity. But do
you know the Russians as well as I do? You're a 'best friend' at the
moment. But the Russians don't have partners. They'll want to take you
over--buy you out with a bullet. Then there's the file you've started
with my Service. You really want me to make that one fatter? I shouldn't
do it if I were you, Doctor No. They're a tenacious lot of people in my
Service. If anything happens to me and the girl, you'll find Crab Key's
a very small and naked little island."

"You cannot play for high stakes without taking risks, Mister Bond. I
accept the dangers and, so far as I can, I have equipped myself against
them. You see, Mister Bond," the deep voice held a hint of greed, "I am
on the edge of still greater things. The Chapter Two to which I referred
holds the promise of prizes which no one but a fool would throw away
because he was afraid. I have told you that I can bend the beams on
which these rockets fly, Mister Bond. I can make them change course and
ignore their radio control. What would you say, Mister Bond, if I could
go further? If I could bring them down into the sea near this island and
salvage the secrets of their construction. At present American
destroyers, far out in the South Atlantic, salvage these missiles when
they come to the end of their fuel and parachute down into the sea.
Sometimes the parachutes fail to open. Sometimes the self-destruction
devices fail to operate. No one on Turks Island would be surprised if
every now and then the prototype of a new series broke off its flight
and came down near Crab Key. To begin with, at least, it would be put
down to mechanical failure. Later, perhaps, they would discover that
other radio signals besides theirs were guiding their rockets. A jamming
war would start. They would try and locate the origin of the false
signals. Directly I found they were looking for me, I would have one
last fling. Their rockets would go mad. They would land on Havana, on
Kingston. They would turn round and home on Miami. Even without
warheads, Mister Bond, five tons of metal arriving at a thousand miles
an hour can cause plenty of damage in a crowded town. And then what?
There would be panic, a public outcry. The experiments would have to
cease. The Turks Island base would have to close down. And how much
would Russia pay for that to happen, Mister Bond? And how much for each
of the prototypes I captured for them? Shall we say ten million dollars
for the whole operation? Twenty million? It would be a priceless victory
in the armaments race. I could name my figure. Don't you agree, Mister
Bond? And don't you agree that these considerations make your arguments
and threats seem rather puny?"

Bond said nothing. There was nothing to say. Suddenly he was back in the
quiet room high up above Regent's Park. He could hear the rain slashing
softly against the window and M's voice, impatient, sarcastic, saying,
"Oh, some damned business about birds... holiday in the sun'll do you
good... routine inquiry." And he, Bond, had taken a canoe and a
fisherman and a picnic lunch and had gone off--how many days, how many
weeks ago?--'to have a look'. Well, he had had his look into Pandora's
Box. He had found out the answers, been told the secrets--and now? Now
he was going to be politely shown the way to his grave, taking the
secrets with him and the waif he had picked up and dragged along with
him on his lunatic adventure. The bitterness inside Bond came up into
his mouth so that for a moment he thought he was going to retch. He
reached for his champagne and emptied the glass. He said harshly, "All
right, Doctor No. Now let's get on with the cabaret. What's the
programme--knife, bullet, poison, rope? But make it quick, I've seen
enough of you."

Doctor No's lips compressed into a thin purple line. The eyes were hard
as onyx under the billiard-ball forehead and skull. The polite mask had
gone. The Grand Inquisitor sat in the high-backed chair. The hour had
struck for the _peine forte et dure_.

Doctor No spoke a word and the two guards took a step forward and held
the two victims above the elbows, forcing their arms back against the
sides of their chairs. There was no resistance. Bond concentrated on
holding the lighter in his armpit. The white-gloved hands on his biceps
felt like steel bands. He smiled across at the girl. "I'm sorry about
this, Honey. I'm afraid we're not going to be able to play together
after all."

The girl's eyes in the pale face were blue-black with fear. Her lips
trembled. She said, "Will it hurt?"

"Silence!" Doctor No's voice was the crack of a whip. "Enough of this
foolery. Of course it will hurt. I am interested in pain. I am also
interested in finding out how much the human body can endure. From time
to time I make experiments on those of my people who have to be
punished. And on trespassers like yourselves. You have both put me to a
great deal of trouble. In exchange I intend to put you to a great deal
of pain. I shall record the length of your endurance. The facts will be
noted. One day my findings will be given to the world. Your deaths will
have served the purposes of science. I never waste human material. The
German experiments on live humans during the war were of great benefit
to science. It is a year since I put a girl to death in the fashion I
have chosen for you, woman. She was a Negress. She lasted three hours.
She died of terror. I have wanted a white girl for comparison. I was not
surprised when your arrival was reported. I get what I want." Doctor No
sat back in his chair. His eyes were now fixed on the girl, watching her
reactions. She stared back at him, half hypnotized, like a bush mouse in
front of a rattlesnake.

Bond set his teeth.

"You are a Jamaican, so you will know what I am talking about. This
island is called Crab Key. It is called by that name because it is
infested with crabs, land crabs--what they call in Jamaica 'black
crabs'. You know them. They weigh about a pound each and they are as big
as saucers. At this time of year they come up in thousands from their
holes near the shore and climb up towards the mountain. There, in the
coral uplands, they go to ground again in holes in the rock and spawn
their broods. They march up in armies of hundreds at a time. They march
through everything and over everything. In Jamaica they go through
houses that are in their path. They are like the lemmings of Norway. It
is a compulsive migration." Doctor No paused. He said softly, "But there
is a difference. The crabs devour what they find in their path. And at
present, woman, they are 'running'. They are coming up the mountainside
in their tens of thousands, great red and orange and black waves of
them, scuttling and hurrying and scraping against the rock above us at
this moment. And tonight, in the middle of their path, they are going to
find the naked body of a woman pegged out--a banquet spread for
them--and they will feel the warm body with their feeding pincers, and
one will make the first incision with his fighting claws and then...
and then..."

There was a moan from the girl. Her head fell forward slackly on to her
chest. She had fainted. Bond's body heaved in his chair. A string of
obscenities hissed out between his clenched teeth. The huge hands of the
guard were like fire round his arms. He couldn't even move the
chair-legs on the floor. After a moment he desisted. He waited for his
voice to steady, then he said, with all the venom he could put into the
words, "You bastard. You'll fry in hell for this."

Doctor No smiled thinly. "Mister Bond, I do not admit the existence of
hell. Console yourself. Perhaps they will start at the throat or the
heart. The movement of the pulse will attract them. Then it will not be
long." He spoke a sentence in Chinese. The guard behind the girl's chair
leant forward and plucked her bodily out of the chair as if she had been
a child and slung the inert body over his shoulder. Between the dangling
arms the hair fell down in a golden shower. The guard went to the door
and opened it and went out, closing it noiselessly behind him.

For a moment there was silence in the room. Bond thought only of the
knife against his skin and of the lighter under his armpit. How much
damage could he do with the two pieces of metal? Could he somehow get
within range of Doctor No?

Doctor No said quietly, "You said that power was an illusion, Mister
Bond. Do you change your mind? My power to select this particular death
for the girl is surely not an illusion. However, let us proceed to the
method of your departure. That also has its novel aspects. You see,
Mister Bond, I am interested in the anatomy of courage--in the power of
the human body to endure. But how to measure human endurance? How to
plot a graph of the will to survive, the tolerance of pain, the conquest
of fear? I have given much thought to the problem, and I believe I have
solved it. It is, of course, only a rough and ready method, and I shall
learn by experience as more and more subjects are put to the test. I
have prepared you for the experiment as best I could. I gave you a
sedative so that your body should be rested and I have fed you well so
that you may be at full strength. Future--what shall I call
them--patients, will have the same advantages. All will start equal in
that respect. After that it will be a question of the individual's
courage and powers of endurance." Doctor No paused, watching Bond's
face. "You see, Mister Bond, I have just finished constructing an
obstacle race, an assault course against death. I will say no more about
it because the element of surprise is one of the constituents of fear.
It is the unknown dangers that are the worst, that bear most heavily on
the reserves of courage. And I flatter myself that the gauntlet you will
run contains a rich assortment of the unexpected. It will be
particularly interesting, Mister Bond, that a man of your physical
qualities is to be my first competitor. It will be most interesting to
observe how far you get down the course I have devised. You should put
up a worthy target figure for future runners. I have high expectations
of you. You should go far, but when, as is inevitable, you have finally
failed at an obstacle, your body will be recovered and I shall most
meticulously examine the physical state of your remains. The data will
be recorded. You will be the first dot on a graph. Something of an
honour, is it not, Mister Bond?"

Bond said nothing. What the hell did all this mean? What could this test
consist of? Would it be possible to survive it? Could he conceivably
escape from it and get to the girl before it was too late, even if it
was only to kill her and save her from her torture? Silently Bond
gathered his reserves of courage, steeling his mind against the fear of
the unknown that already had him by the throat, focusing his whole will
on survival. Somehow, above all else, he must cling to his weapons.

Doctor No rose and stepped away from his chair. He walked slowly to the
door and turned. The menacing black holes looked back at Bond from just
below the lintel of the door. The head was inclined a fraction. The
purple lips creased back. "Run a good race for me, Mister Bond. My
thoughts, as they say, will be with you."

Doctor No turned away and the door closed softly behind the long thin
gunmetal back.




                                  XVII
                             THE LONG SCREAM


There was a man on the lift. The doors were open, waiting. James Bond,
his arms still locked to his sides, was marched in. Now the dining-room
would be empty. How soon would the guards go back, start clearing away
the dinner, notice the missing things? The doors hissed shut. The
liftman stood in front of the buttons so that Bond could not see which
he had pressed. They were going up. Bond tried to estimate the distance.
The lift sighed to a stop. The time seemed rather less than when he had
come down with the girl. The doors opened on to an uncarpeted corridor
with rough grey paint on the stone walls. It ran about twenty yards
straight ahead.

"Hold it, Joe," said Bond's guard to the liftman. "Be right with you."

Bond was marched down the corridor past doors numbered with letters of
the alphabet. There was a faint hum of machinery in the air and behind
one door Bond thought he could catch the crackle of radio static. It
sounded as if they might be in the engine-room of the mountain. They
came to the end door. It was marked with a black Q. It was ajar and the
guard pushed Bond into the door so that it swung open. Through the door
was a grey painted stone cell about fifteen feet square. There was
nothing in it except a wooden chair on which lay, laundered and neatly
folded, Bond's black canvas jeans and his blue shirt.

The guard let go of Bond's arms. Bond turned and looked into the broad
yellow face below the crinkly hair. There was a hint of curiosity and
pleasure in the liquid brown eyes. The man stood holding the door
handle. He said, "Well, this is it, bud. You're at the starting gate.
You can either sit here and rot or find your way out on to the course.
Happy landings."

Bond thought it was just worth trying. He glanced past the guard to
where the liftman was standing beside his open doors, watching them. He
said softly, "How would you like to earn ten thousand dollars,
guaranteed, and a ticket to anywhere in the world?" He watched the man's
face. The mouth spread in a wide grin to show brownish teeth worn to
uneven points by years of chewing sugar-cane.

"Thanks, Mister. I'd rather stay alive." The man made to close the door.
Bond whispered urgently, "We could get out of here together."

The thick lips sneered. The man said, "Shove it!" The door shut with a
solid click.

Bond shrugged his shoulders. He gave the door a cursory glance. It was
made of metal and there was no handle on the inside. Bond didn't waste
his shoulder on it. He went to the chair and sat down on the neat pile
of his clothes and looked round the cell. The walls were entirely naked
except for a ventilation grille of thick wire in one corner just below
the ceiling. It was wider than his shoulders. It was obviously the way
out into the assault course. The only other break in the walls was a
thick glass porthole, no bigger than Bond's head, just above the door.
Light from the corridor filtered through it into the cell. There was
nothing else. It was no good wasting any more time. It would now be
about ten-thirty. Outside, somewhere on the slope of the mountain, the
girl would already be lying, waiting for the rattle of claws on the grey
coral. Bond clenched his teeth at the thought of the pale body
spreadeagled out there under the stars. Abruptly he stood up. What the
hell was he doing sitting still. Whatever lay on the other side of the
wire grille, it was time to go.

Bond took out his knife and the lighter and threw off the kimono. He
dressed in the trousers and shirt and stowed the lighter in his hip
pocket. He tried the edge of the knife with his thumb. It was very
sharp. It would be better still if he could get a point on it. He knelt
on the floor and began whittling the rounded end on the stone. After a
precious quarter of an hour he was satisfied. It was no stiletto, but it
would serve to stab as well as cut. Bond put the knife between his teeth
and set the chair below the grille, and climbed on to it. The grille!
Assuming he could tear it off its hinges, the frame of quarter-inch wire
might straighten into a spear. That would make a third weapon. Bond
reached up with crooked fingers.

The next thing he knew was a searing pain up his arm and the crack of
his head hitting the stone floor. He lay, stunned, with only the memory
of a blue flash and the hiss and crackle of electricity to tell him what
had hit him.

Bond got to his knees and stayed there. He bent his head down and shook
it slowly from side to side like a wounded animal. He noticed a smell of
burning flesh. He lifted his right hand up to his eyes. There was the
red smear of an open burn across the inside of his fingers. Seeing it
brought the pain. Bond spat out a four-letter word. Slowly he got to his
feet. He squinted up at the wire grille as if it might strike at him
again, like a snake. Grimly he set the chair upright against the wall.
He picked up his knife and cut a strip off the discarded kimono and tied
it firmly across his fingers. Then he climbed up again on to the chair
and looked at the grille. He was meant to get through it. The shock had
been to soften him up--a taste of pain to come. Surely he had fused the
blasted thing. Surely they would have switched off the current. He
looked at it only for an instant, then the fingers of his left hand
crooked and went straight up to the impersonal wire mesh. His fingers
went through the wire rim and gripped.

Nothing! Nothing at all--just wire. Bond grunted. He felt his nerves
slacken. He tugged at the wire. It gave an inch. He tugged again and it
came away in his hand and dangled down from two strands of copper flex
that disappeared into the wall. Bond pulled the grille loose from the
flex and got down from the chair. Yes, there was a join in the frame. He
set to work unravelling the mesh. Then using the chair as a hammer, he
straightened the heavy wire.

After ten minutes, Bond had a crooked spear about four feet long. One
end, where it had originally been cut by the pliers, was jagged. It
would not pierce a man's clothes, but it would be good enough for the
face and neck. By using all his strength and the crack at the bottom of
the metal door, Bond turned the blunt end into a clumsy crook. He
measured the wire against his leg. It was too long. He bent it double
and slipped the spear down a trouser leg. Now it hung from his waistband
to just above the knee. He went back to the chair and climbed up again
and reached, nervously, for the edge of the ventilator shaft. There was
no shock. Bond heaved up and through the opening and lay on his stomach
looking along the shaft.

The shaft was about four inches wider than Bond's shoulders. It was
circular and of polished metal. Bond reached for his lighter, blessing
the inspiration that had made him take it, and flicked it on. Yes, zinc
sheeting that looked new. The shaft stretched straight ahead,
featureless except for the ridges where the sections of pipe joined.
Bond put the lighter back in his pocket and snaked forward.

It was easy going. Cool air from the ventilating system blew strongly in
Bond's face. The air held no smell of the sea--it was the canned stuff
that comes from an air-conditioning plant. Doctor No must have adapted
one of the shafts to his purpose. What hazards had he built into it to
test out his victims? They would be ingenious and painful--designed to
reduce the resistance of the victim. At the winning post, so to speak,
there would be the _coup de grce_--if the victim ever got that far. It
would be something conclusive, something from which there would be no
escape, for there would be no prizes in this race except oblivion--an
oblivion, thought Bond, he might be glad to win. Unless of course Doctor
No had been just a bit too clever. Unless he had underestimated the will
to survive. That, thought Bond, was his only hope--to try to survive the
intervening hazards, to get through at least to the last ditch.

There was a faint luminosity ahead. Bond approached it carefully, his
senses questing in front of him like antennae. It grew brighter. It was
the glint of light against the end of the lateral shaft. He went on
until his head touched the metal. He twisted over on his back. Straight
above him, at the top of fifty yards or so of vertical shaft, was a
steady glimmer. It was like looking up a long gun barrel. Bond inched
round the square bend and stood upright. So he was supposed to climb
straight up this shining tube of metal without a foothold! Was it
possible? Bond expanded his shoulders. Yes, they gripped the sides. His
feet could also get a temporary purchase, though they would slip except
where the ridges at the joints gave him an ounce of upward leverage.
Bond shrugged his shoulders and kicked off his shoes. It was no good
arguing. He would just have to try.

Six inches at a time, Bond's body began to worm up the shaft--expand
shoulders to grip the sides, lift feet, lock knees, force the feet
outwards against the metal and, as the feet slipped downwards with his
weight, contract shoulders and raise them a few inches higher. Do it
again, and again and again and again. Stop at each tiny bulge where the
sections joined and use the millimetre of extra support to get some
breath and measure the next lap. Otherwise don't look up, think only of
the inches of metal that have to be conquered one by one. Don't worry
about the glimmer of light that never grows brighter or nearer. Don't
worry about losing your grip and falling to smash your ankles at the
bottom of the shaft. Don't worry about cramp. Don't worry about your
screaming muscles or the swelling bruises on your shoulders and the
sides of your feet. Just take the silver inches as they come, one by
one, and conquer them.

But then the feet began to sweat and slip. Twice Bond lost a yard before
his shoulders, scalding with the friction, could put on the brake.
Finally he had to stop altogether to let his sweat dry in the downward
draught of air. He waited for a full ten minutes, staring at his faint
reflection in the polished metal, the face split in half by the knife
between the teeth. Still he refused to look up to see how much more
there was. It might be too much to bear. Carefully Bond wiped each foot
against a trouser-leg and began again.

Now half Bond's mind was dreaming while the other half fought the
battle. He wasn't even conscious of the strengthening breeze or the
slowly brightening light. He saw himself as a wounded caterpillar
crawling up a waste pipe towards the plug-hole of a bath. What would he
see when he got through the plug-hole? A naked girl drying herself? A
man shaving? Sunlight streaming through an open window into an empty
bathroom?

Bond's head bumped against something. The plug was in the plug-hole! The
shock of disappointment made him slip a yard before his shoulders got a
fresh grip. Then he realized. He was at the top! Now he noticed the
bright light and the strong wind. Feverishly, but with a more desperate
care, he heaved up again until his head touched. The wind was coming
into his left ear. Cautiously he turned his head. It was another lateral
shaft. Above him light was shining through a thick porthole. All he had
to do was inch himself round and grip the edge of the new shaft and
somehow gather enough strength to heave himself in. Then he would be
able to lie down.

With an extra delicacy, born of panic that something might now go wrong,
that he might make a mistake and plummet back down the shaft to land in
a crackle of bone, Bond, his breath steaming against the metal, carried
out the manoeuvre and, with his last ounce of strength, jackknifed into
the opening and crumpled full length on his face.

Later--how much later?--Bond's eyes opened and his body stirred. The
cold had woken him from the fringe of total unconsciousness into which
his body had plunged. Painfully he rolled over on his back, his feet and
shoulders screaming at him, and lay gathering his wits and summoning
more strength. He had no idea what time it was or whereabouts he was
inside the mountain. He lifted his head and looked back at the porthole
above the yawning tube out of which he had come. The light was yellowish
and the glass looked thick. He remembered the porthole in Room Q. There
had been nothing breakable about that one, nor, he guessed, would there
be here.

Suddenly, behind the glass, he saw movement. As he watched, a pair of
eyes materialized from behind the electric light bulb. They stopped and
looked at him, the bulb making a yellow glass nose between them. They
gazed incuriously at him and then they were gone. Bond's lips snarled
back from his teeth. So his progress was going to be observed, reported
back to Doctor No!

Bond said out loud, viciously, "---- them all," and turned sullenly back
on his stomach. He raised his head and looked forward. The tunnel
shimmered away into blackness. Come on! No good hanging about. He picked
up his knife and put it back between his teeth and winced his way
forward.

Soon there was no more light. Bond stopped from time to time and used
the lighter, but there was nothing but blackness ahead. The air began to
get warmer in the shaft, and, perhaps fifty yards further, definitely
hot. There was the smell of heat in the air, metallic heat. Bond began
to sweat. Soon his body was soaked and he had to pause every few minutes
to wipe his eyes. There came a right-hand turn in the shaft. Round it
the metal of the big tube was hot against his skin. The smell of heat
was very strong. There came another right-angled turn. As soon as Bond's
head got round he quickly pulled out his lighter and lit it and then
snaked back and lay panting. Bitterly he examined the new hazard,
probing it, cursing it. His light had flickered on discoloured,
oyster-hued zinc. The next hazard was to be heat!

Bond groaned aloud. How could his bruised flesh stand up to that? How
could he protect his skin from the metal? But there wasn't anything he
could do about it. He could either go back, or stay where he was, or go
on. There was no other decision to make, no other shift or excuse. There
was one, and only one, grain of consolation. This would not be heat that
would kill, only maim. This would not be the final killing ground--only
one more test of how much he could take.

Bond thought of the girl and of what she was going through. Oh well. Get
on with it. Now, let's see....

Bond took his knife and cut off the whole front of his shirt and sliced
it into strips. The only hope was to put some wrapping round the parts
of his body that would have to bear the brunt--his hands and his feet.
His knees and elbows would have to get along with their single covering
of cotton fabric. Wearily he set to work, cursing softly.

Now he was ready. One, two, three...

Bond turned the corner and forged forward into the heat stench.

Keep your naked stomach off the ground! Contract your shoulders! Hands,
knees, toes; hands, knees, toes. Faster, faster! Keep going fast so that
each touch on the ground is quickly taken over by the next.

The knees were getting it worst, taking the bulk of Bond's weight. Now
the padded hands were beginning to smoulder. There was a spark, and
another one, and then a worm of red as the sparks began to run. The
smoke from the stuff smarted in Bond's sweating eyes. God, he couldn't
do any more! There was no air. His lungs were bursting. Now his two
hands shed sparks as he thrust them forward. The stuff must be nearly
gone. Then the flesh would burn. Bond lurched and his bruised shoulder
hit the metal. He screamed. He went on screaming, regularly, with each
contact of hand or knee or toes. Now he was finished. Now it was the
end. Now he would fall flat and slowly fry to death. No! He must drive
on, screaming, until his flesh was burned to the bone. The skin must
have already gone from the knees. In a moment the balls of his hands
would meet the metal. Only the sweat running down his arms could be
keeping the pads of stuff damp. Scream, scream, scream! It helps the
pain. It tells you you're alive. Go on! Go on! It can't be much longer.
This isn't where you're supposed to die. You are still alive. Don't give
up! You can't!

Bond's right hand hit something that gave before it. There was a stream
of ice-cold air. His other hand hit, then his head. There was a tinny
noise. Bond felt the lower edge of an asbestos baffle scrape down his
back. He was through. He heard the baffle bang shut. His hands came up
against solid wall. They quested to left and right. It was a
right-angled bend. His body followed blindly round the corner. The cool
air felt like daggers in his lungs. Gingerly he laid his fingers down on
the metal. It was cold! With a groan Bond fell on his face and lay
still.

Sometime later the pain revived him. Bond turned sluggishly over on his
back. Vaguely he noticed the lighted porthole above him. Vaguely he took
in the eyes gazing down on him. Then he let the black waves take him
away again.

Slowly, in the darkness, the blisters formed across the skin and the
bruised feet and shoulders stiffened. The sweat dried on the body and
then on the rags of clothing, and the cool air soaked down into the
overheated lungs and began its insidious work. But the heart beat on,
strongly and regularly inside the tortured envelope, and the healing
sorceries of oxygen and rest pumped life back into the arteries and
veins and recharged the nerves.

Years later, Bond awoke. He stirred. As his eyes opened and met the
other pair, inches away behind the glass, pain took him and shook him
like a rat. He waited for the shock to die. He tried again, and then
again, until he had measured the strength of his adversary. Then Bond,
to hide himself away from the witness, turned over on his stomach and
took the full blast of it. Again he waited, exploring his body for its
reactions, testing the strength of the resolve that was left in the
batteries. How much more could he take now? Bond's lips drew back from
his teeth and he snarled into the darkness. It was an animal sound. He
had come to the end of his human reactions to pain and adversity. Doctor
No had got him cornered. But there were animal reserves of desperation
left and, in a strong animal, those reserves are deep.

Slowly, agonizingly, Bond snaked a few yards away from the eyes and then
reached for his lighter and lit it. Ahead there was only the black full
moon, the yawning circular mouth that led into the stomach of death.
Bond put back the lighter. He took a deep breath and got to his hands
and knees. The pain was no greater, only different. Slowly, stiffly, he
winced forward.

The cotton fabric at Bond's knees and elbows had burned away. Numbly his
mind registered the moisture as his blisters burst against the cool
metal. As he moved, he flexed his fingers and toes, testing the pain.
Slowly he got the measure of what he could do, what hurt most. This pain
is supportable, he argued to himself. If I had been in an aeroplane
crash, they would only diagnose superficial contusions and burns. I
would be out of hospital in a few days. There's nothing wrong with me.
I'm a survivor from the crash. It hurts, but it's nothing. Think of the
bits and pieces of the other passengers. Be thankful. Put it out of your
mind. But, nagging behind these reflections, was the knowledge that he
had not yet had the crash--that he was still on his way towards it, his
resistance, his effectiveness reduced. When would it come? What shape
would it take? How much more was he to be softened up before he reached
the killing ground?

Ahead in the darkness the tiny red pinpoints might have been an
hallucination, specks before the eyes as a result of exhaustion. Bond
stopped and screwed up his eyes. He shook his head. No, they were still
there. Slowly he snaked closer. Now they were moving. Bond stopped
again. He listened. Above the quiet thumping of his heart there was a
soft, delicate rustling. The pinpoints had increased in number.

Now there were twenty or thirty, shifting to and fro, some quickly, some
slowly, all over the circle of blackness ahead. Bond reached for his
lighter. He held his breath as he lit the little yellow flame. The red
pinpoints went out. Instead, a yard ahead of him, very narrow mesh wire,
almost as fine as muslin, blocked the shaft.

Bond inched forward, the lighter held before him. It was some sort of a
cage with small things living in it. He could hear them scuttling back,
away from the light. A foot away from the mesh he dowsed the light and
waited for his eyes to get used to the dark. As he waited, listening, he
could hear the tiny scuttling back towards him, and gradually the forest
of red pinpoints gathered again, peering at him through the mesh.

What was it? Bond listened to the pounding of his heart. Snakes?
Scorpions? Centipedes?

Carefully he brought his eyes close up to the little glowing forest. He
inched the lighter up beside his face and suddenly pressed the lever. He
caught a glimpse of tiny claws hooked through the mesh and of dozens of
thick furry feet and of furry sacklike stomachs topped by big insect
heads that seemed to be covered with eyes. The things plopped hurriedly
off the wire on to the tin and scurried back and huddled in a grey-brown
furry mass at the end of the cage.

Bond squinted through the mesh, moving the light back and forward. Then
he dowsed the light, to save fuel, and let the breath come through his
teeth in a quiet sigh.

They were spiders, giant tarantulas, three or four inches long. There
were twenty of them in the cage. And somehow he had to get past them.

Bond lay and rested and thought while the red eyes gathered again in
front of his face.

How deadly were these things? How much of the tales about them were
myth? They could certainly kill animals, but how mortal to men were
these giant spiders with the long soft friendly fur of a borzoi? Bond
shuddered. He remembered the centipede. The touch of the tarantulas
would be much softer. They would be like tiny teddy bears' paws against
one's skin--until they bit and emptied their poison sacs into you.

But again, would this be Doctor No's killing ground? A bite or two
perhaps--to send one into a delirium of pain. The horror of having to
burst through the mesh in the darkness--Doctor No would not have
reckoned with Bond's lighter--and squash through the forest of eyes,
crushing some soft bodies, but feeling the jaws of the others lance
home. And then more bites from the ones that had caught in the clothing.
And then the creeping agony of the poison. That would have been the way
Doctor No's mind would have worked--to send one screaming on one's way.
To what? To the final fence?

But Bond had the lighter and the knife and the wire spear. All he needed
was the nerve, and infinite, infinite precision.

Bond softly opened the jaws of the lighter and pulled the wick out an
inch with his thumb and fingernail to give a bigger flame. He lit it
and, as the spiders scuttled back, he pierced the thin wire mesh with
his knife. He made a hole near the frame and cut down sideways and
round. Then he seized the flap of wire and wrenched it out of the frame.
It tore like stiff calico and came away in one piece. He put the knife
back between his teeth and snaked through the opening. The spiders
cowered before the flame of the lighter and crowded back on top of each
other. Bond slid the wire spear out of his trousers and jabbed the
blunt, doubled wire into the middle of them. He jabbed again and again,
fiercely pulping the bodies. When some of the spiders tried to escape
towards him he waved the light at them and smashed the fugitives one by
one. Now the living spiders were attacking the dead and wounded and all
Bond had to do was bash and bash into the writhing, sickening mess of
blood and fur.

Slowly all movement slackened and then ceased. Were they all dead? Were
some shamming? The flame of the lighter was beginning to die. He would
have to chance it. Bond reached forward and shovelled the dead mess to
one side. Then he took his knife from between his teeth and reached out
and slashed open the second curtain of wire, bending the flap down over
the heap of pulped bodies. The light flickered and became a red glow.
Bond gathered himself and shot his body over the bloody pile of corpses
and through the jagged frame.

He had no idea what bits of metal he touched or whether he had put his
knee or his foot among the spiders. All he knew was that he had got
through. He heaved himself yards on along the shaft and stopped to
gather his breath and his nerve.

Above him a dim light came on. Bond squinted sideways and upwards,
knowing what he would see. The slanting yellow eyes behind the thick
glass looked keenly down at him. Slowly, behind the bulb, the head moved
from side to side. The eyelids dropped in mock pity. A closed fist, the
thumb pointing downwards in farewell and dismissal, inserted itself
between the bulb and the glass. Then it was withdrawn. The light went
out. Bond turned his face back to the floor of the shaft and rested his
forehead on the cool metal. The gesture said that he was coming into the
last lap, that the observers had finished with him until they came for
his remains. It took an extra ounce of heart out of Bond that there had
been no gesture of praise, however small, that he had managed to survive
so far. These Chigroes hated him. They only wanted him to die, and as
miserably as possible.

Bond's teeth ground softly together. He thought of the girl and the
thought gave him strength. He wasn't dead yet. Damn it, he wouldn't die!
Not until the heart was torn from his body.

Bond tensed his muscles. It was time to go. With extra care he put his
weapons back in their places and painfully began to drag himself on into
the blackness.

The shaft was beginning to slope gently downwards. It made the going
easier. Soon the slope grew steeper so that Bond could almost slide
along under the momentum of his weight. It was a blessed relief not to
have to make the effort with his muscles. There was a glimmer of grey
light ahead, nothing more than a lessening of the darkness, but it was a
change. The quality of the air seemed to be different. There was a new,
fresh smell to it. What was it? The sea?

Suddenly Bond realized that he was slipping down the shaft. He opened
his shoulders and spread his feet to slow himself. It hurt and the
braking effect was small. Now the shaft was widening. He could no longer
get a grip! He was going faster and faster. A bend was just ahead. And
it was a bend downwards!

Bond's body crashed into the bend and round it. Christ, he was diving
head downwards! Desperately Bond spread his feet and hands. The metal
flayed his skin. He was out of control, diving down a gun barrel. Far
below there was a circle of grey light. The open air? The sea? The light
was tearing up at him. He fought for breath. Stay alive, you fool! Stay
alive!

Head first, Bond's body shot out of the shaft and fell through the air,
slowly, slowly, down towards the gunmetal sea that waited for him a
hundred feet below.




                                 XVIII
                             KILLING GROUND


Bond's body shattered the mirror of the dawn sea like a bomb.

As he had hurtled down the silver shaft towards the widening disc of
light, instinct had told him to get his knife from between his teeth, to
get his hands forward to break his fall, and to keep his head down and
his body rigid. And, at the last fraction of a second when he glimpsed
the up-rushing sea, he had managed to take a gulp of breath. So Bond hit
the water in the semblance of a dive, his outstretched clenched fists
cleaving a hole for his skull and shoulders, and though, by the time he
had shot twenty feet below the surface, he had lost consciousness, the
forty-mile-an-hour impact with the water failed to smash him.

Slowly the body rose to the surface and lay, head down, softly rocking
in the ripples of the dive. The water-choked lungs somehow contrived to
send a last message to the brain. The legs and arms thrashed clumsily.
The head turned up, water pouring from its open mouth. It sank. Again
the legs jerked, instinctively trying to get the body upright in the
water. This time, coughing horribly, the head jerked above the surface
and stayed there. The arms and legs began to move feebly, paddling like
a dog, and, through the red and black curtain, the bloodshot eyes saw
the lifeline and told the sluggish brain to make for it.

The killing ground was a narrow deep water inlet at the base of the
towering cliff. The lifeline towards which Bond struggled, hampered by
the clumsy spear in his trouser-leg, was a strong wire fence, stretched
from the rock walls of the inlet and caging it off from the open sea.
The two-feet squares of thick wire were suspended from a cable six feet
above the surface and disappeared, algae encrusted, into the depths.

Bond got to the wire and hung, crucified. For fifteen minutes he stayed
like that, his body occasionally racked with vomiting, until he felt
strong enough to turn his head and see where he was. Blearily his eyes
took in the towering cliffs above him and the narrow vee of softly
breathing water. The place was in deep grey shadow, cut off from the
dawn by the mountain, but out at sea there was the pearly iridescence of
first light that meant that for the rest of the world the day was
dawning. Here it was dark and gloomy and brooding.

Sluggishly Bond's mind puzzled over the wire fence. What was its
purpose, closing off this dark cleft of sea? Was it to keep things out,
or keep them in? Bond gazed vaguely down into the black depths around
him. The wire strands vanished into nothingness below his clinging feet.
There were small fish round his legs below the waist. What were they
doing? They seemed to be feeding, darting in towards him and then
backing away, catching at black strands. Strands of what? Of cotton from
his rags? Bond shook his head to clear it. He looked again. No, they
were feeding off his blood.

Bond shivered. Yes, blood was seeping off his body, off the torn
shoulders, the knees, the feet, into the water. Now for the first time
he felt the pain of the sea water on his sores and burns. The pain
revived him, quickened his mind. If these small fish liked it, what
about barracuda and shark? Was that what the wire fence was for, to keep
man-eating fish from escaping to sea? Then why hadn't they been after
him already? To hell with it! The first thing was to crawl up the wire
and get over to the other side. To put the fence between him and
whatever lived in this black aquarium.

Weakly, foothold by foothold, Bond climbed up the wire and over the top
and down again to where he could rest well above the water. He hooked
the thick cable under his arms and hung, a bit of washing on a line, and
gazed vaguely down at the fish that still fed from the blood that
dripped off his feet.

Now there was nothing much left of Bond, not many reserves. The last
dive down the tube, the crash of impact and the half-death from drowning
had squeezed him like a sponge. He was on the verge of surrender, on the
verge of giving one small sigh and then slipping back into the soft arms
of the water. How beautiful it would be to give in at last and rest--to
feel the sea softly take him to its bed and turn out the light.

It was the explosive flight of the fish from their feeding ground that
shook Bond out of his death-dreaming. Something had moved far below the
surface. There was a distant shimmer. Something was coming slowly up on
the landward side of the fence.

Bond's body tautened. His hanging jaw slowly shut and the slackness
cleared from his eyes. With the electric shock of danger, life flooded
back into him, driving out the lethargy, pumping back the will to
survive.

Bond uncramped the fingers that, a long time ago, his brain had ordered
not to lose his knife. He flexed his fingers and took a fresh grip of
the silver-plated handle. He reached down and touched the crook of the
wire spear that still hung inside his trouser-leg. He shook his head
sharply and focused his eyes. Now what?

Below him the water quivered. Something was stirring in the depths,
something huge. A great length of luminescent greyness showed, poised
far down in the darkness. Something snaked up from it, a whiplash as
thick as Bond's arm. The tip of the thong was swollen to a narrow oval,
with regular bud-like markings. It swirled through the water where the
fish had been and was withdrawn. Now there was nothing but the huge grey
shadow. What was it doing? Was it...? Was it tasting the blood?

As if in answer, two eyes as big as footballs slowly swam up and into
Bond's vision. They stopped, twenty feet below his own, and stared up
through the quiet water at his face.

Bond's skin-crawled on his back. Softly, wearily, his mouth uttered one
bitter four-lettered word. So this was the last surprise of Doctor No,
the end of the race!

Bond stared down, half hypnotized, into the wavering pools of eye far
below. So this was the giant squid, the mythical kraken that could pull
ships beneath the waves, the fifty-foot-long monster that battled with
whales, that weighed a ton or more. What else did he know about them?
That they had two long seizing tentacles and ten holding ones. That they
had a huge blunt beak beneath eyes that were the only fishes' eyes that
worked on the camera principle, like a man's. That their brains were
efficient, that they could shoot backwards through the water at thirty
knots, by jet-propulsion. That explosive harpoons burst in their jellied
mantle without damaging them. That... but the bulging black and white
targets of the eyes were rising up towards him. The surface of the water
shivered. Now Bond could see the forest of tentacles that flowered out
of the face of the thing. They were weaving in front of the eyes like a
bunch of thick snakes. Bond could see the dots of the suckers on their
undersides. Behind the head, the great flap of the mantle softly opened
and closed, and behind that the jellied sheen of the body disappeared
into the depths. God, the thing was as big as a railway engine!

Softly, discreetly, Bond snaked his feet and then his arms through the
squares in the wire, lacing himself into them, anchoring himself so that
the tentacles would have either to tear him to bits or wrench down the
wire barrier with him. He squinted to right and left. Either way it was
twenty yards along the wire to the land. And movement, even if he was
capable of it, would be fatal. He must stay dead quiet and pray that the
thing would lose interest. If it didn't... Softly Bond's fingers
clenched on the puny knife.

The eyes watched him, coldly, patiently. Delicately, like the questing
trunk of an elephant, one of the long seizing tentacles broke the
surface and palped its way up the wire towards his leg. It reached his
foot. Bond felt the hard kiss of the suckers. He didn't move. He dared
not reach down and lose the grip of his arms through the wire. Softly
the suckers tugged, testing the amount of yield. It was not enough. Like
a huge slimy caterpillar, the tentacle walked slowly on up the leg. It
got to the bloody blistered kneecap and stopped there, interested.
Bond's teeth gritted with the pain. He could imagine the message going
back down the thick tentacle to the brain: Yes, it's good to eat! And
the brain signalling back: then get it! Bring it to me!

The suckers walked on up the thigh. The tip of the tentacle was pointed,
then it splayed out so that it almost covered the width of Bond's thigh
and then tapered off to a wrist. That was Bond's target. He would just
have to take the pain and the horror and wait for the wrist to come
within range.

A breeze, the first soft breeze of early morning, whispered across the
metal surface of the inlet. It raised small waves that slapped gently
against the sheer walls of the cliff. A wedge of cormorants took off
from the guanera, five hundred feet above the inlet, and, cackling
softly, made out to sea. As they swept over, the noise that had
disturbed them reached Bond--the triple blast of a ship's siren that
means it is ready to take on cargo. It came from Bond's left. The jetty
must be round the corner from the northern arm of the inlet. The tanker
from Antwerp had come in. Antwerp! Part of the world outside--the world
that was a million miles away, out of Bond's reach--surely out of his
reach for ever. Just around that corner, men would be in the galley,
having breakfast. The radio would be playing. There would be the sizzle
of bacon and eggs, the smell of coffee... breakfast cooking....

The suckers were at his hip. Bond could see into the horny cups. A
stagnant sea smell reached him as the hand slowly undulated upwards. How
tough was the mottled grey-brown jelly behind the hand? Should he stab?
No, it must be a quick hard slash, straight across, like cutting a rope.
Never mind about cutting into his own skin.

Now! Bond took a quick glance into the two football eyes, so patient, so
incurious. As he did so the other seizing arm broke the surface and shot
straight up at his face. Bond jerked back and the hand curled into a
fist round the wire in front of his eyes. In a second it would shift to
an arm or shoulder and he would be finished. Now!

The first hand was on his ribs. Almost without taking aim, Bond's
knife-hand slashed down and across. He felt the blade bite into the
puddingy flesh and then the knife was almost torn from his grip as the
wounded tentacle whipped back into the water. For a moment the sea
boiled around him. Now the other hand let go the wire and slapped across
his stomach. The pointed hand stuck like a leech, all the power of the
suckers furiously applied. Bond screamed as the suckers bit into his
flesh. He slashed madly, again and again. God, his stomach was being
torn out! The wire shook with the struggle. Below him the water boiled
and foamed. He would have to give in. One more stab, this time into the
back of the hand. It worked! The hand jerked free and snaked down and
away leaving twenty red circles, edged with blood, across his skin.

Bond had not time to worry about them. Now the head of the squid had
broken the surface and the sea was being thrashed into foam by the great
heaving mantle round it. The eyes were glaring up at him, redly,
venomously, and the forest of feeding arms was at his feet and legs,
tearing the cotton fabric away and flailing back. Bond was being pulled
down, inch by inch. The wire was biting into his armpits. He could even
feel his spine being stretched. If he held on he would be torn in half.
Now the eyes and the great triangular beak were right out of the water
and the beak was reaching up for his feet. There was one hope, only one!

Bond thrust his knife between his teeth and his hand dived for the crook
of the wire spear. He tore it out, got it between his two hands and
wrenched the doubled wire almost straight. He would have to let go with
one arm to stoop and get within range. If he missed, he would be torn to
shreds on the fence.

Now, before he died of the pain! Now, now!

Bond let his whole body slip down the ladder of wire and lunged through
and down with all his force.

He caught a glimpse of the tip of his spear lancing into the centre of a
black eyeball and then the whole sea erupted up at him in a fountain of
blackness and he fell and hung upside down by the knees, his head an
inch from the surface of the water.

What had happened? Had he gone blind? He could see nothing. His eyes
were stinging and there was a horrible fish taste in his mouth. But he
could feel the wire cutting into the tendons behind his knees. So he
must be alive! Dazedly Bond let go the spear from his trailing hand and
reached up and felt for the nearest strand of wire. He got a hold and
reached up his other hand and slowly, agonizingly, pulled himself up so
that he was sitting in the fence. Streaks of light came into his eyes.
He wiped a hand across his face. Now he could see. He gazed at his hand.
It was black and sticky. He looked down at his body. It was covered with
black slime, and blackness stained the sea for twenty yards around. Then
Bond realized. The wounded squid had emptied its ink sac at him.

But where was the squid? Would it come back? Bond searched the sea.
Nothing, nothing but the spreading stain of black. Not a movement. Not a
ripple. Then don't wait! Get away from here! Get away quick! Wildly Bond
looked to right and left. Left was towards the ship, but also towards
Doctor No. But right was towards nothing. To build the wire fence the
men must have come from the left, from the direction of the jetty. There
would be some sort of a path. Bond reached for the top cable and
frantically began to edge along the swaying fence towards the rocky
headland twenty yards away.

The stinking, bleeding, black scarecrow moved its arms and legs quite
automatically. The thinking, feeling apparatus of Bond was no longer
part of his body. It moved alongside his body, or floated above it,
keeping enough contact to pull the strings that made the puppet work.
Bond was like a cut worm, the two halves of which continue to jerk
forward although life has gone and been replaced by the mock life of
nervous impulses. Only, with Bond, the two halves were not yet dead.
Life was only in abeyance in them. All he needed was an ounce of hope,
an ounce of reassurance that it was still worth while trying to stay
alive.

Bond got to the rock face. Slowly he let himself down to the bottom rung
of wire. He gazed vaguely at the softly heaving sheen of water. It was
black, impenetrable, as deep as the rest. Should he chance it? He must!
He could do nothing until he had washed off the caking slime and blood,
the horrible stale fish-smell. Moodily, fatalistically, he took off the
rags of his shirt and trousers and hung them on the wire. He looked down
at his brown and white body, striped and pock-marked with red. On an
instinct he felt his pulse. It was slow but regular. The steady thump of
life revived his spirits. What the hell was he worrying about? He was
alive. The wounds and bruises on his body were nothing--absolutely
nothing. They looked ugly, but nothing was broken. Inside the torn
envelope, the machine was quietly, solidly ticking over. Superficial
cuts and abrasions, bloody memories, deathly exhaustion--these were
hurts that an accident ward would sneer at. Get on, you bastard! Get
moving! Clean yourself and wake up. Count your blessings. Think of the
girl. Think of the man you've somehow got to find and kill. Hang on to
life like you've hung on to the knife between your teeth. Stop being
sorry for yourself. To hell with what happened just now. Get down into
the water and wash!

Ten minutes later, Bond, his wet rags clinging to his scrubbed, stinging
body and his hair slicked back out of his eyes, climbed over the top of
the headland.

Yes, it was as he had guessed. A narrow rocky track, made by the feet of
the workers, led down the other side and round the bulge of the cliff.

From close by came various sounds and echoes. A crane was working. He
could hear the changing beat of its engine. There were iron ship-noises
and the sound of water splashing into the sea from a bilge pump.

Bond looked up at the sky. It was pale blue. Clouds tinged with golden
pink were trailing away towards the horizon. Far above him the
cormorants were wheeling round the guanera. Soon they would be going off
to feed. Perhaps even now they were watching the scout groups far out at
sea locating the fish. It would be about six o'clock, the dawn of a
beautiful day.

Bond, leaving drops of blood behind him, picked his way carefully down
the track and along the bottom of the shadowed cliff. Round the bend,
the track filtered through a maze of giant, tumbled boulders. The noises
grew louder. Bond crept softly forward, watching his footholds for loose
stones. A voice called out, startlingly close, "Okay to go?" There was a
distant answer: "Okay." The crane engine accelerated. A few more yards.
One more boulder. And another. Now!

Bond flattened himself against the rock and warily inched his head round
the corner.




                                  XIX
                            A SHOWER OF DEATH


Bond took one long comprehensive look and pulled back. He leant against
the cool face of rock and waited for his breathing to get back to
normal. He lifted his knife close up to his eyes and carefully examined
the blade. Satisfied, he slipped it behind him and down the waistband of
his trousers up against his spine. There it would be handy but protected
from hitting against anything. He wondered about the lighter. He took it
out of his hip pocket. As a hunk of metal it might be useful, but it
wouldn't light any more and it might scrape against the rock. He put it
down on the ground away from his feet.

Then Bond sat down and meticulously went over the photograph that was in
his brain.

Round the corner, not more than ten yards away, was the crane. There was
no back to the cabin. Inside it a man sat at the controls. It was the
Chinese Negro boss, the driver of the marsh buggy. In front of him the
jetty ran twenty yards out into the sea and ended in a T. An aged tanker
of around ten thousand tons deadweight was secured alongside the top of
the T. It stood well out of the water, its deck perhaps twelve feet
above the quay. The tanker was called _Blanche_, and the _Ant_ of
Antwerp showed at her stern. There was no sign of life on board except
one figure lolling at the wheel in the enclosed bridge. The rest of the
crew would be below, battened away from the guano dust. From just to the
right of the crane, an overhead conveyor-belt in a corrugated-iron
housing ran out from the cliff-face. It was carried on high stanchions
above the jetty and stopped just short of the hold of the tanker. Its
mouth ended in a huge canvas sock, perhaps six feet in diameter. The
purpose of the crane was to lift the wireframed mouth of the sock so
that it hung directly over the hold of the tanker and to move it to
right or left to give even distribution. From out of the mouth of the
sock, in a solid downward jet, the scrambled-egg-coloured guano dust was
pouring into the hold of the tanker at a rate of tons a minute.

Below, on the jetty, to the left and to leeward of the drifting smoke of
the guano dust, stood the tall, watchful figure of Doctor No.

That was all. The morning breeze feathered the deep-water anchorage,
still half in shadow beneath the towering cliffs, the conveyor-belt
thudded quietly on its rollers, the crane's engine chuffed rhythmically.
There was no other sound, no other movement, no other life apart from
the watch at the ship's wheel, the trusty working at the crane, and
Doctor No, seeing that all went well. On the other side of the mountain
men would be working, feeding the guano to the conveyor-belt that
rumbled away through the bowels of the rock, but on this side no one was
allowed and no one was necessary. Apart from aiming the canvas mouth of
the conveyor, there was nothing else for anyone to do.

Bond sat and thought, measuring distances, guessing at angles,
remembering exactly where the crane driver's hands and feet were on the
levers and the pedals. Slowly, a thin, hard smile broke across the
haggard, sunburned face. Yes! It was on! It could be done. But softly,
gently, slowly! The prize was almost intolerably sweet.

Bond examined the soles of his feet and his hands. They would serve.
They would have to serve. He reached back and felt the handle of the
knife. Shifted it an inch. He stood up and took several slow deep
breaths, ran his hands through his salt- and sweat-matted hair, rubbed
them harshly up and down his face and then down the tattered sides of
his black jeans. He gave a final flex to his fingers. He was ready.

Bond stepped up to the rock and inched an eye round. Nothing had
changed. His guess at the distances had been right. The crane driver was
watchful, absorbed. The neck above the open khaki shirt was naked,
offered, waiting. Twenty yards away, Doctor No, also with his back to
Bond, stood sentry over the thick rich cataract of whity-yellow dust. On
the bridge, the watch was lighting a cigarette.

Bond looked along the ten yards of path that led past the back of the
crane. He picked out the places he would put each foot. Then he came out
from behind the rock and ran.

Bond ran to the right of the crane, to a point he had chosen where the
lateral side of the cabin would hide him from the driver and the jetty.
He got there and stopped, crouching, listening. The engine hurried on,
the conveyor-belt rumbled steadily out of the mountain above and behind
him. There was no change.

The two iron footholds at the back of the cabin, inches away from Bond's
face, looked solid. Anyway the noise of the engine would drown small
sounds. But he would have to be quick to yank the man's body out of the
seat and get his own hands and feet on the controls. The single stroke
of the knife would have to be mortal. Bond felt along his own
collarbone, felt the soft triangle of skin beneath which the jugular
pumped, remembered the angle of approach behind the man's back, reminded
himself to force the blade and hold it in.

For a final second he listened, then he reached behind his back for the
knife and went up the iron steps and into the cabin with the stealth and
speed of a panther.

At the last moment there was need to hurry. Bond stood behind the man's
back, smelling him. He had time to raise his knife-hand almost to the
roof of the cabin, time to summon every ounce of strength, before he
swept the blade down and into the square inch of smooth, brownish-yellow
skin.

The man's hands and legs splayed away from the controls. His face
strained back towards Bond. It seemed to Bond that there was a flash of
recognition in the bulging eyes before the whites rolled upwards. Then a
strangled noise came from the open mouth and the big body rolled
sideways off its iron seat and crashed to the floor.

Bond's eyes didn't even follow it as far as the ground. He was already
in the seat and reaching for the pedals and levers. Everything was out
of control. The engine was running in neutral, the wire hawser was
tearing off the drum, the tip of the crane was bending slowly forwards
like a giraffe's neck, the canvas mouth of the conveyor-belt had wilted
and was now pouring its column of dust between the jetty and the ship.
Doctor No was staring upwards. His mouth was open. Perhaps he was
shouting something.

Coolly, Bond reined the machine in, slowly easing the levers and pedals
back to the angles at which the driver had been holding them. The engine
accelerated, the gears bit and began to work again. The hawser slowed on
the spinning drum and reversed, bringing the canvas mouth up and over
the ship. The tip of the crane lifted and stopped. The scene was as
before. Now!

Bond reached forward for the iron wheel which the driver had been
handling when Bond had caught his first glimpse of him. Which way to
turn it? Bond tried to the left. The tip of the crane veered slightly to
the right. So be it. Bond spun the wheel to the right. Yes, by God, it
was answering, moving across the sky, carrying the mouth of the conveyor
with it.

Bond's eyes flashed to the jetty. Doctor No had moved. He had moved a
few paces to a stanchion that Bond had missed. He had a telephone in his
hand. He was getting through to the other side of the mountain. Bond
could see his hand frantically jiggling the receiver arm, trying to
attract attention.

Bond whirled the director wheel. Christ, wouldn't it turn any faster? In
seconds Doctor No would get through and it would be too late. Slowly the
tip of the crane arced across the sky. Now the mouth of the conveyor was
spewing the dust column down over the side of the ship. Now the yellow
mound was marching silently across the jetty. Five yards, four, three,
two! Don't look round, you bastard! Arrh, got you! Stop the wheel! Now,
_you_ take it, Doctor No!

At the first brush of the stinking dust column, Doctor No had turned.
Bond saw the long arms fling wide as if to embrace the thudding mass.
One knee rose to run. The mouth opened and a thin scream came up to Bond
above the noise of the engine. Then there was a brief glimpse of a kind
of dancing snowman. And then only a mound of yellow bird dung that grew
higher and higher.

"God!" Bond's voice gave back an iron echo from the walls of the cabin.
He thought of the screaming lungs stuffing with the filthy dust, the
body bending and then falling under the weight, the last impotent kick
of the heels, the last flash of thought--rage, horror, defeat?--and then
the silence of the stinking tomb.

Now the yellow mountain was twenty feet high. The stuff was spilling off
the sides of the jetty into the sea. Bond glanced at the ship. As he did
so, there came three blasts on its siren. The noise crashed round the
cliffs. There came a fourth blast which didn't stop. Bond could see the
watch holding on to the lanyard as he craned out of the bridge window,
looking down. Bond took his hands off the controls and let them rip. It
was time to go.

He slipped off the iron seat and bent over the dead body. He took the
revolver out of the holster and looked at it. He smiled grimly--Smith &
Wesson .38, the regular model. He slipped it down inside his waistband.
It was fine to feel the heavy cold metal against his skin. He went to
the door of the cabin and dropped down to the ground.

An iron ladder ran up the cliff behind the crane to where the
conveyor-housing jutted out. There was a small door in the corrugated
iron wall of the housing. Bond scrambled up the ladder. The door opened
easily, letting out a puff of guano dust, and he clambered through.

Inside, the clanking of the conveyor-belt over its rollers was
deafening, but there were dim inspection lights in the stone ceiling of
the tunnel and a narrow catwalk that stretched away into the mountain
alongside the hurrying river of dust. Bond moved quickly along it,
breathing shallowly against the fishy ammoniac smell. At all costs he
must get to the end before the significance of the ship's siren and of
the unanswered telephone overcame the fear of the guards.

Bond half ran and half stumbled through the echoing stinking tunnel. How
far would it be? Two hundred yards? And then what? Nothing for it but to
break out of the tunnel mouth and start shooting--cause a panic and hope
for the best. He would get hold of one of the men and wring out of him
where the girl was. Then what? When he got to the place on the
mountainside, what would he find? What would be left of her?

Bond ran on faster, his head down, watching the narrow breadth of
planking, wondering what would happen if he missed his footing and
slipped into the rushing river of guano dust. Would he be able to get
off the belt again or would he be whirled away and down until he was
finally spewed out on to the burial mound of Doctor No?

When Bond's head hit into the soft stomach and he felt the hands at his
throat, it was too late to think of his revolver. His only reaction was
to throw himself down and forward at the legs. The legs gave against his
shoulder and there was a shrill scream as the body crashed down on his
back.

Bond had started the heave that would hurl his attacker sideways and on
to the conveyor-belt when the quality of the scream and something light
and soft about the impact of the body froze his muscles.

It couldn't be!

As if in answer, sharp teeth bit deeply into the calf of his right leg
and an elbow jabbed viciously, knowledgeably, backwards into his groin.

Bond yelled with the pain. He tried to squirm sideways to protect
himself, but even as he shouted "Honey!" the elbow thudded into him
again.

The breath whistled through Bond's teeth with the agony. There was only
one way to stop her without throwing her on to the conveyor-belt. He
took a firm grip of one ankle and heaved himself to his knees. He stood
upright, holding her slung over his shoulder by one leg. The other foot
banged against his head, but half-heartedly, as if she too realized that
something was wrong.

"Stop it, Honey! It's me!"

Through the din of the conveyor-belt, Bond's shout got through to her.
He heard her cry "James!" from somewhere near the floor. He felt her
hands clutch at his legs. "James, James!"

Bond slowly let her down. He turned and knelt and reached for her. He
put his arms round her and held her tightly to him. "Oh Honey, Honey.
Are you all right?" Desperately, unbelieving, he strained her to him.

"Yes, James! Oh, yes!" He felt her hands at his back and his hair. "Oh,
James, my darling!" she fell against him, sobbing.

"It's all right, Honey." Bond smoothed her hair. "And Doctor No's dead.
But now we've got to run for it. We've got to get out of here. Come on!
How can we get out of the tunnel? How did you get here? We've got to
hurry!"

As if in comment, the conveyor-belt stopped with a jerk.

Bond pulled the girl to her feet. She was wearing a dirty suit of
workmen's blue dungarees. The sleeves and legs were rolled up. The suit
was far too big for her. She looked like a girl in a man's pyjamas. She
was powdered white with the guano dust except where the tears had marked
her cheeks. She said breathlessly, "Just up there! There's a side tunnel
that leads to the machine shops and the garage. Will they come after
us?"

There was no time to talk. Bond said urgently, "Follow me!" and started
running. Behind him her feet padded softly in the hollow silence. They
came to the fork where the side tunnel led off into the rock. Which way
would the men come? Down the side tunnel or along the catwalk in the
main tunnel? The sound of voices booming far up the side tunnel answered
him. Bond drew the girl a few feet up the main tunnel. He brought her
close to him and whispered, "I'm sorry, Honey. I'm afraid I'm going to
have to kill them."

"Of course." The answering whisper was matter of fact. She pressed his
hand and stood back to give him room. She put her hands up to her ears.

Bond eased the gun out of his waistband. Softly he broke the cylinder
sideways and verified with his thumb that all six chambers were loaded.
Bond knew he wasn't going to like this, killing again in cold blood, but
these men would be the Chinese Negro gangsters, the strong-arm guards
who did the dirty work. They would certainly be murderers many times
over. Perhaps they were the ones who had killed Strangways and the girl.
But there was no point in trying to ease his conscience. It was kill or
be killed. He must just do it efficiently.

The voices were coming closer. There were three men. They were talking
loudly, nervously. Perhaps it was many years since they had even thought
of going through the tunnel. Bond wondered if they would look round as
they came out into the main tunnel. Or would he have to shoot them in
the back?

Now they were very close. He could hear their shoes scuffing the ground.

"That makes ten bucks you owe me, Sam."

"Not after tonight it won't be. Roll them bones, boy. Roll them bones."

"No dice for me tonight, feller. I'm goin' to cut maself a slice of de
white girl."

"Haw, haw, haw."

The first man came out, then the second, then the third. They were
carrying their revolvers loosely in their right hands.

Bond said sharply, "No, you won't."

The three men whirled round. White teeth glinted in open mouths. Bond
shot the rear man in the head and the second man in the stomach. The
front man's gun was up. A bullet whistled past Bond and away up the main
tunnel. Bond's gun crashed. The man clutched at his neck and spun slowly
round and fell across the conveyor-belt. The echoes thundered slowly up
and down the tunnel. A puff of fine dust rose in the air and settled.
Two of the bodies lay still. The man with the stomach shot writhed and
jerked.

Bond tucked his hot gun into the waistband of his trousers. He said
roughly to the girl, "Come on." He reached for her hand and pulled her
after him into the mouth of the side tunnel. He said, "Sorry about that,
Honey," and started running, pulling her after him by the hand. She
said, "Don't be stupid." Then there was no sound but the thud of their
naked feet on the stone floor.

The air was clean in the side tunnel and it was easier going, but, after
the tension of the shooting, pain began to crowd in again and take
possession of Bond's body. He ran automatically. He hardly thought of
the girl. His whole mind was focused on taking the pain and on the
problems that waited at the end of the tunnel.

He couldn't tell if the shots had been heard and he had no idea what
opposition was left. His only plan was to shoot anyone who got in his
way and somehow get to the garage and the marsh buggy. That was their
only hope of getting away from the mountain and down to the coast.

The dim yellow bulbs in the ceiling flickered by overhead. Still the
tunnel stretched on. Behind him, Honey stumbled. Bond stopped, cursing
himself for not having thought of her. She reached for him and for a
moment she leaned against him panting. "I'm sorry, James. It's just
that..."

Bond held her to him. He said anxiously, "Are you hurt, Honey?"

"No, I'm all right. It's just that I'm so terribly tired. And my feet
got rather cut on the mountain. I fell a lot in the dark. If we could
walk a bit. We're nearly there. And there's a door into the garage
before we get to the machine shop. Couldn't we go in there?"

Bond hugged her to him. He said, "That's just what I'm looking for,
Honey. That's our only hope of getting away. If you can stick it till we
get there, we've got a real chance."

Bond put his arm round her waist and took her weight. He didn't trust
himself to look at her feet. He knew they must be bad. It was no good
being sorry for each other. There wasn't time for it if they were to
stay alive.

They started moving again, Bond's face grim with the extra effort, the
girl's feet leaving bloody footsteps on the ground, and almost
immediately she whispered urgently and there was a wooden door in the
wall of the tunnel and it was ajar and no sound came from the other
side.

Bond took out his gun and gently eased the door open. The long garage
was empty. Under the neon lights the black and gold painted dragon on
wheels looked like a float waiting for the Lord Mayor's Show. It was
pointing towards the sliding doors and the hatch of the armoured cabin
stood open. Bond prayed that the tank was full and that the mechanic had
carried out his orders to get the damage fixed.

Suddenly, from somewhere outside, there was the sound of voices. They
came nearer, several of them, jabbering urgently.

Bond took the girl by the hand and ran forward. There was only one place
to hide--in the marsh buggy. The girl scrambled in. Bond followed,
softly pulling the door shut behind him. They crouched, waiting. Bond
thought: only three rounds left in the gun. Too late he remembered the
rack of weapons on the wall of the garage. Now the voices were outside.
There came the clang of the door being slid back on its runners and a
confusion of talk.

"How d'ya know they were shootin'?"

"Couldn't been nuthin else. I should know."

"Better take rifles. Here, Joe! Take that one, Lemmy! An' some
pineapples. Box under da table."

There was the metallic noise of bolts being slid home and safety catches
clicked.

"Some feller must a gone nuts. Couldn't ha' been da Limey. You ever seen
da big pus-feller in da creek? Cheessus! An' da rest of da tricks da Doc
fixed up in da tube? An' dat white gal. She cain't have been in much
shape dis mornin'. Any of you men bin to have a look?"

"Nossir."

"No."

"No."

"Haw, haw. I'se sho surprised at you fellers. Dat's a fine piece of ass
out dere on de crab walk."

More rattling and shuffling of feet, then, "Okay let's go! Two abreast
till we gets to da main tunnel. Shoot at da legs. Whoever's makin'
trouble, da Doc'll sure want him to play wit."

"Tee-hee."

Feet echoed hollowly on the concrete. Bond held his breath as they filed
by. Would they notice the shut door of the buggy? But they went on down
the garage and into the tunnel and the noise of them slowly faded away.

Bond touched the girl's arm and put his finger to his lips. Softly he
eased open the door and listened again. Nothing. He dropped to the
ground and walked round the buggy and went to the half-open entrance.
Cautiously he edged his head round. There was no one in sight. There was
a smell of frying food in the air that brought the saliva to Bond's
mouth. Dishes and pans clattered in the nearest building, about twenty
yards away, and from one of the further Quonsets came the sound of a
guitar and a man's voice singing a calypso. Dogs started to bark
half-heartedly and then were silent. The Dobermann Pinschers.

Bond turned and ran back to the end of the garage. No sound came from
the tunnel. Softly Bond closed the tunnel door and locked and bolted it.
He went to the arms-rack on the wall and chose another Smith & Wesson
and a Remington carbine. He verified that they were loaded and went to
the door of the marsh buggy and handed them in to the girl. Now the
entrance door. Bond put his shoulder to it and softly eased it wide
open. The corrugated iron rumbled hollowly. Bond ran back and scrambled
through the open hatch and into the driver's seat. "Shut it, Honey," he
whispered urgently and bent and turned the ignition key.

The needle on the gauge swung to Full. Pray God the damned thing would
start up quickly. Some diesels were slow. Bond stamped his foot down on
the starter.

The grinding rattle was deafening. It must be audible all over the
compound! Bond stopped and tried again. The engine fluttered and died.
And again, and this time the blessed thing fired and the strong iron
pulse hammered as Bond revved it up. Now, gently into gear. Which one?
Try this. Yes, it bit. Brake off, you bloody fool! Christ, it had nearly
stalled. But now they were out and on the track and Bond rammed his foot
down to the floor.

"Anyone after us?" Bond had to shout above the noise of the diesel.

"No. Wait! Yes, there's a man come out of the huts! And another! They're
waving and shouting at us. Now some more are coming out. One of them's
run off to the right. Another's gone back into the hut. He's come out
with a rifle. He's lying down. He's firing!"

"Close the slot! Lie down on the floor!" Bond glanced at the
speedometer. Twenty. And they were on a slope. There was nothing more to
get out of the machine. Bond concentrated on keeping the huge bucking
wheels on the track. The cabin bounced and swayed on the springs. It was
a job to keep his hands and feet on the controls. An iron fist clanged
against the cabin. And another. What was the range? Four hundred? Good
shooting! But that would be the lot. He shouted, "Take a look, Honey!
Open the slot an inch."

"The man's got up. He's stopped firing. They're all looking after us--a
whole crowd of them. Wait, there's something else. The dogs are coming!
There's no one with them. They're just tearing down the track after us.
Will they catch us?"

"Doesn't matter if they do. Come and sit by me, Honey. Hold tight. Mind
your head against the roof." Bond eased up the throttle. She was beside
him. He grinned sideways at her. "Hell, Honey. We've made it. When we
get down to the lake I'll stop and shoot up the dogs. If I know those
brutes I've only got to kill one and the whole pack'll stop to eat him."

Bond felt her hand at his neck. She kept it there as they swayed and
thundered down the track. At the lake, Bond went on fifty yards into the
water and turned the machine round and put it in neutral. Through the
oblong slot he could see the pack streaming round the last bend. He
reached down for the rifle and pushed it through the aperture. Now the
dogs were in the water and swimming. Bond kept his finger on the trigger
and sprayed bullets into the middle of them. One floundered, kicking.
Then another and another. He could hear their snarling screams above the
clatter of the engine. There was blood in the water. A fight had
started. He saw one dog leap on one of the wounded ones and sink its
teeth into the back of its neck. Now they all seemed to have gone
berserk. They were milling around in the frothing bloody water. Bond
emptied his magazine among them and dropped the gun on the floor. He
said, "That's that, Honey," and put the machine into gear and swung it
round and began rolling at an easy speed across the shallow lake towards
the distant gap in the mangroves that was the mouth of the river.

For five minutes they moved along in silence. Then Bond put a hand on
the girl's knee and said, "We should be all right now, Honey. When they
find the boss is dead there'll be panic. I guess some of the brighter
ones will try and get away to Cuba in the plane or the launch. They'll
worry about their skins, not about us. All the same, we'll not take the
canoe out until it's dark. I guess it's about ten by now. We should be
at the coast in an hour. Then we'll rest up and try and get in shape for
the trip. Weather looks all right and there'll be a bit more moon
tonight. Think, you can make it?"

Her hand squeezed his neck. "Of course I can, James. But what about you?
Your poor body! It's nothing but burns and bruises. And what are those
red marks across your stomach?"

"Tell you later. I'll be okay. But you tell me what happened to you last
night. How in hell did you manage to get away from the crabs? What went
wrong with that bastard's plan? All night long I could only think of you
out there being slowly eaten to death. God, what a thing to have dreamed
up! What happened?"

The girl was actually laughing. Bond looked sideways. The golden hair
was tousled and the blue eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, but
otherwise she might just be coming home from a midnight barbecue.

"That man thought he knew everything. Silly old fool." She might have
been talking about a stupid schoolteacher. "He's much more impressed by
the black crabs than I am. To begin with, I don't mind any animal
touching me, and anyway those crabs wouldn't think of even nipping
someone if they stay quite still and haven't got an open sore or
anything. The whole point is that they don't really like meat. They live
mostly on plants and things. If he was right and he did kill a black
girl that way, either she had an open wound or she must have died of
fright. He must have wanted to see if I'd stand it. Filthy old man. I
only fainted down there at dinner because I knew he'd have something
much worse for you."

"Well, I'm damned. I wish to heaven I'd known that. I thought of you
being picked to pieces."

The girl snorted. "Of course it wasn't very nice having my clothes taken
off and being tied down to pegs in the ground. But those black men
didn't dare touch me. They just made jokes and then went away. It wasn't
very comfortable out there on the rock, but I was thinking of you and
how I could get at Doctor No and kill him. Then I heard the crabs
beginning to run--that's what we call it in Jamaica--and soon they came
scurrying and rattling along--hundreds of them. I just lay still and
thought of you. They walked round me and over me. I might have been a
rock for all they cared. They tickled a bit. One annoyed me by trying to
pull out a bit of my hair. But they don't smell or anything, and I just
waited for the early morning when they crawl into holes and go to sleep.
I got quite fond of them. They were company. Then they got fewer and
fewer and finally stopped coming and I could move. I pulled at all the
pegs in turn and then concentrated on my right-hand one. In the end I
got it out of the crack in the rock and the rest was easy. I got back to
the buildings and began scouting about. I got into the machine shop near
the garage and found this filthy old suit. Then the conveyor thing
started up not far away and I thought about it and I guessed it must be
taking the guano through the mountain. I knew you must be dead by then,"
the quiet voice was matter of fact, "so I thought I'd get to the
conveyor somehow and get through the mountain and kill Doctor No. I took
a screwdriver to do it with." She giggled. "When we ran into each other,
I'd have stuck it into you only it was in my pocket and I couldn't get
to it. I found the door in the back of the machine shop and walked
through and into the main tunnel. That's all." She caressed the back of
his neck. "I ran along watching my step and the next thing I knew was
your head hitting me in the stomach." She giggled again. "Darling, I
hope I didn't hurt you too much when we were fighting. My Nanny told me
always to hit men there."

Bond laughed. "She did, did she?" He reached out and caught her by the
hair and pulled her face to him. Her mouth felt its way round his cheek
and locked itself against his.

The machine gave a sideways lurch. The kiss ended. They had hit the
first mangrove roots at the entrance to the river.




                                   XX
                               SLAVE-TIME


"You're quite sure of all this?"

The Acting Governor's eyes were hunted, resentful. How could these
things have been going on under his nose, in one of Jamaica's
dependencies? What would the Colonial Office have to say about it? He
already saw the long, pale blue envelope marked 'Personal. For Addressee
Only', and the foolscap page with those very wide margins: 'The
Secretary of State for the Colonies has instructed me to express to you
his surprise...'

"Yes, sir. Quite sure." Bond had no sympathy for the man. He hadn't
liked the reception he had had on his last visit to King's House, nor
the mean comments on Strangways and the girl. He liked the memory of
them even less now that he knew his friend and the girl were at the
bottom of the Mona Reservoir.

"Er--well we mustn't let any of this get out to the Press. You
understand that? I'll send my report in to the Secretary of State by the
next bag. I'm sure I can rely on your..."

"Excuse me, sir." The Brigadier in command of the Caribbean Defence
Force was a modern young soldier of thirty-five. His military record was
good enough for him to be unimpressed by relics from the Edwardian era
of Colonial Governors, whom he collectively referred to as
'feather-hatted fuddy-duddies'. "I think we can assume that Commander
Bond is unlikely to communicate with anyone except his Department. And
if I may say so, sir, I submit that we should take steps to clear up
Crab Key without waiting for approval from London. I can provide a
platoon ready to embark by this evening. HMS _Narvik_ came in yesterday.
If the programme of receptions and cocktail parties for her could
possibly be deferred for forty-eight hours or so..." The Brigadier
let his sarcasm hang in the air.

"I agree with the Brigadier, sir." The voice of the Police
Superintendent was edgy. Quick action might save him from a reprimand,
but it would have to be quick. "And in any case I shall have to proceed
immediately against the various Jamaicans who appear to be implicated.
I'll have to get the divers working at Mona. If this case is to be
cleaned up we can't afford to wait for London. As Mister--er--Commander
Bond says, most of these Negro gangsters will probably be in Cuba by
now. Have to get in touch with my opposite number in Havana and catch up
with them before they take to the hills or go underground. I think we
ought to move at once, sir."

There was silence in the cool shadowy room where the meeting was being
held. On the ceiling above the massive mahogany conference table there
was an unexpected dapple of sunlight. Bond guessed that it shone up
through the slats of the jalousies from a fountain or a lily pond in the
garden outside the tall windows. Far away there was the sound of tennis
balls being knocked about. Distantly a young girl's voice called,
"Smooth. Your serve, Gladys." The Governor's children? Secretaries? From
one end of the room King George VI, from the other end the Queen, looked
down the table with grace and good humour.

"What do you think, Colonial Secretary?" The Governor's voice was
hustled.

Bond listened to the first few words. He gathered that Pleydell-Smith
agreed with the other two. He stopped listening. His mind drifted into a
world of tennis courts and lily ponds and kings and queens, of London,
of people being photographed with pigeons on their heads in Trafalgar
Square, of the forsythia that would soon be blazing on the bypass
roundabouts, of May, the treasured housekeeper in his flat off the
King's Road, getting up to brew herself a cup of tea (here it was eleven
o'clock. It would be four o'clock in London), of the first tube trains
beginning to run, shaking the ground beneath his cool, dark bedroom. Of
the douce weather of England: the soft airs, the heat waves, the cold
spells--'The only country where you can take a walk every day of the
year'--Chesterfield's Letters? And then Bond thought of Crab Key, of the
hot ugly wind beginning to blow, of the stink of the marsh gas from the
mangrove swamps, the jagged grey, dead coral in whose holes the black
crabs were now squatting, the black and red eyes moving swiftly on their
stalks as a shadow--a cloud, a bird--broke their small horizons. Down in
the bird colony the brown and white and pink birds would be stalking in
the shallows, or fighting or nesting, while up on the guanera the
cormorants would be streaming back from their breakfast to deposit their
milligramme of rent to the landlord who would no longer be collecting.
And where would the landlord be? The men from the SS _Blanche_ would
have dug him out. The body would have been examined for signs of life
and then put somewhere. Would they have washed the yellow dust off him
and dressed him in his kimono while the Captain radioed Antwerp for
instructions? And where had Doctor No's soul gone to? Had it been a bad
soul or just a mad one? Bond thought of the burned twist down in the
swamp that had been Quarrel. He remembered the soft ways of the big
body, the innocence in the grey, horizon-seeking eyes, the simple lusts
and desires, the reverence for superstitions and instincts, the childish
faults, the loyalty and even love that Quarrel had given him--the
warmth, there was only one word for it, of the man. Surely he hadn't
gone to the same place as Doctor No. Whatever happened to dead people,
there was surely one place for the warm and another for the cold. And
which, when the time came, would he, Bond, go to?

The Colonial Secretary was mentioning Bond's name. Bond pulled himself
together.

"...survived is quite extraordinary. I do think, sir, that we should
show our gratitude to Commander Bond and to his Service by accepting his
recommendations. It does seem, sir, that he has done at least
three-quarters of the job. Surely the least we can do is look after the
other quarter."

The Governor grunted. He squinted down the table at Bond. The chap
didn't seem to be paying much attention. But one couldn't be sure with
these Secret Service fellows. Dangerous chaps to have around, sniffing
and snooping. And their damned Chief carried a lot of guns in Whitehall.
Didn't do to get on the wrong side of him. Of course there was something
to be said for sending the _Narvik_. News would leak, of course. All the
Press of the world would be coming down on his head. But then suddenly
the Governor saw the headlines: 'GOVERNOR TAKES SWIFT ACTION...
ISLAND'S STRONG MAN INTERVENES... THE NAVY'S THERE!' Perhaps after
all it would be better to do it that way. Even go down and see the
troops off himself. Yes, that was it, by jove. Cargill, of the
_Gleaner_, was coming to lunch. He'd drop a hint or two to the chap and
make sure the story got proper coverage. Yes, that was it. That was the
way to play the hand.

The Governor raised his hands and let them fall flat on the table in a
gesture of submission. He embraced the conference with a wry smile of
surrender.

"So I am overruled, gentlemen. Well, then," the voice was avuncular,
telling the children that just this once... "I accept your verdict.
Colonial Secretary, will you please call upon the commanding officer of
HMS _Narvik_ and explain the position. In strict confidence, of course.
Brigadier, I leave the military arrangements in your hands.
Superintendent, you will know what to do." The Governor rose. He
inclined his head regally in the direction of Bond. "And it only remains
to express my appreciation to Commander--er--Bond, for his part in this
affair. I shall not fail to mention your assistance, Commander, to the
Secretary of State."

****

Outside the sun blazed down on the gravel sweep. The interior of the
Hillman Minx was a Turkish bath. Bond's bruised hands cringed as they
took the wheel.

Pleydell-Smith leant through the window. He said, "Ever heard the
Jamaican expression 'rarse'?"

"No."

"'Rarse, man' is a vulgar expression meaning--er--'stuff it up'. If I
may say so, it would have been appropriate for you to have used the
expression just now. However," Pleydell-Smith gave a wave of his hand
which apologized for his Chief and dismissed him, "is there anything
else I can do for you? You really think you ought to go back to Beau
Desert? They were quite definite at the hospital that they want to have
you for a week."

"Thanks," said Bond shortly, "but I've got to get back. See the girl's
all right. Would you tell the hospital I'll be back tomorrow? You got
off that signal to my Chief?"

"Urgent rates."

"Well, then," Bond pressed the self-starter, "I guess that's the lot.
You'll see the Jamaica Institute people about the girl, won't you? She
really knows the hell of a lot about the natural history side of the
island. Not from books either. If they've got the right sort of job...
Like to see her settled. I'll take her up to New York myself and
see her through the operation. She'd be ready to start in a couple of
weeks after that. Incidentally," Bond looked embarrassed, "she's really
the hell of a fine girl. When she comes back... if you and your wife...
You know. Just so there's someone to keep an eye on her."

Pleydell-Smith smiled. He thought he had the picture. He said, "Don't
worry about that. I'll see to it. Betty's rather a hand at that sort of
thing. She'll like taking the girl under her wing. Nothing else? See you
later in the week, anyway. That hospital's the hell of a place in this
heat. You might care to spend a night or two with us before you go ho--I
mean to New York. Glad to have you--er--both."

"Thanks. And thanks for everything else." Bond put the car into gear and
went off down the avenue of flaming tropical shrubbery. He went fast,
scattering the gravel on the bends. He wanted to get the hell away from
King's House, and the tennis, and the kings and queens. He even wanted
to get the hell away from the kindly Pleydell-Smith. Bond liked the man,
but all he wanted now was to get back across the Junction Road to Beau
Desert and away from the smooth world. He swung out past the sentry at
the gates and on to the main road. He put his foot down.

The night voyage under the stars had been without incident. No one had
come after them. The girl had done most of the sailing. Bond had not
argued with her. He had lain in the bottom of the boat, totally
collapsed, like a dead man. He had woken once or twice and listened to
the slap of the sea against the hull and watched her quiet profile under
the stars. Then the cradle of the soft swell had sent him back to sleep
and to the nightmares that reached out after him from Crab Key. He
didn't mind them. He didn't think he would ever mind a nightmare now.
After what had happened the night before, it would have to be strong
stuff that would ever frighten him again.

The crunch of a nigger-head against the hull had woken him. They were
coming through the reef into Morgan's Harbour. The first quarter moon
was up, and inside the reef the sea was a silver mirror. The girl had
brought the canoe through under sail. They slid across the bay to the
little fringe of sand and the bows under Bond's head sighed softly into
it. She had had to help him out of the boat and across the velvet lawn
and into the house. He had clung to her and cursed her softly as she had
cut his clothes off him and taken him into the shower. She had said
nothing when she had seen his battered body under the lights. She had
turned the water full on and taken soap and washed him down as if he had
been a horse. Then she led him out from under the water and dabbed him
softly dry with towels that were soon streaked with blood. He had seen
her reach for the bottle of Milton. He had groaned and taken hold of the
washbasin and waited for it. Before she had begun to put it on him, she
had come round and kissed him on the lips. She had said softly, "Hold
tight, my darling. And cry. It's going to hurt," and as she splashed the
murderous stuff over his body the tears of pain had run out of his eyes
and down his cheeks without shame.

Then there had been a wonderful breakfast as the dawn flared up across
the bay, and then the ghastly drive over to Kingston to the white table
of the surgery in the emergency ward. Pleydell-Smith had been summoned.
No questions had been asked. Merthiolate had been put on the wounds and
tannic ointment on the burns. The efficient Negro doctor had written
busily in the duty report. What? Probably just 'Multiple burns and
contusions'. Then, with promises to come into the private ward on the
next day, Bond had gone off with Pleydell-Smith to King's House and to
the first of the meetings that had ended with the full-dress conference.
Bond had enciphered a short signal to M via the Colonial Office which he
had coolly concluded with: 'REGRET MUST AGAIN REQUEST SICK LEAVE
STOP SURGEONS REPORT FOLLOWS STOP KINDLY INFORM ARMOURER SMITH AND
WESSON INEFFECTIVE AGAINST FLAME-THROWER ENDIT.'

Now, as Bond swung the little car down the endless S-bends towards the
North Shore, he regretted the gibe. M wouldn't like it. It was cheap. It
wasted cipher groups. Oh well! Bond swerved to avoid a thundering red
bus with 'Brownskin Gal' on the destination plate. He had just wanted M
to know that it hadn't quite been a holiday in the sun. He would
apologize when he sent in his written report.

Bond's bedroom was cool and dark. There was a plate of sandwiches and a
Thermos full of coffee beside the turned-down bed. On the pillow was a
sheet of paper with big childish writing. It said, "You are staying with
me tonight. I can't leave my animals. They were fussing. And I can't
leave you. And you owe me slave-time. I will come at seven. Your H."

In the dusk she came across the lawn to where Bond was sitting finishing
his third glass of Bourbon-on-the-rocks. She was wearing a black and
white striped cotton skirt and a tight sugar-pink blouse. The golden
hair smelled of cheap shampoo. She looked incredibly fresh and
beautiful. She reached out her hand and Bond took it and followed her up
the drive and along a narrow well-trodden path through the sugar cane.
It wound along for quite a way through the tall whispering sweet-scented
jungle. Then there was a patch of tidy lawn up against thick broken
stone walls and steps that led down to a heavy door whose edges glinted
with light.

She looked up at him from the door. "Don't be frightened. The cane's
high and they're most of them out."

Bond didn't know what he had expected. He had vaguely thought of a flat
earthen floor and rather damp walls. There would be a few sticks of
furniture, a broken bedstead covered with rags, and a strong zoo smell.
He had been prepared to be careful about hurting her feelings.

Instead it was rather like being inside a very large tidy cigar-box. The
floor and ceiling were of highly polished cedar that gave out a
cigar-box smell and the walls were panelled with wide split bamboo. The
light came from a dozen candles in a fine silver chandelier that hung
from the centre of the ceiling. High up in the walls there were three
square windows through which Bond could see the dark blue sky and the
stars. There were several pieces of good nineteenth-century furniture.
Under the chandelier a table was laid for two with expensive-looking
old-fashioned silver and glass.

Bond said, "Honey, what a lovely room. From what you said I thought you
lived in a sort of zoo."

She laughed delightedly. "I got out the old silver and things. It's all
I've got. I had to spend the day polishing it. I've never had it out
before. It does look rather nice, doesn't it? You see, generally there
are a lot of little cages up against the wall. I like having them with
me. It's company. But now that you're here..." She paused. "My
bedroom's in there," she gestured at the other door. "It's very small,
but there's room for both of us. Now come on. I'm afraid it's cold
dinner--just lobsters and fruit."

Bond walked over to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her hard on
the lips. He held her and looked down into the shining blue eyes.
"Honey, you're a wonderful girl. You're one of the most wonderful girls
I've ever known. I hope the world's not going to change you too much.
D'you really want to have that operation? I love your face--just as it
is. It's part of you. Part of all this."

She frowned and freed herself. "You're not to be serious tonight. Don't
talk about these things. I don't want to talk about them. This is my
night with you. Please talk about love. I don't want to hear about
anything else. Promise? Now come on. You sit there."

Bond sat down. He smiled up at her. He said, "I promise."

She said, "Here's the mayonnaise. It's not out of a bottle. I made it
myself. And take some bread and butter." She sat down opposite him and
began to eat, watching him. When she saw that he seemed satisfied she
said, "Now you can start telling me about love. Everything about it.
Everything you know."

Bond looked across into the flushed, golden face. The eyes were bright
and soft in the candlelight, but with the same imperious glint they had
held when he had first seen her on the beach and she had thought he had
come to steal her shells. The full red lips were open with excitement
and impatience. With him she had no inhibitions. They were two loving
animals. It was natural. She had no shame. She could ask him anything
and would expect him to answer. It was as if they were already in bed
together, lovers. Through the tight cotton bodice the points of her
breasts showed, hard and roused.

Bond said, "Are you a virgin?"

"Not quite. I told you. That man."

"Well..." Bond found he couldn't eat any more. His mouth was dry at
the thought of her. He said, "Honey, I can either eat or talk love to
you. I can't do both."

"You're going over to Kingston tomorrow. You'll get plenty to eat there.
Talk love."

Bond's eyes were fierce blue slits. He got up and went down on one knee
beside her. He picked up her hand and looked into it. At the base of the
thumb the Mount of Venus swelled luxuriously. Bond bent his head down
into the warm soft hand and bit softly into the swelling. He felt her
other hand in his hair. He bit harder. The hand he was holding curled
round his mouth. She was panting. He bit still harder. She gave a little
scream and wrenched his head away by the hair.

"What are you doing?" Her eyes were wide and dark. She had gone pale.
She dropped her eyes and looked at his mouth. Slowly she pulled his head
towards her.

Bond put out a hand to her left breast and held it hard. He lifted her
captive, wounded hand and put it round his neck. Their mouths met and
clung, exploring.

Above them the candles began to dance. A big hawkmoth had come in
through one of the windows. It whirred round the chandelier. The girl's
closed eyes opened, looked at the moth. Her mouth drew away. She
smoothed the handful of his hair back and got up, and without saying
anything took down the candles one by one and blew them out. The moth
whirred away through one of the windows.

The girl stood away from the table. She undid her blouse and threw it on
the floor. Then her skirt. Under the glint of moonlight she was a pale
figure with a central shadow. She came to Bond and took him by the hand
and lifted him up. She undid his shirt and slowly, carefully took it
off. Her body, close to him, smelled of new-mown hay and sweet pepper.
She led him away from the table and through a door. The filtering
moonlight shone down on a single bed. On the bed was a sleeping-bag, its
mouth laid open.

The girl let go his hand and climbed into the sleeping-bag. She looked
up at him. She said, practically, "I bought this today. It's a double
one. It cost a lot of money. Take those off and come in. You promised.
You owe me slave-time."

"But..."

"Do as you're told."






[End of Dr. No, by Ian Fleming]
