Bond saw the xenophobia in the eyes and heard the voice reveal traces of its Teutonic ancestry as it surrendered control to passion. He wondered if Drax had been one of the young Germans who fought on the Russian front and was left with more than physical scars from the experience. It might explain his obvious hatred of the Russians.
The door clicked open and suddenly there was a new presence in the room: a man, small in stature, but built like a giant spinning top. He had no recognizable neck and his swelling girth appeared to have put such a strain on his flesh as to have pulled the skin of his face tight and reduced the eyes to faint scar-like slits descending towards the lobes of his ears. His hair was dragged back from his face in a pigtail and he waddled across the room carrying a large silver tray on which were arranged a Georgian silver tea service, Rockingham china and a plate of daintily cut sandwiches. The contents of the tray and its bearer made an incongruous combination. Bond looked at the man’s tiny mouth and found it smaller than his eye slits. These glistened to show that somewhere behind the folds of skin Bond was being subjected to close and perhaps unflattering scrutiny.
‘On the table, Chang,’ said Drax, indicating the positioning of the tray with a wave of his hand. He turned back to Bond. ‘You have arrived at a propitious moment. One in which I pay homage to your country’s sole, indisputable contribution to the advancement of Western civilization.’ He extended an arm towards the Georgian tea pot. ‘Afternoon tea.’
Bond smiled despite himself. It occurred to him that in the space of a short conversation Drax had revealed a sufficient love—hate relationship with things British to mark him out as one of those who secretly resented his draw in the lottery of birth. A stroke of fortune that no amount of money could ever correct. Bond guessed that Hugo Drax would have liked to have been born an Englishman. He had not been and therefore he set out to ridicule that which he could not have. Unlike Groucho Marx, who did not want to be a member of a club that would have someone like him in it, Drax did want to be a member of a club that could never have him as a member.
‘I’m not a great tea drinker,’ said Bond.
Drax’s eyes mimed regret. ‘You disappoint me. Surely I can press you to a cucumber sandwich?’
‘No thank you.’ Bond held up a hand as Chang proffered the plate and once again saw the glistening slits sizing him up. The man’s upper arms were the size of an ordinary man’s thighs. He was like a compressed Sumo wrestler. The destructive force that he would be capable of releasing must be terrifying. ‘The Moonraker. Is it made entirely in California?’
Drax swallowed a cucumber sandwich at a gulp before answering Bond’s question. ‘Assembled, yes. Made, no. I own a number of subsidiaries throughout the world producing components.’ He slurped noisily at a cup of tea. ‘As I have intimated, the conquest of space represents an investment on behalf of the entire human race. It is therefore logical to seek out the best that each nation has to offer.’
Bond found his gaze drifting beyond the mullioned windows. The astronaut trainees could be glimpsed, still at their exercises. Perhaps it was a new batch. ‘Are you referring to people or skills, Mr Drax?’
Drax appeared to be surprised by the question. ‘Why both, Mr Bond.’ He pressed a button set into the corner of the writing area of an antique desk. ‘I have taken the liberty of arranging a tour of the installation for you. I think it advisable that you see how we go about things. We can discuss the matter of the Moonraker over dinner. I will expect to see you in the Orleans Room at seven-thirty.’ As he finished speaking, the door opened and Trudi came in. ‘Miss Parker will escort you to Dr Goodhead, who will show you round. Please feel free to ask any questions that enter your head.’ The intimation was that the entry of questions into Bond’s head might well be a haphazard process with no guarantee that Dr Goodhead would have a particularly taxing afternoon.
‘Thank you for being so co-operative,’ said Bond, numbing his already cold mouth with a glacial smile.
‘A pleasure.’ Drax took a step towards the door as if to show his guest the way and then stood his ground until he was alone with Chang. He held out his empty cup and looked into the concentrating face as the tea was poured. ‘I want you to look after Mr Bond, Chang,’ he said slowly. ‘See that some harm comes to him.’
5
A WHIP-ROUND FOR MR BOND
Trudi escorted Bond to a small vehicle like a golf buggy and they drove away down the gravel drive. Bond had the impression that eyes were watching him from behind the tall windows, but he could see nothing. Trudi remained silent and he sensed that she had been able to read his expression and knew that the interview with Drax had not gone well. He considered questioning her about her relationship with her employer but decided that this was not the moment to invite such confidences. Later perhaps.
The buggy crossed a bridge at the frontier of the poplars and left the French Renaissance behind. Across a stretch of open ground planted with shrubs that had not yet reached maturity was the first of the enormous hangars. Trudi skirted it and arrived at a glass-fronted building that looked as if it housed offices. It reminded Bond of a three-storey mouse cage he had owned when a boy. He almost expected to see a giant exercise treadmill beside the filing cabinets.
‘This is where I leave you,’ said Trudi. ‘You’ll find Dr Goodhead at the end of the passage past the reception desk.’
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ said Bond.
‘This evening, you mean.’ Trudi raised a hand in farewell and glided away towards the château without looking back.
Bond conquered a sigh and wondered what Dr Goodhead would be like. Probably some dry-as-dust scientist talking incomprehensibly in technical jargon. The kind of man who could split the atom without discovering how to stop the dandruff that built up on the shoulders of his white coat.
Bond entered the building and walked past the empty reception desk and the inevitable iced water dispenser. As he advanced down the corridor, a beautiful girl in a black leotard approached him. Her skin matched the colour of the leotard and she had a woollen jacket around her shoulders. There were two small beads of perspiration above her wickedly curved upper lip and Bond guessed that she had just returned from a physical work-out with the astronaut trainees. She smiled winsomely and moved on her way, the muscles rippling beneath the leotard. Bond felt, again a strange sense of unreality. It was difficult to reconcile Renaissance châteaux and beautiful girls with mannequin proportions with the ultra-modern technology of a space laboratory. He continued down the corridor and stopped before a door with the name Dr H. Goodhead neatly printed in black letters on a white card. Bond knocked; there was no answer. He opened the door and found himself in an outer office with a secretary’s desk, filing cabinets and wall charts. The room was empty. The door to the inner office was ajar and Bond pushed it open.
Standing with her back to him was a slim girl wearing a light grey jumpsuit. The back was promising. It was long and ended in a slim waist giving way to tight, well-rounded buttocks and legs that covered many graceful inches before they reached the floor. The shoulders sloped gently and the white flesh on the neck was visible because the hair had been combed up and piled in a business-like fashion on top of the head. A few errant wisps sprouted out attractively like the spread tail feathers of a bird. The girl was studying a flow chart as Bond came in, but she turned swiftly and fixed him with a piercing blue eye. Her forehead was high, her nose straight and her mouth wide and faintly supercilious. There was an authoritative set to her jaw and the whole face had a stern wariness about it that was at odds with the soft, feminine curves of her well-shaped breasts. The impression that Bond got was that here was a woman who wanted to be treated like a man — or thought she did. He had met the type before in male-dominated societies. As personal assistants they began to take on the characteristics of their bosses.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Bond. ‘I’m looking for Dr Goodhead.’
The girl advanced towards him. ‘You’ve just found her.�
� The smile was a formality.
‘A woman.’ Bond reflected that he could have made more effort to keep the surprise out of his voice.
The girl inclined her head graciously. ‘Your powers of observation do you credit, Mr Bond. It is Mr Bond, isn’t it?’
‘James to my friends,’ said Bond.
The girl extended her hand briskly. ‘Holly Goodhead.’ The hand was firm and dry, but the pressure it exerted minimal. It was a very formal handshake.
‘Are you one of the astronaut trainees?’ asked Bond.
Holly parted her lips slightly as if she had experienced a twinge of pain. ‘I’m fully trained. By NASA, the Space Administration. They assigned me here.’ She looked at Bond levelly for an instant and then moved towards the door. ‘Come, Mr Bond. I’ll show you round. You don’t want to lose time as well as a space shuttle, do you?’
Bond shook his head ruefully as he followed his guide. It seemed that a good friend was hard to find at the Drax Corporation. His acquaintance with Dr H-olly Goodhead had not started off memorably.
The first hangar they visited was where a Moonraker was being assembled. Holly showed a pass and after two sound-proof doors had been opened they were in a gigantic workshop with the air full of the smell of welding equipment and the output of the light sources accentuated by the blaze of torches. The framework of the shuttle rose in the air like a rocket and at all levels men were working on the scaffolding that surrounded it, like bees crawling over a honeycomb.
‘Each of these men is a specialist technician,’ explained Holly above the noise. ‘They could be teaching at M.I.T. if they weren’t here.’
‘There seems to be an enormous amount of activity,’ said Bond. ‘Do they always work at this rate?’
‘Mr Drax has set some pretty tough completion dates. He wants to get a test programme into space by the end of next month.’
Bond gazed upwards and felt awe as he realized what he was looking at. A craft that when finished would be able to perform an almost limitless number of orbits of the earth and yet return to base and land like a conventional aircraft. No parachutes. No spheres plummeting into the ocean and relying on a fast destroyer to retrieve them. He watched a Medusa of coloured wires being hauled aloft and marvelled at man’s ingenuity. What he was seeing made him resolve to temper his dislike of Hugo Drax with respect for what he was doing. To place his resources at the service of mankind was an act of supreme generosity. It far outweighed any personal mannerisms that Bond might find objectionable. Bond thought again and frowned. There was the question of the bugging device in the bedroom. That he did find difficult to reconcile.
Holly recited a list of statistics that Bond tried to absorb and then led the way through another set of connecting doors to another vast hangar. An elevator took them up to a catwalk, and from there they could look down on a group of trainee astronauts clustered around what seemed like the cockpit of an aeroplane affixed to a transfusion system of wires and jointed rods. As Bond watched a trainee climbed into the cockpit and seated himself at the controls, which represented, Holly informed him, those of a Moonraker. Hardly was he in position than the cockpit began to buck and rock. Bond looked at Holly anxiously. She brushed a wisp of hair behind an ear calmly. ‘You’re watching a flight simulator,’ she told him. ‘It can replicate every possible problem contingency that might arise under actual flying conditions.’ The simulator suddenly shot forward and rose steeply into the air, with the metal rods bending grotesquely like the limbs of a stick-insect. A television camera moved in synchronism over a nearby panorama of the Earth’s surface. The fuselage slipped backwards and lurched sideways like the chamber of a revolver turning as the gun was fired. Bond was not sorry to be standing where he was. He looked across at the opposite catwalk and saw the oval bulk of Chang observing him balefully. The figure folded its arms as if in contemplation and then turned and disappeared through a shadowy doorway.
‘Technical competence is of course vital,’ said Holly, as if repeating a lecture she had given many times. ‘However, no subject can perform at optimum unless he or she is in a state of peak physical fitness.’ She looked at Bond pointedly as she said the last words and for a moment he wondered if she had read his medical report. ‘What we are going to see next covers this aspect of preparation.’
Bond said nothing but moved with Holly into the nearest elevator, which deposited them before a door with the word ‘Gymnasium’ emblazoned on it. Beyond the open door was a space which could have contained a football pitch and still left plenty of room for a couple of thousand spectators. It was equipped with vaulting horses, ropes, wooden bars and all the paraphernalia that Bond remembered from his schooldays. Half a dozen very pretty girls in the now familiar black leotards were working out on the parallel bars under the tuition of a barrel-chested instructor.
Bond looked at them appreciatively. ‘Astronaut trainees?’
Holly looked at him sharply. ‘Do I detect a note of disapproval?’
‘It was certainly not intentional,’ said Bond honestly. ‘Perhaps in the past I might have been guilty of thinking that there were enough heavenly bodies in space.’
The corners of Holly’s mouth pinched together disapprovingly. ‘Forgive me saying so, but I find that kind of schoolboy humour particularly obnoxious, Mr Bond. There is more to being an astronaut than the ability to wear heavy boots.’
‘Of course,’ said Bond.
Holly had not finished. ‘There are many ways in which women are better suited for space than men. They are more patient. Their ability to rationalize a situation is often far more highly developed than a man’s. Their aural-visual senses are in no way inferior. In the matter of smell —’
‘I know,’ said Bond. ‘Women smell better than men.’
Holly looked at him coldly. ‘I think your persistent recourse to bad jokes is a kind of defence mechanism. Let’s test your eyesight, Mr James Bond, 007, licensed to kill.’
Before Bond could reply, she had turned her back and was stalking towards a long narrow chamber not unlike a shooting gallery. At the far end Bond could see a number of charts bearing rows of letters in diminishing sizes. He sighed and walked towards the gallery.
Holly was waiting for him, bustling with eagerness. It was the first emotion she had shown since their meeting. ‘Let’s take the chart in the middle,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you have any trouble reading the top line?’
Bond tilted his head to one side. ‘X-H-Y -’
‘Good,’ said Holly briskly. ‘If you couldn’t read that you wouldn’t qualify for a driving licence. Now, read me out the bottom line of letters on that card.’
‘The bottom line?’ said Bond. His tone suggested that the task would be a challenge for any man.
‘That’s what I said.’ Holly’s eyes threw down the gauntlet.
Bond took a deep breath and leant forward, narrowing his eyes to slits. There was a long pause.
‘It’s not easy, is it?’ said Holly bossily.
Bond’s eyes screwed up some more and his neck imitated that of a tortoise tempted by a particularly succulent morsel of lettuce.
‘P-R-I —’ he began.
‘No!’ Holly’s cry of triumph was almost a shout. ‘You must be guessing, Mr Bond.’ She screwed up her eyes eagerly and started jotting letters down on a pad. ‘Now, let’s see how we compare.’ She advanced to the chart and looked back over her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. The last line reads O-C-B-H-A-X.’
‘You amaze me,’ said Bond. His tone had suddenly thrown away its mantle of deference. He stalked down the aisle and plucked the card out of its holder. ‘I’m afraid you’re wrong, Holly. The last line on this chart says "Printed in Des Moines".’ He pointed to the small print on the bottom right-hand corner of the chart. ‘I think you’ll find that makes the first three letters P-R-I.’ He looked into Holly’s eyes and after a couple of seconds allowed his arrogant face to relapse into a smile. ‘You look very pretty when you blush, Dr Goodhead,’ he said
. ‘Now, what are you going to show me next?’
Holly said little until they had passed into the next chamber, and Bond enjoyed the silence. He reckoned that he was just ahead in the game but that Holly Goodhead was not a girl who gave up easily. She looked up at him calmly and indicated the structure they were facing. ‘This is the centrifuge trainer. It simulates the acceleration you have to withstand on being shot into space.’ Bond looked at the futuristic fuselage on the end of the long arm and was reminded of something from the fairground. ‘The Whip’, it had been called; capable of spinning faster and faster with the jointed end performing body-breaking contortions. He looked up and saw the broad expanse of glass that formed the front of what must obviously be the control room. With a slight start of surprise he saw the diagonal slits that masked Chang’s eyes looking down on him.
‘Perhaps you’d like to try it?’ Holly was looking at him with a fresh challenge in her eyes.
‘I’d be delighted.’ Bond’s statement was hyperbole but there was no way in which he was going to concede ground to Holly Goodhead.
A technician stepped forward and the front of the fuselage snapped back like a dragon’s mouth. Bond found himself settling into a claustrophobically small space, with his knees pushed up towards his chest. Holly leant forward and there was a certain relish in the way in which she secured a safety strap across his shoulders. Bond sniffed her scent with obvious appreciation.
‘Joy?’
Her reply, if it could be deemed a reply, was unequivocal. ‘Put your arms on the seat rests.’
In a short time these too were securely anchored. Like any man denied the use of his arms, Bond began to feel uneasy. ‘What’s that for?’
Holly smiled at him. It occurred to Bond that she probably enjoyed tying knots about men as much as she enjoyed tying them in knots. ‘To stop you knocking yourself out.’
Bond’s apprehensions were in no way diminished. ‘How fast does this thing go?’
James Bond and Moonraker Page 5