James Bond and Moonraker

by Christopher Wood

Holly stepped back and dusted her hands. ‘Three Gs is equivalent to take-off acceleration.’ She smiled kittenishly. ‘It can go up to twenty Gs but that would be fatal. Most people pass out at seven.’

  Bond tested the strength of the straps that bound him. ‘You’d make a great saleswoman.’

  For the first time, Holly’s features relaxed into the ghost of a genuine smile. ‘You don’t have to worry. There’s what we call a chicken switch.’ She indicated a column rising from the floor to stop within reach of Bond’s right hand. There was a button set in the end of it. ‘Start off by holding that column with your finger pressed down on the button. The moment the pressure gets too much for you, release the button. The power will be cut off immediately.’

  Bond looked sceptically into Holly’s clear blue eyes. ‘Immediately?’

  Her jaw tilted scornfully. ‘Surely you’re not nervous, Mr Bond? A seventy-year-old can withstand three Gs.’

  Bonded twisted his head and tried to look up to the control room.

  ‘Trouble is, there’s never a seventy-year-old about when you want one.’

  Holly interpreted Bond’s glance as one that sought reassurance. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Bond. You’re in good hands.’

  A telephone rang and a technician answered it and called Holly over. She spoke for a few seconds and then returned to Bond. ‘Mr Drax wants to see me. I’ll be right back.’ She transmitted a brief, sardonic smile like a flash of semaphore. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  Bond watched her and the technician leave the room and felt doubt deepen into unease. He had felt less than entirely welcome since his arrival at Drax’s isolated desert estate. If an accident was to befall him, what better moment for it to happen? He tried to reach the straps that were securing his arms but his fingers could only reach the chicken switch. He pumped it in time with his accelerating heartbeat, waiting warily for the power to be switched on. A low humming noise vibrated through the fuselage and, slowly at first, the rotor arm began to turn on its central axis. Bond braced himself and watched the walls of the room disappear into a continuous blur. The G-force spread him against his seat like putty and he gritted his teeth as a piercing whining noise orchestrated the top-like spinning of the fuselage. This was it, ‘The Whip’ of his childhood days, but revolving at a speed that would have torn the original from its moorings and hurled it half-way across the fairground: He forced himself to look down and saw on the counter that he had already passed four Gs. The rate of build-up surprised him. The pulverizing pace was increasing with every second. There was a frenzied singing in Bond’s ears and the piercing shriek of the centrifuge was like a nail being driven into his brain. Past five Gs now. Honour was satisfied. Not without an effort, Bond lifted his thumb from the button.

  Nothing happened.

  Bond waited an instant and saw that the button had indeed risen. He cried out but was unable to hear his own voice. The centrifugal force was holding him in an invisible vice. Only pain had freedom of movement through his body. His tortured, throbbing eyes looked down. Six Gs. Now he knew what was happening. They were going to kill him. Holly Goodhead.had been opportunely called away. The brutal slab of menace that was Chang had, done the rest. No doubt there would be mutual recriminations and many regrets. Terror, rage and desperation burned through Bond like a forest fire. He fought to apply pressure against the straps that held him but the centrifugal force made the raising of an eyebrow a labour of Hercules. Seven Gs. ‘Most people pass out at seven.’ He remembered Holly’s words and the mocking look in her eyes. Was he going to be like most people? Like hell he was!

  The noise of the centrifuge was now a high-pitched screech that broke the mind apart like an ice-pick. The blur before Bond’s eyes was grey tinged with red. He felt as if every drop of blood was draining from his face. As if his eyeballs themselves were being pushed into his head. He opened his mouth to scream and felt his lips being pulled across his paralysed cheeks as if smeared by a giant hand. No sound emerged. Eight Gs. His head was going to explode and a shock wave of nausea and dizziness churned through his stomach. Bond knew that he had seconds before he lost consciousness, and with it his life. He must do something! He must not give up the fight! His eyes, glued to the counter, suddenly saw the strap around his wrist. The strap that Q had given him in the Operations Room. The sleeve of his jacket had ridden half-way up his forearm and now clung like a second skin. Bond felt a stab of hope. If he could somehow jerk back his wrist...

  Finger by finger, Bond broke apart his clenched fist and extended his hand along the arm of the seat. Every movement required a force that was borrowed from the will to survive rather than any strength that could escape the death hug of the centrifuge. If he could fire down the rotor arm it would be like striking at the head of the octopus. His teeth ground together so that he expected to feel slivers of enamel in his mouth. He fought the pain and the mind-splitting wail and strove to prize his fingers from the seat arm. As if held by adhesive, the fingers trembled and then snapped clear to rise half an inch in the air. The thumb lagged behind. Bond summoned up all his remaining strength of spirit and will for the supreme effort. The black curtain flecked with red was being drawn for the last time. He dragged down his eyelids and his wrist arched, fingers spread, like a maimed spider making its death stand.

  Crack!

  Bond’s eyes were closed, but the flash shone through the lids like torchlight playing on a blind. There was a deafening explosion and a crazed grinding noise that faded with the imperishable resonance of a steel heel being dragged across asphalt. As quickly as it had taken hold, Bond felt the grip loosening. His body detached itself from the seat and he came away like a sticky sweet from its wrapping. Sweat lathered his aching body. He was within half a breath of voiding the contents of his stomach. The hatch snapped open and hands tore at the straps that stopped him from slumping forward. He heard Holly’s voice above the others and pulled up his head to open his eyes.

  Holly was looking at him, aghast. ‘What happened?’ It was difficult to doubt the concern on her face.

  Difficult but not impossible. Bond opened his dry mouth and tried to find some saliva to lubricate his words.

  ‘Something must have gone wrong with the controls.’ Holly’s voice was incredulous. She stretched out a supporting hand as Bond started to pull himself out of the seat. ‘Let me help you.’

  Bond brushed the hand aside. ‘No thanks, Doctor. I think I’ve had enough treatment for one day.’

  6

  BED AND BORED

  Trudi Parker rested her beautiful blonde head against the pillow and sighed. It was eleven o’clock at night and the novel, closed, with Trudi’s finger inserted between pages 64 and 65, had long since failed to maintain its initial slender promise. It lay against the silk sheets with the author’s face on the back cover looking up at her sadly and reproachfully. In real life it was difficult to believe that any man finding himself where the author was would have had reason for either sadness or reproach. The sight of Trudi’s breasts inadequately concealed behind the fabric of her flesh-coloured silk nightdress might indeed have provided that vital fillip to the style which the book so desperately needed.

  Trudi sighed again and wished that she did so because she was tired rather than bored. The writer’s style, though plodding, laboured and tortuous, fell just short of that exquisite tedium which can produce a printed soporific. On the contrary, it lumbered into the category of work that asks questions it cannot answer, raises expectations it can never fulfil and leaves the reader asking not for more, but something; in other words, unsatisfied.

  Trudi stuck her tongue out at the lugubrious author and placed him face downwards on the marble-topped bedside table. What the hero’s philandering wife did when she found out that her philandering husband had fallen in love with his philandering secretary would never be revealed to her. The prospect of not sharing any more of their overlapping lives, which seemed to commute between Madison Avenue and the Adirondacks, came almost as a relief.
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br />   Trudi studied her even, white nails and reached idly for an emery board. Somewhere in the distance came the-mournful cry of a coyote. A warm desert wind stirred the curtains. Outside, the night was clear, and needle-points of stars shone with uneven degrees of brightness. Trudi put down the emery board unused and stretched out a hand for the bedside lamp.

  There was a light tap on the door.

  Trudi withdrew her hand and sat up. The door opened and James Bond came in. He closed the door behind him and leant against it, surveying her. He wore a navy blue polo-neck pullover and a pair of similarly coloured tropical worsted trousers. Trudi wondered where he had been and, with more immediate interest, where he was going. She pulled a sheet up before her demurely.

  ‘Mother gave me a comprehensive list of things not to do on a first date.’

  Bond smiled his thin, hard smile and crossed to the bed. ‘Maybe you won’t need it. That’s not what I came here for.’

  Trudi conquered her disappointment and hoped that no trace of it showed in her voice. ‘What do you want then?’

  Bond sat on the bed and looked at her levelly. This time there was more warmth in his smile. ‘Would your feelings be shattered if I said information?’

  Trudi forgot about the sheet that slipped down about her waist. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’

  Bond leant forward and kissed her hard on the mouth. ‘Because you like me.’

  Trudi shook her head in amazement. ‘Who are you?’ She suddenly remembered how good his mouth had tasted. ‘Do that again.’ She leant forward and Bond’s head tilted obligingly. This time the kiss was long and deep. Delicious premonitions of pleasure stirred through her with the touch of warm fingertips. ‘What do you want to know? Is it to do with what happened this afternoon?’ News of the accident on the centrifuge trainer had quickly spread through the installation. Apparently, by some million-toone chance, two circuit break-offs had been transposed when a simple electrical fault was being repaired.

  The corner of Bond’s mouth twisted down ruefully. ‘No. Mr Drax has been very generous with his explanations and apologies. It’s what he hasn’t told me that I’m most interested in.’

  Trudi was puzzled. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What goes on here besides the manufacture of the Moonraker and the astronaut training programme?’

  ‘I still don’t know who you are.’

  Bond took a deep breath and decided to make the lie elaborate.

  ‘I work for the British Aircraft Corporation. Investigating air crashes is my speciality, I’m afraid. There are a few puzzling features about this one and we can’t rule out the possibility that sabotage was involved. It’s mere supposition at the moment and I don’t want to make Mr Drax alarmed.’

  Trudi put her hand on Bond’s arm. ‘You mean, what happened to you this afternoon might not have been an accident?’

  Bond tried to look grave. ‘That’s a possibility too. It would help me to get an idea of why someone should want to strike at the Drax Corporation if I knew exactly what they’re developing here. I think Mr Drax might misconstrue my interest and, at the moment, I have no definite evidence to put before him. I’m still waiting on our own lab reports of the Alaska wreckage.’

  Bond was glad to see Trudi nodding sympathetically. She would clearly like to help. ‘It’s pretty difficult for me to tell you anything,’ she said. ‘Like I said, I’m just Mr Drax’s personal pilot. I know there was a very "top secret" project in one of the laboratories, but everything has been moved now.’

  Bond’s pulse quickened. ‘Where to?’

  Trudi shook her head. ‘I don’t know. One morning it had gone. All the technicians too. I was surprised nobody told me about it. I’m normally involved with all the flights that come in and out of here. They must have left from the railhead.’

  Bond frowned. ‘Where was the laboratory?’

  ‘If you’re thinking of going and looking at it, you can forget it,’ said Trudi. ‘It was burned out just after the move.’

  Bond’s smile was grim. ‘Accidents do happen around here.’

  Trudi folded her arms beneath her bosom and leant back against the pillow. ‘It’s most unusual. Normally, nothing very much happens around here.’

  Bond raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s why your visit to my room was such an event.’

  Bond looked down at the lambent curve of the soft, sensual mouth. It was difficult not to be aroused by the beauty of this girl. There was a need in her eyes too.

  ‘What about that list of your mother’s?’

  Trudi’s arms uncrossed and reached out to slide round his neck. Her lips parted to receive anything that he might wish to give. ‘What mother?’ she breathed.

  7

  BEHIND THE CLOCK

  An hour later Bond was moving silently along the route he had followed with Drax’s butler. He had left Trudi asleep with a seraphic smile plucking at the corner of her mouth and a sheet pulled tight about her naked body. In that pose she had looked like a small child tucked up snug in its cot. It gave a false impression of what she had been like in her waking moments.

  Bond paused at the foot of the stairway and listened. He could hear a clock ticking, but nothing else. The hall was lit by moonlight and the busts in the niches peered out like spies. Bond crossed to the door of Drax’s study. No light shone from beneath it. No sound came from within. Bond closed his fingers around the handle and pushed down. There was a soft click and the door opened. Bond paused for a moment and listened again. If by some chance the Dobermann pinschers were still in residence he wanted to give them time to announce their presence. Satisfied that there was no one there, Bond slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. The task before him was daunting. He had no idea what he was looking for and there was enough furniture there to stock an auction room. He crossed to a Louis Quinze escritoire and found it locked. This was not surprising. Neither, after what he had discovered in his room, were the two thin wires running down its back and along the top of the skirting board. The piece was either booby-trapped or attached to an alarm which would go off if anybody tampered with it.

  Bond was pondering the alternatives when the door opened quickly behind him. He had hardly sunk to the floor when Trudi came in wearing a long white silk robe and a worried expression. ‘James?’

  Bond rose to his feet and Trudi shrank back. Bond quickly placed a finger to his lips. ‘You whetted my appetite.’ She looked puzzled. ‘For information. Is there a safe in here?’

  Trudi’s eyes widened. ‘You must be nuts!’

  ‘Possibly.’ Bond glanced round the room. A handsome gilt wall clock was flanked by two lights. Their position seemed incongruous in terms of the total layout of the room. The clock was not a work of art that cried out for illumination. Bond approached the clock and listened. It was not working.

  Trudi watched him like someone who has hidden the object in a game of hunt the thimble. Her face was drawn with anxiety. ‘James -’

  ‘Would you say I was getting warm?’

  ‘James! You’ve got to leave.’

  Bond reached up and opened the glass front of the face. The face swung with it to reveal that it was no more than a façade. Behind lay the round door of a small safe with a combination dial in the middle of it.

  ‘So far, so promising,’ said Bond. ‘I don’t imagine you know the combination?’

  Trudi shook her head slowly. She was almost hypnotized by fear. ‘I wouldn’t tell you if I did.’

  Bond looked at the graceful figure silhouetted against the moonlight and felt a quick pang of sexual hunger. What was it that made a frightened woman so desirable? Psychologists would probably be able to furnish an unflattering reason. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers. ‘All right. I won’t press you.’ A slim rectangular shape had appeared in his right hand and was positioned against the side of the face next to the dial. Trudi saw something glowing and had an impression of
superimposed fluorescent lines. It was like looking at an X-ray plate. Bond began to manipulate the dial with his fingertips and the pattern changed. Trudi looked round the room trying to establish that she really was in Hugo Drax’s study and not asleep in her bed dreaming some strange dream. There was a click and the safe door jumped open. Trudi did not wake up. She was still in Drax’s study. She looked at the object in Bond’s hand. ‘That’s amazing.’

  Bond pressed it against her left breast and narrowed his eyes as the rectangle glowed. ‘You have a heart of gold.’

  Trudi smiled nervously. ‘You won’t need an X-ray machine to see it if Mr Drax catches us here.’

  Bond thought that she was probably right. He swung open the door of the safe and peered inside. At first glance it appeared to be empty and his heart sank. Then his probing fingers felt the back wall give and he exerted sideways pressure. The back of the safe slid open to reveal another space behind. It was a clever ruse reminiscent of the secret compartments built into the backs of drawers in period furniture. Bond extended his arm and withdrew a sheet of design paper folded into four.

  Trudi was now trembling. ‘For God’s sake, James!’

  ‘All right.’ Bond’s voice was cold and hard as he shouldered her aside. It was the expression his face had worn at the most passionate moments of their lovemaking. She felt again that there was something frightening about the way in which his mood could suddenly change. To cross this man would be dangerous.

  Bond quickly spread the engineering drawing on the nearest flat surface and his eyes sped over it. It showed a sectionalized drawing of a globe with a complicated section around its equator. Alongside was a drawing of a small cylindrical object with a glass phial enclosed in it. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Trudi shook her head. ‘No.’

  Bond believed her. He quickly raised something to his eye, and there was a click and a small flash. Almost before Trudi had finished blinking, the drawing was being returned to the safe and the front of the clock swung shut. Bond returned the miniature camera to his pocket. ‘Right. Let’s go.’