James Bond and Moonraker (7 page)

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?’

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.’

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.

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.