Nunc arma defunctumque bello
The small host of sneering, accusing eyes followed us. I took Derek's arm (why didn't he take mine?) and we went out under the hideous bright lights and turned by instinct to the right and down the hill so that we could walk faster. We didn't stop until we got to a side street and we went in there and slowly started to work our way back to where the MG was parked up the hill from the cinema.
Bond shrugged. 'I hadn't thought, sir. Perhaps I'd better be thinking of leaving Universal Export. No future in it. Having a holiday while I look round. Thinking of emigrating to Canada. Fed up here. Something like that. But perhaps I'd better play it the way the cards fall. I wouldn't think he's an easy man to fool.'
"Better take rifles. Here, Joe! Take that one, Lemmy! An' some pineapples. Box under da table."
He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry, is dead.
If Bond had been able to blush, he would have blushed. He said, 'Er - well, sir, it seems there's a chap called Sir Hilary Bray. Friend of Sable Basilisk's. About my age and not unlike me to look at. His family came from some place in Normandy. Family tree as long as your arm. William the Conqueror and all that. And a coat of arms that looks like a mixture between a jigsaw puzzle and Piccadilly Circus at night. Well, Sable Basilisk says he can fix it with him. This man's got a good war record and sounds a reliable sort of chap. He lives in some remote glen in the Highlands, watching birds and climbing the hills with bare feet. Never sees a soul. No reason why anyone in Switzerland should have heard of him.' Bond's voice became defensive, stubborn. 'Well, sir, the idea is that I should be him. Rather fancy cover, but I think it makes sense.'
'If you insist, Mr Tanaka.'
Goldfinger played a more deliberate game, almost irritatingly slow. After drawing, he shuffled through his cards again and again before deciding on his discard.
"I have to go to London too," said Bond on an impulse. "I have my final report to make to the Ministry."
There was no signature. Bond uttered a short bark of laughter and triumph. S.L.M.-Savannah La Mar. Could it be? It must be! At last the three red stars of a jackpot had clicked into line. What was it his Gleaner horoscope had said? Well he would go nap on this clue from outer space-"seize it with both hands" as the Gleaner had instructed. He read the message again and carefully put it back in the envelope. His damp handkerchief had left marks on the buff envelope. In this heat they would dry out in a matter of minutes. He went out and sauntered over to the stand. There was no one in sight. He slipped the message back into its place under "S" and walked over to the Aeronaves de Mexico booth and cancelled his reservation. He then went to the BOAC counter and looked through the timetable. Yes, the Luna flight for Kingston, New York and London was due in at 13:15 the next day. He was going to need help. He remembered the name of Head of Station J. He went over to the telephone booth and got through to the High Commissioner's Office. He asked for Commander Ross. After a moment a girl's voice came on the line. "Commander Ross's assistant. Can I help you?"
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."
I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfield, as she offered none, and we conversed on other subjects until we came to Canterbury, where, as it was market-day, my aunt had a great opportunity of insinuating the grey pony among carts, baskets, vegetables, and huckster's goods. The hair-breadth turns and twists we made, drew down upon us a variety of speeches from the people standing about, which were not always complimentary; but my aunt drove on with perfect indifference, and I dare say would have taken her own way with as much coolness through an enemy's country.
It was by this time blowing a gale, the ship beginning to labour excessively, and the darkness so impenetrable, that while his sense of hearing was thus assailed on every side, his sight was strained in vain to discover any object around him, and he was made sensible of being on the upper deck only by the buffeting of the winds, and still rougher salutation of a heavy sea, which, as it passed over the ship, threatened to carry him with it; yet nothing could be done or attempted till day dawned. He remained on deck however. It was the longest hour he had ever passed. From time to time he cast impatient glances towards the east, which looked, he thought, if possible, blacker than the rest of the horizon! At length the sky in that quarter assumed a greyish cast, and gradually it became evident that objects might have been in some degree discernible, but for the thickness of the haze which covered every thing, causing a cruel prolongation of suspense. In a little time, however, one yellow streak appeared near the horizon; then the clouds broke in that direction, and seemed tumbling and boiling round the spot; then, plunging among them, the rising sun was seen at last, for one moment only; it resembled a ball of fire; it seemed to roll past the opening; it disappeared again, and the dense masses of cloud closed immediately. There was now a visible increase of light. A rush of the tempest swept a part of the mist away, while the rocks, looking black and gigantic through what remained, appeared quite close to the ship, as she rode at single anchor.
Now Edwin newman has written his first novel, Sunday Punch (Houghton Mifflin, .95). Published in June, it has already gone through two printings in hardcover, totaling 60,000 copies. The Atlantic has described the book as "a Wodehousian excursion that is lighter than air and twice as much fun as laughing gas."
7. Make everything twice as big and strong and pure. Thendouble it again. And again. Now your whole body and mindare luxuriating in the experience of it all. Seeing it, hearingit, feeling it. Make the sensations as strong as you can,and just when you can't make them any stronger, doublethem one more time and clench your fist hard and fast asyou anchor the height of the experience to your trigger.
We went back to town. I did not quickly shake off the past; I did not quickly get to work. My wound slowly began to heal; but I had no ill-feeling against my father. On the contrary he had, as it were, gained in my eyes . . . let psychologists explain the contradiction as best they can. One day I was walking along a boulevard, and to my indescribable delight, I came across Lushin. I liked him for his straightforward and unaffected character, and besides he was dear to me for the sake of the memories he aroused in me. I rushed up to him. ‘Aha!’ he said, knitting his brows,’ so it’s you, young man. Let me have a look at you. You’re still as yellow as ever, but yet there’s not the same nonsense in your eyes. You look like a man, not a lap-dog. That’s good. Well, what are you doing? working?’
'But we must stop joking, my dear fellow, although I am sure you would like to follow me in developing this amusing little cautionary tale.'