Bond threw off his kimono. He pointed to the soft futon on the floor. He said fiercely, 'Kissy, take off your clothes and lie down there. We'll start at page one.'
Barefoot Ted grabbed the rungs behind Scott.
When, at around two-thirty that afternoon, James Bond had gone in through the double padded doors and had sat down opposite the turned-away profile on the other side of the big desk, he had sensed trouble. There was no greeting. M.'s head was sunk into his stiff turned-down collar in a Churchillian pose of gloomy reflection, and there was a droop of bitterness at the corner of his lips. He swiveled his chair around to face Bond, gave him an appraising glance as if, Bond thought, to see that his tie was straight and his hair properly brushed, and then began speaking, fast, biting off his sentences as if he wanted to be rid of what he was saying, and of Bond, as quickly as possible.
'There's half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?'
Derek squeezed me excitedly. "Don't you worry. I'll show you."
The door in the wall crashed back and two girls, spitting and fighting like angry cats, hurtled through and across the grass and into the ring.
This letter was dated 30th April, 1876. I will give here as much of it as concerns the public: “I wish you to accept as a gift from me, given you now, the accompanying pages which contain a memoir of my life. My intention is that they shall be published after my death, and be edited by you. But I leave it altogether to your discretion whether to publish or to suppress the work — and also to your discretion whether any part or what part shall be omitted. But I would not wish that anything should be added to the memoir. If you wish to say any word as from yourself, let it be done in the shape of a preface or introductory chapter.” At the end there is a postscript: “The publication, if made at all, should be effected as soon as possible after my death.” My father died on the 6th of December, 1882.
'I declare,' said my mother, gently, 'they are exactly alike. I suppose they are mine. I think they are the colour of mine. But they are wonderfully alike.'
'Now' - Franklin turned to Bond - 'when this officer took a look into the laboratory up there he saw rack upon rack of test-tubes containing what he describes as "a cloudy liquid". How would it be if those were viruses, Fowl Pest, anthrax, God knows what all? The report mentions that the laboratory was lit with a dim red light. That would be correct. Virus cultures suffer from exposure to bright light. And how would it be if before this Polly girl left she was given an aerosol spray of the right stuff and told that this was some kind of turkey elixir - a tonic to make them grow fatter and healthier. Remember that stuff about "improving the breed" in the hypnosis talk? And suppose she was told to go to Olympia for the Show, perhaps even take a job for the meeting as a cleaner or something, and just casually spray this aerosol here and there among the prize birds. It wouldn't be bigger than one of those shaving-soap bombs. That'd be, quite enough. She'd been told to keep it secret, that it was patent stuff. Perhaps even that she'd be given shares hi the company if the tonic proved the success this man Blofeld claimed it would. It'd be quite easy to do. She'd just wander round the cages - perhaps she was even given a special purse to carry the thing in - lean up against the wire and psst! the job would be done. Easy as falling off a log. All right, if you'll go along with me so far, she was probably told to do the job on one of the last two days of the show, so that the effects wouldn't be seen too soon. Then, at the end of the show, all the prize birds are dispersed back to their owners all over England. And that's that! And' - he paused -'mark you, that was that. Three million birds dead and still dying all over the place, and a great chunk of foreign currency coughed up by the Treasury to replace them.5
One fact may be mentioned, as a slight token of the loving esteem in which she was held. When Miss Wauton took the hymn to be printed, the Manager of the Press,鈥攏ot himself a Christian, but one who had known Miss Tucker,鈥攕aid immediately, 鈥極h, are those lines Miss Tucker鈥檚? Then I will do them for nothing.鈥 He printed off some hundreds at his own expense.
'My dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'of your friendly interest in all our affairs, I am well assured. My family may consider it banishment, if they please; but I am a wife and mother, and I never will desert Mr. Micawber.'
"Kingston Airport. Now listen, darling. I need help. We can talk later. Can you get cracking?"
Bill, a pansified Italian, hurried towards them. 'Why, Mr Du Pont. Is a pleasure, sir. Little crowded tonight. Soon fix you up. Please this way please.' Holding a large leather-bound menu above his head the man weaved his way between the diners to the best table in the room, a corner table for six. He pulled out two chairs, snapped his ringers for the maitre d'hotel and the wine waiter, spread two menus in front of them, exchanged compliments with Mr Du Pont and left them.
He started to heave himself up on his knees, his weight almost grinding the breath out of the girl.