'Anything, my dear James. Anything I possess.' He laughed. 'And perhaps certain things of which I could take possession. What is it you would like?'
'I suppose you are a pretty sharp fellow still? Eh, Brooks?'
Mr. Snowman looked up from his catalog. "Why is that?"
————Two weeks after Western States, Scott came down from the mountains and made the long driveacross the Mojave Desert to the starting line of the infamous Badwater Ultramarathon. When AnnTrason raced two ultras in one month, she at least stuck to planet Earth; Scott would be running hissecond on the surface of the sun.
Bond looked sharply, resentfully, into the grey, uncompromising eyes.
'And brandy,' countered Bond.
I HOISTED myself up onto the drainboard of the sink just beside him so that he could talk to me quietly- and so that I could be near to him. I refused another cigarette, and he lit one and gazed for a long minute into the mirror, watching the two gangsters. I looked too. The two men just stared back with a passive, indifferent hostility that seeped steadily across the room like poison gas. I didn't much like their indifference and their watchfulness. It seemed so powerful, so implacable, as if the odds were on their side and they had all the time in the world. But this James Bond didn't seem worried. He just seemed to be weighing them up, like a chess player. There was a certitude of power, of superiority, in his eyes that worried me. He hadn't seen these men in action. He couldn't possibly know what they were capable of, how at any moment they might just blaze away with their guns, blowing our heads off like coconuts in a circus sideshow, and then toss our bodies in the lake with stones to keep them down. But then James Bond began talking, and I forgot my nightmares and just watched his face and listened.
"I suppose it's a fix," said Tiffany Case sourly. She drank