No, Mr. Bond, I Expect You To Read - Let's Read James Bond

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chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Chapter 12: Long Tail on a Ghost

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Punctually at nine the next morning Bond got on to the Chief of Staff: 'James here. I've had a look at the property. Been all over it. Had dinner last night with the owner. I can say pretty well for certain that the managing director's view is right. Something definitely wrong about the property. Not enough facts to send you a surveyor's report. Owner's going abroad tomorrow, flying from Ferryfield. Wish I knew his departure time. Like to have another sight of his Rolls. Thought I'd make him a present of a portable wireless set. I'll be going over a bit later in the day. Could you get Miss Ponsonby to book me? Destination unknown for the present. I'll be keeping in touch. Anything your end?'

'How did the game of golf go?'

'I won.'

There was a chuckle at the other end. 'Thought you had. Pretty big stakes, weren't they?'

'How did you know?'

'Had Mr Scotland on last night. Said he'd had a tip on the telephone that someone of your name was in possession of a large amount of undeclared dollars. Had we got such a person and was it true? Chap wasn't very senior and didn't know about Universal. Told him to have a word with the Commissioner and we got an apology this morning about the same time as your secretary found an envelope containing ten thousand dollars in your mail! Pretty sly of your man, wasn't it?'

Bond smiled. Typical of Goldfinger to have thought of a way of getting him into trouble over the dollars. Probably made the call to Scotland Yard directly after the game. He had wanted to show Bond that if you gave Goldfinger a knock you'd get at least a thorn in your hand. But the Universal Export cover seemed to have stuck. Bond said, 'That's pretty hot! The twister! You might tell the managing director that this time it goes to the White Cross. Can you fix the other things?'

'Of course. Call you back in a few minutes. But watch your step abroad and call us at once if you get bored and need company. So long.'

Bond talked to headquarters and got various clearances to follow Goldfinger, who has a flight out at noon. He was given government clearance to park his Aston-Martin in a hangar and wait for Goldfinger's plane, with Customs being told he's a Scotland Yard detective investigating Goldfinger's Korean servants for smuggling. This will give them an opportunity to check the Rolls-Royce.

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At eleven-forty-five one of the Customs men put his head round the door. He winked at Bond. 'Coming in now. Chauffeur on board. Going to ask both to board the plane before the car. Tell them it's something to do with the weight distribution. Not so phoney as it sounds. We know this old crate. She's armour-plated. Weighs about three tons. Call you when we're ready.'

'Thanks.' The room emptied. Bond took the fragile little parcel out of his pocket. It contained a dry-cell battery wired to a small vacuum tube. He ran his eye over the wiring and put the apparatus back in his coat pocket and waited.

At eleven-fifty-five the door opened. The officer beckoned. 'No trouble. They're on the plane.'

The huge gleaming Silver Ghost stood in the Customs bay out of sight of the plane. The only other car was a dove-grey Triumph TR3 convertible with its hood down.

The TR3 was a sporty roadster produced from 1955 until 1962. It was a huge success for Triumph, produced in large numbers and commonly used for racing. The convertible top is a simple folding hood that stretches down over the low doors and removable plexiglass side curtains to approximate windows over the doors.

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Bond went to the back of the Rolls. The Customs men had unscrewed the plate of the spare tool compartment. Bond pulled out the tray of tools and made a show of minutely examining them and the tray. He knelt down. Under cover of rummaging at the sides of the compartment, he slipped the battery and tube into the back of it. He replaced the tool tray. It fitted all right. He stood up and brushed his hands together. 'Negative,' he said to the Customs officer.

The officer fitted the plate on and screwed it down with the square key. He stood up. 'Nothing funny about the chassis or the bodywork. Plenty of room in the frame and upholstery but we couldn't get at them without doing a major job. All right to go?'

'Yes, and thanks.' Bond walked back into the office. He heard the quick solid whine of the old self-starter. A minute later, the car came out of the bay and idled superbly over to the loading ramp. Bond stood at the back of the office and watched it being eased up the ramp. The big jaws of the Bristol Freighter clanged shut. The chocks were jerked away and the dispatcher raised a thumb. The two engines coughed heavily and fired and the great silver dragonfly trundled off towards the runway.

When the plane was on the runway, Bond walked round to his car and climbed into the driver's seat. He pressed a switch under the dash. There was a moment's silence, then a loud harsh howl came from the hidden loud-speaker. Bond turned a knob. The howl diminished to a deep drone. Bond waited until he heard the Bristol take off. As the plane rose and made for the coast the drone diminished. In five minutes it had gone. Bond tuned the set and picked it up again. He followed it for five minutes as the plane made off across the Channel and then switched the set off. He motored round to the Customs bay, told the A.A. that he would be back at one-thirty for the two o'clock flight, and drove slowly off towards a pub he knew in Rye. From now on, so long as he kept within about a hundred miles of the Rolls, the Homer, the rough radio transmitter he had slipped into its tool compartment, would keep contact with Bond's receiver. All he had to do was watch the decibels and not allow the noise to fade. It was a simple form of direction finding which allowed one car to put a 'long tail' on another and keep in touch without any danger of being spotted. On the other side of the Channel, Bond would have to discover the road Goldfinger had taken out of Le Touquet, get well within range and close up near big towns or wherever there was a major fork or crossroads. Sometimes Bond would make a wrong decision and have to do some fast motoring to catch up again. The D.B.III would look after that. It was going to be fun playing hare and hounds across Europe. The sun was shining out of a clear sky. Bond felt a moment's sharp thrill down his spine. He smiled to himself, a hard, cold, cruel smile. Goldfinger, he thought, for the first time in your life you're in trouble�bad trouble.

Once he's off the plane, Bond encounters one major problem with 1950s radio homing beacons: you need two or more to actually triangulate the location of the beacon. With only his radio, it's basically a "getting warmer" system of listening to the beeps get louder or quieter as he gets closer or farther away. He has to ask a cyclist at an intersection in France which direction a big yellow Rolls-Royce went to avoid going in the wrong direction.

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Bond swept along the badly cambered road. He took no chances but covered the forty-three kilometres to Abbeville in a quarter of an hour. The drone of the Homer was loud. Goldfinger couldn't be more than twenty miles ahead. But which way at the fork? On a guess Bond took the Paris road. He beat the car along. For a time there was little change in the voice of the Homer. Bond could be right or wrong. Then, imperceptibly, the drone began to fade. Blast! Turn back or press on fast and take one of the secondary roads across to Rouen and catch up with him there? Bond hated turning back. Ten kilometres short of Beauvais he turned right. For a time it was bad going but then he was on to the fast N30 and could afford to drift into Rouen, led on by the beckoning voice of his pick-up. He stopped on the outskirts of the town and listened with one ear while consulting his Michelin. By the waxing drone he could tell that he had got ahead of Goldfinger. But now there was another vital fork, not quite so easy to retrieve if Bond guessed wrong again. Either Goldfinger would take the Alen�on-Le Mans-Tours route to the south, or he meant to move south-east, missing Paris, by way of Evreux, Chartres and Orleans. Bond couldn't afford to get closer to the centre of Rouen and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Rolls and of the way it would take. He would have to wait until the Homer went on the wane and then make his own guess.

It was a quarter of an hour later before Bond could be sure that the Rolls was well past. This time he again took the left leg of the fork. He thrust the pedal into the floor and hurried. Yes. This time the drone was merging into a howl. Bond was on the track. He slowed to forty, tuned down his receiver to a whisper and idled along, wondering where Goldfinger was heading for.

The long distance chase continues at high speed as the sun sets, passing by the gray Triumph TR3 that had been on the plane with the Rolls. He gets just close enough to spot the big yellow car and then pulls off to the side to let the Triumph pass.

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Bond had never cared for Orleans. It was a priest and myth ridden town without charm or gaiety. It was content to live off Joan of Arc and give the visitor a hard, holy glare while it took his money. Bond consulted his Michelin. Goldfinger would stop at five-star hotels and eat fillets of sole and roast chicken. It would be the Arcades for him�perhaps the Moderne. Bond would have liked to stay outside the town and sleep on the banks of the Loire in the excellent Auberge de la Montespan, his belly full of�quenelles de brochet. He would have to stick closer to his fox. He decided on the H�tel de la Gare and dinner at the station buffet.

When in doubt, Bond always chose the station hotels. They were adequate, there was plenty of room to park the car and it was better than even chances that the Buffet de la Gare would be excellent. And at the station one could hear the heart-beat of the town. The night-sounds of the trains were full of its tragedy and romance.

The drone on the receiver had stayed constant for ten minutes. Bond noted his way to the three hotels and cautiously crept into the town. He went down to the river and along the lighted�quais. He had been right. The Rolls was outside the Arcades. Bond turned back into the town and made for the station.

The H�tel de la Gare was all he had expected�cheap, old-fashioned, solidly comfortable. Bond had a hot bath, went back to his car to make sure the Rolls hadn't moved, and walked into the station restaurant and ate one of his favourite meals�two�oeufs cocotte � la cr�me, a large�sole meuni�re�(Orleans was close enough to the sea. The fish of the Loire are inclined to be muddy) and an adequate Camembert. He drank a well-iced pint of Rose d'Anjou and had a Hennessy's Three Star with his coffee. At ten-thirty he left the restaurant, checked on the Rolls and walked the virtuous streets for an hour. One more check on the Rolls and bed.

The quenelles de brochet Bond wishes he could have is a mixture of creamed fish or meat with a light egg binding, sometimes breaded, and poached. What he gets are a French variant on the shirred eggs he had in Live and Let Die and a classic dish of sole (which Bond seems to prefer, as he's eaten it at MI6 before) dredged in flour, pan fried in butter, and served with the sauce from the pan, parsley, and lemon. He accompanies it with some sweet ros� wine and some cognac.

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At six o'clock the next morning the Rolls hadn't moved. Bond paid his bill, had a�caf� complet�with a double ration of coffee�at the station, motored down to the�quais�and backed his car up a side street. This time he could not afford to make a mistake. Goldfinger would either cross the river and head south to join N7 for the Riviera, or he would follow the north bank of the Loire, also perhaps for the Riviera, but also on the route for Switzerland and Italy. Bond got out of the car and lounged against the parapet of the river wall, watching between the trunks of the plane trees. At eight-thirty, two small figures came out of the Arcades. The Rolls moved off. Bond watched it follow the�quais�until it was out of sight, then he got behind the wheel of the Aston Martin and set off in pursuit.

Caf� complet is what we would call a Continental breakfast: coffee with some pastries and bread.

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Bond motored comfortably along the Loire in the early summer sunshine. This was one of his favourite corners of the world. In May, with the fruit trees burning white and the soft wide river still big with the winter rains, the valley was green and young and dressed for love. He was thinking this when, before Ch�teauneuf, there was a shrill scream from twin Bosch horns and the little Triumph tore past. The hood was down. There was the blur of a pretty face hidden by white motoring goggles with dark blue lenses. Although Bond only saw the edge of a profile�a slash of red mouth and the fluttering edge of black hair under a pink handkerchief with white spots, he knew she was pretty from the way she held her head. There was the authority of someone who is used to being admired, combined with the self-consciousness of a girl driving alone and passing a man in a smart car.

Bond thought: That�would�happen today! The Loire is dressed for just that�chasing that girl until you run her to ground at lunch-time, the contact at the empty restaurant by the river, out in the garden under the vine trellis. The�friture�and the ice-cold Vouvray, the cautious sniffing at each other and then the two cars motoring on in convoy until that evening, well down to the south, there would be the place they had agreed on at lunch�olive trees, crickets singing in the indigo dusk, the discovery that they liked each other and that their destinations could wait. Then, next day ('No, not tonight. I don't know you well enough, and besides I'm tired') they would leave her car in the hotel garage and go off in his at a tangent, slowly, knowing there was no hurry for anything, driving to the west, away from the big roads. What was that place he had always wanted to go to, simply because of the name? Yes, Entre Deux Seins, a village near Les Baux. Perhaps there wasn't even an inn there. Well, then they would go on to Les Baux itself, at the Bouches du Rh�ne on the edge of the Camargue. There they would take adjoining rooms (not a double room, it would be too early for that) in the fabulous Baumani�re, the only hotel-restaurant in France with Michelin's supreme accolade. They would eat the gratin de langouste�and perhaps, because it was traditional on such a night, drink champagne. And then...

Someone smack this guy upside the head.

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Bond smiled at his story and at the dots that ended it. Not today. Today you're working. Today is for Goldfinger, not for love. Today the only scent you may smell is Goldfinger's expensive after-shave lotion, not ... what would she use? English girls made mistakes about scent. He hoped it would be something slight and clean. Balmain's Vent Vert perhaps, or Caron's Muguet. Bond tuned up his receiver for reassurance, then hushed it and motored on, relaxed, playing with his thoughts of the girl, filling in the details. Of course he might meet up with her again. They seemed to be keeping pretty close company. She must have spent the night in Orleans. Where? What a waste. But wait a minute! Suddenly Bond woke up from his day-dreaming. The open hood reminded him. He'd seen that Triumph before. It had been at Ferryfield, must have taken the flight after Goldfinger. It was true he hadn't seen the girl or noted the registration number, but surely it was the same. If so, for her to be still on Goldfinger's tail after three hundred miles was more than coincidence. And she had been driving with dimmed lights the night before! Here, what's going on?

Bond speeds up again to catch up; the Triumph is keeping about 2 miles behind the Rolls.

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The little convoy kept on, still following the wide black sheen of N7 that runs like a thick, dangerous nerve down through the heart of France. But at Moulins Bond nearly lost the scent. He had to double back quickly and get on to N73. Goldfinger had turned at right angles and was now making for Lyons and Italy, or for M�con and Geneva. Bond had to do some fast motoring and then was only just in time to avoid running into trouble. He had not worried much about the pitch of the Homer. He had counted on a sight of the Triumph to slow him down. Suddenly he realized that the drone was becoming a howl. If he hadn't braked hard down from the ninety he was doing, he would have been on top of the Rolls. As it was, he was barely creeping along when he came over a rise and saw the big yellow car stopped by the wayside a mile ahead. There was a blessed cart-track. Bond swerved into it and stopped under cover of standing corn. He took a small pair of binoculars out of the glove compartment, got out of the car and walked back. Yes, drat it! Goldfinger was sitting below a small bridge on the bank of a stream. He was wearing a white dust coat and white linen driving helmet in the style of German tourists. He was eating, having a picnic. The sight made Bond hungry. What about his own lunch? He examined the Rolls. Through the rear window he could see part of the Korean's black shape in the front seat. There was no sign of the Triumph. If the girl had still been on Goldfinger's tail she would have had no warning. She would have just kept her head down and stepped on the gas. Now she would be somewhere ahead, waiting in ambush for the Rolls to come by. Or would she? Perhaps Bond's imagination had run away with him. She was probably on her way to the Italian lakes to join an aunt, some friends, a lover.

Bond watches as Goldfinger finishes his picnic, then picks up the scraps of paper wrapper and carefully wedges them under the bridge instead of disposing of them, so he waits for Goldfinger to leave and drives up.

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It was a pretty bridge over a pretty stream. It had a survey number set in the arch�79/6�the sixth bridge from some town on N79. Easy to find. Bond got quickly out of the car and slid down the shallow bank. It was dark and cool under the arch. There were the shadows of fish in the slow, clear, pebbled water. Bond searched the edge of the masonry near the grass verge. Exactly in the centre, below the road, there was a patch of thick grass against the wall. Bond parted the grass. There was a sprinkling of freshly turned earth. Bond dug with his fingers.

There was only one. It was smooth to the touch and brick-shaped. It needed some strength to lift it. Bond brushed the earth off the dull yellow metal and wrapped the heavy bar in his handkerchief. He held the bar under his coat and climbed back up the bank on to the empty road.

# ? May 28, 2019 15:25

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Proteus Jones: Feb 28, 2013

As a character, Sterling Archer is looking less like a parody and more like an homage.

# ? May 28, 2019 17:00

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Chapter 13: 'If You Touch Me There...'

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Bond felt pleased with himself. A whole lot of people were going to get very angry with Goldfinger. You can do a lot of dirty work with twenty thousand pounds. Now plans would have to be altered, conspiracies postponed, perhaps even lives saved. And, if it ever got to an inquiry by SMERSH, which was unlikely as they were the sort of realistic people who cut their losses, it could only be assumed that some sheltering tramp had found the gold bar.

Bond lifted the secret flap under the passenger seat and slipped the bar inside. Dangerous stuff. He would have to contact the next station of the Service and hand it over to them. They would get it back to London in the Embassy bag. Bond would have to report this quickly. It confirmed a lot. M might even want to warn the Deuxi�me and have the bridge watched to see who came. But Bond hoped that would not happen. He didn't want a scare started just when he was getting closer to Goldfinger. He wanted the skies over Goldfinger to be blue and clear.

Bond got moving. Now there were other things to think about. He must catch up with the Rolls before M�con and get the next fork, to Geneva or Lyons, right. He must solve the problem of the girl and if possible get her off the road. Pretty or not, she was confusing the issue. And he must stop and buy himself something to eat and drink. It was one o'clock and the sight of Goldfinger eating had made him hungry. And it was time to fill up and check the water and oil.

Bond keeps on Goldfinger's tail, watching as the yellow Rolls turns heads as it passes through town. Goldfinger continues straight over the bridge onto the road to Switzerland, the Triumph TR3 only a few feet behind Bond. He decides to find a gentle way to stop the tail: he stops in front of a butcher shop, then abruptly reverses into the other car.

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He walked round to the back of the car. The girl, her face tense with anger, had one beautiful silken leg on the road. There was an indiscreet glimpse of white thigh. The girl stripped off her goggles and stood, legs braced and arms akimbo. The beautiful mouth was taut with anger.

The Aston Martin's rear bumper was locked into the wreckage of the Triumph's lamps and radiator grille. Bond said amiably, 'If you touch me there again you'll have to marry me.'

The words were hardly out of his mouth before the open palm cracked across his face. Bond put up a hand and rubbed his cheek. Now there was quite a crowd. There was a murmur of approval and ribaldry. 'Allez y la gosse! Maintenant le knock-out!'

The girl's rage had not dissipated with the blow. 'You bloody fool! What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Bond thought: If only pretty girls were always angry they would be beautiful. He said, 'Your brakes can't be up to much.'

'My�brakes! What the hell do you mean? You reversed into me.'

'Gears slipped. I didn't know you were so close.' It was time to calm her down. 'I'm most frightfully sorry. I'll pay for all the repairs and everything. It really is bad luck. Let's see what the damage is. Try and back away. Doesn't look as if our bumpers have over-ridden.' Bond put a foot on the Triumph's bumpers and rocked.

'Don't you dare touch my car! Leave it alone.' Angrily the girl climbed back into the driver's seat. She pressed the self-starter. The engine fired. Metal clanged under the bonnet. She switched off and leant out. 'There you are, you idiot! You've smashed the fan.'

One of the people in the crowd heads off to call a mechanic as Bond pulls his Aston-Martin off the front of the Triumph, dumping bits of metal on the ground. He hands the woman 100,000 francs (roughly $2500 in modern money assuming the franc's value hasn't radically changed since 1952) to cover the damages and expenses for the overnight stay she's now going to have...and she refuses.

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'No.' The one word was cool, definite. The girl put her hands behind her back and waited.

'But...' What was it she wanted, the police? Have him charged with dangerous driving?

'I've got an appointment this evening too. I've got to make it. I've got to get to Geneva. Will you please take me there? It's not far. Only about a hundred miles. We could do it in two hours in that.' She gestured at the D.B.III. 'Will you? Please?'

There was a desperate urgency in the voice. No cajolery, no threats, only a blazing need.

For the first time Bond examined her as more than a pretty girl who perhaps�they were the only explanations Bond had found to fit the facts�wanted to be picked up by Goldfinger or had a blackmail on him. But she didn't look capable of either of these things. There was too much character in the face, too much candour. And she wasn't wearing the uniform of a seductress. She wore a white, rather masculine cut, heavy silk shirt. It was open at the neck, but it would button up to a narrow military collar. The shirt had long wide sleeves gathered at the wrists. The girl's nails were unpainted and her only piece of jewellery was a gold ring on her engagement finger (true or false?). She wore a very wide black stitched leather belt with double brass buckles. It rose at the back to give some of the support of a racing driver's corset belt. Her short skirt was charcoal-grey and pleated. Her shoes were expensive-looking black sandals which would be comfortable and cool for driving. The only touch of colour was the pink handkerchief which she had taken off her head and now held by her side with the white goggles. It all looked very attractive. But the get-up reminded Bond more of an equipment than a young girl's dress. There was something faintly mannish and open-air about the whole of her behaviour and appearance. She might, thought Bond, be a member of the English women's ski team, or spend a lot of her time in England hunting or show-jumping.

Although she was a very beautiful girl she was the kind who leaves her beauty alone. She had made no attempt to pat her hair into place. As a result, it looked as a girl's hair should look�untidy, with bits that strayed and a rather crooked parting. It provided the contrast of an uneven, jagged dark frame for the pale symmetry of the face, the main features of which were blue eyes under dark brows, a desirable mouth, and an air of determination and independence that came from the high cheek-bones and the fine line of the jaw. There was the same air of self-reliance in her figure. She held her body proudly�her fine breasts out-thrown and unashamed under the taut silk. Her stance, with feet slightly parted and hands behind her back, was a mixture of provocation and challenge.

The whole picture seemed to say, 'Now then, you handsome bastard, don't think you can "little woman" me. You've got me into this mess and, by God, you're going to get me out! You may be attractive, but I've got my life to run, and I know where I'm going.'

Our mystery woman was played in the film by Tania Mallet, who just died on March 30. She was a model who had previously auditioned for Tatiana Romanova; her only other acting role was a single appearance on an episode of The New Avengers in 1976.

This is obviously a big security risk to Bond's mission. He knows Goldfinger is on his way to Switzerland and this girl has been following them incessantly from one side of France to the other, with no way to tell what her plan is in Geneva.

So of course he agrees immediately.

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Bond said curtly, 'I'll be glad to take you to Geneva. Now then,' he opened up the back of the Aston Martin, 'let's get your things in. While I fix up about the garage here's some money. Please buy us lunch�anything you like for yourself. For me, six inches of Lyon sausage, a loaf of bread, butter, and half a litre of M�con with the cork pulled.'

Their eyes met and exchanged a flurry of masculine/feminine master/slave signals. The girl took the money. 'Thank you. I'll get the same things for myself.' She went to the boot of the Triumph and unlocked it. 'No, don't bother. I can manage these.' She hauled out a bag of golf clubs with the cover zipped shut and a small, expensive-looking suitcase. She brought them over to the Aston Martin and, rejecting Bond's offer of help, fitted them in alongside Bond's suitcase. She watched him lock the back of the car and went back to the Triumph. She took out a wide, black-stitched leather shoulder bag.

Bond said, 'What name and address shall I give?'

'What?'

Bond repeated his question, wondering if she would lie about the name or the address, or both.

She said, 'I shall be moving about. Better say the Bergues at Geneva. The name's Soames. Miss Tilly Soames.' There was no hesitation. She went into the butcher's shop.

A quarter of an hour later they were on their way.

Bond hurries, trying to make up the 50+ miles Goldfinger has on them now. He drives fast and hard through the mountain roads, which Tilly clearly seems to enjoy despite it throwing her around the car. As the Homer starts picking up in pitch he stops for them to picnic and blames the noise on the magneto.

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She seemed satisfied with this mumbo-jumbo. She said diffidently, 'Where are you heading for? I hope I haven't taken you very far out of your way.'

Bond said in a friendly voice, 'Not at all. As a matter of fact, I'm going to Geneva too. But I may not stop there tonight. May have to get on. Depends on my meeting. How long will you be there?'

'I don't know. I'm playing golf. There's the Swiss Women's Open Championship at Divonne. I'm not really that class, but I thought it would be good for me to try. Then I was going to play on some of the other courses.'

Fair enough. No reason why it shouldn't be true. But Bond was certain it wasn't the whole truth. He said, 'Do you play a lot of golf? What's your home course?'

'Quite a lot. Temple.'

It had been an obvious question. Was the answer true, or just the first golf course she had thought of? 'Do you live near there?'

'I've got an aunt who lives at Henley. What are you doing in Switzerland. Holiday?'

'Business. Import and Export.'

'Oh.'

Bond smiled to himself. It was a stage conversation. The voices were polite stage voices. He could see the scene, beloved of the English theatre�the drawing-room, sunshine on hollyhocks outside french windows, the couple sitting on the sofa, on the edge of it, she pouring out the tea. 'Do you take sugar?'

Bond tries to get a glimpse at her passport as they cross through customs, but she's too fast. He leaves Tilly at the Bergues hotel in Geneva and continues on, catching up to Goldfinger at Coppet. He finds that Goldfinger has a gated complex, "Entreprises Auric A.G.", and pulls his car into the forest directly above it. He sneaks through the fenced-in forest until he's close enough to spy on the collection of buildings.

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The house was a well-proportioned square block of old red brick with a slate roof. It consisted of two storeys and an attic floor. It would probably contain four bedrooms and two principal rooms. The walls were partly covered by a very old wistaria in full bloom. It was an attractive house. In his mind's eye Bond could see the white-painted panelling inside. He smelled the sweet musty sunshiny smell of the rooms. The back door gave on to the wide paved courtyard in which stood the Rolls. The courtyard was open on Bond's side but closed on the other two sides by single-storey corrugated iron workshops. A tall zinc chimney rose from the angle of the two workshops. The chimney was topped by a zinc cowl. On top of the zinc cowl was the revolving square mouth of what looked to Bond like a Decca Navigator�the radar scanner you see on the bridges of most ships. The apparatus whirled steadily round. Bond couldn't imagine what purpose it served on the roof of this little factory among the trees.

Suddenly the silence and immobility of the peaceful scene were broken. It was as if Bond had put a penny in the slot of a diorama on Brighton pier. Somewhere a tinny clock struck five. At the signal, the back door of the house opened and Goldfinger came out, still dressed in his white linen motoring coat, but without the helmet. He was followed by a nondescript, obsequious little man with a tooth-brush moustache and horn-rimmed spectacles. Goldfinger looked pleased. He went up to the Rolls and patted its bonnet. The other man laughed politely. He took a whistle out of his waistcoat pocket and blew it. A door in the right-hand workshop opened and four workmen in blue overalls filed out and walked over to the car. From the open door they had left there came a whirring noise and a heavy engine started up and settled into the rhythmic pant Bond remembered from Reculver.

The four men disposed themselves round the car. At a word from the little man, who was presumably the foreman, they began to take the car to pieces.

By the time they had lifted the four doors off their hinges, removed the bonnet cover from the engine and had set about the rivets on one of the mudguards, it was clear that they were methodically stripping the car of its armour plating.

Almost as soon as Bond had come to this conclusion, the black, bowler-hatted figure of Oddjob appeared at the back door of the house and made some sort of a noise at Goldfinger. With a word to the foreman, Goldfinger went indoors and left the workmen to it.

It was time for Bond to get going. He took a last careful look round to fix the geography in his mind and edged back among the trees.

Bond heads to the local MI6 station in Geneva and hands over the gold bar he retrieved. He asks about Goldfinger's factory, but they don't know anything except that it makes metal furniture. In particular they make all the seating for Mecca, a privately owned airline that does charter flights to India.

quote:

A slow, grim smile spread across Bond's face. He got up and held out his hand. 'You don't know it, but you've just done a whole jigsaw puzzle in under a minute. Many thanks. Best of luck with the tractor business. Hope we'll meet again one day.'

Out in the street, Bond got quickly into his car and drove along the�quai�to the Bergues. So that was the picture! For two days he'd been trailing a Silver Ghost across Europe. It was an armour-plated Silver Ghost. He'd watched the last bit of plating being riveted on in Kent, and the whole lot being stripped off at Coppet. Those sheets would already be in the furnaces at Coppet, ready to be modelled into seventy chairs for a Mecca Constellation. In a few days' time those chairs would be stripped off the plane in India and replaced with aluminium ones. And Goldfinger would have made what? Half a million pounds? A million?

For the Silver Ghost wasn't silver at all. It was a Golden Ghost�all the two tons of its bodywork. Solid, eighteen-carat, white gold.

# ? May 29, 2019 14:30

Small Strange Bird: Sep 22, 2006; Merci, chaton!

�1 million in 1959 pounds would be �22.8 million in 2018 pounds, according to the Bank of England's calculator. Goldfinger has a nice little earner going on.

# ? May 29, 2019 15:42

Lord Zedd-Repulsa: Jul 21, 2007; Devour a good book.

I forget, are the speeds in Bond books given in imperial or metric? Either this or the previous chapter mentioned him doing 90 so I'm not sure if that's dangerously fast or close to highway speed.

# ? May 30, 2019 02:01

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Lord Zedd-Repulsa posted:

I forget, are the speeds in Bond books given in imperial or metric? Either this or the previous chapter mentioned him doing 90 so I'm not sure if that's dangerously fast or close to highway speed.

They're generally given in imperial unless stated otherwise, as at this point Britain was still predominately using the imperial system. It would be 1965 when the UK agreed to metrication on a wide scale.

So the answer is "dangerously fast".

# ? May 30, 2019 03:04

Ripley: Jan 21, 2007

Even today, everything about driving in the UK is still talked about in miles rather than kilometres - I don't know if that will ever convert to metric.

# ? May 30, 2019 07:28

Inadequately: Oct 9, 2012

quote:

Their eyes met and exchanged a flurry of masculine/feminine master/slave signals.

Just in case anyone missed this pleasant little look into the mind of James Bond.

# ? May 30, 2019 14:15

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Chapter 14: Things That Go Thump in the Night

quote:

James booked in at the H�tel des Bergues, took a bath and shower and changed his clothes. He weighed the Walther PPK in his hand and wondered whether he should take it or leave it behind. He decided to leave it. He had no intention of being seen when he went back to the Entreprises Auric. If, by dreadful luck, he was seen, it would spoil everything to get into a fight. He had his story, a poor one, but at least one that would not break his cover. He would have to rely on that. But Bond did choose a particular pair of shoes that were rather heavier than one could expect from their casual build.

At the desk he asked if Miss Soames was in. He was not surprised when the receptionist said they had no Miss Soames staying in the hotel. The only question was whether she had left the hotel when Bond was out of sight or had registered under another name.

Bond motored across the beautiful Pont du Mont Blanc and along the brightly lit�quai�to the Bavaria, a modest Alsatian brasserie that had been the rendezvous of the great in the days of the League of Nations. He sat by the window and drank Enzian washed down with pale L�wenbrau. He thought first about Goldfinger. There was now no doubt what he was up to. He financed a spy network, probably SMERSH, and he made fortunes smuggling gold to India, the country where he could get the biggest premium. After the loss of his Brixham trawler, he had thought out this new way. He first made it known that he had an armoured car. That would only be considered eccentric. Many English bodybuilders exported them. They used to go to Indian rajahs; now they went to oil sheiks and South American presidents. Goldfinger had chosen a Silver Ghost because, with his modifications, the chassis was strong enough, the riveting was already a feature of the bodywork, and there was the largest possible area of metal sheeting. Perhaps Goldfinger had run it abroad once or twice to get Ferryfield used to it. Then, on the next trip, he took off the armour plating in his works at Reculver. He substituted eighteen-carat white gold. Its alloy of nickel and silver would be strong enough. The colour of the metal would not betray him if he got in a smash or if the bodywork were scratched. Then off to Switzerland and to the little factory. The workmen would have been as carefully picked as the ones at Reculver. They would take off the plates and mould them into aircraft seats which would then be upholstered and installed in Mecca Airlines�run presumably by some stooge of Goldfinger's who got a cut on each 'gold run'. On these runs�once, twice, three times a year?�the plane would accept only light freight and a few passengers. At Bombay or Calcutta the plane would need an overhaul, be re-equipped. It would go to the Mecca hangar and have new seats fitted. The old ones, the gold ones, would go to the bullion brokers. Goldfinger would get his sterling credit in Nassau or wherever he chose. He would have made his hundred, or two hundred, per cent profit and could start the cycle all over again, from the 'We Buy Old Gold' shops in Britain to Reculver�Geneva�Bombay.

Yes, thought Bond, gazing out across the glistening, starlit lake, that's how it would be�a top-notch smuggling circuit with a minimum risk and maximum profit. How Goldfinger must smile as he pressed the bulb of the old boa-constrictor horn and swept past the admiring policemen of three countries! He certainly seemed to have the answer�the philosopher's stone, the finger of gold! If he hadn't been such an unpleasant man, if he wasn't doing all this to sustain the trigger finger of SMERSH, Bond would have felt admiration for this monumental trickster whose operations were so big that they worried even the Bank of England. As it was, Bond only wanted to destroy Goldfinger, seize his gold, get him behind bars. Goldfinger's gold-lust was too strong, too ruthless, too dangerous to be allowed the run of the world.

It was eight o'clock. The Enzian, the firewater distilled from gentian that is responsible for Switzerland's chronic alcoholism, was beginning to warm Bond's stomach and melt his tensions. He ordered another double and with it a choucroute and a carafe of Fondant.

The Bavaria in Geneva is a real restaurant, which moved and changed its name in the 1970s to Le Relais de I�Entrecote. Bond is eating choucroute garnie, a traditional Alsatian dish of cabbage or sauerkraut accompanied by salted meats like sausage and bacon.

quote:

And what about the girl, this pretty, authoritarian joker that had suddenly been faced in the deal? What in hell was she about? What about this golf story? Bond got up and went to the telephone booth at the back of the room. He got on to the�Journal de Gen�ve�and through to the sports editor. The man was helpful, but surprised at Bond's question. No. The various championships were of course played in the summer when the other national programmes were finished and it was possible to lure a good foreign entry to Switzerland. It was the same with all other European countries. They liked to bring in as many British and American players as possible. It increased the gates. 'Pas de quoi, monsieur.'

Bond went back to his table and ate his dinner. So much for that. Whoever she was, she was an amateur. No professional would use a cover that could be broken down by one telephone call. It had been in the back of Bond's mind�reluctantly, because he liked the girl and was excited by her�that she could, she just could have been an agent of SMERSH sent to keep an eye on Goldfinger, or Bond or both. She had some of the qualities of a secret agent, the independence, the strength of character, the ability to walk alone. But that idea was out. She hadn't got the training.

Bond ordered a slice of gruy�re, pumpernickel and coffee. No, she was an enigma. Bond only prayed that she hadn't got some private plot involving either him or Goldfinger that was going to mess up his own operation.

Bond's dinner so far appears to be a carafe of wine, at least one glass of a different kind of wine, two double pours of liquor, a plate of choucroute garnie, bread, cheese, and coffee. He may have consumed more calories from alcohol than food here and would never pass a sobriety test if he got pulled over.

Hm. Maybe that explains his decision-making skills.

quote:

And his own job was so nearly finished! All he needed was the evidence of his own eyes that the story he had woven round Goldfinger and the Rolls was the truth. One look into the works at Coppet�one grain of white gold dust�and he could be off to Berne that very night and be on to the duty officer over the Embassy scrambler. Then, quietly, discreetly, the Bank of England would freeze Goldfinger's accounts all over the world and perhaps, already tomorrow, the Special Branch of the Swiss police would be knocking on the door of Entreprises Auric. Extradition would follow, Goldfinger would go to Brixton, there would be a quiet, rather complicated case in one of the smuggling courts like Maidstone or Lewes. Goldfinger would get a few years, his naturalization would be revoked and his gold hoard, illegally exported, would trickle back into the vaults below the Bank of England. And SMERSH would gnash its blood-stained teeth and add another page to Bond's bulging zapiska.

Bond finishes his dinner and drives out to Entreprises Auric. He turns off his headlights and sneaks the car into a clearing where he can climb through the fence and walk through the woods to the factory.

quote:

Now he could hear the soft heavy pant of the generator engine ... thumpah ... thumpah ... thumpah. It seemed a watchful, rather threatening noise. Bond reached the gap in the iron bars, slipped through and stood, straining his senses forward through the moon-dappled trees.

THUMPAH ... THUMPAH ... THUMPAH. The great iron puffs were on top of him, inside his brain. Bond felt the skin-crawling tickle at the groin that dates from one's first game of hide and seek in the dark. He smiled to himself at the animal danger signal. What primeval chord had been struck by this innocent engine noise coming out of the tall zinc chimney? The breath of a dinosaur in its cave? Bond tightened his muscles and crept forward foot by foot, moving small branches carefully out of his way, placing each step as cautiously as if he was going through a minefield.

The trees were thinning. Soon he would be up with the big sheltering trunk he had used before. He looked for it and then stood frozen, his pulse racing. Below the trunk of his tree, spreadeagled on the ground, was a body.

Bond opened his mouth wide and breathed slowly in and out to release the tension. Softly he wiped his sweating palms down his trousers. He dropped slowly to his hands and knees and stared forward, his eyes widened like camera lenses.

The body under the tree moved, shifted cautiously to a new position. A breath of wind whispered in the tops of the trees. The moonbeams danced quickly across the body and then were still. There was a glimpse of thick black hair, black sweater, narrow black slacks. And something else�a straight gleam of metal along the ground. It began beneath the clump of black hair and ran past the trunk of the trees into the grass.

Bond slowly, wearily bent his head and looked at the ground between his spread hands. It was the girl, Tilly. She was watching the buildings below. She had a rifle�a rifle that must have been among the innocent golf clubs� ready to fire on them. drat and blast the silly bitch!

Bond sneaks up behind Tilly and leaps on her, squeezing her carotid artery to knock her unconscious and taking the rifle (which still has the safety on) from her hands. She starts waking up, forcing Bond to keep her restrained.

quote:

Bond slid off her. He lay beside her, still holding her hands prisoned behind her back. He whispered, 'Get your breath. But tell me, were you after Goldfinger?'

The pale face glanced sideways and away. The girl whispered fiercely into the ground, 'I was going to kill him.'

Some girl Goldfinger had put in the family way. Bond let go her hands. She brought them up and rested her head on them. Her whole body shuddered with exhaustion and released nerves. The shoulders began to shake softly. Bond reached out a hand and smoothed her hair, quietly, rhythmically. His eyes carefully went over the peaceful, unchanged scene below. Unchanged? There was something. The radar thing on the cowl of the chimney. It wasn't going round any more. It had stopped with its oblong mouth pointing in their direction. The fact had no significance for Bond. Now the girl wasn't crying any more. Bond nuzzled his mouth close to her ear. Her hair smelled of jasmine. He whispered, 'Don't worry. I'm after him too. And I'm going to damage him far worse than you could have done. I've been sent after him by London. They want him. What did he do to you?'

She whispered, almost to herself, 'He killed my sister. You knew her�Jill Masterton.'

Bond said fiercely, 'What happened?'

'He has a woman once a month. Jill told me this when she first took the job. He hypnotizes them. Then he�he paints them gold.'

'Christ! Why?'

'I don't know. Jill told me he's mad about gold. I suppose he sort of thinks he's�that he's sort of possessing gold. You know�marrying it. He gets some Korean servant to paint them. The man has to leave their backbones unpainted. Jill couldn't explain that. I found out it's so they wouldn't die. If their bodies were completely covered with gold paint, the pores of the skin wouldn't be able to breathe. Then they'd die. Afterwards, they're washed down by the Korean with resin or something. Goldfinger gives them a thousand dollars and sends them away.'

Bond saw the dreadful Oddjob with his pot of gold paint, Goldfinger's eyes gloating over the glistening statue, the fierce possession. 'What happened to Jill?'

'She cabled me to come. She was in an emergency ward in a hospital in Miami. Goldfinger had thrown her out. She was dying. The doctors didn't know what was the matter. She told me what had happened to her�what he had done to her. She died the same night.' The girl's voice was dry�matter of fact. 'When I got back to England I went to Train, the skin specialist. He told me this business about the pores of the skin. It had happened to some cabaret girl who had to pose as a silver statue. He showed me details of the case and the autopsy. Then I knew what had happened to Jill. Goldfinger had had her painted all over. He had murdered her. It must have been out of revenge for�for going with you.' There was a pause. The girl said dully, 'She told me about you. She�she liked you. She told me if ever I met you I was to give you this ring.'

Bond closed his eyes tight, fighting with a wave of mental nausea. More death! More blood on his hands. This time, as the result of a careless gesture, a piece of bravado that had led to twenty-four hours of ecstasy with a beautiful girl who had taken his fancy and, in the end, rather more than his fancy. And this petty sideswipe at Goldfinger's ego had been returned by Goldfinger a thousand, a millionfold. 'She left my employ'�the flat words in the sunshine at Sandwich two days before. How Goldfinger must have enjoyed saying that! Bond's fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. By God, he'd pin this murder on Goldfinger if it was the last act of his life. As for himself...? Bond knew the answer. This death he would not be able to excuse as being part of his job. This death he would have to live with.

The murder of Jill Masterson (taking place immediately in Miami rather than offscreen) by painting her gold is one of the most iconic images in the entire James Bond canon. The filmmakers believed Fleming when he claimed it was lethal and left Shirley Eaton's stomach unpainted for her safety. Mythbusters covered this in the third pilot episode and determined that while you'd feel like crap after an hour you wouldn't actually die.

quote:

The girl was pulling at her finger�at the Claddagh ring, the entwined hands round the gold heart. She put her knuckle to her mouth. The ring came off. She held it up for Bond to take. The tiny gold circle, silhouetted against the trunk of the tree, glittered in the moonlight.

The noise in Bond's ear was something between a hiss and a shrill whistle. There was a dry, twanging thud. The aluminium feathers of the steel arrow trembled like a humming bird's wings in front of Bond's eyes. The shaft of the arrow straightened. The gold ring tinkled down the shaft until it reached the bark of the tree.

Slowly, almost incuriously, Bond turned his head.

Ten yards away�half in moonlight, half in shadow�the black melon-headed figure crouched, its legs widely straddled in the judo stance. The left arm, thrust forward against the glinting semicircle of the bow, was straight as a duellist's. The right hand, holding the feathers of the second arrow, was rigid against the right cheek. Behind the head, the taut right elbow lanced back in frozen suspense. The silver tip of the second arrow pointed exactly between the two pale raised profiles.

Bond breathed the words, 'Don't move an inch.' Aloud he said, 'Hullo, Oddjob. Damned good shot.'

Oddjob jerked the tip of the arrow upwards.

Bond makes a very lame attempt at claiming that he and Tilly are out having a moonlit stroll, making her out to be his girlfriend brought over from England, which Oddjob isn't even slightly fooled by. He marches the two at arrowpoint to the back door of the mansion, where two more Korean servants come out with clubs to lead them inside.

quote:

They were herded through the open door and along a stone-flagged passage to the narrow entrance hall at the front of the house. The house smelled as Bond had imagined it would�musty and fragrant and summery. There were white-panelled doors. Oddjob knocked on one of them.

'Yes?'

Oddjob opened the door. They were prodded through.

Goldfinger sat at a big desk. It was neatly encumbered with important-looking papers. The desk was flanked by grey metal filing cabinets. Beside the desk, within reach of Goldfinger's hand, stood a short-wave wireless set on a low table. There was an operator's keyboard and a machine that ticked busily and looked like a barograph. Bond guessed that this had something to do with the detector that had intercepted them.

Goldfinger wore his purple velvet smoking-jacket over an open-necked white silk shirt. The open neck showed a tuft of orange chest-hair. He sat very erect in a high-backed chair. He hardly glanced at the girl. The big china-blue eyes were fixed on Bond. They showed no surprise. They held no expression except a piercing hardness.

Bond blustered, 'Look here, Goldfinger. What the hell's all this about? You put the police on to me over that ten thousand dollars and I got on your tracks with my girl friend here, Miss Soames. I've come to find out what the hell you mean by it. We climbed the fence�I know it's trespassing, but I wanted to catch you before you moved on somewhere else. Then this ape of yours came along and damned near killed one of us with his bow and arrow. Two more of your bloody Koreans held us up and searched us. What the hell's going on? If you can't give me a civil answer and full apologies I'll put the police on you.'

Goldfinger's flat, hard stare didn't flicker. He might not have heard Bond's angry-gentleman's outburst. The finely chiselled lips parted. He said, 'Mr Bond, they have a saying in Chicago: "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action." Miami, Sandwich and now Geneva. I propose to wring the truth out of you.' Goldfinger's eyes slid slowly past Bond's head. 'Oddjob. The Pressure Room.'

chitoryu12 fucked around with this message at 15:38 on May 30, 2019

# ? May 30, 2019 15:35

MonsterEnvy: Feb 4, 2012; Shocked I tell you

Yep Bond poked the Beehive once too many.

# ? May 30, 2019 20:08

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

I�m just going to accept as canon that Bond�s heavy drinking is the cause of all his stupid moves.

# ? May 30, 2019 20:14

poisonpill: Nov 8, 2009; The only way to get huge fast is to insult a passing witch and hope she curses you with Beast-strength.

Sterling Archer, barely able to stand and slurring all his words, �I�m gonna.... gonna go to his house... and steal some of the gold!�

# ? May 30, 2019 21:03

Strategic Tea: Sep 1, 2012

Also this whole part, just read it in the drunk voice

An episode of Archer, maybe? posted:

The Aston Martin's rear bumper was locked into the wreckage of the Triumph's lamps and radiator grille. Bond said amiably, 'If you touch me there again you'll have to marry me.'

The words were hardly out of his mouth before the open palm cracked across his face. Bond put up a hand and rubbed his cheek. Now there was quite a crowd. There was a murmur of approval and ribaldry. 'Allez y la gosse! Maintenant le knock-out!'

The girl's rage had not dissipated with the blow. 'You bloody fool! What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Bond thought: If only pretty girls were always angry they would be beautiful. He said, 'Your brakes can't be up to much.'

' My brakes! What the hell do you mean? You reversed into me.'

'Gears slipped. I didn't know you were so close.'

# ? May 30, 2019 23:13

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

(Necks a hipflask of rum, eats a piece of toast)

RIGHTO LET'S GO SECRET AGENTING

# ? May 30, 2019 23:37

poisonpill: Nov 8, 2009; The only way to get huge fast is to insult a passing witch and hope she curses you with Beast-strength.

'If you touch me there again you'll have to marry me.'

'Allez y la gosse! Maintenant le knock-out!'

'You bloody fool! What the hell do you think you're doing?'

'Your brakes can't be up to much.'

' My brakes! What the hell do you mean? You reversed into me.'

'Gears slipped. I didn't know you were so close.'

# ? May 31, 2019 01:40

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Jesus I heard it.

# ? May 31, 2019 01:49

Carillon: May 9, 2014

chitoryu12 posted:

Bond's dinner so far appears to be a carafe of wine, at least one glass of a different kind of wine, two double pours of liquor, a plate of choucroute garnie, bread, cheese, and coffee. He may have consumed more calories from alcohol than food here and would never pass a sobriety test if he got pulled over.

Hm. Maybe that explains his decision-making skills.

Don't forget the L�wenbrau which I think is a beer that you can still get today.

# ? May 31, 2019 07:48

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Carillon posted:

Don't forget the L�wenbrau which I think is a beer that you can still get today.

You can, and it's one of the only beers Bond ever drinks. I think he has 2 or 3 beers in the entire series. The movies increase this by getting a deal with Heineken to have Daniel Craig drink them, which seems like the exact kind of beer Bond would refuse.

# ? May 31, 2019 13:53

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Chapter 15: The Pressure Room

quote:

Bond's reaction was automatic. There was no reason behind it. He took one quick step forward and hurled himself across the desk at Goldfinger. His body, launched in a shallow dive, hit the top of the desk and ploughed through the litter of papers. There was a heavy thud as the top of his head crashed into Goldfinger's breastbone. The momentum of the blow rocked Goldfinger in his chair. Bond kicked back at the edge of the desk, got a purchase and rammed forward again. As the chair toppled backwards and the two bodies went down in the splintering woodwork, Bond's fingers got to the throat and his thumbs went into its base and downwards with every ounce of his force.

Then the whole house fell on Bond, a baulk of timber hit him at the base of the neck and he rolled sluggishly off Goldfinger on to the floor and lay still. �

The vortex of light through which Bond was whirling slowly flattened into a disc, a yellow moon, and then into a burning Cyclops eye. Something was written round the fiery eyeball. It was a message, an important message for him. He must read it. Carefully, one by one, Bond spelled out the tiny letters. The message said: SOCI�T� ANONYME MAZDA. What was its significance? A hard bolt of water hit Bond in the face. The water stung his eyes and filled his mouth. He retched desperately and tried to move. He couldn't. His eyes cleared, and his brain. There was a throbbing pain at the back of his neck. He was staring up into a big enamelled light bowl with one powerful bulb. He was on some sort of a table and his wrists and ankles were bound to its edges. He felt with his fingers. He felt polished metal.

A voice, Goldfinger's voice, flat, uninterested, said, 'Now we can begin.'

Bond turned his head towards the voice. His eyes were dazzled by the light. He squeezed them hard and opened them. Goldfinger was sitting in a canvas chair. He had taken off his jacket and was in his shirt sleeves. There were red marks round the base of his throat. On a folding table beside him were various tools and metal instruments and a control panel. On the other side of the table Tilly Masterton sat in another chair. She was strapped to it by her wrists and ankles. She sat bolt upright as if she was in school. She looked incredibly beautiful, but shocked, remote. Her eyes gazed vacantly at Bond. She was either drugged or hypnotized.

Bond turned his head to the right. A few feet away stood the Korean. He still wore his bowler hat but now he was stripped to the waist. The yellow skin of his huge torso glinted with sweat. There was no hair on it. The flat pectoral muscles were as broad as dinner plates and the stomach was concave below the great arch of the ribs. The biceps and forearms, also hairless, were as thick as thighs. The ten-minutes-to-two oil slicks of the eyes looked pleased, greedy. The mouthful of blackish teeth formed an oblong grin of anticipation.

Bond raised his head. The quick look round hurt. They were in one of the factory workrooms. White light blazed round the iron doors of two electric furnaces. There were bluish sheets of metal stacked in wooden frames. From somewhere came the whir of a generator. There was a distant, muffled sound of hammering, and, behind the sound, the faraway iron pant of the power plant.

Bond glanced down the table on which he lay spread-eagled. He let his head fall back with a sigh. There was a narrow slit down the centre of the polished steel table. At the far end of the slit, like a foresight framed in the vee of his parted feet, were the glinting teeth of a circular saw.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DoQwKe0lggw

This is another of the most famous scenes in Bond history, and the source of our thread title! At the time Fleming wrote the book, lasers were still only theoretical and a functioning one wouldn't exist until 1960. By 1964 they had become new experimental technology and Eon could spice up the scene with something fancier than a buzzsaw. The laser itself was simply a visual effect with an assistant holding a blowtorch under the table; the look of panic on Connery's face as the laser gets closer is very real, as the assistant accidentally overran his safety mark and came very close to legitimately castrating him.

quote:

Bond lay and stared up at the little message on the lamp bulb. Goldfinger began to speak in a relaxed conversational voice. Bond pulled the curtains tight across the ghastly peep-show of his imagination and listened.

'Mr Bond, the word "pain" comes from the Latin�poena�meaning "penalty"�that which must be paid. You must now pay for the inquisitiveness which your attack upon me proves, as I suspected, to be inimical. Curiosity, as they say, killed the cat. This time it will have to kill two cats, for I fear I must also count this girl an enemy. She tells me she is staying at the Bergues. One telephone call proved that to be false. Oddjob was sent to where you were both hidden and recovered her rifle and also a ring which it happens that I recognize. Under hypnotism the rest came out. This girl came here to kill me. Perhaps you did too. You have both failed. Now must come the�poena. Mr Bond�' the voice was weary, bored�'I have had many enemies in my time. I am very successful and immensely rich, and riches, if I may inflict another of my aphorisms upon you, may not make you friends but they greatly increase the class and variety of your enemies.'

'That's very neatly put.'

Goldfinger ignored the interruption. 'If you were a free man, with your talent for inquiry, you would be able to find round the world the relics of those who have wished me ill, or who have tried to thwart me. There have, as I said, been many of these people and you would find, Mr Bond, that their remains resemble those of hedgehogs squashed upon the roads in summertime.'

'Very poetic simile.'

'By chance, Mr Bond. I am a poet in deeds�not often in words. I am concerned to arrange my actions in appropriate and effective patterns. But that is by the way. I wish to convey to you that it was a most evil day for you when you first crossed my path and, admittedly in a very minor fashion, thwarted a minuscule project upon which I was engaged. On that occasion it was someone else who suffered the poena that should have been meted out to you. An eye was taken for the eye, but it was not yours. You were lucky and, if you had then found an oracle to consult, the oracle would have said to you, "Mr Bond, you have been fortunate. Keep away from Mr Auric Goldfinger. He is a most powerful man. If Mr Goldfinger wanted to crush you, he would only have to turn over in his sleep to do so."'

Goldfinger indifferently turns on the buzzsaw and tells Bond that he has the choice between either telling the truth and being killed quickly or staying quiet and having his death drawn out (along with Tilly, who will be fed to Oddjob). Bond resolves himself not to say anything and to stick to his flimsy story, hoping that his disappearance and death will give MI6 an excuse to put a more cautious agent on the case and kill Goldfinger.

quote:

Bond said, 'Don't be a fool, Goldfinger. I told my friends at Universal where I was going and why. The girl's parents know that she went with me. I made inquiries about this factory of yours before we came here. We shall be traced here very easily. Universal is powerful. You will have the police after you within days of our disappearance. I will make a deal with you. Let us go and nothing more will be heard of the matter. I will vouch for the girl. You are making a stupid mistake. We are two perfectly innocent people.'

Goldfinger said in a bored voice, 'I'm afraid you don't understand, Mr Bond. Whatever you have managed to find out about me, which I suspect is very little, can only be a grain of the truth. I am engaged upon gigantic enterprises. To take the gamble of letting either of you leave here alive would be quite ludicrous. It is out of the question. As for my being bothered by the police, I shall be delighted to receive them if they come. Those of my Koreans who can speak won't do so�nor will the mouths of my electric furnaces which will have vaporized you both and all your belongings at two thousand degrees Centigrade. No, Mr Bond, make your choice. Perhaps I can encourage you'�there came the noise of a lever moving across iron teeth. 'The saw is now approaching your body at about one inch every minute. Meanwhile,' he glanced at Oddjob and held up one finger, 'a little massage from Oddjob. To begin with, only grade one. Grades two and three are still more persuasive.'

Oddjob prolongs Bond's torment with various presses and sharp blows in precise points, causing pain but no lasting damage. Bond tries to offer to work for Goldfinger, but he refuses on the obvious notion that both would immediately betray him.

quote:

Bond decided it was time to stop talking. It was time to start winding up the mainspring of will-power that must not run down again until he was dead. Bond said politely, 'Then you can go and �� yourself.' He expelled all the breath from his lungs and closed his eyes.

'Even I am not capable of that, Mr Bond,' said Goldfinger with good humour. 'And now, since you have chosen the stony path instead of the smooth, I must extract what interest I can from your predicament by making the path as stony as possible. Oddjob, grade two.'

The lever on the table moved across iron teeth. Now Bond could feel the wind of the saw between his knees. The hands came back.

Bond counted the slowly pounding pulse that utterly possessed his body. It was like the huge panting power plant in the other part of the factory but, in his case, it was slowly decelerating. If only it would slow down quicker. What was this ridiculous will to live that refused to listen to the brain? Who was making the engine run on although the tank was dry of fuel? But he must empty his mind of thought, as well as his body of oxygen. He must become a vacuum, a deep hole of unconsciousness.

Still the light burned red through his eyelids. Still he could feel the bursting pressure in his temples. Still the slow drum of life beat in his ears.

A scream tried to force its way through the clamped teeth.

Die drat you die die drat you die drat you die drat you die drat you die...

chitoryu12 fucked around with this message at 03:58 on Jan 31, 2020

# ? May 31, 2019 14:35

The_White_Crane: May 10, 2008

I forget how Bond actually escapes from this. :allears:

# ? May 31, 2019 14:53

Selachian: Oct 9, 2012

chitoryu12 posted:

You can, and it's one of the only beers Bond ever drinks. I think he has 2 or 3 beers in the entire series. The movies increase this by getting a deal with Heineken to have Daniel Craig drink them, which seems like the exact kind of beer Bond would refuse.

I expect the actual German beer is quite different, but my experience with Lowenbrau is that it's a bland, forgettable lager. You could probably put it in a taste test with Budweiser and Coors and I wouldn't be able to pick it out. I was actually surprised by that bit because it seemed like such a pedestrian choice for Bond.

# ? May 31, 2019 18:38

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Selachian posted:

I expect the actual German beer is quite different, but my experience with Lowenbrau is that it's a bland, forgettable lager. You could probably put it in a taste test with Budweiser and Coors and I wouldn't be able to pick it out. I was actually surprised by that bit because it seemed like such a pedestrian choice for Bond.

In the 1950s even in Europe it took some effort to get seriously good beer. The biggest breweries anywhere are usually the ones making something simple and easy for as many people as possible to drink, hence the American macro lagers that taste like carbonated water with a hint of corn. Lowenbrau as far as I know isn't made with rice or corn syrup to pad it out and has more noticeable hop flavor than Budweiser, Coors, PBR, etc.

But as for all the crazy poo poo we have today, they were generally regional styles. I prefer Belgian beers like tripels and strong dark ales, but chances are in 1959 you'd only get your hands on a Belgian beer in Belgium (one of my favorites, Chimay Grand Reserve, was first brewed in 1948 by the monastery as a Christmas beer and unlikely to be found outside the region, whereas today you can buy gallons from grocery stores in Florida). Brits were still drinking British beer, though German-style lagers were starting to catch on. It wouldn't be until the late 1970s when Michael Jackson (no, not that one) published The World Guide to Beer and brought international interest in worldwide styles, setting the stage for the craft brewing revolution.

If anything we almost have too many beers today. Bourbon barrel-aged stouts started in the 90s as a revolution. Now every brewery makes one and a lot of them taste virtually identical. I've had over 360 unique beers in the past 1.5 years and you start quickly realizing how many breweries start up by just making the same kind of beer everyone else already has.

# ? May 31, 2019 19:06

Small Strange Bird: Sep 22, 2006; Merci, chaton!

Britain didn't really start taking to lagers in a big way until as late as the 1980s. A lot of it was cultural stigma - "Yer drinkin' fuckin' lager? What are you, a fuckin' poof?" - but plain old anti-European racism was behind it as well, since that's where most of the lagers on the market (Heineken the best-known) came from. Ironically, it took the Australians mass-marketing Fosters and Castlemaine with "these are no-bullshit drinks for manly men with a sense of humour" campaigns for lager to really catch on.

# ? May 31, 2019 23:08

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

chitoryu12 posted:

You can, and it's one of the only beers Bond ever drinks. I think he has 2 or 3 beers in the entire series. The movies increase this by getting a deal with Heineken to have Daniel Craig drink them, which seems like the exact kind of beer Bond would refuse.

lowenbrau is fairly bland; better than heineken though that is a bar so low it was first sighted in Welsh coal mine

# ? Jun 1, 2019 00:50

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

sebmojo posted:

(Necks a hipflask of rum, eats a piece of toast)

RIGHTO LET'S GO SECRET AGENTING

quote:

The fact had no significance for Bond.

oh word

# ? Jun 1, 2019 01:17

Midjack: Dec 24, 2007

sebmojo posted:

lowenbrau is fairly bland; better than heineken though that is a bar so low it was first sighted in Welsh coal mine

https://youtu.be/snhiofL2Rh4

# ? Jun 1, 2019 02:44

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

One of the books I bought as a result of this thread is James Bond's Cuisine: 007's Every Last Meal. It covers every single food reference (even incidental or metaphorical) in every book and movie through 2014. Something it notes is that there's a distinction between red/purple and gold food and drink in the book. You see sausage, crab legs, and Mouton Rothschild vs. Lowenbrau beer, curried shrimp, and Enzian liquor. I'm not sure if it was intentional symbolism or a coincidence.

# ? Jun 1, 2019 07:16

Deptfordx: Dec 23, 2013

The one time I tried Castlemaine XXXX I honestly thought it had gone off, only to be informed 'No. It's supposed to taste like that'

# ? Jun 1, 2019 10:28

Beefeater1980: Sep 12, 2008; My God, it's full of Horatios!

Chitoryu, I insist that you do a write up of the Le Carre, Len Deighton and then the Quiller books after this or else I shall be forced to. Goons deserve to see what a competent spy looks like!

E: @Deptfordx, I once saw an advert that had a picture of a dunny in the outback with the legend �If you lived in a shithole like this, you wouldn�t give a XXXX what you drank either.�

Beefeater1980 fucked around with this message at 15:29 on Jun 1, 2019

# ? Jun 1, 2019 14:56

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Beefeater1980 posted:

Chitoryu, I insist that you do a write up of the Le Carre, Len Deighton and then the Quiller books after this or else I shall be forced to. Goons deserve to see what a competent spy looks like!

E: @Deptfordx, I once saw an advert that had a picture of a dunny in the outback with the legend �If you lived in a shithole like this, you wouldn�t give a XXXX what you drank either.�

I�ve never heard of those!

# ? Jun 1, 2019 16:53

Turbinosamente: May 29, 2013; Lights on, Lights off

Beefeater1980 posted:

Chitoryu, I insist that you do a write up of the Le Carre, Len Deighton and then the Quiller books after this or else I shall be forced to. Goons deserve to see what a competent spy looks like!

E: @Deptfordx, I once saw an advert that had a picture of a dunny in the outback with the legend �If you lived in a shithole like this, you wouldn�t give a XXXX what you drank either.�

And what about Modesty Blaise? Peter O'Donnell wrote several novels in addition to the comic strip. She's also better at being Bond than Bond.

# ? Jun 1, 2019 17:24

Polyakov: Mar 22, 2012

chitoryu12 posted:

I�ve never heard of those!

Flemming, Le Carre and Deighton are generally regarded as the 3 best British authors of spy fiction of their time and probably of all time. I think Le Carre is very interesting in his contrast with Flemming in that he went through a similar experience in working for the security services and came out the other side with a completely different set of experiences and views, he worked for MI5/6 in the 1950's and 60's and indeed wrote his first books while still employed by them in West Germany. His works are a lot drabber, and much more grounded in what you would think intelligence work is really like, there really arent many, or sometimes any good guys on any side, any physical action in them is typically quite subdued, his most famous protagonist, George Smiley, being a short, overweight, aging englishman with an interest in old books and notably poor fashion sense. Deighton is very similar in that regard, in that his books adopt a very cynical tone about the intelligence services and particularly the class system therein and its influence on that, something which is pretty much crucial to address if you are going to set something in Britain in the cold war era.

They are all well worth a read certainly, particularly Le Carres Spy Who Came in From the Cold (my own personal favourite spy novel) and the Karla trilogy, and Deightons Game, Set, Match trilogy, (that trilogy does go on for 6 more books but i havent read them yet) as sort of the jumping on points for those particular writers. The rest of their stuff is generally good but variable but those are regarded to be their best work.

# ? Jun 1, 2019 18:31

Nucken Futz: Oct 30, 2010; by Reene

Len Deighton.

Start with the IPCRESS Files.
This novel, and then all the rest of them are the paradigm of Spy stories.

Le Carre's earliest books, Call for the Dead and A Murder of Quality are fantastic. You must start with them. They set the scene for his next half-dozen books.
Every book of Le Carre is required reading.

Quiller. by Adam West

He works for a hidden Dept. of the War Office that doesn't exist.
A ferret that gets directed to where others can't or won't go.
He is an Executive for the firm. An anonymous hard man in a grey world.
It's a very dark, cerebral world that is described in these stories.
Do your self a favor, if secret agenting is your focus, This dude is it.
The Berlin Memorandum was the first of the series. 5 stars.

As luck would have it, I've got IPCRESS and Berlin Memorandum on pdf is anyone wishes to tackle them. Don't make me do it!

Oh Oh Oh!
While I'm here.

When Bond is speeding around he mentions a "racing Shift". He's double-clutching down a gear. With no synchromesh gears, it was considered a bit of a skill, hence the "racing".

Annnnnnd, from what I understand, the torture scene in Casino Royale was copied right out of Page One of the Gestapo Torture handbook. Part of Flemings job was to de-brief agents as the came out of the cold, and this was apparently a popular activity once the Hoods in the Nice black suits pinched you.

Nucken Futz fucked around with this message at 05:34 on Jun 3, 2019

# ? Jun 3, 2019 05:31

Beefeater1980: Sep 12, 2008; My God, it's full of Horatios!

Adam West�s Quiller books are probably the closest in tone to Fleming�s Bond. They are a big jump forward in time though. Len Deighton�s are the most accessible. Le Carre is good but a bit self satisfied.

I never realised there were actual Modesty Blaine books!

# ? Jun 3, 2019 08:18

Selachian: Oct 9, 2012

Beefeater1980 posted:

I never realised there were actual Modesty Blaine books!

Yeah, O'Donnell started writing them after a couple of years doing the comic strip. They can be a bit more ... explicit in tone than the comics, although they're not all that much different.

# ? Jun 3, 2019 12:15

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

Chapter 16: The Last and the Biggest

quote:

The wings of a dove, the heavenly choir, Hark the Herald Angels Sing�what else ought he to remember about Paradise? It was all so exactly like what he had been told in the nursery�this sensation of flying, the darkness, the drone of a million harps. He really must try and remember the dope about the place. Let's see now, one got to the Pearly Gates...

A deep fatherly voice said, almost in his ear, 'This is your captain speaking.' (Well, well. Who was this. Saint Peter?) We are coming in to land now. Will you please fasten your seat belts and extinguish your cigarettes. Thank you.'

There must be a whole lot of them, going up together. Would Tilly be on the same trip? Bond squirmed with embarrassment. How would he introduce her to the others, to Vesper for instance? And when it came to the point, which would he like the best? But perhaps it would be a big place with countries and towns. There was probably no more reason why he should run into one of his former girl friends here than there had been on earth. But still there were a lot of people he'd better avoid until he got settled in and found out the form. Perhaps, with so much love about, these things wouldn't matter. Perhaps one just loved all the girls one met. Hm. Tricky business!

With these unworthy thoughts in his mind, Bond relapsed into unconsciousness.

Bond's really got his priorities straight here.

quote:

The next thing he knew was a gentle sensation of swaying. He opened his eyes. The sun blinded them. He closed them again. A voice above and behind his head said, 'Watch it, bud. That ramp's steeper than it looks.' Almost immediately there was a heavy jolt. A surly voice in front said, 'Cheesus, you're telling me. Why in hell can't they put down rubber.'

Bond thought angrily, that's a fine way to talk up here. Just because I'm new and they think no one's listening.

There was the bang of a swing door. Something hit Bond sharply on a protruding elbow. He shouted 'Hey!' and tried to reach his elbow and rub it, but his hands wouldn't move.

'Whaddya know. Hey, Sam, better call the doc. This one's come round.'

'Sure! Here, put him alongside the other.' Bond felt himself being lowered. It was cooler now. He opened his eyes. A big round Brooklyn face was bent over his. The eyes met his and smiled. The metal supports of the stretcher touched the ground. The man said, 'How ya feelin', mister?'

'Where am I?' Now there was panic in Bond's voice. He tried to rise but couldn't. He felt the sweat break out on his body. God! Was this still part of the old life? At the thought of it, a wave of grief poured through his body. Tears burned his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.

'Hey, hey! Take it easy, mister. You're okay. This is Idlewild, New York. You're in America now. No more troubles, see.' The man straightened up. He thought Bond was a refugee from somewhere. 'Sam, get movin'. This guy's in shock.'

'Okay, okay.' The two voices receded, mumbling anxiously.

Bond looks around, seeing himself in the white-paneled health department of Idlewild Airport. He's lying on a stretcher on the floor, as is the still unconscious Tilly. Suddenly Goldfinger and Oddjob cheerily walk in.

quote:

Feet gathered round his stretcher. Goldfinger said breezily, 'Well, they certainly look in good shape, eh, Doctor? That's one of the blessings of having enough money. When one's friends or one's staff are ill one can get them the very best medical attention. Nervous breakdowns, both of them. And in the same week! Would you believe it? But I blame myself for working them both too hard. Now it's my duty to get them back on their feet again. Dr Foch�he's the best man in Geneva, by the way�was quite definite. He said, "They need rest, Mr Goldfinger. Rest, rest and again rest." He gave them sedatives and now they're on their way to the Harkness Pavilion at the Presbyterian.' Goldfinger chuckled fatly. 'Sow and you shall reap, eh, Doctor? When I gave the Harkness a million dollars' worth of X-ray equipment, I certainly never expected anything back. But now? I only had to put through a call and they've got two fine rooms waiting for them. Now then�' there was a rustle of notes�'thank you for all your help with Immigration. Fortunately they both had valid visas and I think Immigration was satisfied that Mr Auric Goldfinger was a sufficient guarantee that neither of them wants to overthrow the United States Government by force, what?'

'Yes indeed, and thank you Mr Goldfinger. Anything I can do ... I understand you have a private ambulance waiting outside.'

Bond opened his eyes and looked at where the doctor's voice came from. He saw a pleasant, serious young man with rimless glasses and a crew-cut. Bond said quietly and with desperate sincerity, 'Doctor, there is absolutely nothing wrong with me or this girl. We have been drugged and brought here against our will. Neither of us works or has ever worked for Goldfinger. I am warning you that we have been kidnapped. I demand to see the Chief of Immigration. I have friends in Washington and New York. They will vouch for me. I beg of you to believe me.' Bond held the man's eyes in his, willing him to believe.

The doctor looked worried. He turned to Goldfinger. Goldfinger shook his head�discreetly so that Bond would not be insulted. A surreptitious hand went up and tapped the side of his head away from Bond. Goldfinger raised helpless eyebrows. 'You see what I mean, Doctor? It's been like this for days. Total nervous prostration combined with persecution mania. Dr Foch said they often go together. It may need weeks at the Harkness. But I'm going to pull him round if it's the last thing I do. It's the shock of these unfamiliar surroundings. Perhaps a shot of intraval sodium...'

The doctor, of course, immediately believes the rich old man who's donated so much to the medical world. He simply sedates Bond again.

quote:

Now it was a grey painted box of a room. There were no windows. Light came from a single bowl lamp inset in the centre of the ceiling. Round the lamp were concentric slits in the plaster and there was the neutral smell and faint hum of air-conditioning. Bond found he could sit up. He did so. He felt drowsy but well. He suddenly realized that he was ravenously hungry and thirsty. When had he last had a meal? Two, three days ago? He put his feet down on the floor. He was naked. He examined his body. Oddjob had been careful. There was no sign of damage save for the group of needle-marks on his right forearm. He got up, conquering dizziness, and took a few steps in the room. He had been lying on a ship's type bunk with drawers under it. The only other furniture in the room was a plain deal table and an upright wooden chair. Everything was clean, functional, Spartan. Bond knelt to the drawers under the bunk and opened them. They contained all the contents of his suitcase except his watch and the gun. Even the rather heavy shoes he had been wearing on his expedition to Entreprises Auric were there. He twisted one of the heels and pulled. The broad double-sided knife slid smoothly out of its scabbard in the sole. With the fingers wrapped round the locked heel it made a workmanlike stabbing dagger. Bond verified that the other shoe held its knife and clicked the heels back into position. He pulled out some clothes and put them on. He found his cigarette case and lighter and lit a cigarette. There were two doors of which one had a handle. He opened this one. It led into a small, well-appointed bathroom and lavatory. His washing and shaving things were neatly laid out. There were a girl's things beside them. Bond softly opened the other door into the bathroom. It was a similar room to his own. Tilly Masterton's black hair showed on the pillow of the bunk. Bond tiptoed over and looked down. She was sleeping peacefully, a half-smile on the beautiful mouth. Bond went back into the bathroom, softly closed the door and went to the mirror over the basin and looked at himself. The black stubble looked more like three days than two. He set to work to clean himself up.

Half an hour later, Bond was sitting on the edge of his bunk thinking, when the door without a handle opened abruptly. Oddjob stood in the entrance. He looked incuriously at Bond. His eyes flickered carefully round the room. Bond said sharply, 'Oddjob, I want a lot of food, quickly. And a bottle of bourbon, soda and ice. Also a carton of Chesterfields, king-size, and either my own watch or another one as good as mine. Quick march! Chop-chop! And tell Goldfinger I want to see him, but not until I've had something to eat. Come on! Jump to it! Don't stand there looking inscrutable. I'm hungry.'

Oddjob looked redly at Bond as if wondering which piece to break. He opened his mouth, uttered a noise between an angry bark and a belch, spat drily on the floor at his feet and stepped back, whirling the door shut. When the slam should have come, the door decelerated abruptly and closed with a soft, decisive, double click.

Yes, Oddjob. Don't be such an inscrutable Oriental.

quote:

The encounter put Bond in good humour. For some reason Goldfinger had decided against killing them. He wanted them alive. Soon Bond would know why he wanted them alive but, so long as he did, Bond intended to stay alive on his own terms. Those terms included putting Oddjob and any other Korean firmly in his place, which, in Bond's estimation, was rather lower than apes in the mammalian hierarchy.

I can think of someone lower.

quote:

By the time an excellent meal together with everything else, including his watch, Bond had asked for, had been brought by one of the Korean servants, Bond had learned nothing more about his circumstances except that his room was close to water and not far from a railway bridge. Assuming his room was in New York, it was either on the Hudson or the East River. The railway was electric and sounded like a subway, but Bond's New York geography was not good enough to place it. His watch had stopped. When he asked the time he got no answer.

Bond had eaten all the food on the tray and was smoking and sipping a solid bourbon and soda when the door opened. Goldfinger came in alone. He was wearing a regulation businessman's clothes and looked relaxed and cheerful. He closed the door behind him and stood with his back to it. He looked searchingly at Bond. Bond smoked and looked politely back.

Goldfinger said, 'Good morning, Mr Bond. I see you are yourself again. I hope you prefer being here to being dead. So as to save you the trouble of asking a lot of conventional questions, I will tell you where you are and what has happened to you. I will then put to you a proposition to which I require an unequivocal reply. You are a more reasonable man than most, so I need only give you one brief warning. Do not attempt any dramatics. Do not attack me with a knife or a fork or that bottle. If you do, I shall shoot you with this.' A small-calibre pistol grew like a black thumb out of Goldfinger's right fist. He put the hand with the gun back in his pocket. 'I very seldom use these things. When I have had to, I have never needed more than one .25-calibre bullet to kill. I shoot at the right eye, Mr Bond. And I never miss.'

Bond said, 'Don't worry, I'm not as accurate as that with a bourbon bottle.' He hitched up the knee of his trousers and put one leg across the other. He sat relaxed. 'Go ahead.'

Turns out Goldfinger actually reconsidered Bond's offer to make him and Tilly work for him. Goldfinger has a particular task that he's working toward that he thinks they can be put towards, so he had them sedated and kidnapped rather than killed. Goldfinger sent a telegram to Universal Exports claiming that Bond had been offered employment in Canada and was taking Tilly as his secretary (which Bond realizes will very likely cause immediate suspicion and an investigation by MI6) and has taken them to the Hi-Speed Trucking Corporation warehouse that he's set up as his secret headquarters.

quote:

'And what will our work consist of?'

'Mr Bond�' For the first time since Bond had known Goldfinger, the big, bland face, always empty of expression, showed a trace of life. A look almost of rapture illuminated the eyes. The finely chiselled lips pursed into a thin, beatic curve. 'Mr Bond, all my life I have been in love. I have been in love with gold. I love its colour, its brilliance, its divine heaviness. I love the texture of gold, that soft sliminess that I have learnt to gauge so accurately by touch that I can estimate the fineness of a bar to within one carat. And I love the warm tang it exudes when I melt it down into a true golden syrup. But, above all, Mr Bond, I love the power that gold alone gives to its owner�the magic of controlling energy, exacting labour, fulfilling one's every wish and whim and, when need be, purchasing bodies, minds, even souls. Yes, Mr Bond, I have worked all my life for gold and, in return, gold has worked for me and for those enterprises that I have espoused. I ask you,' Goldfinger gazed earnestly at Bond, 'is there any other substance on earth that so rewards its owner?'

'Many people have become rich and powerful without possessing an ounce of the stuff. But I see your point. How much have you managed to collect and what do you do with it?'

'I own about twenty million pounds' worth, about as much as a small country. It is now all in New York. I keep it where I need it. My treasure of gold is like a compost heap. I move it here and there over the face of the earth and, wherever I choose to spread it, that corner blossoms and blooms. I reap the harvest and move on. At this moment I am proposing to encourage, to force, a certain American enterprise with my golden compost. Therefore the gold bars are in New York.'

'How do you choose these enterprises? What attracts you to them?'

Goldfinger explains that he takes any opportunity to increase his gold stock, from smuggling to investing to cutting penicillin with inert binders to sell at a greater profit. He compares his next task to the greatest masterpiece ever seen on the world stage, merely waiting for its actors.

quote:

Now a dull fire burned in Goldfinger's big pale eyes and there was a touch of extra colour in his red-brown cheeks. But he was still calm, relaxed, profoundly convinced. There's no trace here, reflected Bond, of the madman, the visionary. Goldfinger had some fantastic exploit in mind, but he had gauged the odds and knew they were right. Bond said, 'Well, come on. What is it, and what do we have to do about it?'

'It is a robbery, Mr Bond. A robbery against no opposition, but one that will need detailed execution. There will be much paper-work, many administrative details to supervise. I was going to do this myself until you offered your services. Now you will do it, with Miss Masterton as your secretary. You have already been partly remunerated for this work with your life. When the operation is successfully completed you will receive one million pounds in gold. Miss Masterton will receive half a million.'

Bond said enthusiastically, 'Now you're talking. What are we going to do? Rob the end of the rainbow?'

'Yes,' Goldfinger nodded. 'That is exactly what we are going to do. We are going to burgle fifteen billion dollars' worth of gold bullion, approximately half the supply of mined gold in the world. We are going, Mr Bond, to take Fort Knox.'

# ? Jun 3, 2019 14:06

The_White_Crane: May 10, 2008

Uh, Chitoryu, whose wheatios did you piss in?!

(Also wow, Fleming really hated Koreans huh?)

# ? Jun 3, 2019 14:53

Epicurius: Apr 10, 2010; College Slice

The_White_Crane posted:

Uh, Chitoryu, whose wheatios did you piss in?!

(Also wow, Fleming really hated Koreans huh?)

WWII/Korean War combo.

# ? Jun 3, 2019 15:06

chitoryu12: Apr 24, 2014

The_White_Crane posted:

Uh, Chitoryu, whose wheatios did you piss in?!

Made the mistake of suggesting that people were being conspiracy theorists about Jussie Smollett.

# ? Jun 3, 2019 15:21

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# ? Jun 11, 2024 10:50

Professor Bling: Nov 12, 2008; by LITERALLY AN ADMIN

chitoryu12 posted:

Made the mistake of suggesting that people were being conspiracy theorists about Jussie Smollett.

I mean, if people actually believed CPD, I'd agree they were conspiracy theorists. What's the problem?

# ? Jun 3, 2019 15:55

The Something Awful Forums > Archives > Comedy Goldmine > No, Mr. Bond, I Expect You To Read - Let's Read James Bond

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