Runcible Cat posted:

I think you're overthinking it - I doubt Bond intends to pick the locks, he's most likely just planning to shim the latches.

Which assumes SPECTRE isn't going to lock the Yales, but given that they seem to operate on the principle of giving any potential spies plenty of opportunities to get caught doing sneaky spy poo poo that's pretty plausible.

chitoryu12 posted:

Shims are only really usable with certain insecure lock designs. A great many locks don’t have the space for a shim or a mechanism that can simply be pushed aside, whereas regular picks can take down most pin-tumbler locks with sufficient practice.

Kheldarn posted:

Source

chitoryu12 posted:

Babycham is one of the most absurdly feminine drinks of Britain. It's a sparkling perry (pear cider) that was specifically targeted to women with a strong TV presence.

Trin Tragula posted:

I could write 4000 words about the cultural and class significance of Babycham; Fleming's making a very specific statement by having her drink it.

Trin Tragula posted:

I could write 4000 words about the cultural and class significance of Babycham; Fleming's making a very specific statement by having her drink it.

Trin Tragula posted:

I could write 4000 words about the cultural and class significance of Babycham; Fleming's making a very specific statement by having her drink it.

mllaneza posted:

That's interesting, I consider pear to be an unlikely candidate for a "most absurdly feminine" cider. Babychams must have sweetened theirs; what I love about a good pear cider is that it has the crispness and tartness of any good cider but without the sweetness that can make even a really tart cider cloying. At work we had half-kegs of pear cider at summer barbecues and it was torture; I love the stuff but indulging myself properly at work is just not on.

Midjack posted:

quote:

...and occasionally saying "pardon".

quote:

And there were traces of many accents, accents from all over Britain – the broad vowels of Lancashire, the lilt of Wales, the burr of Scotland, the adenoids of refined Cockney.

chitoryu12 posted:

My driver took a loop at speed and it was like being in the world’s flimsiest rally car.

chitoryu12 posted:

EA Redwood Shores (now Visceral Games).

quote:

My dear Sable Basilisk,

I arrived safely – by helicopter, if you please! – at this beautiful place called Piz Gloria, 10,000 feet up somewhere in the Engadine. Most comfortable with an excellent male staff of several nationalities and a most efficient secretary to the Count named Fräulein Irma Bunt who tells me that she comes from Munich.

I had a most profitable interview with the Count this morning as a result of which he wishes me to stay on for a week to complete the first draft of his genealogical tree. I do hope you can spare me for so long. I warned the Count that we had much work to do on the new Commonwealth States. He himself, though busily engaged on what sounds like very public-spirited research work on allergies and their cause (he has ten English girls here as his patients), has agreed to see me daily in the hope that together we may be able to bridge the gap between the migration of the de Bleuvilles from France and their subsequent transference, as Blofelds, from Augsburg to Gdynia. I have suggested to him that we conclude the work with a quick visit to Augsburg for the purposes you and I discussed, but he has not yet given me his decision. Please tell my cousin Jenny Bray that she may be hearing from a friend of her late husband who apparently served with him in the Lovat Scouts. He came up to me at lunch today and took me for the other Hilary! Quite a coincidence!

Working conditions are excellent. We have complete privacy here, secure from the madding world of skiers, and very sensibly the girls are confined to their rooms after ten at night to put them out of the temptation of roaming and gossiping. They seem a very nice lot, from all over the United Kingdom, but rather on the dumb side!

Now for my most interesting item. The Count has not got lobes to his ears! Isn’t that good news! He also is of a most distinguished appearance and bearing with a fine head of silvery hair and a charming smile. His slim figure also indicates noble extraction. Unfortunately he has to wear dark-green contact lenses because of weak eyes and the strength of the sunshine at this height, and his aquiline nose is blemished by a deformed nostril which I would have thought could easily have been put right by facial surgery. He speaks impeccable English with a gay lilt to his voice and I am sure that we will get on very well.

Now to get down to business. It would be most helpful if you would get in touch with the old printers of the Almanach de Gotha and see if they can help us over our gaps in the lineage. They may have some traces. Cable anything helpful. With the new evidence of the ear-lobes I am quite confident that the connection exists. That’s all for now.

Yours ever, HILARY BRAY      

P.S.

Don’t tell my mother, or she will be worried for my safety among the eternal snows! But we had a nasty accident here this morning. One of the staff, a Yugoslav it seems, slipped on the bob-run and went the whole way to the bottom! Terrible business. He’s apparently being buried in Pontresina tomorrow. Do you think we ought to send some kind of a wreath?

H.B.

quote:

Bond kept his voice low. ‘Come in!’

The door opened and quickly closed to within an inch of the lock. It was Ruby. She put her fingers to her lips and gestured towards the bathroom. Bond, highly intrigued, followed her in and shut the door. Then he turned on the light. She was blushing. She whispered imploringly. ‘Oh, please forgive me, Sir Hilary. But I did so want to talk to you for a second.’

‘That’s fine, Ruby. But why the bathroom?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. It’s supposed to be a secret, but of course I can tell you. You won’t let on, will you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, all the rooms have microphones in them. I don’t know where. But sometimes we girls have got together in each other’s rooms, just for a gossip, you know, and Miss Bunt has always known. We think they’ve got some sort of television too.’ She giggled. ‘We always undress in the bathroom. It’s just a sort of feeling. As if one was being watched the whole time. I suppose it’s something to do with the treatment.’

‘Yes, I expect so.’

quote:

‘The point is, Sir Hilary, I was tremendously excited by what you were saying at lunch today, about Miss Bunt perhaps being a duchess. I mean, is that really possible?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Bond airily.

‘I was so disappointed at not being able to tell you my surname. You see, you see’ – her eyes were wide with excitement – ‘it’s Windsor!’

‘Gosh,’ said Bond, ‘that’s interesting!’

‘I knew you’d say that. You see, there’s always been talk in my family that we’re distantly connected with the Royal Family!’

‘I can quite understand that.’ Bond’s voice was thoughtful, judicious. ‘I’d like to be able to do some work on that. What were your parents’ names? I must have them first.’

‘George Albert Windsor and Mary Potts. Does that mean anything?’

‘Well, of course, the Albert’s significant.’ Bond felt a cur. ‘You see, there was the Prince Consort to Queen Victoria. He was Albert.’

quote:

‘Oh golly!’ Ruby’s knuckles went up to her mouth.

‘But of course all this needs a lot of working on. Where do you come from in England? Where were you born?’

‘In Lancashire. Morecambe Bay, where the shrimps come from. But a lot of poultry too. You know.’

‘So that’s why you love chicken so much.’

‘Oh, no.’ She seemed surprised by the remark. ‘That’s just the point. You see, I was allergic to chickens. I simply couldn’t bear them – all those feathers, the stupid pecking, the mess and the smell. I loathed them. Even eating chicken brought me out in a sort of rash. It was awful, and of course my parents were mad at me, they being poultry farmers in quite a big way and me being supposed to help clean out the batteries – you know, those modern mass-produced chicken places. And then one day I saw this advertisement in the paper, in the Poultry Farmer’s Gazette. It said that anyone suffering from chicken allergy – then followed a long Latin name – could apply for a course of re ... of re ... for a cure in a Swiss institute doing research work on the thing. All found and ten pounds a week pocket-money. Rather like those people who go and act as rabbits in that place that’s trying to find a cure for colds.’

‘I know,’ said Bond encouragingly.

quote:

‘So I applied and my fare was paid down to London and I met Miss Bunt and she put me through some sort of exam.’ She giggled. ‘Heaven only knows how I passed it, as I failed my G.C.E. twice. But she said I was just what the Institute wanted and I came out here about two months ago. It’s not bad. They’re terribly strict. But the Count has absolutely cured my trouble. I simply love chickens now.’ Her eyes became suddenly rapt. ‘I think they’re just the most beautiful, wonderful birds in the world.’

quote:

‘Well, that’s a jolly good show,’ said Bond, totally mystified. ‘Now about your name. I’ll get to work on it right away. But how are we going to talk? You all seem to be pretty carefully organized. How can I see you by yourself? The only place is my room or yours.’

‘You mean at night?’ The big blue eyes were wide with fright, excitement, maidenly appraisal.

‘Yes, it’s the only way.’ Bond took a bold step towards her and kissed her full on the mouth. He put his arms round her clumsily. ‘And you know I think you’re terribly attractive.’

‘Oh, Sir Hilary!’

quote:

But she didn’t recoil. She just stood there like a great lovely doll, passive, slightly calculating, wanting to be a princess. ‘But how would you get out of here? They’re terribly strict. A guard goes up and down the passage every so often. Of course’ – the eyes were calculating – ‘it’s true that I’m next door to you, in Number Three actually. If only we had some way of getting out.’

Bond took one of the inch strips of plastic out of his pocket and showed it to her. ‘I knew you were somewhere close to me. Instinct, I suppose. [Cad!] I learned a thing or two in the Army. You can get out of these sort of doors by slipping this in the door crack in front of the lock and pushing. It slips the latch. Here, take this, I’ve got another. But hide it away. And promise not to tell anyone.’

quote:

‘Ooh! You are a one! But of course I promise. But do you think there’s any hope – about the Windsors, I mean?’ Now she put her arms round his neck, round the witchdoctor’s neck, and the big blue orbs gazed appealingly into his.

‘You definitely mustn’t rely on it,’ said Bond firmly, trying to get back an ounce of his self-respect. ‘But I’ll have a quick look now in my books. Not much time before drinks. Anyway, we’ll see.’ He gave her another long and, he admitted to himself, extremely splendid kiss, to which she responded with an animalism that slightly salved his conscience. ‘Now then, baby.’ His right hand ran down her back to the curve of her behind, to which he gave an encouraging and hastening pat. ‘We’ve got to get you out of here.’

quote:

His bedroom was dark. They listened at the door like two children playing hide-and-seek. The building was in silence. He inched open the door. He gave the behind an extra pat and she was gone.

Bond paused for a moment. Then he switched on the light. The innocent room smiled at him. Bond went to his table and reached for the Dictionary of British Surnames. Windsor, Windsor, Windsor. Here we are! Now then! As he bent over the small print, an important reflection seared his spy’s mind like a shooting star. All right. So sexual perversions, and sex itself, were a main security risk. So was greed for money. But what about status? What about that most insidious of vices, snobbery?

quote:

Six o’clock came. Bond had a nagging headache, brought on by hours of poring over small-print reference books and aggravated by the lack of oxygen at the high altitude. He needed a drink, three drinks. He had a quick shower and smartened himself up, rang his bell for the ‘warder’ and went along to the bar. Only a few of the girls were already there. Violet sat alone at the bar and Bond joined her. She seemed pleased to see him. She was drinking a Daiquiri. Bond ordered another and, for himself, a double Bourbon on the rocks. He took a deep pull at it and put the squat glass down. ‘By God, I needed that! I’ve been working like a slave all day while you’ve been waltzing about the ski-slopes in the sun!’

‘Have I indeed!’ A slight Irish brogue came out with the indignation. ‘Two lectures this morning, frightfully boring, and I had to catch up with my reading most of this afternoon. I’m way behind with it.’

‘What sort of reading?’

‘Oh, sort of agricultural stuff.’ The dark eyes watched him carefully. ‘We’re not supposed to talk about our cures, you know.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Bond cheerfully, ‘then let’s talk about something else. Where do you come from?’

‘Ireland. The South. Near Shannon.’

Bond had a shot in the dark. ‘All that potato country.’

‘Yes, that’s right. I used to hate them. Nothing but potatoes to eat and potato crops to talk about. Now I’m longing to get back. Funny, isn’t it?’

quote:

‘Your family’ll be pleased.’

‘You can say that again! And my boy friend! He’s on the wholesale side. I said I wouldn’t marry anyone who had anything to do with the damned, dirty, ugly things. He’s going to get a shock all right ...’

‘How’s that?’

‘All I’ve learned about how to improve the crop. The latest scientific ways, chemicals, and so on.’ She put her hand up to her mouth. She glanced swiftly round the room, at the bartender. To see if anyone had heard this innocent stuff? She put on a hostess smile. ‘Now you tell me what you’ve been working on, Sir Hilary.’

‘Oh, just some heraldic stuff for the Count. Like I was talking about at lunch. I’m afraid you’d find it frightfully dry stuff.’

quote:

‘Oh no, I wouldn’t. I was terribly interested in what you were saying to Miss Bunt. You see’ – she lowered her voice and spoke into her raised glass – ‘I’m an O’Neill. They used to be almost kings of Ireland. Do you think ...’ She had seen something over his shoulder. She went on smoothly, ‘And I simply can’t get my shoulders round enough. And when I try to I simply over-balance.’

‘’Fraid I don’t know anything about skiing,’ said Bond loudly.

Irma Bunt appeared in the mirror over the bar. ‘Ah, Sair Hilary.’ She inspected his face. ‘But yes, you are already getting a little of the sunburn, isn’t it? Come! Let us go and sit down. I see poor Miss Ruby over there all by herself.’

They followed her meekly. Bond was amused by the little undercurrent of rule-breaking that went on among the girls – the typical resistance pattern to strict discipline and the governessy ways of this hideous matron. He must be careful how he handled it, useful though it was proving. It wouldn’t do to get these girls too much ‘on his side’. But, if only because the Count didn’t want him to know them, he must somehow ferret away at their surnames and addresses. Ferret! That was the word! Ruby would be his ferret. Bond sat down beside her, the back of his hand casually brushing against her shoulder.

More drinks were ordered. The Bourbon was beginning to uncoil Bond’s tensions. His headache, instead of occupying his whole head, had localized itself behind the right temple. He said, gaily, ‘Shall we play the game again?’

quote:

‘I think that would be a mistake, Sair Hilary. And surely you will need all the time you have to complete your duties for the Count. No’ – it was an order – ‘I am afraid, with many apologies, that what you ask is out of the question.’ She glanced at her watch and clapped her hands. ‘And now, girls,’ she called, ‘it is time for the supper. Come along! Come along!’

It had only been a try-on, to see what form the negative answer would take. But, as Bond followed her into the dining-room, it was quite an effort to restrain his right shoe from giving Irma Bunt a really tremendous kick in her tight, bulging behind.

chitoryu12 posted:

Bond is being a bitch again here. A "cur" is a mongrel dog. It sounds like he's suggesting something impolite about Ruby's ancestry....

Polyakov posted:

In this instance i believe it is him describing himself as feeling a cur for misleading a woman in such a dickish way.

chitoryu12 posted:

Is this book just about Fleming dunking on aristocrats?

Polyakov posted:

In this instance i believe it is him describing himself as feeling a cur for misleading a woman in such a dickish way.

quote:

It was eleven o’clock and the place was as quiet as the grave. Bond, with due respect for the eye in the ceiling, went through the motions of going to the bathroom and then climbing into bed and switching off his light. He gave it ten minutes, then got quietly out of bed and pulled on his trousers and shirt. Working by touch, he slipped the end of the inch of plastic into the door crack, found the lock and pressed gently. The edge of the plastic caught the curve of the lock and slid it back. Bond now only had to push gently and the door was open. He listened, his ears pricked like an animal’s. Then he carefully put his head out. The empty corridor yawned at him. Bond slipped out of the door, closed it softly, took the few steps along to Number Three and gently turned the handle. It was dark inside but there was a stirring in the bed. Now to avoid the click of the shutting door! Bond took his bit of plastic and got it against the lock, holding it in the mortice. Then he inched the door shut, at the same time gently withdrawing the plastic. The lock slid noiselessly into place. There came a whisper from the bed. ‘Is that you?’ ‘Yes, darling.’ Bond slid out of his clothes and, assuming the same geography as in his own room, walked gingerly over to the bed and sat down on its edge.

A hand came out of the darkness and touched him. ‘Ooh, you’ve got nothing on!’

Bond caught the hand and reached along it. ‘Nor have you,’ he whispered. ‘That’s how it should be.’

Gingerly he lay down on the bed and put his head beside hers on the pillow. He noticed with a pang of pleasure that she had left room for him. He kissed her, at first softly and then with fierceness. Her body stirred. Her mouth yielded to his and when his left hand began its exploration she put her arms round him. ‘I’m catching cold.’ Bond followed the lie by pulling the single sheet away from under him and then covering them both with it. The warmth and softness of her splendid body were now all his. Bond lay against her. He drew the fingernails of his left hand softly down her flat stomach. The velvety skin fluttered. She gave a small groan and reached down for his hand and held it. ‘You do love me a little bit?’

That awful question! Bond whispered, ‘I think you’re the most adorable, beautiful girl. I wish I’d met you before.’

The stale, insincere words seemed to be enough. She removed her restraining hand.

quote:

Her hair smelt of new-mown summer grass, her mouth of Pepsodent, and her body of Memmen’s Baby Powder. A small night wind rose up outside and moaned round the building, giving an extra sweetness, an extra warmth, even a certain friendship to what was no more than an act of physical passion. There was real pleasure in what they did to each other, and in the end, when it was over and they lay quietly in each other’s arms, Bond knew, and knew that the girl knew, that they had done nothing wrong, done no harm to each other.

After a while Bond whispered into her hair, ‘Ruby!’

‘Mmmm.’

‘About your name. About the Windsors. I’m afraid there’s not much hope.’

‘Oh, well, I never really believed. You know these old family stories.’

quote:

‘Anyway, I haven’t got enough books here. When I get back I’ll dig into it properly. Promise. It’ll be a question of starting with your family and going back – church and town records and so forth. I’ll have it done properly and send it to you. Great slab of parchment with a lot of snazzy print. Heavy black italics with coloured letters to start each line. Although it mayn’t get you anywhere, it might be nice to have.’

‘You mean like old documents in museums?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That’d be nice.’

There was silence in the little room. Her breathing became regular. Bond thought: how extraordinary! Here on top of this mountain, a death’s run away from the nearest hamlet in the valley, in this little room were peace, silence, warmth, happiness – many of the ingredients of love. It was like making love in a balloon. Which nineteenth-century rake had it been who had recorded a bet in a London club that he would make love to a woman in a balloon?

quote:

Bond was on the edge of sleep. He let himself slide down the soft, easy slope. Here it was wonderful. It would be just as easy for him to get back to his room in the early hours. He softly eased his right arm from under the sleeping girl, took a lazy glance at his left wrist. The big luminous numerals said midnight.

Bond had hardly turned over on his right side, up against the soft flanks of the sleeping girl, when, from underneath the pillow, under the floor, deep in the bowels of the building, there came the peremptory ringing of a deep-toned, melodious electric bell. The girl stirred. She said sleepily, ‘Oh, drat!’

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, it’s only the treatment. I suppose it’s midnight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t pay any attention. It’s only for me. Just go to sleep.’

Bond kissed her between the shoulder-blades but said nothing.

quote:

Now the bell had stopped. In its place there started up a droning whine, rather like the noise of a very fast electric fan, with, behind it, the steady, unvarying tick-pause-tock, tick-pause-tock of some kind of metronome. The combination of the two sounds was wonderfully soothing. It compelled attention, but only just on the fringe of consciousness – like the night-noises of childhood, the slow tick of the nursery clock combined with the sound of the sea or the wind outside. And now a voice, the Count’s voice came over the distant wire or tape that Bond assumed was the mechanical source of all this. The voice was pitched in a low, sing-song murmur, caressing yet authoritative, and every word was distinct. ‘You are going to sleep.’ The voice fell on the word ‘sleep’. ‘You are tired and your limbs feel like lead.’ Again the falling cadence on the last word. ‘Your arms feel as heavy as lead. Your breathing is quite even. Your breathing is as regular as a child’s. Your eyes are closed and the eyelids are heavy as lead. You are becoming tireder and tireder. Your whole body is becoming tired and heavy as lead. You are warm and comfortable. You are slipping, slipping, slipping down into sleep. Your bed is as soft and downy as a nest. You are as soft and sleepy as a chicken in a nest. A dear little chicken, fluffy and cuddly.’ There came the sound of a sweet cooing and clucking, the gentle brushing together of wings, the dozy murmuring of mother hens with their chicks. It went on for perhaps a full minute. Then the voice came back. ‘The little darlings are going to sleep. They are like you, comfortable and sleepy in their nests. You love them dearly, dearly, dearly. You love all chickens. You would like to make pets of them all. You would like them to grow up beautiful and strong. You would like no harm to come to them. Soon you will be going back to your darling chickens. Soon you will be able to look after them again. Soon you will be able to help all the chickens of England. You will be able to improve the breed of chickens all over England. This will make you very, very happy. You will be doing so much good that it will make you very, very happy. But you will keep quiet about it. You will say nothing of your methods. They will be your own secret, your very own secret. People will try and find out your secret. But you will say nothing because they might try and take your secret away from you. And then you would not be able to make your darling chickens happy and healthy and strong. Thousands, millions of chickens made happier because of you. So you will say nothing and keep your secret. You will say nothing, nothing at all. You will remember what I say. You will remember what I say.’ The murmuring voice was getting farther and farther away. The sweet cooing and clucking of chickens softly obscured the vanishing voice, then that too died away and there was only the electric whine and the tick-pause-tock of the metronome.

quote:

Ruby was deeply asleep. Bond reached out for her wrist and felt the pulse. It was plumb on beat with the metronome. And now that, and the whine of the machine, receded softly until all was dead silence again save for the soft moan of the night wind outside.

quote:

When, at nine o’clock, he awoke and threw open his windows, the sky was overcast with the heavy blank grey that meant snow. Over by the Berghaus, the Schneefinken, and Schneevögel, the snow-finches and Alpine choughs, that lived on the crumbs and leftovers of the picnickers, were fluttering and swooping close round the building – a sure storm-warning. The wind had got up and was blowing in sharp, threatening gusts, and no whine of machinery came from the cable railway. The light aluminium gondolas would have too bad a time in winds of this strength, particularly over the last great swoop of cable that brought them a good quarter of a mile over the exposed shoulder beneath the plateau.

Bond shut the windows and rang for his breakfast. When it came there was a note from Fräulein Bunt on the tray. ‘The Count will be pleased to receive you at eleven o’clock. I.B.’

Bond ate his breakfast and got down to his third page of de Bleuvilles. He had quite a chunk of work to show up, but this was easy stuff. The prospect of successfully bamboozling his way along the Blofeld part of the trail was not so encouraging. He would start boldly at the Gdynia end and work back – get the old rascal to talk about his youth and his parents. Old rascal? Well, dammit, whatever he had become since Operation ‘Thunderball’, there weren’t two Ernst Stavro Blofelds in the world!

quote:

Bond laid out his big sheets on the desk and proudly ran his finger down through the generations. There was excitement and satisfaction in the Count’s comments and questions. ‘But this is tremendous, really tremendous, my dear fellow. And you say there is mention of a broken spear or a broken sword in the arms? Now when was that granted?’

Bond rattled off a lot of stuff about the Norman Conquest. The broken sword had probably been awarded as a result of some battle. More research in London would be needed to pin the occasion down. Finally Bond rolled up the sheets and got out his notebook. ‘And now we must start working back from the other end, Count.’ Bond became inquisitorial, authoritative. ‘We have your birth date in Gdynia, May 28th, 1908. Yes?’

quote:

‘Correct.’

‘Your parents’ names?’

‘Ernst George Blofeld and Maria Stavro Michelopoulos.’

‘Also born in Gdynia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now your grandparents?’

‘Ernst Stefan Blofeld and Elizabeth Lubomirskaya.’

‘Hm, so the Ernst is something of a family Christian name?’

‘It would seem so. My great-grandfather, he was also Ernst.’

‘That is most important. You see, Count, among the Blofelds of Augsburg there are no less than two Ernsts!’

The Count’s hands had been lying on the green pad on his desk, relaxed. Now, impulsively, they joined together and briefly writhed, showing white knuckles.

My God, you’ve got it bad! thought Bond.

quote:

‘And that is important?’

‘Very. Christian names run through families. We regard them as most significant clues. Now, can you remember any farther back? You have done well. We have covered three generations. With the dates I shall later ask you for, we have already got back to around 1850. Only another fifty years to go and we shall have arrived at Augsburg.’

‘No.’ It was almost a cry of pain. ‘My great-great-grandfather. Of him I know nothing.’ The hands writhed on the blotting-paper. ‘Perhaps, perhaps. If it is a question of money. People, witnesses could be found.’ The hands parted, held themselves out expansively. ‘My dear Sir Hilary, you and I are men of the world. We understand each other. Extracts from archives, registry offices, the churches – these things, do they have to be completely authentic?’

Got you, you old fox! Bond said affably, with a hint of conspiracy, ‘I don’t quite understand what you mean, Count.’

The hands were now flat on the desk again, happy hands. Blofeld had recognized one of his kind. ‘You are a hard-working man. Sir Hilary. You live modestly in this remote region of Scotland. Life could perhaps be made easier for you. There are perhaps material benefits you desire – motor-cars, a yacht, a pension. You have only to say the word, name a figure.’ The dark-green orbs bored into Bond’s modestly evasive eyes, holding them. ‘Just a little co-operation. A visit here and there in Poland and Germany and France. Of course your expenses would be heavy. Let us say five hundred pounds a week. The technical matters, the documents, and so forth. Those I can arrange. It would only require your supporting evidence. Yes? The Ministry of Justice in Paris, for them the word of the College of Arms is the word of God. Is that not so?’

quote:

It was too good to be true! But how to play it? Diffidently, Bond said, ‘What you are suggesting, Count, is – er – not without interest. Of course’ – Bond’s smile was sufficiently expansive, sufficiently bland – ‘if the documents were convincing, so to speak solid, very solid, then it would be quite reasonable for me to authenticate them.’ Bond put spaniel into his eyes, asking to be patted, to be told that everything would be all right, that he would be completely protected. ‘You see what I mean?’

The Count began, with force, sincerity, ‘You need have absolutely no ...’ when there was the noise of an approaching hubbub down the passage. The door burst open. A man, propelled from behind, lurched into the room and fell, writhing, to the floor.

Two of the guards came stiffly to attention behind him. They looked first at the Count and then, sideways, towards Bond, surprised to see him there.

The Count said sharply, ‘Was ist denn los?’

Bond knew the answer and, momentarily, he died. Behind the snow and the blood on the face of the man on the floor, Bond recognized the face of a man he knew.

The blond hair, the nose broken boxing for the Navy, belonged to a friend of his in the Service. It was, unmistakably, Number 2 from Station Z in Zürich!

What a Spy Would Do posted:

Bond sprang forward, lifting the other man to his knees. "I say, what on Earth?! Dear chap, whatever has happened to you!" he exclaimed.
Number 2 opened his mouth slightly.
"No, no, don't try to talk!" Bond looked round at Blofeld. "Brandy, Count! Surely you have brandy! And a doctor, you must call for a doctor at once!" He looked up at the guards, feigning obliviousness to their thuggish role. "Whatever happened to the poor fellow?" he asked in his best tone of plaintive concern. "A fall from his skis?"

James Bond, Super Agent! posted:

Bond regarded the prone man with cool indifference. "Never seen him in my life," he said, before Blofeld could speak. "But it looks like the SPECTRE of death is hanging over him right now." He looked Blofeld in his green-lensed eyes. "Oh don't look so Ernst, count! I'm sure he'll be fine. But you must get an in-SPECTRE out to look at those ski lifts."

He narrowed his gaze. "SPECTRE," he added, just to make sure.

Runcible Cat posted:

Yeah, it's because he knows he's being a shitbag. (Not least because the Royal Family only changed their surname to Windsor in WWI, since Saxe-Coburg-Gotha was too German...).

chitoryu12 posted:

Let's just say that James Bond is not the quickest on his feet.

quote:

Yes, it was Shaun Campbell all right! Christ Almighty, what a mess! Station Z had especially been told nothing about Bond’s mission. Campbell must have been following a lead of his own, probably trailing this Russian who had been ‘buying supplies’. Typical of the sort of balls-up that over-security can produce!

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The leading guard was talking in rapid, faulty German with a Slav accent. ‘He was found in the open ski compartment at the back of the gondola. Much frozen, but he put up a strong resistance. He had to be subdued. He was no doubt following Captain Boris.’ The man caught himself up. ‘I mean, your guest from the valley, Herr Graf. He says he is an English tourist from Zürich. That he had got no money for the fare. He wanted to pay a visit up here. He was searched. He carried five hundred Swiss francs. No identity papers.’ The man shrugged. ‘He says his name is Campbell.’

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At the sound of his name, the man on the ground stirred. He lifted his head and looked wildly round the room. He had been badly battered about the face and head with a pistol or a cosh. His control was shot to pieces. When his eyes lit on the familiar face of Bond, he looked astonished, then, as if a lifebuoy had been thrown to him, he said hoarsely, ‘Thank God, James. Tell ’em it’s me! Tell ’em I’m from Universal Export. In Zürich. You know! For God’s sake, James! Tell ’em I’m OK.’ His head fell forward on the carpet.

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The Count’s head slowly turned towards Bond. The opaque green eyes caught the pale light from the window and glinted whitely. The tight, face-lifted smile was grotesquely horrible. ‘You know this man, Sir Hilary?’

Bond shook his head sorrowfully. He knew he was pronouncing the death sentence on Campbell. ‘Never seen him before in my life. Poor chap. He sounds a bit daft to me. Concussed, probably. Why not ship him down to a hospital in the valley? He looks in a pretty bad way.’

‘And Universal Export?’ The voice was silky. ‘I seem to have heard that name before.’

‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Bond indifferently. ‘Never heard of it.’ He reached in his pocket for his cigarettes, lit one with a dead steady hand.

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The Count turned back to the guards. He said softly, ‘Zur Befragungszelle.’ He nodded his dismissal. The two guards bent down and hauled Campbell up by his armpits. The hanging head raised itself, gave one last terrible look of appeal at Bond. Then the man who was Bond’s colleague was hustled out of the room and the door was closed softly behind his dragging feet.

To the interrogation cell! That could mean only one thing, under modern methods, total confession! How long would Campbell hold out for? How many hours had Bond got left?

‘I have told them to take him to the sick-room. He will be well looked after.’ The Count looked from the papers on his desk to Bond. ‘I am afraid this unhappy intrusion has interfered with my train of thought, Sir Hilary. So perhaps you will forgive me for this morning?’

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‘Of course, of course. And, regarding your proposition, that we should work a little more closely together on your interests, I can assure you, Count, that I find it most interesting.’ Bond smiled conspiratorially. ‘I’m sure we could come to some satisfactory arrangement.’

‘Yes? That is good.’ The Count linked his hands behind his head and gazed for a moment at the ceiling and then, reflectively, back at Bond. He said casually, ‘I suppose you would not be connected in any way with the British Secret Service, Sir Hilary?’

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Bond laughed out loud. The laugh was a reflex, forced out of him by tension. ‘Good God, no! Didn’t even know we had one. Didn’t all that sort of thing go out with the end of the war?’ Bond chuckled to himself, fatuously amused. ‘Can’t quite see myself running about behind a false moustache. Not my line of country at all. Can’t bear moustaches.’

The Count’s unwavering smile did not seem to share Bond’s amusement. He said coldly, ‘Then please forget my question, Sir Hilary. The intrusion by this man has made me over-suspicious. I value my privacy up here, Sir Hilary. Scientific research can only be pursued in an atmosphere of peace.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Bond was effusive. He got to his feet and gathered up his papers from the desk. ‘And now I must get on with my own research work. Just getting into the fourteenth century. I think I shall have some interesting data to show you tomorrow, Count.’

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The Count got politely to his feet and Bond went out of the door and along the passage.

He loitered, listening for any sound. There was none, but half-way down the corridor one of the doors was ajar. A crack of blood-red light showed. Bond thought, I’ve probably had it anyway. In for a penny, in for a pound! He pushed the door open and stuck his head into the room. It was a long, low laboratory with a plastic-covered work-bench extending its whole length beneath the windows, which were shuttered. Dark red light, as in a film-developing chamber, came from neon strips above the cornice. The bench was littered with retorts and test-tubes, and there were line upon line of test-tubes and phials containing a cloudy liquid in racks against the far wall. Three men in white, with gauze pads over the bottoms of their faces and white surgical caps over their hair, were at work, absorbed. Bond took in the scene, a scene from a theatrical hell, withdrew his head, and walked on down the corridor and out into what was now a driving snowstorm. He pulled the top of his sweater over his head and forced his way along the path to the blessed warmth of the club-house. Then he walked quickly to his room, closed the door, and went into the bathroom and sat down on his usual throne of reflection and wondered what in God’s name to do.

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Could he have saved Campbell? Well, he could have had a desperate shot at it. ‘Oh, yes. I know this man. Perfectly respectable chap. We used to work for the same export firm, Universal, in London. You look in pretty bad shape, old boy. What the devil happened?’ But it was just as well he hadn’t tried. As cover, solid cover, Universal was ‘brûlé’ with the pros. It had been in use too long. All the secret services in the world had penetrated it by now. Obviously Blofeld knew all about it. Any effort to save Campbell would simply have tied Bond in with him. There had been no alternative except to throw him to the wolves. If Campbell had a chance to get his wits back before they really started on him, he would know that Bond was there for some purpose, that his disavowal by Bond was desperately important to Bond, to the Service. How long would he have the strength to cover for Bond, retrieve his recognition of Bond? At most a few hours. But how many hours? That was the vital question. That and how long the storm would last. Bond couldn’t possibly getaway in this stuff. If it stopped, there might be a chance, a damned slim one, but better than the alternatives, of which, if and when Campbell talked, there was only one – death, probably a screaming death.

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Bond surveyed his weapons. They were only his hands and feet, his Gillette razor and his wrist-watch, a heavy Rolex Oyster Perpetual on an expanding metal bracelet. Used properly, these could be turned into most effective knuckledusters. Bond got up, took the blade out of his Gillette and dropped the razor into his trouser pocket. He slipped the shaft between the first and second fingers of his left hand so that the blade-carrier rested flat along his knuckles. Yes, that was the way! Now was there anything, any evidence he should try and take with him? Yes, he must try and get more, if not all, of the girls’ names and, if possible, addresses. For some reason he knew they were vital. For that he would have to use Ruby. His head full of plans for getting the information out of her, Bond went out of the bathroom and sat down at his desk and got on with a fresh page of de Bleuvilles. At least he must continue to show willing, if only to the recording eye in the ceiling.

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It was about twelve-thirty when Bond heard his doorknob being softly turned. Ruby slipped in and, her finger to her lips, disappeared into his bathroom. Bond casually threw down his pen, got up and stretched and strolled over and went in after her.

Ruby’s blue eyes were wide and frightened. ‘You’re in trouble,’ she whispered urgently. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bond innocently. ‘What’s up?’

‘We’ve all been told that we mustn’t talk to you unless Miss Bunt is there.’ Her knuckles went distractedly up to her teeth. ‘Do you think they know about us?’

‘Couldn’t possibly,’ said Bond, radiating confidence. ‘I think I know what it is.’ (With so much obfuscation in the air, what did an extra, a reassuring, lie matter?) ‘This morning the Count told me I was an upsetting influence here, that I was what he called “disruptive”, interfering with your treatments. He asked me to keep myself more to myself. Honestly’ – (how often that word came into a lie!) – ‘I’m sure that’s all it is. Rather a pity really. Apart from you – I mean you’re sort of special – I think all you girls are terribly sweet. I’d like to have helped you all.’

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Bond tore off some strips of lavatory paper and took out a pencil. ‘Fire away!’

She laughed. ‘Well, you know me and Violet, then there’s Elizabeth Mackinnon. She’s from Aberdeen. Beryl Morgan from somewhere in Herefordshire. Pearl Tampion, Devonshire – by the way, all those simply loathed every kind of cattle. Now they live on steaks! Would you believe it? I must say the Count’s a wonderful man.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Then there’s Anne Charter from Canterbury and Caresse Ventnor from the National Stud, wherever that is – fancy her working there and she came up in a rash all over whenever she went near a horse! Now all she does is dream of pony clubs and read every word she can get hold of about Pat Smythe! And Denise Robertson …’

The list went on until Bond had got the whole ten. He said, ‘What about that Polly somebody who left in November?’

‘Polly Tasker. She was from East Anglia. Don’t remember where, but I can find out the address when I get back to England. Sir Hilary’ – she put her arm round his neck – ‘I am going to see you again, aren’t I?’

Bond held her tight and kissed her. ‘Of course, Ruby. You can always get me at the College of Arms in Queen Victoria Street. Just send me a postcard when you get back. But for God’s sake cut out the “Sir”. You’re my girl friend. Remember?’

‘Oh, yes, I will – er – Hilary,’ she said fervently. ‘And you will be careful, getting away I mean. You’re sure it’s all right? Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘No, darling. Just don’t breathe a word of all this. It’s a secret between us. Right?’

‘Of course, darling.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh lord! I must simply fly. Only ten minutes to lunch-time. Now, can you do your trick with the door? There shouldn’t be anyone about. It’s their lunch-time from twelve till one.’

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Bond gestured at his still watering eyes. ‘I’ve got the Count’s trouble. Sort of conjunctivitis, I suppose. The tremendous glare up here. Better today of course, but there’s still a lot of reflection from the snow. And all this paperwork. Could you get me a pair of snow-goggles? I’ll only need to borrow them for a day or two. Just till my eyes get used to the light. Don’t usually have this sort of trouble.’

‘Yes. That can be done. I will see that they are put in your room.’ She summoned the head waiter and gave him the order in German. The man, looking at Bond with overt dislike, said, ‘Sofort, gnädiges Fräulein,’ and clicked his heels.

‘And one more thing, if you will,’ said Bond politely. ‘A small flask of schnapps.’ He turned to Fräulein Bunt. ‘I find I am not sleeping well up here. Perhaps a nightcap would help. I always have one at home – generally whisky. But here I would prefer schnapps. When in Gloria, do as the Glorians do. Ha ha!’

Fräulein Bunt looked at him stonily. She said to the waiter curtly, ‘In Ordnung!’ The man took Bond’s order of Pâté Maison followed by Oeufs Gloria and the cheese tray (Bond thought he had better get some stuffing into him!), clicked his heels and went away. Was he one of those who had been at work in the interrogation room? Bond silently ground his teeth. By God, if it came to hitting any of these guards tonight, he was going to hit them damned hard, with everything he’d got! He felt Fräulein Bunt’s eyes inquisitively on him. He untensed himself and began to make amiable conversation about the storm. How long would it last? What was the barometer doing?

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‘He makes progress.’

‘Oh! Who was that?’ asked Ruby eagerly.

‘It was an intruder.’ Fräulein Bunt’s eyes were hard with warning. ‘It is not a subject for conversation.’

‘Oh, but why not?’ asked Bond innocently. ‘After all, you can’t get much excitement up here. Anything out of the ordinary should be a bit of a relief.’

She said nothing. Bond raised his eyebrows politely and then accepted the snub with a good grace. He asked if any newspapers came up. Or was there a radio bulletin like on board ship? Did they get any news from the outside world?

‘No.’

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Bond’s eyes narrowed to slits as he scanned them, measuring, estimating. Yes, the pair of metal Heads with the red V’s painted on the black curved tips was the best bet. They were of the stiffer, Master’s, category, designed for racing. Bond remembered reading somewhere that the Standard model was inclined to ‘float’ at speed. His choice had the Attenhofer Flex forward release with the Marker lateral release. Two transverse leather thongs wound round the ankle and buckled over the instep would, if he fell, which he was certain to do, ensure against losing a ski.

Bond made a quick guess at how much the bindings would need adjustment to fit his boots and went off down the corridor to his room.

Somebody Awful posted:

How much would collecting the whole bunch set you back?

Meaty Ore posted:

You also forgot one wrinkle I think might be significant here: during WWII, Rolex offered free replacement of watches to any British military customers who lost theirs due to hostilities. So for a veteran naval officer like Bond, it would not be unexpected or unusual for him to be wearing one.

chitoryu12 posted:

Dalton completely returns to the Bond we know in Licence to Kill