On her Majesty's Secret Service

Part II of a novel by Ian Fleming

Synopsis: For James Bond, on the beach at Royale les Eaux, it had been one of those Septembers when it seemed that the summer would never end. He had come to the Normandy Coast for a rest from his persistent pursuit of Ernst Stavro Blofeld, mastermind of Spectre (Special Executive for Counter-Intelligence, Revenge and Extortion), the dreaded organization of international crime. He was fed to the teeth with chasing the ghost of Blofeld. And the same went for Spectre.

It was while he was driving in his big Bentley toward the beach at Royale that the adventure began. Triple wind horns screamed their banshee discord in his ear and a Lancia Flaminia Zagato Spyder, with a beautiful girl at the wheel, tore past him and pulled quickly away. By the time he had passed through Montreuil the nimbler car had vanished, and he was left with the haunting image of the girl's shocking-pink scarf whipping cheekily from the Lancia as it roared past. He had to find out who this devil of a girl was.

And he did find out that night in the Casino. She gambled with money she didn't possess, repaid him with her body for covering her losses at chemin de fer, and threatened suicide. Her name was La Comtesse Teresa di Vicenzo but when morning came he was calling her Tracy.

Sensing that she was greatly disturbed within, Bond followed the countess to the beach and called to her when it appeared she was about to drown herself in the surf. The girl looked past him and her clenched right hand went up to her mouth. Bond swirled and there were the steady silver eyes of two automatics sneering at him, held by two swarthy thugs with deadpan, professional faces; in a moment all four were in a launch headed for the nearby hide-out of Marc-Ange Draco, Tracy's father – and head of the Corsican crime brotherhood known as the Union Corse. There Draco made James Bond a strange offer: £1,000,000 to wed his daughter, whose suicidal inclinations, he explained, stemmed from self-contempt for a life of decadent self-indulgence. Bond, pleading the prior claim of duty, refused the offer, suggesting instead that Tracy be sent to a Swiss sanitarium for treatment and adding that, after her release, he would be delighted to pay her court. In gratitude for Bond's kindness to his daughter in the Casino, Draco paid his guest the favor of disclosing the whereabouts of the hunted Blofeld – somewhere in Switzerland.

Two months later, in London, Bond was still on the trail of the master of Spectre, and learned from Sable Basilisk, of Her Majesty's College of Arms and Heraldry, that a Swiss resident named Blofeld had applied for a trace on his family tree with a view to establishing himself as Le Comte de Bleuville. To Bond this was as the scent of fox to hound. Posing as Sir Hilary Bray, a legitimate English nobleman, and as an expert on heraldry, he inveigled an invitation to visit Blofeld's hideaway and then set off to ensnare his prey, highly aware that once Blofeld had probed his heraldic gen to its rather shallow bottom and it had been proved that he was or was not Le Comte de Bleuville, "Sir Hilary Bray," his usefulness expended, might well meet with an "accident."

It was on this cheery thought that James Bond, bowler hat, rolled umbrella, neatly folded Daily Express and all, took off via jet for the lair of his foe. What would Blofeld look like? He wondered. And his excitement mounted as he consumed a delicious lunch served by a delicious stewardess – and the winter-brown checkerboard of France fled distantly below.

Now there was scattered snow and barren trees as they crossed the tiny hillocks of the Vosges, then permanent snow and ice floes on the Rhine, a short stop at Basle, and then the black crisscross of Zürich Airport and "Fasten your lapstraps" in three languages, and they were planing down, a slight bump, the roar of jet deflection, and then they were taxiing up to the apron in front of the imposing, very European-looking buildings decked with the gay flags of the nations.

At the Swissair desk inside the door, a woman was standing beside the reception counter. As soon as Bond appeared in the entrance she came forward. "Sair Hilary Bray?"

"Yes."

"I am Fräulein Irma Bunt. Personal secretary to the Count. Good afternoon. I hope you had a happy flight."

She looked like a very sunburned female wardress. She had a square, brutal face with hard yellow eyes. Her smile was an oblong hole without humor or welcome, and there were sunburn blisters at the left corner of her mouth which she licked from time to time with the tip of a pale tongue. Wisps of brownish-gray hair, with a tight, neat bun at the back, showed from under a skiing hat with a yellow talc visor that had straps which met under her chin. Her strong, short body was dressed in unbecomingly tight vorlage trousers topped by a gray wind jacket ornamented over the left breast with a large red G topped by a coronet. Irma la not-so-douce, thought Bond. He said, "Yes. It was very pleasant."

"You have your baggage check? Will you follow me, please? And first your passport. This way."

Bond followed her through the passport control and out into the customs hall. There were a few standers-by. Bond noticed her head nod casually. A man with a brief case under his arm, hanging about, moved away. Bond studiously examined his baggage check. Beyond the scrap of cardboard, he noticed the man slip into one of the row of telephone booths in the main hall outside the customs area.

"You speak German?" The tongue flicked out and licked the blisters.

"No, I'm afraid not."

"French perhaps?"

"A little. Enough for my work."

"Ah, yes. That is important, yes?"

Bond's suitcase was unloaded off the trolley onto the barrier. The woman flashed some kind of a pass at the customs officer. It was very quickly done, but Bond caught a glimpse of her photograph and the heading "Bundespolizei." So! Blofeld had got the fix in!

The officer said deferentially, "Bitte sehr," and chalked his symbol in the color of the day, yellow, on Bond's suitcase. A porter took it and they walked across to the entrance. When they came out on the steps, a neutral black Mercedes 300 SE saloon pulled smartly out of the parking area and slid to a stop beside them. Next to the chauffeur sat the man who had gone to the telephone. Bond's suitcase was put in the boot and they moved off fast in the direction of Zürich. A few hundred yards down the wide road, the man beside the driver, who, Bond noticed, had been surreptitiously watching in the twin driving mirrors, said softly, "Is gut," and the car turned right-handed up a side road which was marked "Eingang Verboten! Mit Ausnahme von Eigentümer und Personell von Privatflugzeugen."

Bond was amused as he ticked off the little precautions. It was obvious that he was still very much on probation.

The car came up with the hangars to the left of the main building, drove slowly between them and pulled up beside a bright orange Alouette helicopter, adapted by Sud Aviation for mountain rescue work. But this one had the red G with the coronet on its fuselage. So! He was going to be taken for a flight rather than a ride!

"You have traveled in one of these machines before? No? It is very pleasant. One obtains a fine view of the Alps." Fräulein Bunt's eyes were blank with disinterest. They climbed up the aluminum ladder. "Mind your head, please!" Bond's suitcase was handed up by the chauffeur.

It was a six-seater, luxurious in red leather. Above and in front of them under his perspex canopy the pilot lifted a thumb. The ground staff pulled away the chocks and the big blades began to move. As they accelerated, the men on the ground drew away, shielding their faces against the whirling snow. There was a slight jolt and then they were climbing fast, and the crackle of radio from the control tower went silent.

Irma Bunt was across the passageway from Bond. The extra man was in the rear, hidden behind the Züricher Zeitung. Bond leaned sideways and said loudly, against the rattle of the machine, "Where are we heading for?"

She pretended not to hear. Bond repeated his question, shouting it.

"Into the Alps. Into the high Alps," shouted the woman. She waved toward the window. "It is very beautiful. You like the mountains, isn't it?"

"I love them," shouted Bond. "Just like Scotland." He leaned back in his seat, lit a cigarette and looked out of the window. Yes, there was the Züricher See to port. Their course was more or less east-south-east. They were flying at about 2000 feet. And now there was the Wallensee. Bond, apparently uninterested, took the Daily Express out of his brief case and turned to the sports pages. He read the paper from last page to first, meticulously, every now and then casting a bored glance out of the window. The big range to port would be the Rhätikon Alps. That would be the railway junction of Landquart below them. They held their course up the valley of the Pratigau. Would they keep on at Klosters or veer to starboard? Starboard it was. So! Up the Davos Valley! In a few minutes he would be flying over Tracy! A casual glance. Yes, there was Davos under its thin canopy of evening mist and smoke, while, above her, he was still in bright sunshine. At least she seemed to have had plenty of snow. Bond remembered the tremendous run down the Parsenn. Those had been the days! And now back on the old course again and giant peaks to right and left. This must be the Engadine. The Silvretta Group away to starboard, to port Piz Languard and, ahead, the Bernina range diving down, like a vast ski jump, into Italy. That forest of lights away to starboard must be St. Moritz! Now where? Bond buried himself in his paper. A slight veer to port. More lights. Pontresina? And now the radio began to crackle and the "Seat belts" sign went up. Bond thought it time to express open interest. He gazed out. Below, the ground was mostly in darkness, but ahead the giant peaks were still golden in the dying sun. They were making straight for one of them, for a small plateau near its summit. There was a group of buildings from which golden wires swooped down into the darkness of the valley. A cable car, spangled in the sun, was creeping down. Now it had been swallowed up in the murk. The helicopter was still charging the side of the peak that towered above them. Now it was only a hundred feet up above the (continued on page 114)Her Majesty's Secret Service(continued from page 90) slope, coming in to the plateau and the buildings. The pilot's arms moved on his joy stick. The machine pitched a little and slowed. The rotor arms swung languidly and then accelerated as the machine hovered and settled. There came a slight bump as the inflated rubber "floats" met the snow, a dying whir from the rotor and they were there.

Where? Bond knew. They were in the Languard range, somewhere above Pontresina in the Engadine, and their altitude would be about 10,000 feet. He buttoned up his raincoat and prepared for the rasping dagger of the cold air on his lungs when the door was opened.

Irma Bunt gave her boxlike smile. "We have arrived," she said unnecessarily.

The door, with a clatter of falling ice particles, was wrenched open. The last rays of the sun shone into the cabin. They caught the woman's yellow sun visor and shone through, turning her face Chinese. The eyes gave out a false blaze, like the glass eyes of a toy animal, under the light. "Mind your head." She bent down, her tight, squat behind inviting an enormous kick, and went down the ladder.

James Bond followed her, holding his breath against the searing impact of the Arctic, oxygenless air. There were some men standing around dressed like ski guides. They looked at Bond with curiosity, but there was no greeting. Bond went on across the hard-trodden snow in the wake of the woman, the extra man following with his suitcase. He heard the engine stutter and roar, and a blizzard of snow particles stung the right side of his face. Then the iron grasshopper rose into the air and rattled off into the dusk.

It was perhaps 50 yards from where the helicopter had landed to the group of buildings. Bond dawdled, getting preliminary bearings. Ahead was a long, low building, now ablaze with lights. To the right, and perhaps another 50 yards away, were the outlines of the typical modern cable railhead, a boxlike structure, with a thick flat roof canted upward from close to the ground. As Bond examined it, its lights went out. Presumably the last car had reached the valley and the line was closed for the night. To the right of this was a large, bogus-chalet-type structure with a vast veranda, sparsely lit, that would be for the mass tourist trade – again a typical piece of high-Alpine architecture. Down to the left, beneath the slope of the plateau, lights shone from a fourth building that, except for its flat roof, was out of sight.

Bond was now only a few yards from the building that was obviously his destination. An oblong of yellow opened invitingly as the woman went in and held the door for him. The light illuminated a big sign with the red G surmounted by the coronet. It said Gloria Klub. 3605 Meters. Privat! Nur Für Mitglieder. Below in smaller letters it said "Alpenberghaus und Restaurant Piz Gloria," and the drooping index finger of the traditional hand pointed to the right, toward the building near the cable-head.

So! Piz Gloria! Bond walked into the inviting yellow oblong. The door, released by the woman, closed with a pneumatic hiss.

Inside it was deliciously warm, almost hot. They were in a small reception room, and a youngish man with a very pale crewcut and shrewd eyes got to his feet from behind a desk and made a slight bob in their direction. "Sir Hilary is in number two."

"Weiss schon," said the woman curtly and, only just more politely, to Bond, "Follow me, please." She went through a facing door and down a thickly piled, red-carpeted passage. The left-hand wall was only occasionally broken by windows interspersed with fine skiing and mountain photographs. On the right were at first the doors of the club rooms, marked Bar, Restaurant, and Toiletten. Then came what were obviously the doors of bedrooms. Bond was shown into number two. It was an extremely comfortable, chintzy room in the American motel style with a bathroom leading off. The broad picture window was now curtained, but Bond knew that it must offer a tremendous view over the valley to the Silvretta Group above St. Moritz. Bond threw his brief case on the double bed and gratefully disposed of his bowler hat and umbrella. The extra man appeared with his suitcase, placed it on the luggage stand without looking at Bond and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The woman stayed where she was. "This is to your satisfaction?" The yellow eyes were indifferent to his enthusiastic reply. She had more to say. "That is good. Now perhaps I should explain some things, convey to you some laws of the club, isn't it?"

Bond lit a cigarette. "That would certainly be helpful." He put a politely interested expression on his face. "Where are we, for instance?"

"In the Alps. In the high Alps," said the woman vaguely. "This Alp, Piz Gloria, is the property of the Count. Together with the Gemeinde, the local authorities, he constructed the Seilbahn. You have seen the cables, yes? This is the first year it is opened. It is very popular and brings in much money. There are some fine ski runs. The Gloria Abfahrt is already famous. There is also a bobsleigh run that is much greater than the Cresta at St. Moritz. You have heard of that? You ski perhaps? Or make the bobsleigh?"

The yellow eyes were watchful. Bond thought he would continue to answer no to all questions. Instinct told him to. He said apologetically, "I'm afraid not. Never got around to it, you know. Too much bound up with my books, perhaps." He smiled ruefully, self-critically.

"Schade! That is a pity." But the eyes registered satisfaction. "These installations bring good income for the Count. That is important. It helps to support his life's work, the Institut."

Bond raised his eyebrows a polite fraction.

"The Institut für physiologische Forschung. It is for scientific research. The Count is a leader in the field of allergies – you understand? This is like the hay fever, the unableness to eat shellfish, yes?"

"Oh really? Can't say I suffer from any myself."

"No? The laboratories are in a separate building. There the Count also lives. In this building, where we are, live the patients. He asks that you will not disturb them with too many questions. These treatments are very delicate. You understand?"

"Yes, of course. And when may I see the Count? I'm afraid I am a very busy man, Fräulein Bunt. There are matters awaiting my attention in London." Bond spoke impressively. "The new African States. Much work has to be done on their flags, the design of their currency, their stamps, their medals. We are very shorthanded at the College. I hope the Count understands that his personal problem, interesting and important though it is, must take second place to the problems of Government."

Bond had got through. Now she was all eagerness, reassurance. "But of course, my dear Sair Hilary. The Count asks to be excused tonight, but he would much like to receive you at 11 o'clock tomorrow morning. That is suitable?"

"Certainly, certainly. That will give me time to marshal my documents, my books. Perhaps –" Bond waved to the small writing desk near the window – "I could have an extra table to lay these things out. I'm afraid –" Bond smiled deprecatingly – "we bookworms need a lot of space."

"Of course, Sair Hilary. It will be done at once." She moved to the door and pressed a bell button. She gestured downward, now definitely embarrassed. "You will have noticed that there is no door handle on this side?" (Bond had done so. He said he hadn't.) "You will ring when you wish to leave the room. Yes? It is on account of the patients. It is necessary that they have quiet. It is difficult to prevent them visiting each other for the sake of gossiping. It is for (continued on page 116)Her Majesty's Secret Service(continued from page 114) their good. You understand? Bedtime is at 10 o'clock. But there is a night staff in case you should need any service. And the doors are of course not locked. You may re-enter your room at any time. Yes? We meet for cocktails in the bar at six. It is – how do you say? – the rest pause of the day." The boxlike smile made its brief appearance. "My girls are much looking forward to meeting you."

The door opened. It was one of the men dressed as guides, a swarthy, bull-necked man with brown Mediterranean eyes. One of Marc-Ange's Corsican defectors? In rapid, bad French, the woman said that another table was desired. This was to be furnished during dinner. The man said "Entendu." She held the door before he could close it and he went off down the passage to the right. Guards' quarters at the end of the passage? Bond's mind went on clicking up the clues.

"Then that is all for the present, Sair Hilary?. The post leaves at midday. We have radio telephone communications if you wish to use them. May I convey any message to the Count?"

"Please say that I look forward greatly to meeting him tomorrow. Until six o'clock then." Bond suddenly wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He gestured toward his suitcase. "I must get myself unpacked."

"Of course, Sair Hilary. Forgive me for detaining you." And, on this gracious note, Irma Bunt closed the door, with its decisive click, behind her.

Bond stood still in the middle of the room. He let out his breath with a quiet hiss. What the hell of a kettle of fish! He would have liked to kick one of the dainty bits of furniture very hard indeed. But he had noticed that, of the four electric light prisms in the ceiling, one was a blank, protruding eyeball. Closedcircuit television? If so, what would be its range? Not much more than a wide circle covering the center of the room. Microphones? Probably the whole expanse of ceiling was one. That was the wartime gimmick. He must assume that he was under constant supervision.

James Bond, his thoughts racing, proceeded to unpack, take a shower and make himself presentable for "my girls."

? ? ?

It was one of those leather-padded bars, bogus masculine, and still, because of its newness, smelling like the inside of a new motorcar. It was made to look like a Tyrolean Stube by a big stone fireplace with a roaring log fire and cartwheel chandeliers with red-stemmed electric "candles." There were many wroughtiron gimmicks – wall-light brackets, ashtrays, table lamps – and the bar itself was "gay" with small flags and miniature liqueur bottles. Attractive zither music tripped out from a hidden loud-speaker. It was not, Bond decided, a place to get seriously drunk in.

When he closed the leather-padded, brass-studded door behind him, there was a moment's hush, then a mounting of decibels to hide the covert glances, the swift summing up. Bond got a fleeting impression of a group of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen, when Irma Bunt, hideous in some kind of homemade, homespun après-ski, in which orange and black predominated, waddled out from among the galaxy and took him in charge. "Sair Hilary." She grasped his hand with a dry, monkey grip. "How delightful, isn't it? Come please, and meet my girls."

It was tremendously hot in the room and Bond felt the sweat bead on his forehead as he was led from table to table and shook this cool, this warm, this languid hand. Names like Ruby, Violet, Pearl, Anne, Elizabeth, Beryl sounded in his ears, but all he saw was a sea of beautiful, sunburned faces and a succession of splendid, sweatered young bosoms. It was like being at home to the Tiller or the Bluebell Girls. At last he got to the seat that had been kept for him, between Irma Bunt and a gorgeous, bosomy blonde with large blue eyes. He sat down, overcome. The barman hovered. Bond pulled himself together. "Whiskey and soda, please," he said, and heard his voice from faraway. He took some time lighting a cigarette while sham, stage conversation broke out among the four tables in the semicircular embrasure that must, during the day, be the great lookout point. Ten girls and Irma. All British. No surnames. No other man. Girls in their 20s. Working girls, probably. Sort of air-hostess type. Excited at having a man amongst them – a personable man and a baronet to boot – if that was what one did to a baronet. Pleased with his private joke, Bond turned to the blonde. "I'm terribly sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

"I'm Ruby." The voice was friendly but refined. "It must be quite an ordeal being the only chap – amongst all us girls, I mean."

"Well, it was rather a surprise. But a very pleasant one. It's going to be difficult getting all your names right." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Be an angel and run through the field, so to speak."

Bond's drink came and he was glad to find it strong. He took a long but discreet pull at it. He had noticed that the girls were drinking colas and squashes with a sprinkling of feminine cocktails – orange blossoms, daiquiris. Ruby was one of the ones with a daiquiri. It was apparently OK to drink, but he would be careful to show a gentlemanly moderation.

Ruby seemed pleased to be able to break the ice. "Well, I'll start on your right. That's Miss Bunt, the sort of matron, so to speak. You've met her. Then, in the violet camelot sweater, well, that's Violet, of course. Then at the next table. The one in the green and gold Pucci shirt is Anne and next to her in green is Pearl. She's my sort of best friend here." And so it went on, from one glorious golden girl to the next. Bond heard scraps of their conversation. "Fritz says I'm not getting enough Vorlage. My skis keep on running away from me." "It's the same with me –" a giggle – "my sit-upon's black and blue." "The Count says I'm getting on very well. Won't it be awful when we have to go?" "I wonder how Polly's doing? She's been out a month now." "I think Skol's the only stuff for sunburn. All those oils and creams are nothing but frying fat." And so on – mostly the chatter you would expect from a group of cheerful, healthy girls learning to ski, except for the occasional rather awed reference to the Count and the covert glances at Irma Bunt and Bond to make sure that they were behaving properly, not making too much noise.

While Ruby continued her discreet roll call, Bond tried to fix the names to the faces and otherwise add to his comprehension of this lovely but bizarre group locked up on top of a very high Alp indeed. The girls all seemed to share a certain basic, girl-guidish simplicity of manners and language, the sort of girls who, in an English pub, you would find sitting demurely with a boyfriend sipping a Babycham, puffing rather clumsily at a cigarette and occasionally saying "Pardon." Good girls, girls who, if you made a pass at them, would say, "Please don't spoil it all," "Men only want one thing" or, huffily, "Please take your hand away." 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.

Yours truly foxed, concluded Bond as Ruby finished with "And that's Beryl in the pearls and twin set. Now do you think you've got us all straight?"

Bond looked into the round blue eyes that now held a spark of animation. "Frankly no. And I feel like one of those comic film stars who gets snarled up in a girls' school. You know. Sort of St. Trinian's."

She giggled. (Bond was to discover that she was a chronic giggler. She was too "dainty" to open her lovely lips and laugh. He was also to find that she couldn't sneeze like a human, but let out a muffled, demure squeak into her scrap of lace handkerchief, and that she took very small mouthfuls at meals and (continued on page 170)Her Majesty's Secret Service(continued from page 116) barely masticated with the tips of her teeth before swallowing with hardly a ripple of her throat. She had been "well brought up.") "Oh, but we're not at all like St. Trinian's. Those awful girls! How could you ever say such a thing!"

"Just a thought," said Bond airily. "Now then, how about another drink?"

"Oh, thenks awfully."

Bond turned to Fräulein Bunt. "And you, Miss Bunt?"

"Thank you, Sair Hilary. An apple juice, if you please."

Violet, the fourth at their table, said demurely that she wouldn't have another Coke. "They give me wind."

"Oh Violet!" Ruby's sense of the proprieties was outraged. "How can you say such a thing!"

"Well, anyway, they do," said Violet obstinately. "They make me hiccup. No harm in saying that, is there?"

Good old Manchester, thought Bond. He got up and went to the bar, wondering how he was going to plow on through this and other evenings. He ordered the drinks and had a brain wave. He would break the ice! By hook or by crook he would become the life and soul of the party! He asked for a tumbler and that its rim should be dipped in water. Then he picked up a paper cocktail napkin and went back to the table. He sat down. "Now," he said as eyes goggled at him, "if we were paying for our drinks, I'll show you how we'd decide who should pay. I learned this in the Army." He placed the tumbler in the middle of the table, opened the paper napkin and spread the center tightly over the top so that it clung to the moist edge of the glass. He took his small change out of his pocket, selected a five-centime piece and dropped it gently onto the center of the stretched tissue. "Now then," he announced, remembering that the last time he had played this game had been in the dirtiest bar in Singapore. "Who else smokes? We need three others with lighted cigarettes." Violet was the only one at their table. Irma clapped her hands with authority. "Elizabeth, Beryl, come over here. And come and watch, girls, Sair Hilary is making the joke game." The girls clustered round, chattering happily at the diversion. 's he doing?" 's going to happen?" "How do you play?"

"Now then," said Bond, feeling like the games director on a cruise ship, "this is for who pays for the drinks. One by one, you take a puff at your cigarette, knock off the ash, like this, and touch the top of the paper with the lighted end – just enough to burn a tiny hole, like this." The paper sparked briefly. "Now Violet, then Elizabeth, then Beryl. The point is, the paper gets like a sort of cobweb with the coin just supported in the middle. The person who burns the last hole and makes the coin drop pays for the drinks. See? Now then, Violet."

There were squeaks of excitement. a lovely game!" "Oh Beryl, look out!" Lovely heads craned over Bond. Lovely hair brushed his cheek. Quickly the three girls got the trick of very delicately touching a space that would not collapse the cobweb until Bond, who considered himself an expert at the game, decided to be chivalrous and purposely burned a vital strand. With the chink of the coin failing into the glass there was a burst of excited laughter and applause.

"So, you see, girls." It was as if Irma Bunt had invented the game. "Sair Hilary pays, isn't it? A most delightful pastime. And now – " she looked at her mannish wrist watch – "we must finish our drinks. It is five minutes to supper time."

There were cries of "Oh, one more game, Miss Bunt!" But Bond politely rose with his whiskey in his hand. "We will play again tomorrow. I hope it's not going to start you all off smoking. I'm sure it was invented by the tobacco companies!"

There was laughter. But the girls stood admiringly round Bond. What a sport he was! And they had all expected a stuffed shirt! Bond felt justifiably proud of himself. The ice had been broken. He had got them all minutely on his side. Now they were all chums together. From now on he would be able to get to talk to them without frightening them. Feeling reasonably pleased with his gambit, he followed the tight pants of Irma Bunt into the dining room next door.

It was 7:30. Bond suddenly felt exhausted, exhausted with the prospect of boredom, exhausted with playing the most difficult role of his career, exhausted with the enigma of Blofeld and the Piz Gloria. What in hell was the bastard up to? He sat down on the right of Irma Bunt in the same placing as for drinks, with Ruby on his right and Violet, dark, demure, self-effacing, opposite him, and glumly opened his napkin. Blofeld had certainly spent money on his eyrie. Their three tables, in a remote corner by the long, curved, curtained window, occupied only a fraction of the space in the big, low, luxuriously appointed, mock-German baroque room, ornate with candelabra suspended from the stomachs of flying cherubs, festooned with heavy gilt plasterwork, solemnized by the dark portraits of anonymous noblemen. Blofeld must be pretty certain he was here to stay. What was the investment? Certainly not less than a million sterling, even assuming a fat mortgage from Swiss banks on the cost of the cable railway. To lease an Alp, put up a cable railway on mortgage, with the engineers and the local district council participating – that, Bond knew, was one of the latest havens for fugitive funds. If you were successful, if you and the council could bribe or bully the local farmers to allow right of way through their pastures, cut swaths through the treeline for the cable pylons and the ski runs, the rest was publicity and amenities for the public to eat their sandwiches. Add to that the snob appeal of a posh, heavily restricted club such as Bond imagined this, during the daytime, to be, the coroneted G, and the mystique of a research institute run by a Count, and you were off to the races. Skiing today, Bond had read, was the most widely practiced sport in the world. It sounded unlikely, but then one reckoned the others largely by spectators. Skiers were participants, and bigger spenders on equipment than in other sports. Clothes, boots, skis, bindings and now the whole apres-ski routine which took care of the day from four o'clock, when the sun went, onward, were a tremendous industry. If you could lay your hands on a good Alp, which Blofeld had somehow managed to do, you really had it good. Mortgages paid off – snow was the joker, but in the Engadine, at this height, you would be all right for that – in three or four years, and then jam forever! One certainly had to hand it to him!

It was time to make the going again! Resignedly, Bond turned to Fräulein Bunt. "Fräulein Bunt. Please explain to me. What is the difference between a piz and an Alp and a berg?"

The yellow eyes gleamed with academic enthusiasm. "Ah, Sair Hilary, but that is an interesting question. It had not occurred to me before. Now let me see." She gazed into the middle distance. "A piz, that is only a local name in this department of Switzerland for a peak. An Alp, that one would think would be smaller than a berg – a hill, perhaps, or an upland pasture, as compared with a mountain. But that is not so. These –" she waved her hand – "are all Alps and yet they are great mountains. It is the same in Austria, certainly in the Tyrol. But in Germany, in Bavaria for instance, which is my homeland, there it is all bergs. No, Sair Hilary –" the boxlike smile was switched on and off – "I cannot help you. But why do you ask?"

"In my profession," said Bond prosily, "the exact meaning of words is vital. Now, before we met for cocktails, it amused me to look up your surname, Bunt, in my books of reference. What I found, Fräulein, was most interesting. Bunt, it seems, is German for 'gay,' 'happy.' In England, the name has almost certainly been corrupted into Bounty, perhaps even into Brontë, because the grandfather of the famous literary family by that name had in fact changed his name from the less aristocratic name of Brunty. Now this is most interesting." (Bond knew that it wasn't, that this was all hocus-pocus, but he thought it would do no harm to stretch his heraldic muscles.) "Can you remember if your ancestors had any connection with England? There is the Dukedom of Brontë, you see, which Nelson assumed. It would be interesting to establish a connection."

The penny dropped! A duchess! Irma Bunt, hooked, went off into a dreary chronicle of her forebears, including proudly, distant relationship with a Graf von Bunt. Bond listened politely, prodding her back to the immediate past. She gave the name of her father and mother. Bond filed them away. He now had enough to find out in due course exactly who Irma Bunt was. What a splendid trap snobbery was! How right Sable Basilisk had been! There is a snob in all of us and only through snobbery could Bond have discovered who the parents of this woman were.

Bond finally calmed down the woman's momentary fever, and the headwaiter, who had been politely hovering, presented giant menus covered in violet ink. There was everything from caviar down to Double Mokka au whiskey irlandais. There were also many spécialités Gloria – Poulet Gloria, Homard Gloria, Tournedos Gloria, and so on. Bond, despite his forswearing of spécialités, decided to give the chicken a chance. He said so and was surprised by the enthusiasm with which Ruby greeted his choice. "Oh, how right you are, Sir Hilary! I adore chicken, too. I absolutely dote on it. Can I have that too, please, Miss Bunt?"

There was such surprising fervor in her voice that Bond watched Irma Bunt's face. What was that matronly gleam in her eye as she gave her approval? It was more than approval for a good appetite among her charges. There was enthusiasm, even triumph there. Odd! And it happened again when Violet stipulated plenty of potatoes with her tournedos. "I simply love potatoes," she explained to Bond, her eyes shining. "Don't you?"

"They're fine," agreed Bond. "When you're taking plenty of exercise, that is."

"Oh, they're just darling," enthused Violet. "Aren't they, Miss Bunt?"

"Very good indeed, my dear. Very good for you, too. And Fritz, I will just have the mixed salad with some cottage cheese." She gave the caricature of a simper. "Alas –" she spoke to Bond – "I have to watch my figure. These young things take plenty of exercise, while I must stay in my office and do the paper work, isn't it?"

At the next table Bond heard the girl with the Scottish burr, her voice full of saliva, ask that her Aberdeen Angus steak should be cooked very rare indeed. "Guid and bluidy," she emphasized.

What was this? wondered Bond. A gathering of beautiful ogresses? Or was this a day off from some rigorous diet? He felt completely clueless, out of his depth. Well, he would just go on digging. He turned to Ruby. "You see what I mean about surnames. Fräulein Bunt may even have distant claim to an English title. Now what's yours, for instance? I'll see what I can make of it."

Fräulein Bunt broke in sharply. "No surnames here, Sair Hilary. It is a rule of the house. We use only first names for the girls. It is part of the Count's treatment. It is bound up with a change, a transference of identity, to help the cure. You understand?"

"No, I'm afraid that's way out of my depth," said Bond cheerfully.

"No doubt the Count will explain some of these matters to you tomorrow. He has special theories. One day the world will be startled when he reveals his methods."

"I'm sure," said Bond politely. "Well now – –" he searched for a subject that would leave his mind free to roam on its own. "Tell me about your skiing. How are you getting on? Don't do it myself, I'm afraid. Perhaps I shall pick up some tips watching your classes."

It was an adequate ball which went bouncing on between Ruby and Violet, and Bond kept it in play while their food came and proved delicious. Poulet Gloria was spatchcocked, with a mustard-and-cream sauce. The girls fell silent over their dishes, consuming them with polite but concentrated greed. There was a similar pause in the chatter at the other tables. Bond made conversation about the decor of the room and this gave him a chance to have a good look at the waiters. There were 12 of them in sight. It was not difficult to sum them up as three Corsicans, three Germans, three vaguely Balkan faces, Turks, Bulgars or Yugoslavs, and three obvious Slavs. There would probably be three Frenchmen in the kitchen. Was this the old pattern of Spectre? The well-tried Communist-cell pattern of three men from each of the great gangster and secretservice organizations in Europe? Were the three Slavs ex-Smersh men? The whole lot of them looked tough enough, had that quiet smell of the pro. The man at the airport was one of them. Bond recognized others as the reception steward and the man who had come to his room about the table. He heard the girls calling them Fritz, Joseph, Ivan, Achmed. And some of them were ski guides during the day. Well, it was a nice little setup if Bond was right.

Bond excused himself after dinner on the grounds of work. He went to his room and laid out his books and papers on the desk and on the extra table that had been provided. He bent over them while his mind reviewed the day.

At 10 o'clock he heard the goodnights of the girls down the corridor and the click of the doors shutting. He undressed, turned the thermostat on the wall down from 85 to 60, switched off the light and lay on his back for a while staring up into the darkness. Then he gave an authentic sigh of exhaustion for the microphones, if any, and turned over on his side and went to sleep.

Later, much later, he was awakened by a very soft murmuring that seemed to come from somewhere under the floor, but very, very faraway. He identified it as a minute, spidery whispering that went on and on. But he could not make out any words and he finally put it down to the central-heating pipes, turned over and went to sleep again.

? ? ?

James Bond awoke to a scream. It was a terrible, masculine scream out of hell. It fractionally held its first high, piercing note and then rapidly diminished as if the man had jumped off a cliff. It came from the right, from somewhere near the cable station perhaps. Even in Bond's room, muffled by the double windows, it was terrifying enough. Outside it must have been shattering.

Bond jumped up and pulled back the curtains, not knowing what scene of panic, of running men, would meet his eyes. But the only man in sight was one of the guides, walking slowly, stolidly up the beaten snow path from the cable station to the club The spacious wooden veranda that stretched from the wall of the club out over the slope of the mountain was empty, but tables had been laid for breakfast and the upholstered chaises longues for the sunbathers had already been drawn up in their meticulous, colorful rows. The sun was blazing down out of a crystal sky Bond looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. Work began early in this place! People died early. For that had undoubtedly been the death scream. He turned back into his room and rang the bell.

It was one of the three men Bond had suspected of being Russians. Bond became the officer and gentleman. is your name?"

"Peter, sir."

"Piotr?" Bond longed to say. "And how are all my old friends from Smersh?" He didn't He said, was that scream?"

"Pliss?" The granite-gray eyes were careful.

"A man screamed just now. From over by the cable station What was it?"

"It seems there has been an accident, sir. You wish for breakfast?" He produced a large menu from under his arm and held it out clumsily.

"What sort of an accident?"

"It seems that one of the guides has fallen."

How could this man have known that, only minutes after the scream? "Is he badly hurt?"

"Is possible, sir." The eyes, surely trained in investigation, held Bond's blandly. "You wish for breakfast?" The menu was once again nudged forward.

Bond said, with sufficient concern, "Well, I hope the poor chap's all right." He took the menu and ordered. "Let me know if you hear what happened."

"There will no doubt be an announcement if the matter is serious. Thank you, sir." The man withdrew

It was the scream that triggered Bond into deciding that, above all things, he must keep fit. He suddenly felt that, despite all the mystery and its demand for solution, there would come a moment when he would need all his muscle. Reluctantly he proceeded to a quarter of an hour of knee bends and press-ups and deep-breathing chest expansions – exercises of the skiing muscles. He guessed that he might have to get away from this place. But quick!

He took a shower and shaved. Breakfast was brought by Peter. "Any more news about this poor guide?"

"I have heard no more, sir. It concerns the outdoor staff. I work inside the club."

Bond decided to play it down. "He must have slipped and broken an ankle. Poor chap! Thank you, Peter."

"Thank you, sir." Did the granite eyes contain a sneer?

James Bond put his breakfast on the desk and, with some difficulty, managed to prize open the double window. He removed the small bolster that lay along the sill between the panes to keep out drafts, and blew away the accumulated dust and small fly corpses. The cold, savorless air of high altitudes rushed into the room and Bond went to the thermostat and put it up to 90 as a counterattack. While, his head below the level of the sill, he ate a spare Continental breakfast, he heard the chatter of the girls assembling outside on the terrace. The voices were high with excitement and debate. Bond could hear every word.

"I really don't think Sarah should have told on him."

"But he came in in the dark and started mucking her about."

"You mean actually interfering with her?"

"So she says. If I'd been her, I'd have done the same. And he's such a beast of a man."

"Was, you mean. Which one was it, anyway?"

"One of the Yugos. Bertil."

"Oh, I know. Yes, he was pretty horrible. He had such dreadful teeth."

"You oughtn't to say such things of the dead."

"How do you know he's dead? What happened to him, anyway?"

"He was one of the two you see spraying the start of the bob run. You see them with hoses every morning. It's to get it good and icy so they'll go faster. Fritz told me he somehow slipped, lost his balance or something. And that was that. He just went off down the run like a sort of human bobsleigh."

"Elizabeth! How can you be so heartless about it!"

"Well, that's what happened. You asked."

"But couldn't he save himself?"

"Don't be idiotic. It's sheet ice, a mile of it. And the bobs get up to 60 miles an hour. He hadn't got a prayer."

"But didn't he fly off at one of the bends?"

"Fritz said he went all the way to the bottom. Crashed into the timing hut. But Fritz says he must have been dead in the first hundred yards or so."

"Oh, here's Franz. Franz, can I have scrambled eggs and coffee? And tell them to make the scrambled eggs runny like I always have them."

"Yes, miss. And you, miss?" The waiter took the orders and Bond heard his boots creak off across the boards.

The sententious girl was being sententious again. "Well, all I can say is it must have been some kind of punishment for what he tried to do to Sarah. You always get paid off for doing wrong."

"Don't be ridiculous. God would never punish you as severely as that." The conversation followed this new hare off into a maze of infantile morality and the Scriptures.

Bond lit a cigarette and sat back, gazing thoughtfully at the sky. No, the girl was right. God wouldn't mete out such a punishment. But Blofeld would. Had there been one of those Blofeld meetings at which, before the full body of men, the crime and the verdict had been announced? Had this Bertil been taken out and dropped onto the bob run? Or had his companion been quietly dealt the card of death, told to give the sinner the trip or the light push that was probably all that had been needed? More likely. The quality of the scream had been of sudden, fully realized terror as the man fell, scrabbled at the ice with his fingernails and boots, and then, as he gathered speed down the polished blue gully, the blinding horror of the truth. And what a death! Bond had once gone down the Cresta, from "Top," to prove to himself that he dared. Helmeted, masked against the blast of air, padded with leather and foam rubber, that had still been 60 seconds of naked fear. Even now he could remember how his limbs had shaken when he rose stiffly from the flimsy little skeleton bob at the end of the runout. And that had been a bare three quarters of a mile. This man, or the flayed remains of him, had done over a mile. Had he gone down head or feet first? Had his body started tumbling? Had he tried, while consciousness remained, to brake himself over the edge of one of the early, scientifically banked bends with the unspiked toe of this boot or that ... ? No. After the first few yards, he would already have been going too fast for any rational thought or action. God, what a death! A typical Blofeld death, a typical Specture revenge for the supreme crime of disobedience. That was the way to keep discipline in the ranks! So, concluded Bond as he cleared the tray away and got down to his books. Spectre walks again! But down what road this time?

? ? ?

At 10 minutes to 11, Irma Bunt came for him. After an exchange of affabilities, Bond gathered up an armful of books and papers and followed her round the back of the club building and along a narrow, well-trodden path past a sign that said Privat. Eintritt Verboten.

The rest of the building, whose outlines Bond had seen the night before, came into view. It was an undistinguished but powerfully built one-story affair made of local granite blocks, with a flat cement roof from which, at the far end, protruded a small, professional-looking radio mast which, Bond assumed, had given the pilot his landing instructions on the previous night and which would also serve as the ears and mouth of Blofeld. The building was on the very edge of the plateau and below the final peak of Piz Gloria, but out of avalanche danger. Beneath it the mountain sloped sharply away until it disappeared over a cliff. Far below again was the treeline and the Bernina valley leading up to Pontresina, the glint of a railway track and the tiny caterpillar of a long goods train of the Rhätische Bahn, on its way, presumably, over the Bernina Pass into Italy.

The door to the building gave the usual pneumatic hiss, and the central corridor was more or less a duplicate of the one at the club, but here there were doors on both sides and no pictures. It was dead quiet and there was no hint of what went on behind the doors. Bond put the question.

"Laboratories," said Irma Bunt vaguely. "All laboratories. And of course the lecture room. Then the Count's private quarters. He lives with his work, Sair Hilary."

"Good show."

They came to the end of the corridor. Irma Bunt knocked on the facing door.

"Herein!"

James Bond was tremendously excited as he stepped over the threshold and heard the door sigh shut behind him. He knew what not to expect, the original Blofeld, last year's model – about 20 stone, tall, pale, bland face with black crew cut, black eyes with the whites showing all round, like Mussolini's, ugly thin mouth, long pointed hands and feet – but he had no idea what alterations had been contrived on the envelope that contained the man.

But Monsieur le Comte de Bleuville, who now rose from the chaise longue on the small private veranda and came in out of the sun into the penumbra of the study, his hands outstretched in welcome, was surely not even a distant relative of the man on the files!

Bond's heart sank. This man was tallish, yes, and, all right, his hands and naked feet were long and thin. But there the resemblance ended. The Count had longish, carefully tended, almost dandified hair that was a fine silvery white. His ears, that should have been close to his head, stuck out slightly and, where they should have had heavy lobes, had none. The body that should have weighed 20 stone, now naked save for a black woolen slip, was not more than 12 stone, and there were no signs of the sagging flesh that comes from middleaged weight reduction. The mouth was full and friendly, with a pleasant, upturned, but perhaps rather unwavering smile. The forehead was serrated with wrinkles above a nose that, while the files said it should be short and squat, was aquiline and, round the right nostril, eaten away, poor chap, by what looked like the badge of tertiary syphilis. The eyes? Well, there might be something there if one could see them, but they were only rather frightening dark-green pools. The Count wore, presumably against the truly dangerous sun at these altitudes, dark-green-tinted contact lenses.

Bond unloaded his books onto a conveniently empty table and took the warm, dry hand.

"My dear Sir Hilary. This is indeed a pleasure." Blofeld's voice had been said to be somber and even. This voice was light and full of animation.

Bond said to himself, furiously, By God this has got to be Blofeld! He said, "I'm so sorry I couldn't come on the 21st. There's a lot going on at the moment."

"Ah yes. So Fräulein Bunt told me. These new African States. They must indeed present a problem. Now, shall we settle down here" – he waved toward his desk – "or shall we go outside? You see –" he gestured at his brown body – "I am a heliotrope, a sun worshiper. So much so that I have had to have these lenses devised for me. Otherwise, the infrared rays, at this altitude ..." He left the phrase unfinished.

"I haven't seen that kind of lens before. After all, I can leave the books here and fetch them if we need them for reference. I have the case pretty clear in my mind. And –" Bond smiled chummily – "it would be nice to go back to the fogs with something of a sunburn."

Bond had equipped himself at Lillywhites' with clothing he thought would be both appropriate and sensible. He had avoided the modern elasticized vorlage trousers and had chosen the more comfortable but old-fashioned type of ski trouser in a smooth cloth. Above these he wore an aged black wind cheater that he used for golf, over his usual white sea-island cotton shirt. He had wisely reinforced this outfit with long and ugly cotton-and-wool pants and vests. He had conspicuously brandnew ski boots with powerful ankle straps. He said, "Then I'd better take off my sweater." He did so and followed the Count out onto the veranda.

The Count lay back again in his upholstered aluminum chaise longue. Bond drew up a light chair made of similar materials. He placed it also facing the sun, but at an angle so that he could watch the Count's face.

"And now," said the Comte de Bleuville, "what have you got to tell me that necessitated this personal visit?" He turned his fixed smile on Bond. The dark-green glass eyes were unfathomable. "Not of course that the visit is not most welcome. Now then, Sir Hilary."

Bond had been well trained in two responses to this obvious first question. The first was for the event that the Count had lobes to his ears. The second, if he had not. He now, in measured, serious tones, launched himself into number two.

"My dear Count –" the form of address seemed dictated by the silvery hair, by the charm of the Count's manners – "there are occasions in the work of the College when research and paper work are simply not enough. We have, as you know, come to a difficult passage in our work on your case. I refer of course to the hiatus between the disappearance of the De Bleuville line around the time of the French Revolution and the emergence of the Blofeld family, or families, in the neighborhood of Augsburg. And –" Bond paused impressively – "in the latter context I may later have a proposal that I hope will find favor with you. But what I am coming to is this. You have already expended serious funds on our work, and it would not have been fair to suggest that the researches should go forward unless there was a substantial ray of hope in the sky. The possibility of such a ray existed, but it was of such a nature that it definitely demanded a physical confrontation."

"Is that so? And for what purpose, may I inquire?"

James Bond recited Sable Basilisk's examples of the Hapsburg lip, the royal tail and the others. He then leaned forward in his chair for emphasis. "And such a physical peculiarity exists in connection with the De Bleuvilles. You did not know this?"

"I was not aware of it. What is it?"

"I have good news for you, Count." Bond smiled his congratulations. "All the De Bleuville effigies or portraits that we have been able to trace have been distinctive in one vital respect, in one inherited characteristic. It appears that the family had no lobes to their ears!"

The Count's hands went up to his ears and felt them. Was he acting?

"I see," he said slowly. "Yes, I see." He reflected. "And you had to see this for yourself? My word, or a photograph, would not have been sufficient?"

Bond looked embarrassed. "I am sorry, Count. But that was the ruling of Garter King of Arms. I am only a junior freelance research worker for one of the Pursuivants. He in turn takes his orders in these matters from above. I hope you will appreciate that the College has to be extremely strict in cases concerned with a most ancient and honorable title such as the one in question."

The dark pools aimed themselves at Bond like the muzzles of guns. "Now that you have seen what you came to see, you regard the title as still in question?"

This was the worst hurdle. "What I have seen certainly allows me to recommend that the work should continue, Count. And I would say that our chances of success have greatly multiplied. I have brought out the materials for a first sketch of the Line of Descent, and that, in a matter of days, I could lay before you. But alas, as I have said, there are still many gaps, and it is most important for me to satisfy Sable Basilisk particularly about the stages of your family's migration from Augsburg to Gdynia. It would be of the greatest help if I might question you closely about your parentage in the male line. Even details about your father and grandfather would be of the greatest assistance. And then, of course, it would be of the utmost importance if you could spare a day to accompany me to Augsburg to see if the handwriting of these Blofeld families in the Archives, their Christian names and other family details, awaken any memories or connections in your mind. The rest would then remain with us at the College. I could spare no more than a week on this work. But I am at your disposal if you wish it."

The Count got to his feet. Bond followed suit. He walked casually over to the railing and admired the view. Would this bedraggled fly be taken? Bond now desperately hoped so. During the interview he had come to one certain conclusion. There was not a single one of the peculiarities in the Count's appearance that could not have been achieved by good acting and by the most refined facial and stomach surgery applied to the original Blofeld. Only the eyes could not have been tampered with. And the eyes were obscured.

"You think that with patient work, even with the inclusion of a few question marks where the connecting links are obscure, I would achieve an Acte de Notoriété that would satisfy the Minister of Justice in Paris?"

"Most certainly," lied Bond. "With the authority of the College in support."

The fixed smile widened minutely. "That would give me much satisfaction, Sir Hilary. I am the Comte de Bleuville. I am certain of it in my heart, in my veins." There was real fervor in the voice. "But I am determined that my title shall be officially recognized. You will be most welcome to remain as my guest and I shall be constantly at your disposal to help with your researches."

Bond said politely, but with a hint of weariness, of resignation, "All right, Count. And thank you. I will go and make a start straightaway."

? ? ?

Bond was shown out of the building by a man in a white coat with the conventional white gauze of the laboratory worker over the lower half of his face. Bond attempted no conversation. He was now well inside the fortress, but he would have to continue to walk on tiptoe and be damned careful where he put his feet!

He returned to his room and got out one of the giant sheets of squared paper with which he had been furnished. He sat down at his table and wrote firmly at the top center of the paper "Guillaume de Bleuville, 1207-1243." Now there were 500 years of De Bleuvilles, with their wives and children, to be copied down from his books and notes. That would fill up an impressive number of pages with impeccable fact. He could certainly spread that chore over three days, interspersed with more tricky work – gassing with Blofeld about the Blofeld end of the story. Fortunately there were some English Blofields he could throw in as make-weight. And some Bluefields and Blumfields. He could start some pretty hares running in those directions! And, in between these idiotic activities, he would ferret and ferret away at the mystery of what in hell the new Blofeld, the new Spectre, were up to!

One thing was certain, they had already been through his belongings. Before going for his interview, Bond had gone into the bathroom, away from that seemingly watchful hole in the ceiling, and had painfully pulled out half a dozen of his hairs. These, while he had selected the books he needed to take with him, he had dispersed inconspicuously among his other papers and in his passport. The hairs were all gone. Someone had been through all his books. He got up and went to the chest of drawers, ostensibly for a handkerchief. Yes, the careful patterns in which he had laid out his things had all been minutely disturbed. Unemotionally he went back to his work, thanking heaven he had traveled as "clean" as a whistle! But by God he'd have to keep his cover solid! He didn't at all like the thought of that oneway trip down the bob run!

Bond got as far as 1350 and then the noise from the veranda became too distracting. Anyway, he had done a respectable stint, almost to the bottom of the giant page. He would go out and do a little very discreet exploring. He wanted to get his bearings, or rather confirm them, and this would be a perfectly reasonable activity for a newcomer. He had left his door into the passage ajar. He went out and along to the reception lounge, where the man in a plum coat was busy entering the names of the morning's visitors in a book. Bond's greeting was politely answered. There was a ski room and workshop to the left of the exit. Bond wandered in. One of the Balkan types was at the workbench, screwing a new binding onto a ski. He looked up and then went on with his work while Bond gazed with seeming curiosity at the ranks of skis standing along the wall. Things had changed since his day. The bindings were quite different and designed, it seemed, to keep the heel dead flat on the ski. And there were new safety releases. Many of the skis were of metal and the ski sticks were fiber-glass lances that looked to Bond extremely dangerous in the event of a bad fall. Bond wandered over to the workbench and feigned interest in what the man was doing. In fact he had seen something that excited him very much – an untidy pile of lengths of thin plastic strip for the boot to rest on in the binding, so that, on the shiny surface, snow would not ball under the sole. Bond leaned over the workbench, resting on his right elbow, and commented on the precision of the man's work. The man grunted and concentrated all the more closely to avoid further conversation. Bond's left hand slid under his leaning arm, secured one of the strips and slid it up his sleeve. He made a further inane comment, which was not answered, and strolled out of the ski room.

(When the man in the workshop heard the front door hiss shut, he turned to the pile of plastic strips and counted them carefully twice. Then he went out to the man in the plum-colored coat and spoke to him in German. The man nodded and picked up the telephone receiver and dialed O. The workman went stolidly back to his ski room.)

As Bond strolled along the path that led to the cable station, he transferred the plastic strip from his sleeve to his trouser pocket, feeling pleased with himself. He had at least provided himself with one tool – the traditional burglar's tool for opening the Yale-type locks that secured the doors.

Away from the clubhouse, to which only a thin trickle of smart-looking people were making their way, he got into the usual mountaintop crowd – people swarming out of the cablehead, skiers wobbling or schussing down the easy nursery slopes on the plateau, little groups marshaled under individual teachers and guides from the valley. The terrace of the public restaurant was already crowded with the underprivileged who hadn't got the money or the connections to join the club. He walked below it on the well-trampled snow and stood amongst the skiers at the top of the first plunging schuss of the Gloria run. A large notice board, crowned with the G and the coronet, announced Gloria Abfahrt! Then below – Freie Fahrt. Gelb – Freie Fahart. Schwarz – Gesperrt, meaning that the red and yellow runs were open but the black closed, presumably because of avalanche danger. Below this again was a painted metal map of the three runs. Bond had a good look at it, reflecting that it might be wise to commit to memory the red, which was presumably the easiest and most popular. There were red, yellow and black marker flags on the map, and Bond could see the actual flags fluttering way down the mountain until the runs, studded with tiny moving figures, disappeared to the left, round the shoulder of the mountain and under the cable railway. The red seemed to continue to zigzag under the cable and between the few high pylons until it met the treeline. Then there was a short stretch of wood-running until the final easy schuss across the undulating lower meadows to the bottom cablehead, beyond which lay the main railway line and then the Pontresina-Samaden road. Bond tried to get it all fixed in his mind. Then he watched some of the starts. These varied from the arrowlike dive of the Kannonen, the stars, who took the terrific schuss dead straight in a low crouch with their sticks jauntily tucked under their armpits to the average amateur who braked perhaps three or four times on his way down, to the terrified novice who, with stuck-out behind, stemmed his way down, his skis angled and edged like a snowplow, with occasional straight runs diagonally across the polished slope – dashing little sprints that usually ended in a mild crash as he ran off the flattened surface into the thick powder snow that edged the wide, beaten piste.

The scene was the same as a thousand others Bond had witnessed when, as a teenager, he learned his skiing in the old Hannes Schneider School at St. Anton in the Arlberg. He had got pretty good and had won his golden K, but the style in those days was rudimentary compared with what he was now witnessing from the occasional expert who zoomed down and away from beside him. Today the metal skis seemed to run faster and truer than the old steel-edged hickory. There was less shoulderwork and the art of Wedeln, a gentle waggling of the hips, was a revelation. Would it be as effective in deep new snow as it was on the wellbeaten piste? Bond was doubtful, but he was envious of it. It was so much more graceful than the old Arlberg crouch. Bond wondered how he would fare on this terrific run. He would certainly not dare to take the first schuss straight. He would brake at least twice, perhaps there and there. And his legs would be trembling before he had been going for five minutes. His knees and ankles and wrists would be giving out. He must get on with his exercises!

Bond, excited, left the scene and followed arrows that pointed to the Gloria Express Bob Run. It lay on the other side of the cable station. There was a small wooden hut, the starter's hut, with telephone wires connected to the station, and, beneath the cable station, a little "garage" that housed the bobsleighs and one-man skeleton bobs. A chain, with a notice on it saying Abfahrten TÄglich 0900 – 1100, was stretched across the wide mouth of the gulch of blue ice that curved away to the left and then disappeared over the shoulder. Here again was a metal map showing the zigzag course of the run down into the valley. In deference to the English traditions of the sport, outstanding curves and hazards were marked with names such as "Dead Man's Leap," "Whizz-Bang Straight," "Battling S," "Hell's Delight," "The Boneshaker," and the finishing straight down "Paradise Alley." Bond visualized the scene that morning, heard again that heart-rending scream. Yes, that death certainly had the old Blofeld touch!

"Sair Hilary! Sair Hilary!"

Startled out of his thoughts, Bond turned. Fräulein Irma Bunt, her short arms akimbo, was standing on the path to the club.

"Lunchtime! Lunch!"

"Coming," Bond called back, and strolled up the slope toward her. He noted that, even in that hundred yards, his breathing was shallow and his limbs were heavy. This blasted height! He really must get into training!

He came up with her. She looked surly. He said that he was sorry, he had not noticed the time. She said nothing. The yellow eyes surveyed him with active dislike before she turned her back and led the way along the path.

Bond looked back over the morning. What had he done? Had he made a mistake? Well, he just might have. Better reinsure! As they came through the entrance into the reception lounge, Bond said casually, "Oh, by the way, Fräulein Bunt, I was in the ski room just now."

She halted. Bond noticed that the head of the receptionist bent a fraction lower over his visitors' book.

"Yes?"

Bond took the length of plastic out of his pocket. "I found just what I wanted." He stitched a smile of innocent pleasure on his face. "Like an idiot I forgot to bring a ruler with me. And there were these things on the workbench. Just right. So I borrowed one. I hope that was all right. Of course I'll leave it behind when I go. But for these family trees, you know –" Bond sketched a series of descending straight lines in the air – "one has to get them on the right levels. I hope you don't mind." He smiled charmingly. "I was going to confess the next time I saw you."

Irma Bunt veiled her eyes. "It is of no consequence. In future, anything you need you will perhaps ring for, isn't it? The Count wishes you to have every facility. Now –" she gestured – "if you will perhaps go out on the terrace. You will be shown to our table. I will be with you in a moment."

Bond went through the restaurant door. Several of the interior tables were occupied by those who had had enough sun. He went across the room and out through the now open French windows. The man Fritz, who appeared to be the maitre d'hôtel, came toward him through the crowded tables. His eyes too were cold with hostility. He held up a menu. "Please to follow me."

Bond followed him to the table up against the railing. Ruby and Violet were already there. Bond felt almost lighthearted with relief at having clean hands again. By God, he must pay attention, take care! This time he had got away with it. And he still had the strip of plastic! Had he sounded innocent enough, stupid enough? He sat down and ordered a double medium-dry vodka martini, on the rocks, with lemon peel, and edged his foot up against Ruby's.

She didn't withdraw hers. She smiled. Violet smiled. They all started talking at once. It was suddenly a beautiful day.

Fräulein Bunt appeared and took her place. She was gracious again. "I am so pleased to hear that you will be staying with us for a whole week, Sair Hilary. You enjoyed your interview with the Count? Is he not interesting?"

"Very interesting. Unfortunately our talk was too short and we discussed only my own subject. I was longing to ask him about his research work. I hope he didn't think me very rude."

Irma Bunt's face closed perceptibly. "I am sure not. The Count does not often like to discuss his work. In these specialized scientific fields, you understand, there is much jealousy and, I am sorry to say, much intellectual thieving." The boxlike smile. "I do not of course refer to yourself, my dear Sair Hilary, but to scientists less scrupulous than the Count, to spies from the chemical companies. That is why we keep very much to ourselves in our little eagle's nest up here. We have total privacy. Even the police in the valley are most cooperative in safeguarding us from intruders. They appreciate what the Count is doing."

"The study of allergies?"

"Just so." The maître d'hôtel was standing by her side. His feet came together with a perceptible click. Menus were handed round and Bond's drink came. He took a long pull at it and ordered Oeufs Gloria and a green salad. Chicken again for Ruby, cold cuts "with stacks of potatoes" for Violet. Irma Bunt ordered her usual cottage cheese and salad.

"Don't you girls eat anything but chicken and potatoes? Is this something to do with your allergies?"

Ruby began, "Well, yes, in a way. Somehow I've come to simply love ..."

Irma Bunt broke in sharply. "Now then, Ruby. No discussion of treatments, you remember? Not even with our good friend Sair Hilary." She waved a hand toward the crowded tables around them. "A most interesting crowd, do you not find, Sair Hilary? Everybody who is anybody. We have quite taken the international set away from Gstaad and St. Moritz. That is your Duke of Marlborough over there with such a gay party of young things. And nearby that is Sir Whitney and Lady Daphne Straight. Is she not chic? They are both wonderful skiers. And that beautiful girl with the long fair hair at the big table, that is Ursula Andress, the film star. What a wonderful tan she has! And Sir George Dunbar, he always has the most enchanting companions." The boxlike smile. "Why, we only need the Aga Khan and perhaps your Duke of Kent and we would have everybody, but everybody. Is it not sensational for the first season?"

Bond said it was. The lunch came. Bond's eggs were delicious – chopped hard-boiled eggs, with a cream-and-cheese sauce laced with English mustard (English mustard seemed to be the clue to the Gloria specialties) gratins in a copper dish. Bond commented on the excellence of the cooking.

"Thank you," said Irma Bunt. "We have three expert Frenchmen in the kitchen. Men are very good at cooking, is it not?"

Bond felt rather than saw a man approaching their table. He came up to Bond. He was a military-looking man, of about Bond's age, and he had a puzzled expression on his face. He bowed slightly to the ladies and said to Bond, "Excuse me, but I saw your name in the visitors' book. It is Hilary Bray, isn't it?"

Bond's heart sank. This situation had always been a possibility and he had prepared a fumbling counter to it. But this was the worst possible moment with that damned woman watching and listening!

Bond said, "Yes, it is," with heartiness.

"Sir Hilary Bray?" The pleasant face was even more puzzled.

Bond got to his feet and stood with his back to his table, to Irma Bunt. "That's right." He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose to obscure the next question, which might be fatal.

"In the Lovat Scouts during the war?"

"Ah," said Bond. He looked worried, lowered his voice appropriately. "You're thinking of my first cousin. From Ben Trilleachan. Died six months ago, poor chap. I inherited the title."

"Oh, lord!" The man's puzzlement cleared. Grief took its place. "Sorry to hear that. Great pal of mine in the war. Funny! I didn't see anything about it in the Times. Always read the 'Births, Marriages and Deaths.' What was it?"

Bond felt the sweat running down under his arms. "Fell off one of those bloody mountains of his. Broke his neck."

"My God! Poor chap! But he was always fooling around the tops by himself. I must write to Jenny at once." He held out his hand. "Well, sorry to have butted in. Thought this was a funny place to find old Hilary. Well, so long, and sorry again." He moved off between the tables. Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw him rejoin a very English-looking table of men and, obviously, wives, to whom he began talking animatedly.

Bond sat down, reached for his drink and drained it and went back to his eggs. The woman's eyes were on him. He felt the sweat running down his face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped at it. "Gosh, it's hot out here in the sun! That was some pal of my first cousin's. My cousin had the same name. Collateral branch. Died not long ago, poor chap." He frowned sadly. "Didn't know this man from Adam. Nice-looking fellow." Bond looked bravely across the table. "Do you know any of his party, Fräulein Bunt?"

Without looking at the party, Fräulein Bunt said shortly, "No, I do not know everyone who comes here." The yellow eyes were still inquisitive, holding his. "But it was a curious coincidence. Were you very alike, you and your cousin?"

"Oh, absolutely," said Bond, gushing. "Spit image. Often used to get taken for each other." He looked across at the English group. Thank God they were picking up their things and going. They didn't look particularly smart or prosperous. Probably staying at Pontresina or under the ex-officers' scheme at St. Moritz. Typical English skiing party. With any luck they were just doing the big runs in the neighborhood one by one. Bond reviewed the way the conversation had gone while coffee came and he made cheerful small talk with Ruby, whose foot was again clamped against his, about her skiing progress that morning.

Well, he decided the woman couldn't have heard much of it with all the clatter and chatter from the surrounding tables. But it had been a damned-narrow squeak. The second of the day!

So much for walking on tiptoe inside the enemy lines!

Not good enough! Definitely not good enough!

? ? ?

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 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 10 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 10 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.

Bond read the letter several times. Yes, that would give the officers in charge of Operation "Corona" plenty to bite on. Particularly the hint that they should get the dead man's name from the registrar in Pontresina. And he had covered up a bit on the Bray mix-up when the letter, as Bond was sure it would be, was steamed open and photo-stated before dispatch. They might of course just destroy it. To prevent this, the bit of bogosity about the Almanach de Gotha would be a clincher. This source of heraldic knowledge hadn't been mentioned before. It would surely excite the interest of Blofeld.

Bond rang the bell, handed out the letter for dispatch, and got back to his work, which consisted initially of going into the bathroom with the strip of plastic and his scissors in his pocket and snipping two inch-wide strips off the end. These would be enough for the purposes he and, he hoped, Ruby would put them to. Then, using the first joint of his thumb as a rough guide, he marked off the remaining 18 inches into inch measures, to support his lie about the ruler, and went back to his desk and to the next hundred years of the De Bleuvilles.

At about five o'clock the light got so bad that Bond got up from his table and stretched, preparatory to going over to the light switch near the door. He took a last look out of the window before he closed it. The veranda was completely deserted and the foam-rubber cushions for the reclining chairs had already been taken in. From the direction of the cablehead there still came the whine of machinery that had been part of the background noises of the day. Yesterday the railway had closed at about five, and it must be time for the last pair of gondolas to complete their two-way journey and settle in their respective stations for the night. Bond closed the double windows, walked across to the thermostat and put it down to 70. He was just about to reach for the light switch when there came a very soft tapping at the door.

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 toward 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."

"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 like a cur. "You see, there was the Prince Consort to Queen Victoria. He was Albert."

"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 expenses and £10 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.

"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 wonderful birds in the world."

"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 toward 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!"

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 actualy. 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."

"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 witch doctor'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."

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 per-versions, 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?

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?"

"Your family'll be pleased."

"You can say that again! And my boyfriend! 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."

"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 kings of Northern 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 overbalance."

" '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?"

There was a chorus of approval. The glass and paper napkins were brought from the bar and now more of the girls joined in. Bond handed round cigarettes and the girls puffed vigorously, occasionally choking over the smoke. Even Irma Bunt seemed infected by the laughter and squeals of excitement as the cobweb of paper became more and more tenuous. "Careful! Gently, Elizabeth! Ayee! But now you have done it! And there was still this little corner that was safe!"

Bond was next to her. Now he sat back and suggested that the girls should have a game among themselves. He turned to Fräulein Bunt. "By the way, if I can find the time, it crossed my mind that it might be fun to go down in the cable car and pay a visit to the valley. I gathered from talk among the crowds today that St. Moritz is the other side of the valley. I've never been there. I'd love to see it."

"Alas, my dear Sair Hilary, but that is against the rules of the house. Guests here, and the staff too, have no access to the Seilbahn. That is only for the tourists. Here we keep ourselves to ourselves. We are — how shall I say? — a little dedicated community. We observe the rules almost of a monastery. It is better so, isn't it? Thus we can pursue our researches in peace."

"Oh, I quite see that." Bond's smile was understanding, friendly. "But I hardly count myself as a patient here, really. Couldn't an exception be made?"

"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.

• • •

It was 11 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 10 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 mortise. 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. "Golly, 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 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.

Her hair smelt of new-mown summer grass, her mouth of Pepsodent and her body of Mennen'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."

"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 colored 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 19th 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?

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, damn!"

"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.

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. singsong 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.

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.

Bond let out a deep sigh. So now he had heard it all! He suddenly wanted to get back to his room and think. He slipped out from under the sheet, got to his clothes and put them on. He manipulated the lock without trouble. There was no movement, no sound, in the passage. He slipped back into number two and eased the door shut. Then he went into his bathroom, closed the door, switched on the light and sat down on the lavatory and put his head in his hands.

Deep hypnosis! That was what he had heard. The Hidden Persuader! The repetitive, singsong message injected into the brain while it was on the twilight edge of consciousness. Now, in Ruby's subconscious, the message would work on all by itself through the night, leaving her. after weeks of repetition, with an inbuilt mechanism of obedience to the voice that would be as deep, as compelling, as hunger.

But what in hell was the message all about? Surely it was a most harmless, even a praiseworthy message to instill in the simple mind of this country girl. She had been cured of her allergy and she would return home fully capable of helping with the family poultry business — more than that, enthusiastic, dedicated. Had the leopard changed his spots? Had the old lag become, in the corny, hackneyed tradition, a do-gooder? Bond simply couldn't believe it. What about all those high-powered security arrangements? What about the multiracial staff that positively stank of Spectre? And what about the bob-run murder? Accident? So soon after the man's attempted rape of this Sarah girl? An impossible coincidence! Malignity must somewhere lie behind the benign, clinical front of this maddeningly innocent research out-fit! But where? How in hell could he find out?

Bond, exhausted, got up and turned off the light in the bathroom and quietly got himself into bed. The mind whirred on for a sterile half hour in the overheated brain and then, mercifully, he went to sleep.

? ? ?

When, at nine o'clock, he awoke and threw open his windows, the sky was overcast with the heavy blank gray that meant snow. Over by the Berghaus, the Schneefinken and Schneevögel, the snowfinches 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 aluminum 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 11 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, damnit, whatever he had become since Operation "Thunderball," there weren't two Ernst Stavro Blofelds in the world!

They met in the Count's study. "Good morning, Sir Hilary. I hope you slept well. We are going to have snow." The Count waved toward the window. "It will be a good day for work. No distractions."

Bond smiled a man-to-man smile. "I certainly find those girls pretty distracting. But most charming. What's the matter with them, by the way? They all look healthy enough."

The Count was offhand. "They suffer from allergies, Sir Hilary. Crippling allergies. In the agricultural field. They are country girls and their disabilities affect the possibility of their employment. I have devised a cure for such symptoms. I am glad to say that the signs are propitious. We are making much progress together." The telephone by his side buzzed. "Excuse me." The Count picked up the receiver and listened. "Ja. Machen Sie die Verbindung." He paused. Bond politely studied the papers he had brought along. "Zdies De Bleuville ... Da ... Da ... Kharascho!" He put the receiver back. "Forgive me. That was one of my research workers. He has been purchasing some materials for the laboratories. The cable railway is closed, but they are making a special trip up for him. Brave man. He will probably be very sick, poor fellow." The green contact lenses hid any sympathy he may have felt. The fixed smile showed none. "And now, my dear Sir Hilary, let us get on with our work."

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?"

"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 blotting 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.

"And that is important?"

"Very. Christian names run through families. We regard them as most significant clues. Now, can you remember any further 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 50 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 hardworking 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 – motorcars, 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 cooperation. A visit here and there in Poland and Germany and France. Of course your expenses would be heavy. Let us say £500 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?"

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, toward 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!

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 ball-ups that oversecurity can produce!

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 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 not got the money for the fare. He wanted to pay a visit up here. He was searched. He carried 500 Swiss francs. No identity papers." The man shrugged. "He says his name is Campbell."

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 life buoy 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.

The Count's head slowly turned toward 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 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.

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 sickroom. 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?"

"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?"

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 mustache. Not my line of country at all. Can't bear mustaches."

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 oversuspicious. 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 14th Century. I think I shall have some interesting data to show you tomorrow, Count."

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 halfway 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 workbench 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 clubhouse. 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.

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 brulé 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 up 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 get away 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.

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 the De Bleuvilles. At least he must continue to show willing, if only to the recording eye in the ceiling.

? ? ?

It was about 12:30 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."

"How do you mean? Helped us?"

"Well, this business of surnames. I talked to Violet last night. She seemed awfully interested. I'm sure it would have amused all the others to have theirs done. Everyone's interested in where they came from. Rather like palmistry in a way." Bond wondered how the College of Arms would have liked that one! He shrugged. "Anyway, I've decided to get the hell away from here. I can't bear being shepherded and ordered about like this. Who the hell do they think I am? But I'll tell you what I'll do. If you can give me the names of the girls, as many as you know, I'll do a piece on each of them and post them when you all get back to England. How much longer have you got, by the way?"

"We're not told exactly, but the rumor is about another week. There's another batch of girls due about then. When we're slow at our work or get behindhand with our reading, Miss Bunt says she hopes the next lot won't be so stupid. The old bitch! But Sir Hilary –" the blue eyes filled with concern – "how are you going to get away? You know we're practically prisoners here."

Bond was offhand. "Oh, I'll manage somehow. They can't hold me here against my will. But what about the names, Ruby? Don't you think it would give the girls a treat?"

"Oh, they'd love it. Of course I know all of them. We've found plenty of ways of exchanging secrets. But you won't be able to remember. Have you got anything to write down on?"

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 10. 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 girlfriend. 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 10 minutes to lunchtime. Now, can you do your trick with the door? There shouldn't be anyone about. It's their lunchtime from twelve till one."

Bond, out of any possible line of vision from the eye in the ceiling, did his trick with the door and she was gone with a last whispered goodbye.

Bond eased the door shut. He let out a deep sigh and went over to the window and peered out through the snowheaped panes. It was thick as Hades outside and the fine powder snow on the veranda was whirling up in little ghosts as the wind tore at the building. Pray God it would let up by nighttime! Now, what did he need in the way of equipment? Goggles and gloves were two items he might harvest over lunch. Bond went into the bathroom again and rubbed soap into his eyes. It stung like hell, but the blue-gray eyes emerged from the treatment realistically bloodshot. Satisfied, Bond rang for the "warder" and went thoughtfully off to the restaurant.

Silence fell as he went through the swinging doors, followed by a polite, brittle chatter. Eyes followed him discreetly as he crossed the room and the replies to his good mornings were muted. Bond took his usual seat between Ruby and Fräulein Bunt. Apparently oblivious to her frosty greeting, he snapped his fingers for a waiter and ordered his double vodka dry martini. He turned to Fräulein Bunt and smiled into the suspicious yellow eyes. "Would you be very kind?"

"Yes, Sair Hilary. What is it?"

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 paper work. 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 headwaiter 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 whiskey. 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 Paté 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?

Violet, guardedly but helpfully, said the guides thought it would clear up during the afternoon. The barometer was rising. She looked nervously at Fräulein Bunt to see if she had said too much to the pariah, and then, not reassured, went back to her two vast baked potatoes with poached eggs in them.

Bond's drink came. He swallowed it in two gulps and ordered another. He felt like making any gesture that would startle and outrage. He said, combatively, to Fräulein Bunt, "And how is that poor chap who came up in the cable car this morning? He looked in terrible shape. I do hope he's up and about again."

"He makes progress."

"Oh! Who was that?" asked Ruby.

"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 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."

Bond gave up the struggle and got on with his lunch. Ruby's foot crept up against his in sympathy with the man sent to Coventry. Bond gave it a gentle kick of warning and withdrew his. The girls at the other tables began to leave. Bond toyed with his cheese and coffee until Fräulein Bunt got to her feet and said, "Come, girls." Bond rose and sat down again. Now, except for the waiters clearing up, he was alone in the restaurant. That was what he wanted. He got up and strolled to the door. Outside, on pegs against the wall, the girls' outdoor coats and skiing gloves hung in an orderly row. The corridor was empty. Bond swept the largest pair of leather gauntlets he could see off the peg where they hung by their joining cord and stuffed them inside his sweater. Then he sauntered along to the reception room. It was empty. The door to the ski room was open and the surly man was at his workbench. Bond went in and made one-sided conversation about the weather. Then, under cover of desultory talk about whether the metal skis were not more dangerous than the old wooden ones, he wandered, his hands innocently in his pockets, round the numbered racks in which the skis stood against the wall. They were mostly the girls' skis. No good! The bindings would be too small for his boots. But, by the door, in unnumbered slots, stood the guides' skis. Bond's eyes narrowed to slits as he scanned them, measuring, estimating. Yes, the pair of metal Heads with the red Vs 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.

Now it was just a question of sitting out the hours. When would they have finished with Campbell? Quick, rough torture is rarely effective against a professional, apart from the likelihood of the man rapidly losing consciousness, becoming so punch-drunk that he is incoherent. The pro, if he is a tough man spiritually, can keep the "game" alive for hours by minor admissions, by telling long, rambling tales and sticking to them. Such tales need verification. Blofeld would undoubtedly have his man in Zürich, would be able to contact him on his radio, get him to check this or that date or address, but that also would require time. Then, if it was proved that Campbell had told lies, they would have to begin again. So far as Bond and his identity were concerned, it all depended on Campbell's reading of why Bond was up at the Gloria Club. He must guess, because of Bond's curt disavowal of him, that it was something clandestine, something important. Would he have the wits to cover up Bond, the guts, against the electrical and mechanical devices they would surely use against him? He could say that, when he came to and saw Bond, in his semiconscious state he had for a moment thought Bond was his brother, James Campbell. Some story like that. If he had the wits! If he had the guts! Had Campbell got a death pill, perhaps one of the buttons on his ski jacket or trousers? Bond sharply put the thought away. He had been on the edge of wishing that Campbell had!

Well, he would be wise to assume that it was only a matter of hours and then they would come for him. They wouldn't do it until after lights out. To do it before would cause too much talk among the girls. No, they would fetch him at night and the next day it would be put about that he had left by the first cable car down to the valley. Meanwhile he would be buried deep in a snow overcoat, or more likely deposited in a high crevasse in the nearby Piz Languard glacier, to come out at the bottom, 50 years later, out of his deep freeze, with multiple contusions but no identification marks – a nameless victim of les neiges éternelles!

Yes, he must plan for that. Bond got up from the desk where he had been automatically scribbling down lists of 15th Century De Bleuvilles and opened the window. The snow had stopped and there was broken blue in the sky. It would be perfect powder snow, perhaps a foot of it, on the Gloria Run. Now to make everything ready!

There are hundreds of secret inks, but there was only one available to Bond, the oldest one in the world, his own urine. He went into the bathroom (what must the televising eye think of his digestive tract?) with his pen, a clean point, and his passport. Then he sat down and proceeded to transcribe, from the flimsy pieces of paper in his pocket onto a blank page of his passport, the names and approximate locations by county of the girls. The page showed nothing. Held in front of a flame, the writing would come up brown. He slipped the passport into his hip pocket. Next he took the gloves from under his sweater, tried them on and found them an adequate but tight fit, took the top off the lavatory cistern and laid the gloves along the arm of the stopcock.

What else? It was going to be fiendishly cold at the start, but his body would soon be drenched in sweat. He would just have to make do with the ski clothes he possessed, the gloves, the goggles that had been placed on his table, and the flat glass flask of schnapps that he would carry in one of his side pockets and not, in case of a fall, in his hip pocket. Extra covering for his face? Bond thought of using one of his warm vests and cutting eyeholes in it. But it would surely slip and perhaps blind him. He had some dark-red silk bandana handkerchiefs. He would tie one tight over his face below the goggles and discard it if it interfered with his breathing. So! That was the lot! There was nothing else he could do or insure against. The rest was up to the Fates. Bond relaxed his thoughts and went out and back to his desk. He sat down and bent to his paper work and tried not to listen to the hastening tick of the Rolex on his wrist, tried to fix in his mind the rough geography of the Gloria Run he had inadequately learned from the metal map. It was too late now to go and have another look at it. He must stay put and continue to play the toothless tiger!

? ? ?

Dinner was as ghastly as lunch. Bond concentrated on getting plenty of whiskey and food under his belt. He made urbane conversation and pretended he didn't notice the chill in the air. Then he gave Ruby's foot one warm press under the table, excused himself on the grounds of work, and strode with dignity out of the room.

He had changed for dinner and he was relieved to find his ski clothes in the half-tidy heap in which he had left them. He went, with utter normalcy, about his work – sharpened pencils, laid out his books, bent to the squared paper: "Simon de Bleuville, 1510-1570. Alphonse de Bleuville, 1546-1580, married 1571 Mariette d'Escourt, and had issue, Jean, Françoise, Pierre." Thank God he would soon be released from all this blather!

9:15, 9:30, 9:45, 10! Bond felt the excitement ball up inside him like cat's fur. He found that his hands were wet. He wiped them down the sides of his trousers. He got up and stretched. He went into the bathroom and made appropriate noises, retrieved the gloves and laid them on the bathroom floor just inside the door. Then, naked, he came back into the room and got into bed and switched off the light. He regularized his breathing and, in 10 minutes, began to snore softly. He gave it another 10, then slid out of bed and, with infinite precaution, dressed himself in his ski clothes. He softly retrieved his gloves from the bathroom, put on the goggles so that they rested in his hair above the forehead, tied the dark-red handkerchief tightly across his nose, schnapps into pocket, passport into hip pocket and, finally, Gillette through the fingers of the left hand and the Rolex transferred to his right, the bracelet clasped in the palm of his hand and round the fingers so that the face of the watch lay across his middle knuckles.

James Bond paused and ran over his equipment. The ski gloves, their cord drawn through his sweater and down the sleeves, hung from his wrists. They would be a hindrance until he was outside. Nothing to be done about that. The rest was all right. He was set! He bent to the door, manipulated the lock with the plastic and, praying that the television eye had been closed down and would not see the light shining in from the passage, listened briefly and slipped out.

There was, as usual, light from the reception room to his left. Bond crept along, inched round the door jamb. Yes! The guard was there, bent over something that looked like a time sheet. The neck was offered. Bond dropped the Gillette in his pocket and stiffened the fingers of his left hand into the old Commando cutting edge. He took the two steps into the room and crashed the hand down on the back of the offered neck. The man's face hit the table top with a thud, bounced up and half turned toward Bond. Bond's right flashed out and the face of the Rolex disintegrated against the man's jaw. The body slid sluggishly off its chair onto the carpet and lay still, its legs untidy as if in sleep. The eyes fluttered and stared, unseeing, upward. Bond went round the desk and bent down. There was no heartbeat. Bond straightened himself. It was the man he had seen coming back alone from the bob run on his first morning, when Bertil had met with his accident. So! Rough justice!

The telephone on the desk buzzed like a trapped wasp. Bond looked at it. He picked up the receiver and spoke through the handkerchief across his mouth. "Ja?"

"Alles in Ordnung?"

"Ja."

"Also hör zu! Wir kommen für den Engländer in zehn Minuten. Verstanden?"

"Is 'recht."

"Also, aufpassen. Ja?"

"Zu Befehl!"

At the other end the receiver went down. The sweat was beading on Bond's face. Thank God he had answered! So they were coming for him in 10 minutes! There was a bunch of keys on the desk. Bond snatched them up and ran to the front door. After three misfits, he had the right one. He tried the door. It was now only held by its air-pressure device. Bond leaped for the ski room. Unlocked! He went in and, by the light from the reception room, found his skis. There were sticks beside them. Carefully he lifted everything out of its wooden slot and strode to the main door and opened it. He laid the skis and sticks softly down in the snow, turned back to the door, locked it from the outside and threw the keys far away into the snow.

The three-quarter moon burned down with an almost dazzling fire and the snow crystals scintillated back at it like a carpet of diamond dust. Now minutes would have to be wasted getting the bindings absolutely right. James Bond kicked one boot into the groove of the Marker toe hold and knelt down, feeling for the steel cable that went behind his heel. It was too short. Coolly, unhurriedly, he adjusted the regulating screw on the forward latch and tried again. This time it was all right. He pressed down on the safety latch and felt it lock his boot into the toe hold. Next, the safety thong round the top of his boot that would keep the ski prisoner if the latch sprung, which it would do with a fall. His fingers were beginning to freeze. The tip of the thong refused to find its buckle! A full minute wasted! Got it! And now the same job on the other ski. At last Bond stood up, slipped the gloves over his aching fingers, picked up the lancelike sticks and pushed himself off along the faint ridge that showed the outlines of yesterday's well-trodden path. It felt all right! He pulled the goggles down over his eyes and now the vast snowscape was a silvery green as if he was swimming under sunny water. The skis hissed smoothly through the powder snow. Bond tried to get up more speed down the gentle slope by langlaufing, the sliding, forward stride of the first Norwegian skiers. But it didn't work. The heels of his boots felt nailed to the skis. He punted himself forward as fast as he could with his sticks. God, what a trail he must be leaving – like a tramline! As soon as they got the front door open, they would be after him. Their fastest guide would certainly catch him easily unless he got a good start! Every minute, every second was a bonus. He passed between the black outlines of the cablehead and the Berghaus. There was the starting point of the Gloria Run, the metal notices beside it hatted with snow! Bond didn't pause. He went straight for it and over the edge.

This is the second of three installments of "On Her Majesty's Secret Service," a new novel by Ian Fleming. The conclusion will appear next month.