LITMIR.BIZ

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told him to take it easy up the stairs. The ones who had asked him to take them to Paris. The ones who had inquired indifferently, ‘Feeling better now, dearie?’ The hypnotist hadn’t been a bad chap. Rather a bore about how he could take away warts and how he was persecuted by the B.M.A., but Bond had finally had enough of sitting in a chair and listening to the quietly droning voice while, as instructed, he relaxed and gazed at a naked electric light bulb. And now he had thrown up the fifty-guinea course after only half the treatment and had come to sit in this secluded garden before going back to his office ten minutes away across the park.

      He looked at his watch. Just after three o’clock, and he was due back at two thirty. What the hell! God, it was hot. He wiped a hand across his forehead and then down the side of his trousers. He used not to sweat like this. The weather must be changing. Atomic bomb, whatever the scientists might say to the contrary. It would be good to be down somewhere in the South of France. Somewhere to bathe whenever he wanted. But he had had his leave for the year. That ghastly month they had given him after Tracy. Then he had gone to Jamaica. And what hell that had been. No! Bathing wasn’t the answer. It was all right here, really. Lovely roses to look at. They smelled good and it was pleasant looking at them and listening to the faraway traffic. Nice hum of bees. The way they went around the flowers, doing their work for their queen. Must read that book about them by the Belgian chap, Metternich or something. Same man who wrote about the ants. Extraordinary purpose in life. They didn’t have troubles. Just lived and died. Did what they were supposed to do and then dropped dead. Why didn’t one see a lot of bees’ corpses around? Ants’ corpses? Thousands, millions of them must die every day. Perhaps the others ate them. Oh, well! Better go back to the office and get hell from Mary. She was a darling. She was right to nag at him as she did. She was his conscience. But she didn’t realize the troubles he had. What troubles? Oh well. Don’t let’s go into that! James Bond got to his feet and went over and read the lead labels of the roses he had been gazing at. They told him that the bright vermilion ones were ‘Super Star’ and the white ones ‘Iceberg’.

      Then, with a jumble of his health, the heat, and the corpses of bees revolving lazily round his mind, James Bond strolled off in the direction of the tall grey building whose upper storeys showed themselves above the trees.

      It was three thirty. Only two more hours to go before his next drink!

      The lift man, resting the stump of his right arm on the operating handle, said, ‘Your secretary’s in a bit of a flap, sir. Been asking everywhere for you.’

      ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

      He got the same message when he stepped out at the fifth floor and showed his pass to the security guard at the desk. He walked unhurriedly along the quiet corridor to the group of end rooms whose outer door bore the Double-O sign. He went through and along to the door marked 007. He closed it behind him. Mary Goodnight looked up at him and said calmly, ‘M. wants you. He rang down half an hour ago.’

      ‘Who’s M.?’

      Mary Goodnight jumped to her feet, her eyes flashing. ‘Oh for God’s sake, James, snap out of it! Here, your tie’s crooked.’ She came up to him and he docilely allowed her to pull it straight. ‘And your hair’s all over the place. Here, use my comb.’ Bond took the comb and ran it absent-mindedly through his hair. He said, ‘You’re a good girl, Goodnight.’ He fingered his chin. ‘Suppose you haven’t got your razor handy? Must look my best on the scaffold.’

      ‘Please, James.’ Her eyes were bright. ‘Go and get on to him. He hasn’t talked to you for weeks. Perhaps it’s something important. Something exciting.’ She tried desperately to put encouragement into her voice.

      ‘It’s always exciting starting a new life. Anyway, who’s afraid of the Big Bad M.? Will you come and lend a hand on my chicken farm?’

      She turned away and put her hands up to her face. He patted her casually on the shoulder and walked through into his office and went over and picked up the red telephone. ‘007 here, sir.’

      ‘I’m sorry, sir. Had to go to the dentist.’

      ‘I know, sir. I’m sorry. I left it in my desk.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      He put the receiver down slowly. He looked round his office as if saying goodbye to it, walked out and along the corridor and went up in the lift with the resignation of a man under sentence.

      Miss Moneypenny looked up at him with ill-concealed hostility. ‘You can go in.’

      Bond squared his shoulders and looked at the padded door behind which he had so often heard his fate pronounced. Almost as if it were going to give him an electric shock, he tentatively reached out for the door handle and walked through and closed the door behind him.

      3. THE IMPOSSIBLE MISSION

       Table of Content

      M., HIS shoulders hunched inside the square-cut blue suit, was standing by the big window looking out across the park. Without looking round he said, ‘Sit down.’ No name, no number!

      Bond took his usual place across the desk from M.’s tall-armed chair. He noticed that there was no file on the expanse of red leather in front of the chair. And the In and Out baskets were both empty. Suddenly he felt really bad about everything – about letting M. down, letting the Service down, letting himself down. This empty desk, the empty chair, were the final accusation. We have nothing for you, they seemed to say. You’re no use to us any more. Sorry. It’s been nice knowing you, but there it is.

      M. came over and sat heavily down in the chair and looked across at Bond. There was nothing to read in the lined sailor’s face. It was as impassive as the polished blue leather of the empty chair-back had been.

      M. said, ‘You know why I’ve sent for you?’

      ‘I can guess, sir. You can have my resignation.’

      M. said angrily, ‘What in hell are you talking about? It’s not your fault that the Double-O Section’s been idle for so long. It’s the way things go. You’ve had flat periods before now – months with nothing in your line.’

      ‘But I made a mess of the last two jobs. And I know my Medical’s been pretty poor these last few months.’

      ‘Nonsense. There’s nothing the matter with you. You’ve been through a bad time. You’ve had good reason to be a bit under the weather. As for the last two assignments, anyone can make mistakes. But I can’t have idle hands around the place, so I’m taking you out of the Double-O Section.’

      Bond’s heart had temporarily risen. Now it plummeted again. The old man was being kind, trying to let him down lightly. He said, ‘Then, if it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d still like to put in my resignation. I’ve held the Double-O number for too long. I’m not interested in staff work, I’m afraid, sir. And no good at it either.’

      M. did something Bond had never seen him do before. He lifted his right fist and brought it crashing down on the desk. ‘Who the devil do you think you’re talking to? Who the devil d’you think’s running this show? God in Heaven! I send for you to give you promotion and the most important job of your career and you talk to me about resignation! Pig-headed young fool!’

      Bond was dumbfounded. A great surge of excitement ran through him. What in hell was all this about? He said, ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir. I thought I’d been letting the side down lately.’

      ‘I’ll soon tell you when you’re letting the side down.’ M. thumped the desk for a second time, but less hard. ‘Now listen to me, I’m giving you acting promotion to the Diplomatic Section. Four figure number and a thousand a year extra pay. You won’t know much about the Section, but I can tell you there are only two other men in it. You can keep your present office and your secretary, if you like. In fact I would prefer it. I don’t want your change of duty to get about. Understand?’

      ‘Yes,

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