LITMIR.BIZ

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the ceiling, "that is now waiting up there. Then I came back to London." A pause. "The Coronation. My letter to the Palace. Triumph. Hooray for Drax," he burst into a roar of laughter. "England at my feet. Every bloody fool in the country! And then my men come over and we start. Under the very skirts of Britannia. On top of her famous cliffs. We work like devils. We built a jetty into your English Channel. For supplies! For supplies from my good friends the Russians that came in dead on time last Monday night. But then Tallon had to hear something. The old fool. He talks to the Ministry. But Krebs is listening. There were fifty volunteers to kill the man. Lots are drawn and Bartsch dies a hero's death." Drax paused. "He will not be forgotten." Then he went on. "The new warhead is hoisted into place. It fits. A perfect piece of design. The same weight. Everything perfect, and the old one, the tin can full of the Ministry's cherished instruments, is now in Stettin--behind the Iron Curtain. And the faithful submarine is on her way back here and will soon," he looked at his watch, "be creeping under the waters of the English Channel to take us all off at one minute past midday tomorrow."

      Drax wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lay back in his chair gazing up at the ceiling, his eyes full of visions. Suddenly he chuckled and squinted quizzically down his nose at Bond.

      "And do you know what we shall do first when we go on board? We shall shave off those famous moustaches you were so interested in. You smelt a mouse, my dear Bond, where you ought to have smelt a rat. Those shaven heads and those moustaches we all cultivated so assiduously. Just a precaution, my dear fellow. Try shaving your own head and growing a big black moustache. Even your mother wouldn't recognize you. It's the combination that counts. Just a tiny refinement. Precision, my dear fellow. Precision in every detail. That has been my watchword." He chuckled fatly and puffed away at his cigar.

      Suddenly he looked sharply, suspiciously up at Bond. "Well. Say something. Don't sit there like a dummy. What do you think of my story? Don't you think it's extraordinary, remarkable? For one man to have done all that? Come on, come on." A hand came up to his mouth and he started tearing furiously at his nails. Then it was plunged back into his pocket and his eyes became cruel and cold. "Or do you want me to have to send for Krebs," he made a gesture towards the house telephone on his desk. "The Persuader. Poor Krebs. He's like a child who's had his toys taken away from him. Or perhaps Walter. He would give you both something to remember. There's no softness in that one. Well?"

      "Yes," said Bond. He looked levelly at the great red face across the desk. "It's a remarkable case-history. Galloping paranoia. Delusions of jealousy and persecution. Megalomaniac hatred and desire for revenge. Curiously enough," he went on conversationally, "it may have something to do with your teeth. Diastema, they call it. Comes from sucking your thumb when you're a child. Yes. I expect that's what the psychologists will say when they get you into the lunatic asylum. 'Ogre's teeth.' Being bullied at school and so on. Extraordinary the effect it has on a child. Then Nazism helped to fan the flames and then came the crack on your ugly head. The crack you engineered yourself. I expect that settled it. From then on you were really mad. Same sort of thing as people who think they're God. Extraordinary what tenacity they have. Absolute fanatics. You're almost a genius. Lombroso would have been delighted with you. As it is you're just a mad dog that'll have to be shot. Or else you'll commit suicide. Paranoiacs generally do. Too bad. Sad business."

      Bond paused and put all the scorn he could summon into his voice. "And now let's get on with this farce, you great hairy-faced lunatic."

      It worked. With every word Drax's face had become more contorted with rage, his eyes were red with it, the sweat of fury was dripping off his jowls on to his shirt, the lips were drawn back from the gaping teeth and a string of saliva had crept out of his mouth and was hanging down from his chin. Now, at the last private-school insult that must have awoken God knows what stinging memories, he leapt up from his chair and lunged round the desk at Bond, his hairy fists flailing.

      Bond gritted his teeth and took it.

      When Drax had twice had to pick the chair up with Bond in it, the tornado of rage suddenly passed. He took out his silk handkerchief and wiped his face and hands. Then he walked quietly to the door and spoke across the lolling head of Bond to the girl.

      "I don't think you two will give me any more trouble," he said, and his voice was quite calm and certain. "Krebs never makes a mistake with his knots." He gesticulated towards the bloody figure in the other chair. "When he wakes up," he said, "you can tell him that these doors will open once more, just before noon tomorrow. A few minutes later there will be nothing left of either of you. Not even," he added as he wrenched open the inner door, "the stoppings in your teeth."

      The outer door slammed.

      Bond slowly raised his head and grinned painfully at the girl with his bloodstained lips.

      "Had to get him mad," he said with difficulty. "Didn't want to give him time to think. Had to work up a brainstorm." Gala looked at him uncomprehendingly, her eyes wide at the terrible mask of his face.

      "'S'all right," said Bond thickly. "Don't worry. London's okay. Got a plan."

      Over on the desk the blowtorch gave a quiet 'plop' and went out.

      Chapter XXIII

       Zero Minus

       Table of Content

      Through half-closed eyes Bond looked intently at the torch while for a few precious seconds he sat and let life creep back into his body. His head felt as if it had been used as a football, but there was nothing broken. Drax had hit him unscientifically and with the welter of blows of a drunken man.

      Gala watched him anxiously. The eyes in the bloody face were almost shut, but the line of the jaw was taut with concentration and she could feel the effort of will he was making.

      He gave his head a shake and when he turned towards her she could see that his eyes were feverish with triumph.

      He nodded towards the desk. "The lighter," he said urgently. "I had to try and make him forget it. Follow me. I'll show you." He started to rock the light steel chair inch by inch towards the desk. "For God's sake don't tip over or we've had it. But make it fast or the blowlamp'll get cold."

      Uncomprehendingly, and feeling almost as if they were playing some ghastly children's game, Gala carefully rocked her way across the floor in his wake.

      Seconds later Bond told her to stop beside the desk while he went rocking on round to Drax's chair. Then he manoeuvred himself into position opposite his target and with a sudden lurch heaved himself and the chair forward so that his head came down.

      There was a painful crack as the Ronson desk lighter connected with his teeth, but his lips held it and the top of it was in his mouth as he heaved the chair back with just enough force to prevent it spilling over. Then he started his patient journey back to where Gala was sitting at the corner of the desk on which Krebs had left the blowlamp.

      He rested until his breath was steady again. "Now we come to the difficult part," he said grimly. "While I try to get this torch going, you get your chair round so that your right arm is as close in front of me as possible."

      Obediently she edged herself round while Bond swayed his chair so that it leant against the edge of the desk and allowed his mouth to reach forward and grip the handle of the blowtorch between his teeth.

      Then he eased the torch towards him and after minutes of patient work he had the torch and the lighter arranged to his liking at the edge of the desk.

      After another rest he bent down, closed the valve of the torch with his teeth, and proceeded to get pressure back by slowly and repeatedly pulling up the plunger with his lips and pressing it back with his chin. His face could feel the warmth in the pre-heater and he could smell the remnants of gas in it. If only it hadn't cooled off too much.

      He straightened up.

      "Last lap, Gala," he said, smiling crookedly at her. "I may have to hurt you a bit. All right?"

      "Of course," said Gala.

      "Then

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