writing area of an antique desk. ‘I have taken the liberty of arranging a tour of the installation for you. I think it advisable that you see how we go about things. We can discuss the matter of the Moonraker over dinner. I will expect to see you in the Orleans Room at seven-thirty.’ As he finished speaking, the door opened and Trudi came in. ‘Miss Parker will escort you to Dr Goodhead, who will show you round. Please feel free to ask any questions that enter your head.’ The intimation was that the entry of questions into Bond’s head might well be a haphazard process with no guarantee that Dr Goodhead would have a particularly taxing afternoon.
‘Thank you for being so co-operative,’ said Bond, numbing his already cold mouth with a glacial smile.
‘A pleasure.’ Drax took a step towards the door as if to show his guest the way and then stood his ground until he was alone with Chang. He held out his empty cup and looked into the concentrating face as the tea was poured. ‘I want you to look after Mr Bond, Chang,’ he said slowly. ‘See that some harm comes to him.’
5
A WHIP-ROUND FOR MR BOND
Trudi escorted Bond to a small vehicle like a golf buggy and they drove away down the gravel drive. Bond had the impression that eyes were watching him from behind the tall windows, but he could see nothing. Trudi remained silent and he sensed that she had been able to read his expression and knew that the interview with Drax had not gone well. He considered questioning her about her relationship with her employer but decided that this was not the moment to invite such confidences. Later perhaps.
The buggy crossed a bridge at the frontier of the poplars and left the French Renaissance behind. Across a stretch of open ground planted with shrubs that had not yet reached maturity was the first of the enormous hangars. Trudi skirted it and arrived at a glass-fronted building that looked as if it housed offices. It reminded Bond of a three-storey mouse cage he had owned when a boy. He almost expected to see a giant exercise treadmill beside the filing cabinets.
‘This is where I leave you,’ said Trudi. ‘You’ll find Dr Goodhead at the end of the passage past the reception desk.’
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ said Bond.
‘This evening, you mean.’ Trudi raised a hand in farewell and glided away towards the château without looking back.
Bond conquered a sigh and wondered what Dr Goodhead would be like. Probably some dry-as-dust scientist talking incomprehensibly in technical jargon. The kind of man who could split the atom without discovering how to stop the dandruff that built up on the shoulders of his white coat.
Bond entered the building and walked past the empty reception desk and the inevitable iced water dispenser. As he advanced down the corridor, a beautiful girl in a black leotard approached him. Her skin matched the colour of the leotard and she had a woollen jacket around her shoulders. There were two small beads of perspiration above her wickedly curved upper lip and Bond guessed that she had just returned from a physical work-out with the astronaut trainees. She smiled winsomely and moved on her way, the muscles rippling beneath the leotard. Bond felt, again a strange sense of unreality. It was difficult to reconcile Renaissance châteaux and beautiful girls with mannequin proportions with the ultra-modern technology of a space laboratory. He continued down the corridor and stopped before a door with the name Dr H. Goodhead neatly printed in black letters on a white card. Bond knocked; there was no answer. He opened the door and found himself in an outer office with a secretary’s desk, filing cabinets and wall charts. The room was empty. The door to the inner office was ajar and Bond pushed it open.
Standing with her back to him was a slim girl wearing a light grey jumpsuit. The back was promising. It was long and ended in a slim waist giving way to tight, well-rounded buttocks and legs
‘Thank you for being so co-operative,’ said Bond, numbing his already cold mouth with a glacial smile.
‘A pleasure.’ Drax took a step towards the door as if to show his guest the way and then stood his ground until he was alone with Chang. He held out his empty cup and looked into the concentrating face as the tea was poured. ‘I want you to look after Mr Bond, Chang,’ he said slowly. ‘See that some harm comes to him.’
5
A WHIP-ROUND FOR MR BOND
Trudi escorted Bond to a small vehicle like a golf buggy and they drove away down the gravel drive. Bond had the impression that eyes were watching him from behind the tall windows, but he could see nothing. Trudi remained silent and he sensed that she had been able to read his expression and knew that the interview with Drax had not gone well. He considered questioning her about her relationship with her employer but decided that this was not the moment to invite such confidences. Later perhaps.
The buggy crossed a bridge at the frontier of the poplars and left the French Renaissance behind. Across a stretch of open ground planted with shrubs that had not yet reached maturity was the first of the enormous hangars. Trudi skirted it and arrived at a glass-fronted building that looked as if it housed offices. It reminded Bond of a three-storey mouse cage he had owned when a boy. He almost expected to see a giant exercise treadmill beside the filing cabinets.
‘This is where I leave you,’ said Trudi. ‘You’ll find Dr Goodhead at the end of the passage past the reception desk.’
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ said Bond.
‘This evening, you mean.’ Trudi raised a hand in farewell and glided away towards the château without looking back.
Bond conquered a sigh and wondered what Dr Goodhead would be like. Probably some dry-as-dust scientist talking incomprehensibly in technical jargon. The kind of man who could split the atom without discovering how to stop the dandruff that built up on the shoulders of his white coat.
Bond entered the building and walked past the empty reception desk and the inevitable iced water dispenser. As he advanced down the corridor, a beautiful girl in a black leotard approached him. Her skin matched the colour of the leotard and she had a woollen jacket around her shoulders. There were two small beads of perspiration above her wickedly curved upper lip and Bond guessed that she had just returned from a physical work-out with the astronaut trainees. She smiled winsomely and moved on her way, the muscles rippling beneath the leotard. Bond felt, again a strange sense of unreality. It was difficult to reconcile Renaissance châteaux and beautiful girls with mannequin proportions with the ultra-modern technology of a space laboratory. He continued down the corridor and stopped before a door with the name Dr H. Goodhead neatly printed in black letters on a white card. Bond knocked; there was no answer. He opened the door and found himself in an outer office with a secretary’s desk, filing cabinets and wall charts. The room was empty. The door to the inner office was ajar and Bond pushed it open.
Standing with her back to him was a slim girl wearing a light grey jumpsuit. The back was promising. It was long and ended in a slim waist giving way to tight, well-rounded buttocks and legs
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