14 Octopussy by Ian Fleming

Author:Ian Fleming
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE PROPERTY OF A LADY

It was, exceptionally, a hot day in early June. James Bond put down the dark

gray chalk pencil that was the marker for the dockets routed to the Double-O

Section and took off his coat. He didn't bother to hang it over the back of his

chair, let alone take the trouble to get up and drape the coat over the hanger

Mary Goodnight had suspended, at her own cost (damn women!), behind the Office

of Works' green door of his connecting office. He dropped the coat on the floor.

There was no reason to keep the coat immaculate, the creases tidy. There was no

sign of any work to be done. All over the world there was quiet. The In and Out

signals had, for weeks, been routine. The daily top secret SITREP, even the

newspapers, yawned vacuously—in the latter case scratchings at domestic scandals

for readership, for bad news, the only news that makes such sheets readable,

whether top secret or on sale for pennies.

Bond hated these periods of vacuum. His eyes, his mind, were barely in focus as

he turned the pages of a jaw-breaking dissertation by the Scientific Research

Station on the Russian use of cyanide gas, propelled by the cheapest

bulb-handled children's water pistol, for assassination. The spray, it seemed,

directed at the face, took instantaneous effect. It was recommended for victims

from 25 years upwards, on ascending stairways or inclines. The verdict would

then probably be heart-failure.

The harsh burr of the red telephone sprayed into the room so suddenly that James

Bond, his mind elsewhere, reached his hand automatically towards his left armpit

in self-defense. The edges of his mouth turned down as he recognized the reflex.

On the second burr he picked up the receiver.

"Sir?"

"Sir."

He got up from his chair and picked up his coat. He put on the coat and at the

same time put on his mind. He had been dozing in his bunk. Now he had to go up

on the bridge. He walked through into the connecting office and resisted the

impulse to ruffle up the inviting nape of Mary Goodnight's golden neck.

He told her "M." and walked out into the close-carpeted corridor and along,

between the muted whizz and zing of the Communications Section, of which his

Section was a neighbor, to the lift and up to the eighth.

Miss Moneypenny's expression conveyed nothing. It usually conveyed something if

she knew something—private excitement, curiosity, or, if Bond was in trouble,

encouragement or even anger. Now the smile of welcome showed disinterest. Bond

registered that this was going to be some kind of a routine job, a bore, and he

adjusted his entrance through that fateful door accordingly.

There was a visitor—a stranger. He sat on M.'s left. He only briefly glanced up

as Bond came in and took his usual place across the red-leather-topped desk.

M. said, stiffly, "Dr. Fanshawe, I don't think you've met Commander Bond of my

Research Department."

Bond was used to these euphemisms.

He got up and held out his hand. Dr. Fanshawe rose, briefly touched Bond's hand

and sat quickly down as if he had touched paws with a Gila monster.

If he looked at Bond, inspected him and took him in as anything more than an

anatomical silhouette, Bond thought that Dr.

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