The small crowd of reporters and cameramen dissolved and straggled off across the concrete apron, leaving only a nervously chatting group of officials to wait for Drax to emerge.
Bond looked at his watch. 11.45. Hurry up, damn you, he thought.
For the hundredth time he repeated to himself the figures Gala had taught him during the hours of cramped pain that had followed their ordeal by steam, and for the hundredth time he shifted his limbs to keep the circulation going.
“Get ready,” he whispered into Gala’s ear. “Are you all right?”
He could feel the girl smile. “Fine.” She shut her mind to the thought of her blistered legs and the quick rasping descent back down the ventilator shaft.
The door clanged shut beneath them followed by the click of the lock and, preceded by the five guards, the figure of Drax appeared below striding masterfully towards the group of officials, the slip of lying figures in his hand.
Bond looked at his watch. 11.47. “Now,” he whispered.
“Good luck,” she whispered back.
Slither, scrape, rip. His shoulders carefully expanding and contracting; blistered, bloodstained feet scrabbling for the sharp knobs of iron, Bond, his lacerated body tearing its way down the forty feet of shaft, prayed that the girl would have strength to stand it when she followed.
A last ten-foot drop that jarred his spine, a kick at the grating and he was out on the steel floor and running for the stairs, leaving a trail of red footprints and a spray of blood-drops from his raw shoulders.
The arcs had been extinguished, but the daylight streamed down through the open roof and the blue from the sky mingling with the fierce glitter of the sunshine gave Bond the impression that he was running up inside a huge sapphire.
The great deadly needle in the centre might have been made of glass. Looking above him as he sweated and panted up the endless sweep of the iron stairway, it was difficult for him to see where its tapering nose ended and the sky began.
Behind the crouching silence that enveloped the shimmering bullet, Bond could hear a quick, deadly ticking, the hasty tripping of tiny metal feet somewhere in the body of the Moonraker. It filled the great steel chamber like the beating heart in Poe’s story and Bond knew that directly Drax at the firing point pressed the switch that sent the radio beam zing ing over two hundred yards to the waiting rocket, the ticking would suddenly cease, there would be the soft whine of the lighted pinwheel, a wisp of steam from the turbines, and then the howling jet of flame on which the rocket would slowly rise and sweep majestically out on the start of its gigantic acceleration curve.
And then in front of him there was the spidery arm of the gantry folded back against the wall and Bond’s hand was at the lever and the arm was slowly stretching down and out towards the square hairline on the glittering skin of the rocket that was the door of the gyro chamber.
Bond, on hands and knees, was along it even before the rubber pads came to rest against the polished chrome. There was the flush disc the size of a shilling, just as Gala had described. Press, click, and the tiny door had flicked open on its hard spring. Inside. Careful not to cut your head. The gleaming handles beneath the staring compass-roses. Turn. Twist. Steady. That’s for the roll. Now the pitch and yaw. Turn. Twist. Ever so gently. And steady. A last look. A glance at his watch. Four minutes to go. Don’t panic. Back out. Door click. A cat-like scurry. Don’t look down. Gantry up. Clang against the wall. And now for the stairs.
Tick-tick-tick-tick.
As Bond shot down he caught a glimpse of Gala’s tense, white face as she stood holding open the outer door of Drax’s office. God, how his body hurt! A final leap and a clumsy swerve to the right. Clang as Gala slammed the outer door. Another clang and they were across the room and into the shower and the water was hissing down on their clinging, panting bodies.
Through the noise of it all, above the beating of his heart, Bond heard the sudden crackle of static and then the voice of the BBC announcer coming from the big set in Drax’s room a few inches away through the thin wall of the bathroom. It had been Gala again who had remembered Drax’s wireless and who had found time to throw the switches while Bond was working on the gyros.
“… be five minutes’ delay,” said the breezy, excited voice. “Sir Hugo has been persuaded to say a few words into the microphone.” Bond turned off the shower and the voice came to them more clearly. “He looks very confident. Just saying something into the Minister’s ear. They’re both laughing.
Wonder what it was? Ah, here’s my colleague with the latest weather report from the Air Ministry. What’s that? Perfect at all altitudes. Good show. It certainly is a wonderful day down below here. Haha. Those crowds in the distance by the coastguard station will be getting quite a sunburn. There must be thousands. What’s that you say? Twenty thousand? Well, it certainly looks like it. And Walmer Beach is black with them too. The whole of Kent seems to be out. Terrible crick in the neck we’re all going to get, I’m afraid. Worse than Wimbledon. Haha. Hullo, what’s going on down there by the jetty? By jove, there’s a submarine just surfaced alongside. I say, what a sight. One of our biggest I should say. And Sir Hugo’s team is down there too. Lined up on the jetty as if they were on parade. Magnificent body of men. Now they’re filing on board. Perfect discipline. Must be an idea of the Admiralty’s. Give them a special grandstand out in the Channel. Splendid show. Wish you could be here to see it. Now Sir Hugo is coming towards us. In a moment he’ll be speaking to you. Fine figure of a man. Everyone in the firing point is giving him a cheer. I’m sure we all feel like cheering him today. He’s coming into the firing point. I can see the sun glinting on the nose of the Moonraker way over there behind him. Just showing out of the top of the launching dome. Hope somebody’s got a camera. Now here he is,” a pause. “Sir Hugo Drax.”
Bond looked into Gala’s dripping face. Soaked and bleeding they stood in each other’s arms, speechless and trembling slightly with the storm of their emotions. Their eyes were blank and fathomless as they met and held each other’s gaze.
“Your majesty, men and women of England,” the voice was a velvet snarl. “I am about to change the course of England’s history.” A pause. “In a few minutes’ time the lives of all of you will be altered, in some cases, ahem, drastically, by the, er, impact of the Moonraker. I am very proud and pleased that fate has singled me out, from amongst all my fellow countrymen, to fire this great arrow of vengeance into the skies and thus to proclaim for all time, and for all the world to witness, the might of my fatherland. I hope that this occasion will be forever a warning that the fate of my country’s enemies will be written in dust, in ashes, in tears, and,” a pause, “in blood. And now thank you all for listening and I sincerely hope that those of you who are able will repeat my words to your children, if you have any, tonight.”
A rattle of rather hesitant applause sounded out of the machine and then came the breezy voice of the announcer. “And that was Sir Hugo Drax saying a few words to you before he walks across the floor of the firing point to the switch on the wall which will fire the Moonraker. The first time he has spoken in public. Very, ahem, forthright. Doesn’t mince his words. However, a lot of us will say there’s no harm in that. And now it’s time for me to hand over to the expert, Group Captain Tandy of the Ministry of Supply, who will describe to you the actual firing of the Moonraker. After that you will hear Peter Trimble in one of the naval security patrol, HMS Merganzer, describe the scene in the target area. Group Captain Tandy.”
Bond glanced at his watch. “Only a minute more,” he said to Gala. “God, I’d like to get my hands on Drax. Here,” he reached for the cake of soap and gouged some pieces off it. “Stuff this in your ears when the time comes. The noise is going to be terrific, I don’t know about the heat. It won’t last long and the steel walls may stand up to it.”
Gala looked at him. She smiled. “If you hold me it won’t be too bad,” she said.
“… and now Sir Hugo has his hand on the switch and he’s watching the chronometer.”
“TEN,” broke in another voice, heavy and sonorous as the toll of a bell.
Bond turned on the shower and the water hissed down on their clinging bodies.
“NINE,” tolled the voice of the time-keeper.
“… the radar operators are watching the screens. Nothing but a mass of wavy lines…”
“EIGHT.”
“… all wearing ear-plugs. Blockhouse should be indestructable. Concrete walls are twelve feet thick. Pyramid roof, twenty-seven feet thick at the point…”
“SEVEN.”
“… first the radio beam will stop the time mechanism alongside the turbines. Set the pinwheel going. Flaming thing like a Catherine wheel…”
“SIX.”
“… valves will open. Liquid fuel. Secret formula. Terrific stuff. Dynamite. Pours down from the fuel tanks…”
“FIVE.”
“… ignited by the pinwheel when the fuel gets to the rocket motor…”
“FOUR.”
“… meanwhile the peroxide and permanganate have mixed, made steam and the turbine pumps begin to turn…”
“THREE.”
“… pumping the flaming fuel through the motor out of the stern of the rocket into the exhaust pit. Gigantic heat… 3500 degrees…”
“TWO.”
“… Sir Hugo is about to press the switch. He’s staring out through the slit. Perspiration on his forehead. Absolute silence in here. Terrific tension.”
“ONE.”
Nothing but the noise of the water, steadily pouring down on the two clinging bodies.
FIRE!
Bond’s heart jumped into his throat at the shout. He felt Gala shudder. Silence. Nothing but the hissing of the water…
“… Sir Hugo’s left the firing point. Walking calmly over to the edge of the cliff. So confident. He’s stepped on to the hoist. He’s going down. Of course. He must be going out to the submarine. Television screen shows a little steam coming out of the tail of the rocket. A few more seconds. Yes, he’s out on the jetty. He looked back and raised his arm in the air. Good old Sir Hu…”
A soft thunder came to Bond and Gala. Louder. Louder. The tiled floor began to tremble under their feet. A hurricane scream. They were being pulverized by it. The walls were quaking, steaming. Their legs began going out of control under their teetering bodies. Hold her up. Hold her up. Stop it! Stop it!! STOP THAT NOISE!!!
Christ, he was going to faint. The water was boiling. Must turn it off. Got it. No. Pipe’s burst. Steam, smell, iron, paint.
Get her out! Get her out!! Get her out!!!
And then there was silence. Silence you could feel, hold, squeeze. And they were on the floor of Drax’s office. Only the light in the bathroom still shining out. And the smoke’s clearing. And the filthy smell of burning iron and paint. Being sucked out by the air-conditioner. And the steel wall is bent towards them like a huge blister. Gala’s eyes are open and she’s smiling. But the rocket. What happened? London? North Sea? The radio. Looks all right. He shook his head and the deafness slowly cleared. He remembered the soap. Gouged it out.
