Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

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Текущая страница: 39 (всего у книги 190 страниц)

25 | ZERO PLUS

‘ … two hundred dead so far and about the same number missing,’ said M. ‘Reports still coming in from the East Coast and there’s bad news from Holland. Breached miles of their sea defences. Most of our losses were among the patrol craft. Two of them capsized, including the Merganzer. Commanding Officer missing. And that B.B.C. chap. Goodwin Lightships broke their moorings. No news from Belgium or France yet. There are going to be some pretty heavy bills to pay when everything gets sorted out.’

It was the next afternoon and Bond, a rubber-tipped stick beside his chair, was back where he had started – across the desk from the quiet man with the cold grey eyes who had invited him to dinner and a game of cards a hundred years ago.

Under his clothes Bond was latticed with surgical tape. Pain burned up his legs whenever he moved his feet. There was a vivid red streak across his left cheek and the bridge of his nose, and the tannic ointment dressing glinted in the light from the window. He held a cigarette clumsily in one gloved hand. Incredibly M. had invited him to smoke.

‘Any news of the submarine, sir?’ he asked.

‘They’ve located her,’ said M. with satisfaction. ‘Lying on her side in about thirty fathoms. The salvage ship that was to look after the remains of the rocket is over her now. The divers have been down and there’s no answer to signals against her hull. The Soviet Ambassador has been round at the Foreign Office this morning. I gather he says a salvage ship is on her way down from the Baltic, but we’ve said that we can’t wait as the wreck’s a danger to navigation.’ M. chuckled. ‘So she would be I dare say if anyone happened to be navigating at thirty fathoms in the Channel. But I’m glad I’m not a member of the Cabinet,’ he added drily. ‘They’ve been in session on and off since the end of the broadcast. Vallance got hold of those Edinburgh solicitors before they’d opened Drax’s message to the world. I gather it’s a terrific document. Reads as if it had been written by Jehovah. Vallance took it to the Cabinet last night and stayed at No. 10 to fill in the blanks.’

‘I know,’ said Bond. ‘He kept on telephoning me at the hospital for details until after midnight. I could hardly think straight for all the dope they’d pushed into me. What’s going to happen?’

‘They’re going to try the biggest cover-up job in history,’ said M. ‘A lot of scientific twaddle about the fuel having been only half used up. Unexpectedly powerful explosion on impact. Full compensation to be paid. Tragic loss of Sir Hugo Drax and his team. Great patriot. Tragic loss of one of H.M. submarines. Latest experimental model. Orders misunderstood. Very sad. Fortunately only a skeleton crew. Next of kin will be informed. Tragic loss of B.B.C. man. Unaccountable error in mistaking White Ensign for Soviet naval colours. Very similar design. White Ensign recovered from the wreck.’

‘But what about the atomic explosion?’ asked Bond. ‘Radiation and atomic dust and all that. The famous mushroom-shaped cloud. Surely that’s going to be a bit of a problem.’

‘Apparently it’s not worrying them too much,’ said M. ‘The cloud is going to be passed off as the normal formation after an explosion of that size. The Ministry of Supply know the whole story. Had to be told. Their men were down on the East Coast all last night with Geiger counters and there’s not been a positive report yet.’ M. smiled coldly. ‘The cloud’s got to come down somewhere, of course, but by a happy chance such wind as there is is drifting it up north. Back home, as you might say.’

Bond smiled painfully. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘How very appropriate.’

‘Of course,’ continued M., picking up his pipe and starting to fill it, ‘there are going to be some nasty rumours. They’ve begun already. A lot of people saw you and Miss Brand being brought out of the site on stretchers. Then there’s the Bowaters’ case against Drax for the loss of all that newsprint. There’ll be the inquest on the young man who was killed in the Alfa Romeo. And somebody’s got to explain away the remains of your car, amongst which,’ he looked accusingly at Bond, ‘a long-barrel Colt was found. And then there’s the Ministry of Supply. Vallance had to call some of their men yesterday to help clean out that house in Ebury Street. But those people are trained to keep secrets. You won’t get a leak there. Naturally it’s going to be a risky business. The big lie always is. But what’s the alternative? Trouble with Germany? War with Russia? Lots of people on both sides of the Atlantic would be only too glad of an excuse.’

M. paused and put a match to his pipe. ‘If the story holds,’ he continued reflectively, ‘we shan’t come out of this too badly. We’ve wanted one of their high-speed U-boats and we’ll be glad of the clues we can pick up about their atom bombs. The Russians know that we know that their gamble failed. Malenkov’s none too firmly in the saddle and this may mean another Kremlin revolt. As for the Germans. Well, we all knew there was plenty of Nazism left and this will make the Cabinet go just a bit more carefully on German rearmament. And, as a very minor consequence,’ he gave a wry smile, ‘it will make Vallance’s security job, and mine for the matter of that, just a little bit easier in the future. These politicians can’t see that the atomic age has created the most deadly saboteur in the history of the world – the little man with the heavy suitcase.’

‘Will the Press wear the story?’ asked Bond dubiously.

M. shrugged his shoulders. ‘The Prime Minister saw the editors this morning,’ he said, putting another match to his pipe, ‘and I gather he’s got away with it so far. If the rumours get bad later on, he’ll probably have to see them again and tell them some of the truth. Then they’ll play all right. They always do when it’s important enough. The main thing is to gain time and stave off the firebrands. For the moment everyone’s so proud of the Moonraker that they’re not inquiring too closely into what went wrong.’

There was a soft burr from the intercom on M.’s desk and a ruby light winked on and off. M. picked up the single earphone and leant towards it. ‘Yes?’ he said. There was a pause. ‘I’ll take it on the Cabinet line.’ He picked up the white receiver from the bank of four telephones.

‘Yes,’ said M. ‘Speaking.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, sir? Over.’ M. pressed down the button of his scrambler. He held the receiver close to his ear and not a sound from it reached Bond. There was a long pause during which M. puffed occasionally at the pipe in his left hand. He took it out of his mouth. ‘I agree, sir.’ Another pause. ‘I know my man would have been very proud, sir. But of course it’s a rule here.’ M. frowned. ‘If you will allow me to say so, sir, I think it would be very unwise.’ A pause, then M.’s face cleared. ‘Thank you, sir. And of course Vallance has not got the same problem. And it would be the least she deserves.’ Another pause. ‘I understand. That will be done.’ Another pause. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’

M. put the white receiver back on its cradle and the scrambler button clicked back to the en clair position.

For a moment M. continued to look at the telephone as if in doubt about what had been said. Then he twisted his chair away from the desk and gazed thoughtfully out of the window.

There was silence in the room and Bond shifted in his chair to ease the pain that was creeping back into his body.

The same pigeon as on Monday, or perhaps another one, came to rest on the window-sill with the same clatter of wings. It walked up and down, nodding and cooing, and then planed off towards the trees in the park. The traffic murmured sleepily in the distance.

How nearly it had come, thought Bond, to being stilled. How nearly there might be nothing now but the distant clang of the ambulance bells beneath a lurid black and orange sky, the stench of burning, the screams of people still trapped in the buildings. The softly beating heart of London silenced for a generation. And a whole generation of her people dead in the streets amongst the ruins of a civilization that might not rise again for centuries.

All that would have come about but for a man who scornfully cheated at cards to feed the fires of his maniac ego; but for the stuffy chairman of Blades who detected him; but for M. who agreed to help an old friend; but for Bond’s half-remembered lessons from a card-sharper; but for Vallance’s precautions; but for Gala’s head for figures; but for a whole pattern of tiny circumstances, a whole pattern of chance.

Whose pattern?

There was a shrill squeak as M.’s chair swivelled round. Bond carefully focused again on the grey eyes across the desk.

‘That was the Prime Minister,’ M. said gruffly. ‘Says he wants you and Miss Brand out of the country.’ M. lowered his eyes and looked stolidly into the bowl of his pipe. ‘You’re both to be out by tomorrow afternoon. There are too many people in this case who know your faces. Might put two and two together when they see the shape you’re both in. Go anywhere you like. Unlimited expenses for both of you. Any currency you like. I’ll tell the Paymaster. Stay away for a month. But keep out of circulation. You’d both be gone this afternoon only the girl’s got an appointment at eleven tomorrow morning. At the Palace. Immediate award of the George Cross. Won’t be gazetted until the New Year of course. Like to meet her one day. Must be a good girl. As a matter of fact,’ M.’s expression as he looked up was unreadable, ‘the Prime Minister had something in mind for you. Forgotten that we don’t go in for those sort of things here. So he asked me to thank you for him. Said some nice things about the Service. Very kind of him.’

M. gave one of the rare smiles that lit up his face with quick brightness and warmth. Bond smiled back. They understood the things that had to be left unsaid.

Bond knew it was time to go. He got up. ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ he said. ‘And I’m glad about the girl.’

‘All right then,’ said M. on a note of dismissal. ‘Well, that’s the lot. See you in a month. Oh and by the way,’ he added casually. ‘Call in at your office. You’ll find something there from me. Little memento.’

James Bond went down in the lift and limped along the familiar corridor to his office. When he walked through the inner door he found his secretary arranging some papers on the next desk to his.

‘008 coming back?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she smiled happily. ‘He’s being flown out tonight.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’ll have company,’ said Bond. ‘I’m going off again.’

‘Oh,’ she said. She looked quickly at his face and then away. ‘You look as if you needed a bit of a rest.’

‘I’m going to get one,’ said Bond. ‘A month’s exile.’ He thought of Gala. ‘It’s going to be pure holiday. Anything for me?’

‘Your new car’s downstairs. I’ve inspected it. The man said you’d ordered it on trial this morning. It looks lovely. Oh, and there’s a parcel from M.’s office. Shall I unpack it?’

‘Yes, do,’ said Bond.

He sat down at his desk and looked at his watch. Five o’clock. He was feeling tired. He knew he was going to feel tired for several days. He always got these reactions at the end of an ugly assignment, the aftermath of days of taut nerves, tension, fear.

His secretary came back into the room with two heavy-looking cardboard boxes. She put them on his desk and he opened the top one. When he saw the grease-paper he knew what to expect.

There was a card in the box. He took it out and read it. In M.’s green ink it said: ‘You may be needing these.’ There was no signature.

Bond unwrapped the grease-paper and cradled the shining new Beretta in his hand. A memento. No. A reminder. He shrugged his shoulders and slipped the gun under his coat into the empty holster. He got clumsily to his feet.

‘There’ll be a long-barrel Colt in the other box,’ he said to his secretary. ‘Keep it until I get back. Then I’ll take it down to the range and fire it in.’

He walked to the door. ‘So long, Lil,’ he said, ‘regards to 008 and tell him to be careful of you. I’ll be in France. Station F will have the address. But only in an emergency.’

She smiled at him. ‘How much of an emergency?’ she asked.

Bond gave a short laugh. ‘Any invitation to a quiet game of bridge,’ he said.

He limped out and shut the door behind him.

The 1953 Mark VI had an open touring body. It was battleship grey like the old 4½ litre that had gone to its grave in a Maidstone garage, and the dark blue leather upholstery gave a luxurious hiss as he climbed awkwardly in beside the test driver.

Half an hour later the driver helped him out at the corner of Birdcage Walk and Queen Anne’s Gate. ‘We could get more speed out of her if you want it, sir,’ he said. ‘If we could have her back for a fortnight we could tune her to do well over the hundred.’

‘Later,’ said Bond. ‘She’s sold. On one condition. That you get her over to the ferry terminal at Calais by tomorrow evening.’

The test driver grinned. ‘Roger,’ he said. ‘I’ll take her over myself. See you on the pier, sir.’

‘Fine,’ said Bond. ‘Go easy on A20. The Dover road’s a dangerous place these days.’

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said the driver, thinking that this man must be a bit of a cissy for all that he seemed to know plenty about motor-cars. ‘Piece of cake.’

‘Not every day,’ said Bond with a smile. ‘See you at Calais.’

Without waiting for a reply, he limped off with his stick through the dusty bars of evening sunlight that filtered down through the trees in the park.

Bond sat down on one of the seats opposite the island in the lake and took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to six. He reminded himself that she was the sort of girl who would be punctual. He had reserved the corner table for dinner. And then? But first there would be the long luxurious planning. What would she like? Where would she like to go? Where had she ever been? Germany, of course. France? Miss out Paris. They could do that on their way back. Get as far as they could the first night, away from the Pas de Calais. There was that farmhouse with the wonderful food between Montreuil and Etaples. Then the fast sweep down to the Loire. The little places near the river for a few days. Not the chateau towns. Places like Beaugency, for instance. Then slowly south, always keeping to the western roads, avoiding the five-star life. Slowly exploring. Bond pulled himself up. Exploring what? Each other? Was he getting serious about this girl?

‘James.’

It was a clear, high, rather nervous voice. Not the voice he had expected.

He looked up. She was standing a few feet away from him. He noticed that she was wearing a black beret at a rakish angle and that she looked exciting and mysterious like someone you see driving by abroad, alone in an open car, someone unattainable and more desirable than anyone you have ever known. Someone who is on her way to make love to somebody else. Someone who is not for you.

He got up and they took each other’s hands.

It was she who released herself. She didn’t sit down.

‘I wish you were going to be there tomorrow, James.’ Her eyes were soft as she looked at him. Soft, but, he thought, somehow evasive.

He smiled. ‘Tomorrow morning or tomorrow night?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she laughed, blushing. ‘I meant at the Palace.’

‘What are you going to do afterwards?’ asked Bond.

She looked at him carefully. What did the look remind him of? The Morphy look? The look he had given Drax on that last hand at Blades? No. Not quite. There was something else there. Tenderness? Regret?

She looked over his shoulder.

Bond turned round. A hundred yards away there was the tall figure of a young man with fair hair trimmed short. His back was towards them and he was idling along, killing time.

Bond turned back and Gala’s eyes met his squarely.

‘I’m going to marry that man,’ she said quietly. ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’ And then, as if no other explanation was needed, ‘His name’s Detective-Inspector Vivian.’

‘Oh,’ said Bond. He smiled stiffly. ‘I see.’

There was a moment of silence during which their eyes slid away from each other.

And yet why should he have expected anything else? A kiss. The contact of two frightened bodies clinging together in the midst of danger. There had been nothing more. And there had been the engagement ring to tell him. Why had he automatically assumed that it had only been worn to keep Drax at bay? Why had he imagined that she shared his desires, his plans?

And now what? wondered Bond. He shrugged his shoulders to shift the pain of failure – the pain of failure that is so much greater than the pleasure of success. An exit line. He must get out of these two young lives and take his cold heart elsewhere. There must be no regrets. No false sentiment. He must play the role which she expected of him. The tough man of the world. The Secret Agent. The man who was only a silhouette.

She was looking at him rather nervously, waiting to be relieved of the stranger who had tried to get his foot in the door of her heart.

Bond smiled warmly at her. ‘I’m jealous,’ he said. ‘I had other plans for you tomorrow night.’

She smiled back at him, grateful that the silence had been broken. ‘What were they?’ she asked.

‘I was going to take you off to a farmhouse in France,’ he said. ‘And after a wonderful dinner I was going to see if it’s true what they say about the scream of a rose.’

She laughed. ‘I’m sorry I can’t oblige. But there are plenty of others waiting to be picked.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Bond. ‘Well, goodbye, Gala.’ He held out his hand.

‘Goodbye, James.’

He touched her for the last time and then they turned away from each other and walked off into their different lives.

THE END

DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER

 

Book 4

 

1 | THE PIPELINE OPENS

With its two fighting claws held forward like a wrestler’s arms the big pandinus scorpion emerged with a dry rustle from the finger-sized hole under the rock.

There was a small patch of hard flat earth outside the hole and the scorpion stood in the centre of this on the tips of its four pairs of legs, its nerves and muscles braced for a quick retreat and its senses questing for the minute vibrations which would decide its next move.

The moonlight, glittering down through the great thorn bush, threw sapphire highlights off the hard, black polish of the six-inch body and glinted palely on the moist white sting which protruded from the last segment of the tail, now curved over parallel with the scorpion’s flat back.

Slowly the sting slid home into its sheath and the nerves in the poison sac at its base relaxed. The scorpion had decided. Greed had won over fear.

Twelve inches away, at the bottom of a sharp slope of sand, the small beetle was concerned only with trudging on towards better pastures than he had found under the thorn bush, and the swift rush of the scorpion down the slope gave him no time to open his wings.

The beetle’s legs waved in protest as the sharp claw snapped round his body, and then the sting lanced into him from over the scorpion’s head and immediately he was dead.

After it had killed the beetle the scorpion stood motionless for nearly five minutes. During this time it identified the nature of its prey and again tested the ground and the air for hostile vibrations. Reassured, its fighting claw withdrew from the half-severed beetle and its two small feeding pincers reached out and into the beetle’s flesh. Then for an hour, and with extreme fastidiousness, the scorpion ate its victim.

The great thorn bush under which the scorpion killed the beetle was quite a landmark in the wide expanse of rolling veld some forty miles south of Kissidougou in the south-western corner of French Guinea. On all horizons there were hills and jungle, but here, over twenty square miles, there was flat rocky ground which was almost desert and amongst the tropical scrub only this one thorn bush, perhaps because there was water deep beneath its roots, had grown to the height of a house and could be picked out from many miles away.

The bush grew more or less at the junction of three African states. It was in French Guinea but only about ten miles north of the northernmost tip of Liberia and five miles east of the frontier of Sierra Leone. Across this frontier are the great diamond mines around Sefadu. These are the property of Sierra International, which is part of the powerful mining empire of Afric International, which in turn is a rich capital asset of the British Commonwealth.

An hour earlier in its hole among the roots of the great thorn bush the scorpion had been alerted by two sets of vibrations. First there had been the tiny scraping of the beetle’s movements, and these belonged to the vibrations which the scorpion immediately recognized and diagnosed. Then there had been a series of incomprehensible thuds round the bush followed by a final heavy quake which had caved in part of the scorpion’s hole. These were followed by a soft rhythmic trembling of the ground which was so regular that it soon became a background vibration of no urgency. After a pause the tiny scraping of the beetle had continued, and it was greed for the beetle that, after a day of sheltering from its deadliest enemy, the sun, finally got the upper hand against the scorpion’s memory of the other noises and impelled it out of its lair into the filtering moonlight.

And now, as it slowly sucked the morsels of beetle-flesh off its feeding pincers, the signal for the scorpion’s own death sounded from far away on the eastern horizon, audible to a human, but made up of vibrations which were far outside the range of the scorpion’s sensory system.

And, a few feet away, a heavy, blunt hand, with bitten finger nails, softly raised a jagged piece of rock.

There was no noise, but the scorpion felt a tiny movement in the air above it. At once its fighting claws were up and groping and its sting was erect in the rigid tail, its near-sighted eyes staring up for a sight of the enemy.

The heavy stone came down.

‘Black bastard.’

The man watched as the broken insect whipped in its death agony.

The man yawned. He got to his knees in the sandy depression against the trunk of the bush where he had been sitting for nearly two hours and, his arms bent protectingly over his head, scrambled out into the open.

The noise of the engine which the man had been waiting for, and which had signed the scorpion’s death warrant, was louder.

As the man stood and stared up the path of the moon, he could just see a clumsy black shape coming fast towards him out of the East and for a moment the moonlight glinted on whirling rotor blades.

The man rubbed his hands down the sides of his dirty khaki shorts and moved quickly round the bush to where the rear wheel of a battered motor-cycle protruded from its hiding place. Below the pillion, on either side, there were leather toolboxes. From one of these he extracted a small heavy package which he stowed inside his open shirt against the skin. From the other he took four cheap electric torches and went off with them to where, fifty yards from the big thorn bush, there was a clear patch of flat ground about the size of a tennis court. At three corners of the landing ground he screwed the butt end of a torch into the ground and switched it on. Then, the last torch alight in his hand, he took up his position at the fourth corner and waited.

The helicopter was moving slowly towards him, not more than a hundred feet from the ground, the big rotor blades idling. It looked like a huge, badly-constructed insect. To the man on the ground it seemed, as usual, to be making too much noise.

The helicopter paused, pitching slightly, directly over his head. An arm came out of the cockpit and a torch flashed at him. It flashed dot-dash, the Morse for A.

The man on the ground flashed back a B and a C. He stuck the fourth torch into the ground and moved away, shielding his eyes against the coming whirl of dust. Above him the pitch of the rotor blades flattened imperceptibly and the helicopter settled smoothly into the space between the four torches. The clatter of the engine stopped with a final cough, the tail rotor spun briefly in neutral, and the main rotor blades completed a few awkward revolutions and then drooped to a halt.

In the echoing silence, a cricket started to zing in the thorn bush, and somewhere near at hand there was the anxious chirrup of a nightbird.

After a pause to let the dust settle, the pilot banged open the door of the cockpit, pushed out a small aluminium ladder and climbed stiffly to the ground. He waited beside his machine while the other man walked round the four corners of the landing ground picking up and dowsing the torches. The pilot was half an hour late at the rendezvous and he was bored at the prospect of listening to the other man’s inevitable complaint. He despised all Afrikaners. This one in particular. To a Reichsdeutscher and to a Luftwaffe pilot who had fought under Galland in defence of the Reich they were a bastard race, sly, stupid and ill-bred. Of course this brute had a tricky job, but it was nothing to navigating a helicopter five hundred miles over the jungle in the middle of the night, and then taking it back again.

As the other man came up, the pilot half raised his hand in greeting. ‘Everything all right?’

‘I hope so. But you’re late again. I shall only just make it through the frontier by first light.’

‘Magneto trouble. We all have our worries. Thank God there are only thirteen full moons a year. Well, if you’ve got the stuff let’s have it and we’ll tank her up and I’ll be off.’

Without speaking, the man from the diamond mines reached into his shirt and handed over the neat, heavy packet.

The pilot took it. It was damp with the sweat from the smuggler’s ribs. The pilot dropped it into a side pocket of his trim bush-shirt. He put his hand behind him and wiped his fingers on the seat of his shorts.

‘Good,’ he said. He turned towards his machine.

‘Just a moment,’ said the diamond smuggler. There was a sullen note in his voice.

The pilot turned back and faced him. He thought: it’s the voice of a servant who has screwed himself up to complain about his food. ‘Ja. What is it?’

‘Things are getting too hot. At the mines. I don’t like it at all. There’s been a big intelligence man down from London. You’ve read about him. This man Sillitoe. They say he’s been hired by the Diamond Corporation. There’ve been a lot of new regulations and all punishments have been doubled. It’s frightened out some of my smaller men. I had to be ruthless and, well, one of them somehow fell into the crusher. That tightened things up a bit. But I’ve had to pay more. An extra ten per cent. And they’re still not satisfied. One of these days those security people are going to get one of my middlemen. And you know these black swine. They can’t stand a real beating.’ He looked swiftly into the pilot’s eyes and then away again. ‘For the matter of that I doubt if anyone could stand the sjambok. Not even me.’

‘So?’ said the pilot. He paused. ‘Do you want me to pass this threat back to A B C?’

‘I’m not threatening anyone,’ said the other man hastily. ‘I just want them to know that it’s getting tough. They must know it themselves. They must know about this man Sillitoe. And look what the Chairman said in our annual report. He said that our mines were losing more than two million pounds a year through smuggling and I.D.B. and that it was up to the government to stop it. And what does that mean? It means “stop me”!’

‘And me,’ said the pilot mildly. ‘So what do you want? More money?’

‘Yes,’ said the other man stubbornly. ‘I want a bigger cut. Twenty per cent more or I’ll have to quit.’ He tried to read some sympathy in the pilot’s face.

‘All right,’ said the pilot indifferently. ‘I’ll pass the message on to Dakar, and if they’re interested I expect they’ll send it on to London. But it’s nothing to do with me, and if I were you,’ the pilot unbent for the first time, ‘I wouldn’t put too much pressure on these people. They can be much tougher than this Sillitoe, or the Company, or any government I’ve ever heard of. On just this end of the pipeline, three men have died in the last twelve months. One for being yellow. Two for stealing from the packet. And you know it. That was a nasty accident your predecessor had, wasn’t it? Funny place to keep gelignite. Under his bed. Unlike him. He was always so careful about everything.’

For a moment they stood and looked at each other in the moonlight. The diamond smuggler shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just tell them I’m hard up and need more money to pass down the line. They’ll understand that, and if they’ve got any sense they’ll add another ten per cent on for me. If not ...’ He left the sentence unfinished and moved towards the helicopter. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a hand with the gas.’

Ten minutes later the pilot climbed up into the cockpit and pulled the ladder in after him. Before he shut the door he raised a hand. ‘So long,’ he said. ‘See you in a month.’

The man on the ground suddenly felt lonely. ‘Totsiens,’ he said with a wave of the hand that was almost the wave of a lover. ‘Alles van die beste.’ He stood back and held a hand up to his eyes against the dust.

The pilot settled into his seat and fastened the seat-belt, feeling for the rudder pedals with his feet. He made sure that the wheel brakes were on, pushed the pitch control lever right down, turned on the fuel and pressed the starter. Satisfied with the beat of the engine, he released the rotor brake and softly twisted the throttle on the pitch control. Outside the cabin windows the long rotor blades slowly swung by and the pilot glanced astern at the whirring tail rotor. He settled himself back and watched the rotor speed indicator creep up to 200 revolutions a minute. When the needle was just over the 200, he released the wheel brakes and pulled up slowly and firmly on the pitch lever. Above him the blades of the rotor tilted and bit deeper into the air. More throttle, and the machine slowly rose clattering towards the sky until, at about 100 feet, the pilot simultaneously gave it left rudder and pushed forward the joystick between his knees.