In the final moments Bond was buffeted around in his harness, and something, possibly the Blackhawk, caught him on the side of the head. He felt the numbness, but neither fear nor pain as the red mist came in, with ink in its wake, carrying him floating off into its black impenetrable sea.

Out on the track, the lights of the B.M.W. could be seen in the distance as the helicopter slowly settled on the heather. 'Got him,' said Anton Murik with a smile. The pilot removed the Nitefinder goggles taken from Bond the previous night. 'They work well, these,' he said. 'Clear as sunlight up to over five hundred feet.'

14 HIGH FREQUENCY

THERE WAS A blinding white light. James Bond thought he could hear the noise and for a moment imagined that he was still in the Saab, rolling into the ditch.

'The bloody ditch,' Bond muttered. 'I told you it was dug for drainage, James. Fifteen feet deep and over twelve wide. They had to get you out with oxy-acetylene cutters.' Bond screwed up his eyes and looked at the woman now coming into focus. It was Mary-Jane Mashkin, standing above him. 'Nothing much wrong with you, James. Just a little bruising.'

He tried to get up, but the harness held him tightly. Bond smelled the dampness, and turning his head, he saw where he was: in Murik's white-tiled torture chamber.

They had him strapped down on the operating table, and Mary-Jane Mashkin stood beside him wearing a white coat. She smiled comfortably. Behind her, Bond made out the figures of two men; a couple of the Laird's heavies, their faces sculpted out of clay, and no expression in their eyes.

'Well,' Bond tried to sound bright. 'I don't feel too bad. If you say I'm okay, why don't you let me get up?'

Anton Murik's voice came soft, and close, in his ear. Ч think you have some explaining to do, Mr Bond. Don't you?'

Bond closed his eyes. 'It's getting so a man can't even go out for a night drive without people shooting at him.'

'Very witty.' Murik sounded anything but amused. 'You killed two of my men, Mr Bond. Making off in secret, with the knowledge you have about my current project, is not the way to keep me as a friend and protector. All previous contracts made with you are cancelled. More to the point, I would like to know your real profession; for whom you work; what your present aim in life happens to be. I may add that I know what your immediate future will be: death; because I am going to bring that about unless you tell us the absolute truth.'

Bond's head was almost clear now. He concentrated on what was happening, feeling some bruising on his body, and a dull ache up the right side of his head. Memory flooded back: the night ride, the helicopter and the trap. He also knew what was going to happen, realising he would require all possible reserves of physical and mental strength.

Start concentrating now, Bond thought. Aloud, he said, 'You know who I am. Bond, James, 259057, Major, retired.'

'So,' Murik purred, 'you accept work from me, and then try to blast yourself out of Murik Castle and the glen. It does not add up, Major Bond. If you are Major Bond-I have people working on that, but I think we'll probably get to the truth faster than they will.'

'Got windy,' Bond said, trying to sound tired and casual. In fact he was fully aware now, his mind getting sharper every minute, though he knew the stress of that drive would already have played havoc with him. The fatigue had to be just under the surface.

'Windy?' Murik sneered.

'Fear is not an unknown failing in men.' Concentrate, Bond thought; get your head into the right condition now. I got frightened. Just thought I would slip away until it was all over.'

Murik said he really thought they should have the truth.

There is so little time left.' Bond saw him nod towards Mary-Jane, who stepped forward, closer to the table.

I'm a trained psychiatrist,' Mary-Jane Mashkin drawled. 'And I have one or two other specialities.' Like being a nuclear physicist, Bond thought. Anton Murik's partner in nuclear crime. 'Proper little Jill-of-alltrades,' he muttered.

'Don't be frivolous, Bond. She can make it very unpleasant for you.' Murik leered at him. 'And you should know that we've been through your luggage. As a mercenary and retired army man, you carry very sophisticated devices with you. Interesting.' He again nodded towards Mary-Jane Mashkin, who rolled up Bond's sleeve. He tried to move against the restraining straps, but it was no good.

His mind began to panic, casting around for the right point of mental focus, trying to remember the rules for what one did in a situation like this. A thousand bats winged their way around his brain in confusion.

Bond felt the swab being dabbed on his arm, just below the bicep: damp, cool, the hint of its smell reaching his nostrils. The panic died, Bond conquering the immediate fear of what would come. Focus. Focus. Bond; James. 259057, Major, retired. Straight. Now what should he keep in the forefront of his consciousness? Nuclear power: Murik's own subject. Bond had only an elementary knowledge, but he concentrated on the reading M had made him do before going on this mission. Blot out M. See the book. Just the book with its drawings, diagrams and text. Bond, James. 259057, Major, retired. If they were to use the conventional truth drugs on him, Bond had to remain alert. There were desperate mental counter-measures to interrogation by drugs, and 007 had been through the whole unpleasant course at what they called the Sadist School near Camberley. 'A little Mozart, I think,' Murik's voice called, away from the table. Mary-Jane Mashkin moved, and Bond winced slightly as he felt the hypodermic needle slide into his arm. What would they use? In their situation what would he use? Soap – the Service name for Sodium Thiopental? No, they would risk a more toxic substance.

The book: just keep the pages turning. Lazy. The pages. probably a nice mix – Scopolamine with morphine: twilight sleep, like having a baby.

Bond felt his whole body slowly become independent of his mind. The book. See the pages. Far away an orchestra played. Violins, strings and woodwinds, a pleasant sound with a military rhythm to it; then a piano-all far away.

Walking in the park on a summer Sunday, with the band playing. Lavender was there. Holding hands. Children laughing; the ducks and water fowl. People. Yet he felt alone, even in the crowd, with Lavender-with Dilly -as they floated over the grass near the Mall to the sound of music.

Bond heaved his mind back. Bond, James. What was the next bit? The band played on, and he could smell the expensive fragrance of Lavender's scent as she held his hand tightly. No. No. Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired. The book. Nuclear power plants derive their energy from the splitting-or fission-of the uranium isotope U-235.

The music had changed, more gently, like Dilly's touch on his hand. Drag your mind back, James. Back. Don't let go. Then Lavender was asking the questions. 'James, what do you really do for a living?'

'Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired.' He knew that he should not have trusted her.

'Oh, not that rubbish, James, darling. What do you really get up to?'

Fight, James. Fight it. Even from outside his body. The echo in his own ears was odd, the speech blurred as he said,

In a nuclear plant, steam is produced by the heat coming from the controlled chain reaction occurring inside the uranium fuel rods within the reactor core…' then he was laughing; and the band played on.

'You're talking scribble, James. Did your nanny say that when you were little? Talking scribble? You've got something to do with nuclear power, haven't you? Are you from the Atomic Research? The International Commission? Or the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna?'