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been handed over, might not the threat of a recurrence of my attempt have led
to serious disarmament talks, to an abandonment of these dangerous toys that
might so easily get into the wrong hands? You follow my reasoning? Then this
recent matter of the bacteriological warfare attack on England. My dear Mister
Bond, England is a sick nation by any standards. By hastening the sickness to
the brink of death, might Britain not have been forced out of her lethargy
into the kind of community effort we witnessed during the war? Cruel to be
kind, Mister Bond. Where lies the great crime there? And now this matter of my
so-called "Castle of Death".' Blofeld paused and his eyes took on an inward
look. He said, 'I
will make a confession to you, Mister Bond. I have come to suffer from a
certain lassitude of mind which I am determined to combat. This comes in part
from being a unique genius who is alone in the world, without honour - worse,
misunderstood. No doubt much of the root cause of this accidie is physical -
liver, kidneys, heart, the usual weak points of the middle-aged. But there has
developed in me a certain mental lameness, a disinterest in humanity and its
future, an utter boredom with the affairs of mankind. So, not unlike the
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gourmet, with his jaded palate, I now seek only the highly spiced, the sharp
impact on the taste buds, mental as well as physical, the tickle that is truly
exquisite. And so, Mister Bond, I came to devise this useful and essentially
humane project - the offer of free death to those who seek release from the
burden of being alive. By doing so, I
have not only provided the common man with a solution to the problem of
whether to be or not to be, I have also provided the
Japanese Government, though for the present they appear to be blind to my
magnanimity, with a tidy, out-of-the-way charnel-
house which relieves them of a constant flow of messy occurrences involving
the trains, the trams, the volcanoes and other unattractively public means of
killing yourself. You must admit that, far from being a crime, this is a
public service unique in the history of the world.'
'I saw one man being disgustingly murdered yesterday.' 'Tidying up, Mister
Bond. Tidying up. The man came here wishing to die. What you saw done was only
helping a weak man to his seat on the boat across the Styx. But I can see that
we have no contact. I cannot reach what serves you for a mind. For your part,
you cannot see further than the simple gratification of your last cigarette.
So enough of this idle chatter. You have already kept us from our beds far too
long. Do you want to be hacked about in a vulgar brawl, or will you offer your
neck in the honourable fashion?' Blofeld took a step forward and raised his
mighty sword in both hands and held it above his head. The light from the oil
lamps shimmered on the blade and showed up the golden filigree engraving.
Bond knew what to do. He had known as soon as he had been led back into the
room and had seen the wounded guard's stave still standing in the shadowed
angle of the wall. But there was a bell-push near the woman. She would have to
be dealt with first! Had he learned enough of the thrusts and parries of
bojutsu from the demonstration at the ninja training camp? Bond hurled himself
to the left, seized the stave and leaped at the woman whose hand was already
reaching upwards.
The stave thudded into the side of her head and she sprawled grotesquely
forward off her chair and lay still. Blofeld's sword whistled down, inches
from his shoulder. Bond twisted and lunged to his full extent, thrusting his
stave forward in the groove of his left hand almost as if it had been a
billiard cue. The tip caught Blofeld hard on the breastbone and flung him
against the wall, but he hurtled back and came inexorably forward, swishing
his sword like a scythe. Bond aimed at his right arm, missed and had to
retreat. He was concentrating on keeping his weapon as well as his body away
from the whirling steel, or his stave would be cut like a matchstick, and its
extra length was his only hope of victory. Blofeld suddenly lunged, expertly,
his right knee bent forward. Bond feinted to the left, but he was inches too
slow and the tip of the sword flicked his left ribs, drawing blood. But before
Blofeld could withdraw, Bond had slashed two-handed, sideways, at his legs.
His stave met bone. Blofeld cursed, and made an ineffectual stab at Bond's
weapon. Then he advanced again and Bond could only dodge and feint in the
middle of the room and make quick short lunges to keep the enemy at bay. But
he was losing ground in front of the whirling steel, and now Blofeld, scenting
victory, took lightning steps and thrust forward like a snake. Bond leaped
sideways, saw his chance and gave a mighty sweep of his stave. It caught
Blofeld on his right shoulder and drew a curse from him. His main sword arm!
Bond pressed forward, lancing again and again with his weapon and scoring
several hits to the body, but one of
Blofeld's parries caught the stave and cut that one vital foot of extra
length as if it had been a candle-end. Blofeld saw his off advantage and began
attacking, making furious forward jabs that Bond could only parry by hitting
at the flat of the sword to deflect it. But now the stave was slippery in the
sweat of his hands and for the first time he felt the cold breath of defeat at
his neck. And Blofeld seemed to smell it, for he suddenly executed one of his
fast running lunges to get under Bond's guard. Bond guessed the distance of
the wall behind him and leaped backwards against it. Even so he felt the
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sword-point fan across his stomach. But, hurled back by his impact with the
wall, he counter-lunged, swept the sword aside with his stave and, dropping
his weapon, made a dive for Blofeld's neck and got both hands to it. For a
moment the two sweating faces were almost up against each other. The boss of
Blofeld's sword battered into Bond's side. Bond hardly felt the crashing
blows. He pressed with his thumbs, and pressed and pressed and heard the sword
clank to the floor and felt Blofeld's fingers and nails tearing at his face,
trying to reach his eyes. Bond whispered through his gritted teeth, 'Die,
Blofeld! Die!' And suddenly the tongue was out and the eyes rolled upwards and
the body slipped down to the ground. But Bond followed it and knelt, his hands
cramped round the powerful neck, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, in the
terrible grip of blood lust.
Bond slowly came to himself. The golden dragon's head on the black silk kimono
spat flame at him. He unclasped his aching hands from round the neck and, not
looking again at the purple face, got to his feet. He staggered. God, how his
head hurt!
What remained to be done? He tried to cast his mind back. He had had a clever
idea. What was it? Oh yes, of course! He
51
picked up Blofeld's sword and sleep-walked down the stone passage to the
torture room. He glanced up at the clock. Five minutes to midnight. And there
was the wooden box, mud-spattered, down beside the throne on which he had sat,
days, years before. He went to it and hacked it open with one stroke of the
sword. Yes, there was the big wheel he had expected! He knelt down and twisted
and twisted until it was finally closed. What would happen now? The end of the
world? Bond ran back up the passage. Now he must get out, get away from this
place! But his line of retreat was closed by the guards! He tore aside a
curtain and smashed the window open with his sword. Outside there was a
balustraded terrace that seemed to run round this storey of the castle. Bond
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