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Apr 10, 2010

Ironical is both older and more British than ironic, bit they mean the same thing.

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beginners guide anal sex Chapter 12: The Moonraker


IT WAS like being inside the polished barrel of a huge gun. From the floor, forty feet below, rose circular walls of polished metal near the top of which he and Drax clung like two flies. Up through the centre of the shaft, which was about thirty feet wide, soared a pencil of glistening chromium, whose point, tapering to a needle-sharp antenna, seemed to graze the roof twenty feet above their heads.

The shimmering projectile rested on a blunt cone of latticed steel which rose from the floor between the tips of three severely back-swept delta fins that looked as sharp as surgeons’ scalpels. But otherwise nothing marred the silken sheen of the fifty feet of polished chrome steel except the spidery fingers of two light gantries which stood out from the walls and clasped the waist of the rocket between thick pads of foam-rubber.

Where they touched the rocket, small access doors stood open in the steel skin and, as Bond looked down, a man crawled out of one door on to the narrow platform of the gantry and closed the door behind him with a gloved hand. He walked gingerly along the narrow bridge to the wall and turned a handle. There was a sharp whine of machinery and the gantry took its padded hand off the rocket and held it poised in the air like the forelegs of a praying mantis. The whine altered to a deeper tone and the gantry slowly telescoped in on itself. Then it reached out again and seized the rocket ten feet lower down. Its operator crawled out along its arm and opened another small access door and disappeared inside.

‘Probably checking the fuel-feed from the after tanks,’ said Drax. ‘Gravity feed. Tricky bit of design. What do you think of her?’ He looked with pleasure at Bond’s rapt expression.

‘One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,’ said Bond. It was easy to talk. There was hardly a sound in the great steel shaft and the voices of the men clustered below under the tail of the rocket were no more than a murmur.

Drax explains that the current warhead is a dummy, simply full of measuring instruments. When it's time for launch, the floor under the rocket will slide away to expose a huge exhaust pit that comes out from the base of the cliff, to which Drax jokes about not wanting to accidentally burn away the White Cliffs of Dover.

Bond is floored by the achievement Drax has made and is starting to forgive his behavior at the card game. Remember that this book takes place several years before ICBMs were a thing in the real world. A weapon like the Moonraker is still fantasy in 1954, as tremendous of a weapon as the atomic bomb would have been in 1943.


As they filed down the long curve of the stairway, their figures grotesquely reflected back at them by the mirror of the rocket’s chromium skin, Bond almost felt the man-in-the-street’s affection for the man whom, only a few hours previously, he had been dissecting without pity, almost with loathing.

When they reached the steel-plated floor of the shaft, Drax paused and looked up. Bond followed his eyes. Seen from that angle it seemed as if they were gazing up a thin straight shaft of light into the blazing heaven of the arcs, a shaft of light that was not pure white but a shot mother-of-pearl satin. There were shimmers of red in it picked up from the crimson canisters of a giant foam fire-extinguisher that stood near them, a man in an asbestos suit beside it aiming its nozzle at the base of the rocket. There was a streak of violet whose origin was a violet bulb on the board of an instrument panel in the wall, which controlled the steel cover over the exhaust pit. And there was a whisper of emerald green from the shaded light over a plain deal table at which a man sat and wrote down figures as they were called to him from the group gathered directly beneath the Moonraker’s tail.

Gazing up this pastel column, so incredibly slim and graceful, it seemed unthinkable that anything so delicate could withstand the pressures which it had been designed to meet on Friday – the howling stream of the most powerful controlled explosion that had ever been attempted; the impact of the sound barrier; the unknown pressures of the atmosphere at 15,000 miles an hour; the terrible shock as it plunged back from a thousand miles up and hit the atmospheric envelope of the earth.

Drax seemed to read his thoughts. He turned to Bond. ‘It will be like committing murder,’ he said. Then surprisingly, he burst into a braying laugh. ‘Walter,’ he called to the group of men. ‘Come here.’ Walter detached himself and came over. ‘Walter, I was saying to our friend the Commander that when we fire the Moonraker it will be like committing murder.’

Bond was not surprised to see a look of puzzled incredulity come over the Doctor’s face. Drax said irritably,

‘Child murder. Murder of our child,’ he gestured at the rocket. ‘Wake up. Wake up. What’s the matter with you?’

Walter’s face cleared. Frostily he beamed his appreciation of the simile. ‘Murder. Yes, that is good. Ha! ha! And now, Sir Hugo. The graphite slats in the exhaust vent. The Ministry is quite happy about their melting-point? They do not feel that …’ Still talking, Walter led Drax under the tail of the rocket. Bond followed.

"Murder. Yes, good. This is a normal human reaction."

Drax hastily introduces Bond to the other men in the room as their new security officer and goes off with Walter to talk about the graphite, leaving Bond alone. He's not surprised at the other men giving him a cool reception after Tallon's murder, especially with an opinion of Bond as an amateur unsuited to being involved in rocketry.


Bond moved casually up and down the triangle made by the three points of the fins as they rested in their rubber-lined cavities in the steel floor, interesting himself in whatever met his eyes, but every now and then focusing the group of men from a new angle.

With the exception of Drax they all wore the same tight nylon overalls fastened with plastic zips. There was nowhere a hint of metal and none wore spectacles. As in the case of Walter and Krebs their heads were close-shaved, presumably, Bond would have thought, to prevent a loose hair falling into the mechanism. And yet, and this struck Bond as a most bizarre characteristic of the team, each man sported a luxuriant moustache to whose culture it was clear that a great deal of attention had been devoted. They were in all shapes and tints: fair or mousy or dark; handlebar, walrus, Kaiser, Hitler – each face bore its own hairy badge amongst which the rank, reddish growth of Drax’s facial hair blazed like the official stamp of their paramount chief.

Why, wondered Bond, should every man on the site wear a moustache? He had never liked the things, but combined with these shaven heads, there was something positively obscene about this crop of hairy tufts. It would have been just bearable if they had all been cut to the same pattern, but this range of individual fashions, this riot of personalized growth, had something particularly horrible about it against the background of naked round heads.

There was nothing else to notice; the men were of average height and they were all on the slim side – tailored, Bond supposed, more or less to the requirements of their work. Agility would be needed on the gantries, and compactness for manoeuvring through the access doors and around the tiny compartments in the rocket. Their hands looked relaxed and spotlessly clean, and their feet in the felt slippers were motionless with concentration. He never once caught any of them glancing in his direction and, as for penetrating their minds or weighing up their loyalties, he admitted to himself that the task of unmasking the thoughts of fifty of these robot-like Germans in three days was quite hopeless. Then he remembered. It was fifty no longer. Only forty-nine. One of these robots had blown his top (apt expression, reflected Bond). And what had come out of Bartsch’s secret thoughts? Lust for a woman and a Heil Hitler. Would he be far wrong, wondered Bond, if he guessed that, forgetting the Moonraker, those were also the dominant thoughts inside forty-nine other heads?

‘Doctor Walter! That is an order.’ Drax’s voice of controlled anger broke in on Bond’s thoughts as he stood fingering the sharp leading edge of the tail of one of the Columbite fins. ‘Back to work. We have wasted enough time.’

The men scatter to their jobs as Drax catches up with Bond, apologizing for Walter's worrying, and takes him to his office to look over the flight plan. They pass out of the rocket's chamber through an airlock into the section of the facility full of workshops, dorms, restrooms, and storage.


It was a severe room painted pale grey, containing a broad desk and several chairs of tubular metal and dark blue canvas. The floor was carpeted in grey. There were two green filing cabinets and a large metal radio set. A half-open door showed part of a tiled bathroom. The desk faced a wide blank wall which seemed to be made of opaque glass. Drax walked up to the walls and snapped down two switches on its extreme right. The whole wall lit up and Bond was faced with two maps each about six feet square traced on the back of the glass.

The left-hand map showed the eastern quarter of England from Portsmouth to Hull and the adjoining waters from Latitude 50 to 55. From the red dot near Dover which was the site of the Moonraker, arcs showing the range in ten-mile intervals had been drawn up the map. At a point eighty miles from the site, between the Friesian Islands and Hull, there was a red diamond in the middle of the ocean.

Drax waved towards the dense mathematical tables and columns of compass readings which filled the right-hand side of the map. ‘Wind velocities, atmospheric pressure, ready-reckoner for the gyro settings,’ he said. ‘All worked out using the rocket’s velocity and range as constants. We get the weather every day from the Air Ministry and readings from the upper atmosphere every time the R.A.F. jet can get up there. When he’s at maximum altitude he releases helium balloons that can get up still further. The earth’s atmosphere reaches about fifty miles up. After twenty there’s hardly any density to affect the Moonraker. It’ll coast up almost in a vacuum. Getting through the first twenty miles is the problem. The gravity pull’s another worry. Walter can explain all those things if you’re interested. There’ll be continuous weather reports during the last few hours on Friday. And we’ll set the gyros just before the take-off. For the time being, Miss Brand gets together the data every morning and keeps a table of gyro settings in case they’re wanted.’

Drax pointed at the second of the two maps. This was a diagram of the rocket’s flight ellipse from firing point to target. There were more columns of figures. ‘Speed of the earth and its effect on the rocket’s trajectory,’ explained Drax. ‘The earth will be turning to the east while the rocket’s in flight. That factor has to be married in with the figures on the other map. Complicated business. Fortunately you don’t have to understand it. Leave it to Miss Brand. Now then,’ he switched off the lights and the wall went blank, ‘any particular questions about your job? Don’t think there’ll be much for you to do. You can see that the place is already riddled with security. The Ministry’s insisted on it from the beginning.’

This is pretty good rocketry stuff. I'm guessing Fleming did a lot of reading on the theory before writing this one.

Bond opens up with a question about whether he really believes Gala Brand and Tallon had an affair going on. Drax says it's a possibility, but doesn't seem to give it much more thought.


‘I hear Bartsch saluted and shouted “Heil Hitler” before he put the gun in his mouth,’ said Bond.

‘So they tell me,’ said Drax evenly. ‘What of it?’

‘Why do all the men wear moustaches?’ asked Bond, ignoring Drax’s question. Again he had the impression that his question had nettled the other man.

Drax gave one of his short barking laughs. ‘My idea,’ he said. ‘They’re difficult to recognize in those white overalls and with their heads shaved. So I told them all to grow moustaches. The thing’s become quite a fetish with them. Like in the R.A.F. during the war. See anything wrong with it?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bond. ‘Rather startling at first. I would have thought that large numbers on their suits with a different colour for each shift would have been more effective.’

‘Well,’ said Drax, turning away towards the door as if to end the conversation, ‘I decided on moustaches.’

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Apr 10, 2010

Why are all their heads shaved? Did I miss that?

Ah. To keep their hair from being tangled in the machinery.

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Oh, yesterday I forgot to mention the details on Gala Brand.

Here's her official appearance from a 2003 printing of the book. She's the only Bond Girl from the novels to never appear in the films.

The film (which bears virtually no relation to the book except for the name of Drax and being about rockets) replaces her with Holly Goodhead, a CIA agent played by Lois Chiles.

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Wheat Loaf
Feb 13, 2012


"Holly Goodhead" would be the worst Bond girl name if not for the existence of "Plenty O'Toole".

"Pussy Galore" is borderline.

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Remember that this book takes place several years before ICBMs were a thing in the real world. A weapon like the Moonraker is still fantasy in 1954, as tremendous of a weapon as the atomic bomb would have been in 1943.

On the other hand, the basic concept is just an extension of what had been done with the V-2. By 1954 some were already imagining that a very similar rocket might take people bridgette wilson sampras nude instead.

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"Holly Goodhead" would be the worst Bond girl name if not for the existence of "Plenty O'Toole".

"Pussy Galore" is borderline.

Christmas Jones says hi. (And yes, I know, movies, not books.)

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Apr 10, 2010

So here is my guess, plot wise, keeping in mind I've never read nor seen this.

free new sex movie Drax isn't actually British. He's a German Nazi Werewolf who assumed the identity of a dead British soldier. The burn scars are probably because he was in a city, maybe Hamburg, that was firebombed during the war. He survived, but his wife/girlfriend/sibling/parent/child was killed. He and his scientists, who are all fanatical Nazis themselves, plan to use the rocket to hit London or someplace else important to get revenge on Britain for winning the war/firebombing Hamburg/killing Drax's lived one.. They all wear mustaches because they have some Nazi tattoo or brand or something on their upper lip.

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Christmas Jones says hi. (And yes, I know, moves, not books.)

I place Christmas Jones below the other two because her name isn't intrinsically a sex joke, it just sets one up (granted, a really, really, ft pussy cat dolls really bad one).

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So here is my guess, plot wise, keeping in mind I've never read nor seen this.
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Currently in New Orleans. After everything with the last book, the Pharmacy Museum has legit voodoo dolls and old potion bottles behind glass.

New Orleans had a weird mixture of voodoo and Catholicism, which in some ways it still does. There’s still functioning voodoo shops selling potions to rub on your arms for money or love.

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But it soon became quite clear that while losers flourished everywhere, winners were a rare and reticent breed with preferences for camouflage and anonymity.

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Currently in New Orleans. After everything with the last book, the Pharmacy Museum has legit voodoo dolls and old potion bottles behind glass.

New Orleans had a weird mixture of voodoo and Catholicism, which in some ways it still does. There’s still functioning voodoo shops selling potions to rub on your arms for money or love.

Last time I was there they were only selling them for cash.

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Passing through Baton Rouge.

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Is that the port from which biomass is shipped to Drax Power Station in North Yorkshire?

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Is that the port from which biomass is shipped to Drax Power Station in North Yorkshire?

Looks like it’s under the same company, Drax Group.

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I've never read this one. Does the movie lift any lines for Drax from the book, or are all the movie lines as original as the plot? A lot of it is Michael Lonsdale's delivery, but I've always been especially fond of "You appear with the tedious inevitability of an unloved season."

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After reading the description and seeing the illustrated picture of Drax, it occurred to me that the world missed out on having Richard Griffiths as a Bond Villain.

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I've never read this one. Does the movie lift any lines for Drax from the book, or are all the movie lines as original as the plot? A lot of it is Michael Lonsdale's delivery, but I've always been especially fond of "You appear with the tedious inevitability of an unloved season."

I think everything about the movie is totally different. Drax’s entire backstory and even ethnicity are changed.

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desperado sex scene video Chapter 13: Dead Reckoning


On Wednesday morning Bond woke early in the dead man’s bed.

He had slept little. Drax had said nothing on their way back to the house and had bidden him a curt good-night at the foot of the stairs. Bond had walked along the carpeted corridor to where light shone from an open door and had found his things neatly laid out in a comfortable bedroom. The room was furnished in the same expensive taste as the ground floor and there were biscuits and a bottle of Vichy (not a Vichy bottle of tap-water, Bond established) beside the Heal bed.

There were no signs of the previous occupant except a leather case containing binoculars on the dressing-table and a metal filing cabinet which was locked. Bond knew about filing cabinets. He tilted it against the wall, reached underneath, and found the bottom end of the bar-lock which protrudes downwards when the top section has been locked. Upwards pressure released the drawers one by one and he softly lowered the edge of the cabinet back on to the floor with the unkind reflection that Major Tallon would not have survived very long in the Secret Service.

The top drawer contained scale maps of the site and its component buildings and Admiralty Chart No. 1895 of the Straits of Dover. Bond laid each sheet on the bed and examined them minutely. There were traces of cigarette ash in the folds of the Admiralty chart.

The water Bond mentions is naturally sparkling water from the springs of Vichy, France.


Bond fetched his tool-box – a square leather case that stood beside the dressing-table. He examined the numbers on the wheels of the combination lock and, satisfied that they had not been disturbed, turned them to the code number. The box was closely fitted with instruments. Bond selected a fingerprint powder-spray and a large magnifying glass. He puffed the fine greyish powder foot by foot over the whole expanse of the chart. A forest of fingerprints showed. By going over these with the magnifying glass he established that they belonged to two people. He isolated two of the best sets, took a Leica with a flashbulb attachment out of the leather case and photographed them. Then he carefully examined through his glass the two minute furrows in the paper which the powder had brought to light.

These appeared to be two lines drawn out from the coast to form a cross-bearing in the sea. It was a very narrow bearing, and both lines seemed to originate from the house where Bond was. In fact, thought Bond, they might indicate observations of some object in the sea made from each wing of the house.

The two lines were drawn not with a pencil, but, presumably to avoid detection, with a stylus which had barely furrowed the paper.

At the point where they met there was the trace of a question mark, and this point was on the twelve-fathom line about fifty yards from the cliff on a direct bearing from the house to the South Goodwin Lightship.

There was nothing else to be gathered from the chart. Bond glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to one. He heard distant footsteps in the hall and the click of a light being extinguished. On an impulse he rose and softly switched off the lights in his room, leaving only the shaded reading-light beside the bed.

This is where the book really starts going into the detective genre. Fleming puts out hints as to what's going on to encourage the reader to figure out the scheme before Bond does, while Bond spends much of his time looking for and analyzing clues. By contrast, I think by this point in the previous book he had already killed 3 people.


He heard the heavy footsteps of Drax approaching up the stairs. There was the click of another switch and then silence. Bond could imagine the great hairy face turned down the corridor, looking, listening. Then there was a creak and the sound of a door being softly opened and as softly closed. Bond waited, visualizing the motions of the man as he prepared for bed. There was the muffled sound of a window being thrown open and the distant trumpet of a nose being blown. Then silence.

Bond gave Drax another five minutes then he went over to the filing cabinet and softly pulled out the other drawers. There was nothing in the second and third, but the bottom one was solid with files arranged under index letters. They were the dossiers of all the men working on the site. Bond pulled out the ‘A’ section and went back to the bed and started to read.

In each case the formula was the same: full name, address, date of birth, description, distinguishing marks, profession or trade since the war, war record, political record and present sympathies, criminal record, health, next of kin. Some of the men had wives and children whose particulars were noted, and with each dossier there were photographs, full face and profile, and the fingerprints of both hands.

Two hours and ten cigarettes later he had worked through all of them and had discovered two points of general interest. First, that every one of the fifty men appeared to have led a blameless life without a breath of political or criminal odium. This seemed so unlikely that he decided to refer every single dossier back to Station D for a thorough recheck at the first opportunity.

The second point was that none of the faces in the photographs bore a moustache. Despite Drax’s explanations, this fact raised a second tiny question mark in Bond’s mind.

Bond locks everything back up and opens the window in the adjoining bathroom. He envisions Tallon having heard or seen something out at sea, climbing onto the roof with his binoculars, and triangulating the location of whatever he saw by estimating the distance from the white cliffs and the Goodwin Lightship. And chances are he wasn't quiet enough when climbing on the roof, someone went into his room and found the binoculars sitting out by the window, and decided that he had seen something he wasn't supposed to see.


Bond pulled himself up. He was going too fast, building up a case on the flimsiest evidence. Bartsch had killed Tallon and Bartsch was not the man who had heard the noise, the man who had left fingerprints on the chart, the man whose dossier Bond had put away in his leather case.

That man had been the oily A.D.C., Krebs, the man with the neck like a white slug. They were his prints on the chart. For a quarter of an hour Bond had compared the impressions on the chart with the prints on Krebs’s dossier. But who said Krebs had heard a noise or done anything about it if he had? Well, to begin with, he looked like a natural snooper. He had the eyes of a petty thief. And those prints of his had definitely been made on the chart after Tallon had studied it. Krebs’s fingers overlaid Tallon’s at several points.

But how could Krebs possibly be involved, with Drax’s eye constantly on him? The confidential assistant. But what about Cicero, the trusted valet of the British Ambassador in Ankara during the war? The hand in the pocket of the striped trousers hanging over the back of the chair. The Ambassador’s keys. The safe. The secrets. This picture looked very much the same.

Bond shivered. He suddenly realized that he had been standing for a long time in front of the open windows and that it was time to get some sleep.

Before he got into bed he took his shoulder-holster from the chair where it hung beside his discarded clothes and removed the Beretta with the skeleton grip and slipped it under his pillow. As a defence against whom? Bond didn’t know, but his intuition told him quite definitely that there was danger about. The smell of it was insistent although it was still imprecise and lingered only on the threshold of his subconscious. In fact he knew his feelings were based on a number of tiny questionmarks which had materialized during the past twenty-four hours – the riddle of Drax; Bartsch’s ‘Heil Hitler’; the bizarre moustaches; the fifty worthy Germans; the chart; the night-glasses; Krebs.

First he must pass on his suspicions to Vallance. Then explore the possibilities of Krebs. Then look to the defences of the Moonraker – the seaward side for instance. And then get together with this Brand girl and agree on a plan for the next two days. There wasn’t much time to lose.

It's telling where Bond's suspicions lie: firmly not on Drax at any point. He's become so taken with the man and his vision for Britain that he considers Drax completely above suspicion, to the point where he's trying to find a way to discount an obvious enemy because he could never do so under Drax's nose.

The Cicero he's talking about is the code name of Elyesa Bazna, a Nazi spy during World War II. He was a petty criminal from Kosovo before becoming the valet to Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen in Turkey. He doesn't seem to have been an avowed Nazi under any circumstances, just a greedy opportunist who didn't like the Brits and was easy for the Germans to utilize. The ambassador had a habit of taking secret documents home to look at them, so Bazna broke into his safe, copied down everything he could, and asked the Germans for money in return for whatever he could steal.

Ironically, much of Bazna's information was ignored by the Germans because it was good enough that they questioned whether he was a double agent feeding them fake documents. The Germans were pretty bad about military intelligence and many of their top spies were actually double agents (including Dusko Popov, one of the inspirations for the Bond character), but they questioned the one guy who was actually legitimately working for them while blindly trusting the guys who were actually British spies.

Ambassador Knatchbull-Hugessen was reprimanded for being so careless with his documents and Bazna hid out in Istanbul with his 300,000 pounds for a while. He tried to build a hotel, only to end up duped by the Nazis one last time: most of his money was counterfeit. The Germans had conducted Operation Bernhard during the war to try and counterfeit enough British banknotes to crash their economy. They didn't end up doing much in practice and the orchestrator of the plan couldn't even be charged with a war crime for it, but the Bank of England quickly identified the money as counterfeit and imprisoned him for something he wasn't even responsible for.

At the time female anal sex photos Moonraker was written, Cicero's identity was still unknown. Bazna finally revealed his identity as Cicero by writing a book in 1962 and died in 1970 of kidney disease. He was never charged with anything related to his spying, only with being paid in fake cash.


While he forced sleep to come into his teeming mind, Bond visualized the figure seven on the dial of a clock and left it to the hidden cells of his memory to wake him. He wanted to be out of the house and on the telephone to Vallance as early as possible. If his actions aroused suspicion he would not be dismayed. One of his objects was to attract into his orbit the same forces that had concerned themselves with Tallon, for of one thing he felt reasonably certain, Major Tallon had not died because he loved Gala Brand.

The extra-sensory alarm clock did not fail him. Punctually at seven, his mouth dry with too many cigarettes the night before, he forced himself out of bed and into a cold bath. He had shaved, gargled with a sharp mouthwash, and now, in a battered black and white dogtooth suit, dark blue Sea Island cotton shirt and black silk knitted tie, he was walking softly, but not surreptitiously, along the corridor to the head of the stairs, the square leather case in his left hand.

He found the garage at the back of the house and the big engine of the Bentley answered with the first pressure on the starter. He motored slowly across the concrete apron beneath the indifferent gaze of the curtained windows of the house and pulled up, the engine idling in neutral, at the edge of the trees. His eyes travelled back to the house and confirmed his calculation that a man standing on its roof would be able to see over the top of the blast-wall and get a view of the edge of the cliff and of the sea beyond.

At thirty seconds’ interval it blared its sad complaint into the mist, a long double trumpet note on a falling cadence. A siren song, Bond reflected, to repel instead of to seduce. He wondered how the seven men of its crew were now supporting the noise as they munched their pork and beans. Did they flinch as it punctuated the Housewife’s Choice coming at full strength from the radio in the narrow mess? But a secure life, †Bond decided, although anchored to the gates of a graveyard.

He made a mental note to find out if those seven men had seen or heard the thing that Tallon had marked on the chart, then he drove quickly on through the guard posts.

There's a minor footnote where that cross is, which reads "Bond was wrong: Friday, November 26th 1954 R.I.P." This book was published after but takes place before the ship was capsized by strong winds, killing all 7 crew members. The only survivor was a visiting Ministry of Agriculture agent.

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In Dover, Bond pulled up at the Café Royal, a modest little restaurant with a modest kitchen but capable, as he knew of old, of turning out excellent fish and egg dishes. The Italian-Swiss mother and son who ran it welcomed him as an old friend and he asked for a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and plenty of coffee to be ready in half an hour. Then he drove on to the police station and put a call in to Vallance through the Scotland Yard switchboard. Vallance was at home having breakfast. He listened without comment to Bond’s guarded talk, but he expressed surprise that Bond had not had an opportunity to have a talk with Gala Brand. ‘She’s a bright girl, that,’ he said. ‘If Mr K. is up to something she’s sure to have an idea what it is. And if T. heard a noise on Sunday night, she may have heard it too. Though I’ll admit she’s said nothing about it.’

Bond said nothing about the reception he had had from Vallance’s agent. ‘Going to talk to her this morning,’ he said, ‘and I’ll send up the chart and the Leica film for you to have a look at. I’ll give them to the Inspector. Perhaps one of the road patrols could bring them up. By the way, where did T. telephone from when he rang up his employer on Monday?’

‘I’ll have the call traced and let you know,’ said Vallance. ‘And I’ll have Trinity House ask the South Goodwins and the Coastguards if they can help. Anything else?’

‘No,’ said Bond. The line went through too many switchboards. Perhaps if it had been M. he would have hinted more. It seemed ridiculous to talk to Vallance about moustaches and the creep of danger he had felt the night before and which the daylight had dissipated. These policemen wanted hard facts. They were better, he decided, at solving crimes than at anticipating them. ‘No. That’s all.’ He hung up.

The Royale Cafe was a real place in Dover that Fleming enjoyed eating at. Unfortunately, it no longer exists.

Bond reads the newspaper and chuckles to himself at the faked photo of Gala Brand that they put up. He starts wondering if her reticence to gently caress him has to do with some secrets of her own.


Bond drove back fast to the house. It was just nine o’clock and as he came through the trees on to the concrete there was the wail of a siren and from the woods behind the house a double file of twelve men appeared running, in purposeful unison, towards the launching dome. They marked time while one of their number rang the bell, then the door opened and they filed through and out of sight.

Scratch a German and you find precision, thought Bond.

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Half an hour before, Gala Brand had stubbed out her breakfast cigarette, swallowed the remains of her coffee, left her bedroom and walked across to the site, looking very much the private secretary in a spotless white shirt and dark blue pleated skirt.

Punctually at eight-thirty she was in her office. There was a sheaf of Air Ministry teleprints on her desk and her first action was to transfer a digest of their contents on to a weather map and walk through the communicating door into Drax’s office and pin the map to the board that hung in the angle of the wall beside the blank glass wall. Then she pressed the switch that illuminated the wall map, made some calculations based on the columns of figures revealed by the light, and entered the results on the diagram she had pinned to the board.

She had done this, with Air Ministry figures that became more and more precise as the practice shoot drew nearer, every day since the site was completed and the building of the rocket that had begun inside it, and she had become so expert that she now carried in her head the gyro settings for almost every variation in the weather at the different altitudes.

So it irritated her all the more that Drax did not seem to accept her figures. Every day when, punctually at nine, the warning bells clanged and he came down the steep iron stairway and into his office, his first action was to call for the insufferable Dr. Walter and together they would work out all her figures afresh and transfer the results to the thin black notebook that Drax always carried in the hip-pocket of his trousers. She knew that this was an invariable routine and she had become tired of watching it through an inconspicuous hole she had drilled, so as to be able to send Vallance a weekly record of Drax’s visitors, in the thin wall between the two offices. The method was amateurish but effective and she had slowly built up a complete picture of the daily routine she came to find so irritating. It was irritating for two reasons. It meant that Drax didn’t trust her figures, and it undermined her chance of having some part, however modest, in the final launching of the rocket.

It was natural that over the months she should have become as immersed in her disguise as she was in her real profession. It was fundamental to the thoroughness of her cover that her personality should be as truly split as possible. And now, while she spied and probed and sniffed the wind around Drax for her Chief in London, she was passionately concerned with the success of the Moonraker and had become as dedicated to its service as anyone else on the site.

And the rest of her duties as Drax’s private secretary were insufferably dull. Every day there was a big post addressed to Drax in London and forwarded down by the Ministry, and that morning she had found the usual batch of about fifty letters waiting on her desk. They would be of three kinds. Begging letters, letters from rocket cranks, and business letters from Drax’s stockbroker and from other commercial agents. To these Drax would dictate brief replies and the rest of her day would be occupied with typing and filing.

This is an unusual shift from Fleming, writing from the perspective of a completely different character instead of sticking with Bond. We'll see this reach its apex in a later story.


So it was natural that her one duty connected with the operation of the rocket should bulk very large in the dull round, and that morning, as she checked and rechecked her flight plan, she was more than ever determined that her figures should be accepted on The Day. And yet, as she often reminded herself, perhaps there was no question but that they would be. Perhaps the daily calculations of Drax and Walter for entry in the little black book were nothing but a recheck of her own figures. Certainly Drax had never queried either her weather plan or the gyro settings she calculated from them. And when one day she had asked straight out whether her figures were correct he had replied with evident sincerity, ‘Excellent, my dear. Most valuable. Couldn’t manage without them.’

Gala Brand walked back into her own office and started slitting open the letters. Only two more flight plans, for Thursday and Friday and then, on her figures or on a different set, the set in Drax’s pocket, the gyros would be finally adjusted and the switch would be pulled in the firing point.

She absent mindedly looked at her fingernails and then stretched her two hands out with their backs towards her. How often in the course of her training at the Police College had she been sent out among the other pupils and told not to come back without a pocketbook, a vanity case, a fountain pen, even a wristwatch? How often during the courses had the instructor whipped round and caught her wrist with a ‘Now, now, Miss. That won’t do at all. Might have been an elephant looking for sugar in the keeper’s pocket. Try again.’

Is it normal for police academies to teach pickpocketing?


Coolly she flexed her fingers and then, her mind made up, turned back to the pile of letters.

At a few minutes to nine the alarm bells rang and she heard Drax arrive in the office. A moment later she heard him open the double doors again and call for Walter. Then came the usual mumble of voices whose words were drowned by the soft whirr of the ventilators.

She arranged the letters in their three piles and sat forward relaxed, her elbows resting on the desk and her chin in her left hand.

Commander Bond. James Bond. Clearly a conceited young man like so many of them in the Secret Service. And why had he been sent down instead of somebody she could work with, one of her friends from the Special Branch, or even somebody from M.I.5? The message from the Assistant Commissioner had said that there was no one else available at short notice, that this was one of the stars of the Secret Service who had the complete confidence of the Special Branch and the blessings of M.I.5. Even the Prime Minister had had to give permission for him to operate, for just this one assignment, inside England. But what use could he be in the short time that was left? He could probably shoot all right and talk foreign languages and do a lot of tricks that might be useful abroad. But what good could he do down here without any beautiful spies to make love to. Because he was certainly good-looking. (Gala Brand automatically reached into her bag for her vanity case. She examined herself in the little mirror and dabbed at her nose with a powder puff.) Rather like Hoagy Carmichael in a way. That black hair falling down over the right eyebrow. Much the same bones. But there was something a bit cruel in the mouth, and the eyes were cold. Were they grey or blue? It had been difficult to say last night. Well, at any rate she had put him in his place and shown him that she wasn’t impressed by dashing young men from the Secret Service, however romantic they might look. There were just as good-looking men in the Special Branch, and they were real detectives, not just people that Phillips Oppenheim had dreamed up with fast cars and special cigarettes with gold bands on them and shoulder-holsters. Oh, she had spotted that all right and had even brushed against him to make sure. Ah well, she supposed she would have to make some sort of show of working along with him, though in what direction heaven only knew. If she had been down there ever since the place had been built without spotting anything, what could this Bond man hope to discover in a couple of days? And what was there to find out? Of course there were one or two things she couldn’t understand. Should she tell him about Krebs, for instance? The first thing was to see that he didn’t blow her cover by doing something stupid. She would have to be cool and firm and extremely careful. But that didn’t mean, she decided, as the buzzer went and she collected her letters and her shorthand book, that she couldn’t be friendly. Entirely on her own terms, of course.

Ouch. Brand is running our hero through the ringer here.

Again, Fleming writes a very solid female character. While she still has very stereotypically 1950s feminine traits like powdering her nose, she's clearly competent and selected for this job for a reason. She's already decided that against all of Bond's masculine posturing, she's the one who needs to be in control and make sure that nuns in the nude he doesn't gently caress up the mission. In our first outsider view of Bond, we see his presence on a mission reacted to with justifiable confusion and annoyance by someone who doesn't know the reason he was sent in.

It's also important to note that Brand is fully aware of who Bond is and what he's doing on the assignment. One would expect her to be set up as an unassuming patsy, never knowing that Bond is a secret agent assisting her until his cover gets blown. But she knows him down to the rank.


Her second decision made, she opened the communicating door and walked into the office of Sir Hugo Drax.

When she came back into her room half an hour later she found Bond sitting back in her chair with Whitaker’s sawyer and kate sex Almanack open on the desk in front of him. She pursed her lips as Bond got up and wished her a cheerful good morning. She nodded briefly and walked round her desk and sat down. She moved the Whitaker’s carefully aside and put her letters and notebook in its place.

‘You might have a spare chair for visitors,’ said Bond with a grin which she defined as impertinent, ‘and something better to read than reference books.’

She ignored him. ‘Sir Hugo wants you,’ she said. ‘I was just going to see if you had got up yet.’

‘Liar,’ said Bond. ‘You heard me go by at half-past seven. I saw you peering out between the curtains.’

‘I did nothing of the sort,’ she said indignantly. ‘Why should I be interested in a car going by?’

‘I told you you heard the car,’ said Bond. He pressed home his advantage. ‘And by the way,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t scratch your head with the blunt end of the pencil when you’re taking dictation. None of the best private secretaries do.’

Bond glanced significantly at a point against the jamb of the communicating door. He shrugged his shoulders.

Gala’s defences dropped. drat the man, she thought. She gave him a reluctant smile. ‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘Come on. I can’t spend all the morning playing guessing games. He wants both of us and he doesn’t like being kept waiting.’ She rose and walked over to the communicating door and opened it. Bond followed her through and shut the door behind him.

And to his credit, Bond fights back.


Drax was standing looking at the illuminated wall map. He turned as they came in. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said with a sharp glance at Bond. ‘Thought you might have left us. Guards reported you out at seven-thirty this morning.’

‘I had to make a telephone call,’ said Bond. ‘I hope I didn’t disturb anyone.’

‘There’s a telephone in my study,’ Drax said curtly. ‘Tallon found it good enough.’

‘Ah, poor Tallon,’ said Bond non-committally. There was a hectoring note in Drax’s voice that he particularly disliked and that made him instinctively want to deflate the man. On this occasion he was successful.

Drax shot him a hard glance which he covered up with a short barking laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Do as you please,’ he said. ‘You’ve got your job to do. So long as you don’t upset the routines down here. You must remember,’ he added more reasonably, ‘all my men are nervous as kittens just now and I can’t have them upset by mysterious goings-on. I hope you’re not wanting to ask them a lot of questions today. I’d rather they didn’t have anything more to worry about. They haven’t recovered from Monday yet. Miss Brand here can tell you all about them, and I believe all their files are in Tallon’s room. Have you had a look at them yet?’

‘No key to the filing cabinet,’ said Bond truthfully.

‘Sorry, my fault,’ said Drax. He went to the desk and opened a drawer from which he took a small bunch of keys and handed them to Bond. ‘Should have given you these last night. The Inspector chap on the case asked me to hand them over to you. Sorry.’

Bond impulsively asks Drax how long Krebs has worked for him. Drax, curiously, pauses to sit down and pull out a cigarette before answering; he waves off Bond's concern about smoking in a building full of rocket fuel by saying the room is airtight with separate ventilation.


Drax took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it. He seemed to make up his mind. ‘You were asking about Krebs,’ he said. ‘Well,’ he looked meaningly up at Bond, ‘just between ourselves I don’t entirely trust the fellow.’ He held up an admonitory hand. ‘Nothing definite, of course, or I’d have had him put away, but I’ve found him snooping about the house and once I caught him in my study going through my private papers. He had a perfectly good explanation and I let him off with a warning. But quite honestly I have my suspicions of the man. Of course, he can’t do any harm. He’s part of the household staff and none of them are allowed in here but,’ he looked candidly into Bond’s eyes, ‘I would have said you ought to concentrate on him. Bright of you to have bowled him out so quickly,’ he added with respect. ‘What put you on to him?’

‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Bond. ‘He’s got a shifty look. But what you say’s interesting and I’ll certainly keep an eye on him.’

He turned to Gala Brand who had remained silent ever since they had entered the room.

‘And what do you think of Krebs, Miss Brand?’ he asked politely.

The girl spoke to Drax. ‘I don’t know much about these things, Sir Hugo,’ she said with a modesty and a touch of impulsiveness which Bond admired. ‘But I don’t trust the man at all. I hadn’t meant to tell you, but he’s been poking around my room, opening letters and so forth. I know he has.’

Drax was shocked. ‘Has he indeed?’ he said. He bashed his cigarette out in the ashtray and killed the glowing fragments one by one. ‘So much for Krebs,’ he said, without looking up.

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Movie Bond varies on how much of a spy he actually is in any given film. Most of the work he does is no more complicated than breaking open safes, sneaking around and eavesdropping, or planting bugs that he can follow later. In scarlett johansson sex scenes Moonraker, Bond is examining rooftop triangulation estimates and doing crash courses on the basics of rocketry when he's not doing paperwork back at the office. It's much closer to the kind of work that Fleming would have personally been familiar with, as opposed to gunfighting and snapping necks.

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There was a moment’s silence in the room during which Bond reflected how odd it was that suspicions should have fallen so suddenly and so unanimously on one man. And did that automatically clear all the others? Might not Krebs be the inside man of a gang? Or was he working on his own and, if so, with what object? And what did his snooping have to do with the death of Tallon and Bartsch?

Drax broke the silence. ‘Well, that seems to settle it,’ he said, looking to Bond for confirmation. Bond gave a non-committal nod. ‘Just have to leave him to you. At all events, we must see he is kept well away from the site. As a matter of fact I shall be taking him to London tomorrow. Last-minute details to be settled with the Ministry and Walter can’t be spared. Krebs is the only man I’ve got who can do the work of an A.D.C. That’ll keep him out of trouble. We’ll all have to keep an eye on him until then. Unless of course you want to put him under lock and key straight away. I’d prefer not,’ he said candidly. ‘Don’t want to upset the team any more.’

‘It shouldn’t be necessary,’ said Bond. ‘Has he got any particular friends among the other men?’

‘Never seen him speak to any of them except Walter and the household,’ said Drax. ‘Daresay he considers himself a cut above the others. Personally, I don’t believe there’s much harm in the chap or I wouldn’t have kept him. He’s left alone in that house all day long and I expect he’s one of those people who like playing the detective and prying into other people’s affairs. What do you say? Perhaps we could leave it like that?’

Bond nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Drax leaves the subject behind and gives Bond information on the schedule. At 1:00 PM the site will be closed for rocket fueling, then the roof and exhaust holes opened at night to allow the fumes to clear (guarded by armed men at both ends). The next morning, the site will be reopened until noon for its final check, then on Friday morning Drax will personally supervise the gyro settings. BBC news crews will be set up by 11:45 AM, and Drax will launch at exactly noon. All shipping traffic will have been cleared from the rocket's splash zone the previous night, except for Navy ships patrolling the waters with a BBC commentator and a deep sea salvage ship ready to try and recover the rocket.

Bond doesn't have much else to do until the launch, so Drax asks him and Gala Brand to head to the beach at the bottom of the cliff under the exhaust hole and check for any weaknesses or potential infiltration down there during fueling. They're also to ask Walter to join them if he's free.


A huge black snake of rubber piping meandered over the shining steel floor and Bond watched the girl pick her way among its coils to where Walter was standing alone. He was gazing up at the mouth of the fuel pipe being hoist to where a gantry, outstretched to the threshold of an access door halfway up the rocket, indicated the main fuel tanks.

She said something to Walter and then stood beside him looking upwards as the pipe was delicately manhandled through into the interior of the rocket.

Bond thought she looked very innocent standing there with her brown hair falling back from her head and the curve of her ivory throat sweeping down into the plain white shirt. With her hands clasped behind her back, gazing raptly upwards at the glittering fifty feet of the Moonraker, she might have been a schoolgirl looking up at a Christmas tree – except for the impudent pride of the jutting breasts, swept up by the thrown-back head and shoulders.

Bond smiled to himself as he walked to the foot of the iron stairway and started to climb. That innocent, desirable girl, he reminded himself, is an extremely efficient policewoman. She knows how to kick, and where; she can break my arm probably more easily and quickly than I can break hers, and at least half of her belongs to the Special Branch of Scotland Yard. Of course, he reflected, looking down just in time to see her follow Dr. Walter into Drax’s office, there is always the other half.

Bond still hasn't quite figured out just how much of his work is cut out for him.

Bond returns to the house, staying as quiet as possible. Just as he guessed, the door to his room at the end of the hall is open.


Krebs had his back to him. He was kneeling forward in the middle of the floor with his elbows on the ground. His hands were at the wheels of the combination lock of Bond’s leather case. His whole attention was focused on the click of the tumblers in the lock.

The target was tempting and Bond didn’t hesitate. His teeth showed in a hard smile, he took two quick paces into the room and his foot lashed out.

All his force was behind the point of his shoe and his balance and timing were perfect.

The scream of a jay was driven out of Krebs as, like the caricature of a leaping frog, he hurtled over Bond’s case, across a yard or so of carpet, and into the front of the mahogany dressing-table. His head hit the middle of it so hard that the heavy piece of furniture rocked on its base. The scream was abruptly cut off and he crashed in an inert spreadeagle on the floor and lay still.

Bond stood looking at him and listening for the sound of hurrying footsteps, but there was still silence in the house. He walked over to the sprawling figure and bent down and heaved it over on its back. The face around the smudge of yellow moustache was pale and some blood had oozed down over the forehead from a cut in the top of the skull. The eyes were closed and the breathing was laboured.

This might be the most embarrassing knockout in Bond's career.

Bond goes through Krebs' pockets. The only things he finds are some skeleton keys, a spring-loaded stiletto, and a black leather cosh. Bond grabs the glass water bottle and spends the next 10 minutes getting the dazed Krebs awake and sitting against the dresser.


‘I answer no questions except to Sir Hugo,’ he said as Bond started the interrogation. ‘You have no right to question me. I was doing my duty.’ His voice was surly and assured.

Bond took the empty Vichy bottle by the neck. ‘Think again,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll beat the daylights out of you until this breaks and then use the neck for some plastic surgery. Who told you to go over my room?’

‘play boy sex tapes Leck mich am Arsch.’ Krebs spat the obscene insult at him.

Bond bent down and cracked him sharply across the shins. Krebs’s body cringed, but, as Bond raised his arm again, he suddenly shot up from the floor and dived under the descending bottle. The blow caught him hard on the shoulder, but it didn’t check his momentum and he was out of the door and halfway down the corridor before Bond started in pursuit.

Bond stopped outside the door and watched the flying figure swerve down the stairs and out of sight. Then, as he heard the scurrying squeak of the rubber-soled shoes as they fled down the stairs and across the hall, he laughed abruptly to himself and went back into his room and locked the door. Short of beating the man’s brains out it hadn’t looked as if he would get much out of Krebs. He had given him something to think about. Crafty little brute. His injuries couldn’t have been so bad after all. Well, it would be up to Drax to punish him.

Unless, of course, Krebs had been carrying out Drax’s orders.

Bond cleaned up the mess in his room and sat down on his bed and gazed at the opposite wall with unseeing eyes.

Bond told Drax on purpose that he would check the exhaust hole instead of going straight to the house. He wanted to see if he left an opening for Drax to order Krebs to snoop. He still can't figure out how the murder-suicide in the pub goes along with it, though.


As if summoned by his thoughts, there came a knock on the door and the butler came in. He was followed by a police sergeant in road patrol uniform who saluted and handed Bond a telegram. Bond took it over to the window. It was signed Baxter, which meant Vallance, and it read:


‘Thank you,’ said Bond. ‘No answer.’

When the door was closed Bond put his lighter to the telegram and dropped it in the fireplace, scuffing the charred remains into powder with the sole of his shoe.

That confirms Tallon had called the Ministry about whatever he saw in the water, which may have been overheard. But Bartsch killing him and then shooting himself still doesn't make sense to him as part of a plot to sabotage the rocket. Occam's Razor is that Drax is very meticulous and orders Krebs to break into his employees' rooms to make sure they're on the up-and-up.


If that theory was correct there only remained the double killing. Now that Bond had caught the magic and the tension of the Moonraker the facts of the hysterical shooting seemed more reasonable. As for the mark on the chart, that might have been made any day in the past year; the night-glasses were just night-glasses and the moustaches on the men were just a lot of moustaches.

Bond sat on in the silent room, shifting the pieces in the jigsaw so that two entirely different pictures alternated in his mind. In one the sun shone and all was clear and innocent as the day outside. The other was a dark confusion of guilty motives, obscure suspicions, and nightmare queries.

When the gong sounded for lunch he still did not know which picture to choose. To shelve a decision he cleared his mind of everything but the prospect of his afternoon alone with Gala Brand.

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