by John Pearson
There was silence in the room and I was grateful for the way Augustus tactfully refilled my glass.
‘How did this happen?’ Bond asked finally.
‘Nobody knows for sure,’ Godwin replied. ‘Previous attempts to manufacture mutant forms artificially have all produced sterile animals. These rats of Fraulein Bunt are anything but sterile. For months now she's been breeding them like rabbits – and now they're spreading. And they're hungry.’
‘Why don't you stop them?’ someone asked.
‘Good question,’ replied the professor. ‘We've been trying for some months. But easier said than done. You remember the great rabbit plague that hit Australia last century? This could be every bit as bad – except that the rabbits didn't bite.’
‘And what about Irma Bunt,’ Bond asked brutally. ‘I suppose you're letting her continue her interesting scientific work?’
‘No,’ replied Tanner. ‘I am afraid that that's where you come in. Irma Bunt has disappeared – completely. The breeding station is deserted. She has produced these animals and left. But the Australian Government has recently received an ultimatum from her. Two ultimatums, to be strictly accurate. She threatens that these rats of hers will spread and soon start preying on the sheep. Within a year they will have multiplied so fast that they will really threaten Australia's sheep farming industry. Within two they will have moved into the cities.’
‘Is that possible?’ said Bond.
The professor nodded. ‘But she's also said that she can destroy them almost overnight. Apparently they have some inbuilt instinct which she alone knows how to control. She has promised that in return for one billion dollars she will make these rats turn back like lemmings to the desert where they came from. She wants the money in cash. And she wants it fast.’
‘I think you'd better pay,’ said Bond.
Tanner tried arguing. It was useless. He said, quite rightly, that Bond was the only man who could recognize Irma Bunt. He was also the only man she feared. He alone could understand that twisted mind of hers sufficiently to hope to catch her. Because of this the Australian Government had asked for him. He was their one remaining hope.
But Bond just shrugged his shoulders.
Someone else could have the honour of catching Irma Bunt. There was nothing very special about her, and Australia must have some good policemen of its own. He was sorry, but he'd quite made up his mind. He had left the Secret Service and was getting married. Finally Bill Tanner realized that it was hopeless. Bond meant what he said.
At this Bill Tanner simply said that he was sorry and hoped that Honeychile and Bond would be happy. He and Sir James and Professor Godwin would be flying on to Adelaide at dawn. The Australian Prime Minister would be there to meet them. If Bond should change his mind …
‘Thanks very much,’ said Bond, ‘but somehow I don't think it's likely. And now Honey and I must go. We've a busy day tomorrow.’ If Bond was feeling upset at refusing his old friend he didn't show it. The two men shook hands.
I found it hard to sleep. Bill Tanner's story had disturbed me, and I dreamed of desert rats leaping across the English countryside. Then when I woke I couldn't get to sleep again. The idea of the Vulcan bomber leaving for Australia preyed on my mind. I looked at my watch. In less than an hour now it would be off. Finally I dressed and, breakfastless, drove to the airport to see it go.
It was there, like a great black shark, stranded along the margin of the runway. The aircrew were aboard, and just as I arrived, a car drew up, with Tanner and Professor Godwin. We chatted briefly, Tanner said he was still hoping that Bond would change his mind and come.
‘D'you think he will?’ asked Godwin.
‘If it was his decision, certainly,’ he said. ‘But with that woman–’ he shook his head. ‘Pretty damned hopeless, I'm afraid. Pity though.’
‘You're damned right it is,’ said the professor.
By now the Vulcan's engines were awake. The plane was fuelled for the long fast journey round the rim of the earth, and I watched Godwin pull on a flying helmet and stride off, a determined grey figure, to the aircraft.
The dawn was coming up out of the Atlantic – long strips of oleander pink were in the sky – I heard the first bird sing, and felt the sweet freshness of the tropical morning.
Tanner looked at his watch, and shook his head.
‘Well, you can't blame him. Really not blame him at all. She was pretty. Let's just hope he's happy.’
‘Can't wait much longer sir,’ shouted the pilot over the screaming engines. ‘Flight Control's expecting us, if we're to make it back to Adelaide in time.’
The sleek cigar-shaped body started to roll forward. Tanner walked out towards it.
At that moment there was a blare from the edge of the field. A big white Rolls Corniche approached the runway. Honey was driving. Bond was beside her, with his old pigskin case, his lightweight blue suit, black knotted tie – his uniform for an assignment.
He seemed quite breezy, quite unruffled, and gave no explanation why he had come.
‘Morning, Bill. Good to see you. Are we all ready?’
He saw me and nodded.
‘I've enjoyed our little chats,’ he said. ‘Hope that you didn't find them all too tedious. There's a lot I left out and a great deal more to come, if you're still interested. When I get back we'll meet and I'll do my best to finish off the story.’
Then he turned to Honeychile who was still sitting in the car. She was no longer the tough Mrs Schultz. Her face seemed pale beneath its sun-tan, her eyes unnaturally bright. Bond kissed her and I heard him saying, ‘Soon, darling, soon. I'll soon be back.’
How many times, I wondered, had he whispered that before?
Then he turned. I could see the pilot beckoning from the cockpit, and Bond hurried off across the runway, clutching his case. He turned and waved, then hauled himself up through the entrance. The door was slammed behind him and the engines whined impatiently. Then the brakes were off, the engines thundered, and as the bomber turned the dust was whipping up around us, and I could smell the sudden stench of kerosene, the universal scent of modern man's departure.
Honey had left the car, and was standing all alone, watching as the bomber gathered speed. She didn't wave, but when she saw me she said flatly, ‘I was the one who made him go. He said he wouldn't but I knew he'd always blame me if he didn't. Just the same, I never thought …’
The plane had turned and, as it passed above us, her voice was drowned in the departing roar of its engines. As it sailed off into the dawn it dipped its wings.
Honeychile smiled and watched as it receded to a small dot in the sky.
‘Well, that's that,’ she said as she turned back to the Rolls, ‘the bastard's gone.’
