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Authors: Christopher Wood
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stop within reach of Bond’s right hand. There was a button set in the end of it. ‘Start off by holding that column with your finger pressed down on the button. The moment the pressure gets too much for you, release the button. The power will be cut off immediately.’
Bond looked sceptically into Holly’s clear blue eyes. ‘Immediately?’
Her jaw tilted scornfully. ‘Surely you’re not nervous, Mr Bond? A seventy-year-old can withstand three Gs.’
Bonded twisted his head and tried to look up to the control room.
‘Trouble is, there’s never a seventy-year-old about when you want one.’
Holly interpreted Bond’s glance as one that sought reassurance. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Bond. You’re in good hands.’
A telephone rang and a technician answered it and called Holly over. She spoke for a few seconds and then returned to Bond. ‘Mr Drax wants to see me. I’ll be right back.’ She transmitted a brief, sardonic smile like a flash of semaphore. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Bond watched her and the technician leave the room and felt doubt deepen into unease. He had felt less than entirely welcome since his arrival at Drax’s isolated desert estate. If an accident was to befall him, what better moment for it to happen? He tried to reach the straps that were securing his arms but his fingers could only reach the chicken switch. He pumped it in time with his accelerating heartbeat, waiting warily for the power to be switched on. A low humming noise vibrated through the fuselage and, slowly at first, the rotor arm began to turn on its central axis. Bond braced himself and watched the walls of the room disappear into a continuous blur. The G-force spread him against his seat like putty and he gritted his teeth as a piercing whining noise orchestrated the top-like spinning of the fuselage. This was it, ‘The Whip’ of his childhood days, but revolving at a speed that would have torn the original from its moorings and hurled it half-way across the fairground: He forced himself to look down and saw on the counter that he had already passed four Gs. The rate of build-up surprised him. The pulverizing pace was increasing with every second. There was a frenzied singing in Bond’s ears and the piercing shriek of the centrifuge was like a nail being driven into his brain. Past five Gs now. Honour was satisfied. Not without an effort, Bond lifted his thumb from the button.
Nothing happened.
Bond waited an instant and saw that the button had indeed risen. He cried out but was unable to hear his own voice. The centrifugal force was holding him in an invisible vice. Only pain had freedom of movement through his body. His tortured, throbbing eyes looked down. Six Gs. Now he knew what was happening. They were going to kill him. Holly Goodhead.had been opportunely called away. The brutal slab of menace that was Chang had, done the rest. No doubt there would be mutual recriminations and many regrets. Terror, rage and desperation burned through Bond like a forest fire. He fought to apply pressure against the straps that held him but the centrifugal force made the raising of an eyebrow a labour of Hercules. Seven Gs. ‘Most people pass out at seven.’ He remembered Holly’s words and the mocking look in her eyes. Was he going to be like most people? Like hell he was!
The noise of the centrifuge was now a high-pitched screech that broke the mind apart like an ice-pick. The blur before Bond’s eyes was grey tinged with red. He felt as if every drop of blood was draining from his face. As if his eyeballs themselves were being pushed into his head. He opened his mouth to scream and felt his lips being pulled across his paralysed cheeks as if smeared by a giant hand. No sound emerged. Eight Gs. His head was going to explode and a shock wave of nausea and dizziness churned through his stomach. Bond knew that he had seconds before he lost consciousness, and with it his life. He must do something! He must not give up the fight! His
Bond looked sceptically into Holly’s clear blue eyes. ‘Immediately?’
Her jaw tilted scornfully. ‘Surely you’re not nervous, Mr Bond? A seventy-year-old can withstand three Gs.’
Bonded twisted his head and tried to look up to the control room.
‘Trouble is, there’s never a seventy-year-old about when you want one.’
Holly interpreted Bond’s glance as one that sought reassurance. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Bond. You’re in good hands.’
A telephone rang and a technician answered it and called Holly over. She spoke for a few seconds and then returned to Bond. ‘Mr Drax wants to see me. I’ll be right back.’ She transmitted a brief, sardonic smile like a flash of semaphore. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Bond watched her and the technician leave the room and felt doubt deepen into unease. He had felt less than entirely welcome since his arrival at Drax’s isolated desert estate. If an accident was to befall him, what better moment for it to happen? He tried to reach the straps that were securing his arms but his fingers could only reach the chicken switch. He pumped it in time with his accelerating heartbeat, waiting warily for the power to be switched on. A low humming noise vibrated through the fuselage and, slowly at first, the rotor arm began to turn on its central axis. Bond braced himself and watched the walls of the room disappear into a continuous blur. The G-force spread him against his seat like putty and he gritted his teeth as a piercing whining noise orchestrated the top-like spinning of the fuselage. This was it, ‘The Whip’ of his childhood days, but revolving at a speed that would have torn the original from its moorings and hurled it half-way across the fairground: He forced himself to look down and saw on the counter that he had already passed four Gs. The rate of build-up surprised him. The pulverizing pace was increasing with every second. There was a frenzied singing in Bond’s ears and the piercing shriek of the centrifuge was like a nail being driven into his brain. Past five Gs now. Honour was satisfied. Not without an effort, Bond lifted his thumb from the button.
Nothing happened.
Bond waited an instant and saw that the button had indeed risen. He cried out but was unable to hear his own voice. The centrifugal force was holding him in an invisible vice. Only pain had freedom of movement through his body. His tortured, throbbing eyes looked down. Six Gs. Now he knew what was happening. They were going to kill him. Holly Goodhead.had been opportunely called away. The brutal slab of menace that was Chang had, done the rest. No doubt there would be mutual recriminations and many regrets. Terror, rage and desperation burned through Bond like a forest fire. He fought to apply pressure against the straps that held him but the centrifugal force made the raising of an eyebrow a labour of Hercules. Seven Gs. ‘Most people pass out at seven.’ He remembered Holly’s words and the mocking look in her eyes. Was he going to be like most people? Like hell he was!
The noise of the centrifuge was now a high-pitched screech that broke the mind apart like an ice-pick. The blur before Bond’s eyes was grey tinged with red. He felt as if every drop of blood was draining from his face. As if his eyeballs themselves were being pushed into his head. He opened his mouth to scream and felt his lips being pulled across his paralysed cheeks as if smeared by a giant hand. No sound emerged. Eight Gs. His head was going to explode and a shock wave of nausea and dizziness churned through his stomach. Bond knew that he had seconds before he lost consciousness, and with it his life. He must do something! He must not give up the fight! His
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