James Bond and Moonraker by Christopher Wood Read Free Book Online Page B

better.’
    Bond’s expression gave no indication that he was offended by the jibe. ‘If the American space programme is lagging behind the Russians’, why should they want to steal your Moonraker?’
    ‘Because the Russians take no chances. They know what I am doing here. They know that I am the one dynamic force capable of galvanizing this country into an awareness of its responsibilities. They want to see what I’m up to. The Russians never sleep, Mr Bond. Only when they are dead!’
    Bond saw the xenophobia in the eyes and heard the voice reveal traces of its Teutonic ancestry as it surrendered control to passion. He wondered if Drax had been one of the young Germans who fought on the Russian front and was left with more than physical scars from the experience. It might explain his obvious hatred of the Russians.
    The door clicked open and suddenly there was a new presence in the room: a man, small in stature, but built like a giant spinning top. He had no recognizable neck and his swelling girth appeared to have put such a strain on his flesh as to have pulled the skin of his face tight and reduced the eyes to faint scar-like slits descending towards the lobes of his ears. His hair was dragged back from his face in a pigtail and he waddled across the room carrying a large silver tray on which were arranged a Georgian silver tea service, Rockingham china and a plate of daintily cut sandwiches. The contents of the tray and its bearer made an incongruous combination. Bond looked at the man’s tiny mouth and found it smaller than his eye slits. These glistened to show that somewhere behind the folds of skin Bond was being subjected to close and perhaps unflattering scrutiny.
    ‘On the table, Chang,’ said Drax, indicating the positioning of the tray with a wave of his hand. He turned back to Bond. ‘You have arrived at a propitious moment. One in which I pay homage to your country’s sole, indisputable contribution to the advancement of Western civilization.’ He extended an arm towards the Georgian tea pot. ‘Afternoon tea.’
    Bond smiled despite himself. It occurred to him that in the space of a short conversation Drax had revealed a sufficient love—hate relationship with things British to mark him out as one of those who secretly resented his draw in the lottery of birth. A stroke of fortune that no amount of money could ever correct. Bond guessed that Hugo Drax would have liked to have been born an Englishman. He had not been and therefore he set out to ridicule that which he could not have. Unlike Groucho Marx, who did not want to be a member of a club that would have someone like him in it, Drax did want to be a member of a club that could never have him as a member.
    ‘I’m not a great tea drinker,’ said Bond.
    Drax’s eyes mimed regret. ‘You disappoint me. Surely I can press you to a cucumber sandwich?’
    ‘No thank you.’ Bond held up a hand as Chang proffered the plate and once again saw the glistening slits sizing him up. The man’s upper arms were the size of an ordinary man’s thighs. He was like a compressed Sumo wrestler. The destructive force that he would be capable of releasing must be terrifying. ‘The Moonraker. Is it made entirely in California?’
    Drax swallowed a cucumber sandwich at a gulp before answering Bond’s question. ‘Assembled, yes. Made, no. I own a number of subsidiaries throughout the world producing components.’ He slurped noisily at a cup of tea. ‘As I have intimated, the conquest of space represents an investment on behalf of the entire human race. It is therefore logical to seek out the best that each nation has to offer.’
    Bond found his gaze drifting beyond the mullioned windows. The astronaut trainees could be glimpsed, still at their exercises. Perhaps it was a new batch. ‘Are you referring to people or skills, Mr Drax?’
    Drax appeared to be surprised by the question. ‘Why both, Mr Bond.’ He pressed a button set into the corner of the