Thunderball (James Bond, #9)

by Ian Fleming

M. gave Bond a careful, appraising glance. He held the paper closer to his eyes. ‘“This officer”,’ he read, ‘“remains basically physically sound. Unfortunately his mode of life is not such as is likely to allow him to remain in this happy state. Despite many previous warnings, he admits to smoking sixty cigarettes a day. These are of a Balkan mixture with a higher nicotine content than the cheaper varieties. When not engaged upon strenuous duty, the officer’s average daily consumption of alcohol is in the region of half a bottle of spirits of between sixty and seventy proof. On examination, there continues to be little definite sign of deterioration. The tongue is furred. The blood pressure a little raised at 160/90.

Miss Moneypenny screwed up her nose. ‘But, James, do you really drink and smoke as much as that? It can’t be good for you, you know.’ She looked up at him with motherly eyes. Bond controlled himself. He summoned a desperate effort at nonchalance, at the throw-away phrase. ‘It’s just that I’d rather die of drink than of thirst.

Bond walked angrily towards the door. He turned round. ‘Any more ticking-off from you and when I get out of this place I’ll give you such a spanking you’ll have to do your typing off a block of Dunlopillo.’ Miss Moneypenny smiled sweetly at him. ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to do much spanking after living on nuts and lemon juice for two weeks, James.’

SPECTRE – The Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion.

Women are often meticulous and safe drivers, but they are very seldom first-class. In general Bond regarded them as a mild hazard and he always gave them plenty of road and was ready for the unpredictable. Four women in a car he regarded as the highest danger potential, and two women as nearly as lethal. Women together cannot keep silent in a car, and when women talk they have to look into each other’s faces.

Ok then. FU, Bond.

Maybe you’d care to take that girl along? Hell, she’s the one that rates the medals! The guts! They cottoned on to her Geiger counter. God knows what that bastard Largo did to her. But she didn’t sing – not a damned word! Then, when the team was under way, she somehow got herself out of the cabin porthole, with her gun and aqualung, and went to get him. Got him, and saved your life into the bargain! I swear I’ll never call a girl “frail” again – not an Italian girl anyway.’ Leiter cocked an ear.