DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER BY IAN FLEMING

“Oh, dear little engine,” she said plaintively. “Beautiful, clever little engine. Please be kind.”

‘Put-put. Put-put. Hiss. Put. Hiss…’ And suddenly they were free-wheeling along in silence. Twenty-five, said the speedometer. Twenty… fifteen… ten… five. A last savage twist at the accelerator and a kick from Tiffany Case at the engine-housing and they had stopped.

“–” said Bond, once. He got painfully out on to the side of the track and limped to the petrol tank at the rear, pulling his bloodstained handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. He unscrewed the filler cap and lowered the handkerchief down so that it must reach the bottom of the tank. He pulled it out and felt it and sniffed it. Dry as a bone.

“That’s that,” he said to the girl. “Now just let’s think hard.” He looked all round. No cover to the left, and two miles at least to the road. On the right the mountains, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. They might get there and hide up. But for how long? It looked the best chance. The ground beneath his feet was shaking. He looked down the line at the glaring, implacable eye. How far? Two miles? Would Spang see the handcar in time? Would he be able to stop? Might he be derailed? But then Bond remembered the great jutting cow-catcher that would sweep the light car out of the way like a bale of straw.

“Come on, Tiffany,” he called. “We’ve got to take to the hills.”

Where was she? He limped round the car. She was running back down the track in front. She came up panting. “There’s a branch line just ahead,” she gasped. “If we can push the thing there and you can work the old points, he might miss us.”

“My God,” said Bond slowly. Then, with awe in his voice. “There’s something better than that. Give me a hand,” and he bent down and gritted his teeth against the pain and started pushing.

Once started, the car moved easily and they only had to follow behind it and keep it rolling. They came to the points and Bond went on pushing until they were twenty yards past.

“What the hell?” panted Tiffany.

“Come on,” said Bond, half stumbling, half running back to where the rusty switch stuck up beside the rails. “We’re going to put The Cannoriball on to the branch line.”

“Oh, boy!” said Tiffany Case reverently. And then they were both at the switch and Bond’s bruised muscles were cracking as he heaved.

Slowly the rusty metal shifted in the bed where it had lain unmoved for fifty years, and millimetre by millimetre the rails showed a crack and then a widening gap as Bond strained and jerked at the lever.

And then it was done and Bond knelt on the ground with his head down, fighting the dizziness that threatened to drown him.

But then there was a glare of light on the ground and Tiffany tugged at him and he was on his feet again and stumbling back to the car and the whole air was full of thunder and the doleful clanging of the warning bell as the great flaming iron beast came roaring towards them.

“Get down and don’t move,” shouted Bond above the noise, and he thrust her to the ground behind the flimsy shelter of the handcar. Then he limped quickly to the side of the track and drew his gun and stood sideways on with his pistol arm up like a duellist and squinted back up the track into the great on-rushing eye below the volcano of swirling fire and smoke.

God, what a monster. Could it possibly take the curve? Wouldn’t it just hurtle on into them and smash them to pulp?

On it came.

‘Phut.’ Something whipped into the ground beside him and there was a pinpoint flash from the cabin.

‘B-o-i-n-g-g-g.’ There was another flash and the bullet hit the rail and whined off into the night.

‘Crack. Crack. Crack.’ Now he could hear the gun above the rear of the engine. Something sang sharply in his ear.

Bond held his fire. Only four bullets and he knew when they would go.

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