Up on the broad veranda of Content the last rays of the sun glittered on the red stains. One of the doctor birds whirred over the balustrade and hovered close above Mrs Havelock’s heart, looking down. No, this was not for him. He flirted gaily off to his roosting-perch among the closing hibiscus.
There came the sound of someone in a small sports car making a racing change at the bend of the drive. If Mrs Havelock had been alive she would have been getting ready to say: “Judy, I’m always telling you not to do that on the corner. It scatters gravel all over the lawn and you know how it ruins Joshua’s lawn-mower.”
It was a month later. In London, October had begun with a week of brilliant Indian summer, and the noise of the mowers came up from Regent’s Park and in through the wide open windows of M’s office. They were motor-mowers and James Bond reflected that one of the most beautiful noises of summer, the drowsy iron song of the old machines, was going for ever from the world. Perhaps today children felt the same about the puff and chatter of the little two-stroke engines. At least the cut grass would smell the same.
Bond had time for these reflections because M seemed to be having difficulty in coming to the point. Bond had been asked if he had anything on at the moment, and he had replied happily that he hadn’t and had waited for Pandora’s box to be opened for him. He was mildly intrigued because M had addressed him as James and not by his number – 007. This was unusual during duty hours. It sounded as if there might be some personal angle to this assignment – as if it might be put to him more as a request than as an order. And it seemed to Bond that there was an extra small cleft of worry between the frosty, damnably clear, grey eyes. And three minutes was certainly too long to spend getting a pipe going.
M swivelled his chair round square with the desk and flung the box of matches down so that it skidded across the red leather top towards Bond. Bond fielded it and skidded it politely back to the middle of the desk. M smiled briefly. He seemed to make up his mind. He said mildly: “James, has it ever occurred to you that every man in the fleet knows what to do except the commanding admiral?”
Bond frowned. He said: “It hadn’t occurred to me, sir. But I see what you mean. The rest only have to carry out orders. The admiral has to decide on the orders. I suppose it’s the same as saying that Supreme Command is the loneliest post there is.”
M jerked his pipe sideways. “Same sort of idea. Someone’s got to be tough. Someone’s got to decide in the end. If you send a havering signal to the Admiralty you deserve to be put on the beach. Some people are religious – pass the decision on to God.” M’s eyes were defensive. “I used to try that sometimes in the Service, but He always passed the buck back again – told me to get on and make up my own mind. Good for one, I suppose, but tough. Trouble is, very few people keep tough after about forty. They’ve been knocked about by life – had troubles, tragedies, illnesses. These things soften you up.” M looked sharply at Bond. “How’s your coefficient of toughness, James? You haven’t got to the dangerous age yet.”
Bond didn’t like personal questions. He didn’t know what to answer, nor what the truth was. He had not got a wife or children – had never suffered the tragedy of a personal loss. He had not had to stand up to blindness or a mortal disease. He had absolutely no idea how he would face these things that needed so much more toughness than he had ever had to show. He said hesitantly: “I suppose I can stand most things if I have to and if I think it’s right, sir. I mean” – he did not like using such words – “if the cause is – er – sort of just, sir.” He went on, feeling ashamed at himself for throwing the ball back at M: “Of course it’s not easy to know what is just and what isn’t. I suppose I assume that when I’m given an unpleasant job in the Service the cause is a just one.”