“Not yet,” smiled Bond. “Haven’t seen the colour of it.”
“Of course. Settlement on Saturday. Probably get the cheque just in time to celebrate our little firework display, . what? Now let’s see.” He led Bond up to the woman. “This is my secretary, Miss Brand.”
Bond looked into a pair of very level blue eyes. “Good evening.” He gave her a friendly smile. There was no answering smile in the eyes which looked calmly into his. No answering pressure of her hand. “How do you do,” she said indifferently, almost, Bond sensed, with hostility.
It crossed Bond’s mind that she had been well-chosen. Another Loelia Ponsonby. Reserved efficient, loyal, virginal. Thank heavens, he thought. A professional.
“My right-hand man, Dr Walter.” The thin elderly man with a pair of angry eyes under the shock of black hair seemed not to notice Bond’s outstretched hand. He sprang to attention and gave a quick nod of the head. “Valter,” said the thin mouth above the black imperial, correcting Drax’s pronunciation.
“And my-what shall I say-my dogsbody. What you might call my ADC, Willy Krebs.” There was the touch of a slightly damp hand. “Ferry pleased to meet you,” said an ingratiating voice and Bond looked into a pale round unhealthy face now split in a stage smile which died almost as Bond noticed it. Bond looked into his eyes. They were like two restless black buttons and they twisted away from Bond’s gaze.
Both men wore spotless white overalls with plastic zip fasteners at the sleeves and ankles and down the back. Their hair was close-cropped so that the skin shone through and they would have looked like people from another planet but for the untidy black moustache and imperial of Dr Walter and the pale wispy moustache of Krebs. They were both caricatures-a mad scientist and a youthful version of Peter Lorre.
The colourful ogreish figure of Drax was a pleasant contrast in this chilly company and Bond was grateful to him for the cheerful roughness of his welcome and for his apparent wish to bury the hatchet and make the best of his new security officer.
Drax was very much the host. He rubbed his hands together. “Now, Willy,” he said, “how about making one of your excellent dry Martinis for us? Except, of course, for the Doctor. Doesn’t drink or smoke,” he explained to Bond, returning to his place by the mantelpiece. “Hardly breathes.” He barked out a short laugh. “Thinks of nothing but the rocket. Do you, my friend?”
The Doctor looked stonily in front of him. “You are pleased to joke,” he said.
“Now, now,” said Drax, as if to a child. “We will go back to those leading edges later. Everybody’s quite happy about them except you.” He turned to Bond. “The good Doctor is always frightening us,” he explained indulgently. “He’s always having nightmares about something. Now it’s the leading edges of the fins. They’re already as sharp as razor blades-hardly any wind resistance at all. And he suddenly gets it into his head that they’re going to melt. Friction of the air. Of course everything’s possible, but they’ve been tested at over 3000 degrees and, as I tell him, if they’re going to melt then the whole rocket will melt. And that’s just not going to happen,” he added with a grim smile.
Krebs came up with a silver tray with four full glasses and a frosted shaker. The Martini was excellent and Bond said so.
“You are ferry kind,” said Krebs with a smirk of satisfaction. “Sir Hugo is ferry exacting.”
“Fill up his glass,” said Drax, “and then perhaps our friend would like to wash. We dine at eight sharp.”
As he spoke there came the muffled wail of a siren and almost immediately the sound of a body of men running in strict unison across the concrete apron outside.
“That’s the first night shift,” explained Drax. “Barracks are just behind the house. Must be eight o’clock. We do everything at the double here,” he added with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. “Precision. Lot of scientists about, but we try to run the place like a military establishment. Willy, look after the Commander. We’ll go ahead. Gome along, my dear.”