The outer door slammed.
Bond slowly raised his head and grinned painfully at the girl with his bloodstained lips.
“Had to get him mad,” he said with difficulty. “Didn’t want to give him time to think. Had to work up a brainstorm.” Gala looked at him uncomprehendingly, her eyes wide at the terrible mask of his face.
“‘S’all right,” said Bond thickly. “Don’t worry. London’s okay. Got a plan.”
Over on the desk the blowtorch gave a quiet ‘plop’ and went out.
CHAPTER XXIII
ZERO MINUS
THROUGH HALF-CLOSED eyes Bond looked intently at the torch while for a few precious seconds he sat and let life creep back into his body. His head felt as if it had been used as a football, but there was nothing broken. Drax had hit him unscientifically and with the welter of blows of a drunken man.
Gala watched him anxiously. The eyes in the bloody face were almost shut, but the line of the jaw was taut with concentration and she could feel the effort of will he was making.
He gave his head a shake and when he turned towards her she could see that his eyes were feverish with triumph.
He nodded towards the desk. “The lighter,” he said urgently. “I had to try and make him forget it. Follow me. I’ll show you.” He started to rock the light steel chair inch by inch towards the desk. “For God’s sake don’t tip over or we’ve had it. But make it fast or the blowlamp’ll get cold.”
Uncomprehendingly, and feeling almost as if they were playing some ghastly children’s game, Gala carefully rocked her way across the floor in his wake.
Seconds later Bond told her to stop beside the desk while he went rocking on round to Drax’s chair. Then he manoeuvred himself into position opposite his target and with a sudden lurch heaved himself and the chair forward so that his head came down.
There was a painful crack as the Ronson desk lighter connected with his teeth, but his lips held it and the top of it was in his mouth as he heaved the chair back with just enough force to prevent it spilling over. Then he started his patient journey back to where Gala was sitting at the corner of the desk on which Krebs had left the blowlamp.
He rested until his breath was steady again. “Now we come to the difficult part,” he said grimly. “While I try to get this torch going, you get your chair round so that your right arm is as close in front of me as possible.”
Obediently she edged herself round while Bond swayed his chair so that it leant against the edge of the desk and allowed his mouth to reach forward and grip the handle of the blowtorch between his teeth.
Then he eased the torch towards him and after minutes of patient work he had the torch and the lighter arranged to his liking at the edge of the desk.
After another rest he bent down, closed the valve of the torch with his teeth, and proceeded to get pressure back by slowly and repeatedly pulling up the plunger with his lips and pressing it back with his chin. His face could feel the warmth in the pre-heater and he could smell the remnants of gas in it. If only it hadn’t cooled off too much. He straightened up.
“Last lap, Gala,” he said, smiling crookedly at her. “I may have to hurt you a bit. All right?”
“Of course,” said Gala.
“Then here goes,” said Bond, and he bent forward and released the safety valve on the left of the canister.
Then he quickly bent forward over the Ronson, which was standing at right angles and just below the neck of the torch, and with his two front teeth pressed down sharply on the ignition lever.
It was a horrible manoeuvre and though he whipped back his head with the speed of a snake he let out a gasp of pain as the jet of blue fire from the torch seared across his bruised cheek and the bridge of his nose.
But the vaporized paraffin was hissing out its vital tongue of flame and he shook the water out of his streaming eyes and bent his head almost at right angles and again got his teeth to the handle of the blowtorch.