M reached over and slid the report into his OUT tray. He put his hands flat down on the desk in front of him and looked sternly across at Bond. He said, “Not very satisfactory, is it, James?”
Bond tried to keep impatience out of his voice. He said, “I’m perfectly fit, sir. Everyone has occasional headaches. Most week-end golfers have fibrositis. You get it from sweating and then sitting in a draft. Aspirin and embrocation get rid of them. Nothing to it, really, sir.”
M said severely, “That’s just where you’re making a big mistake, James. Taking medicine only suppresses these symptoms of yours. Medicine doesn’t get to the root of the trouble. It only conceals it. The result is a more highly poisoned condition which may become chronic disease. All drugs are harmful to the system. They are contrary to nature. The same applies to most of the food we eat—white bread with all the roughage removed, refined sugar with all the goodness machined out of it, pasteurized milk which has had most of the vitamins boiled away, everything overcooked and denaturized. Why”— M reached into his pocket for his notebook and consulted it—“do you know what our bread contains apart from a bit of overground flour?” M looked accusingly at Bond. “It contains large quantities of chalk, also benzol peroxide powder, chlorine gas, sal ammoniac, and alum.” M put the notebook back in his pocket. “What do you think of that?”
Bond, mystified by all this, said defensively, “I don’t eat all that much bread, sir.”
“Maybe not,” said M impatiently. “But how much stoneground whole wheat do you eat? How much yoghurt? Uncooked vegetables, nuts, fresh fruit?”
Bond smiled. “Practically none at all, sir.”
“It’s no laughing matter.” M tapped his forefinger on the desk for emphasis. “Mark my words. There is no way to health except the natural way. All your troubles”—Bond opened his mouth to protest, but M held up his hand—“the deep-seated toxemia revealed by your Medical, are the result of a basically unnatural way of life. Ever heard of Bircher-Brenner, for instance? Or Kneipp, Preissnitz, Rikli, Schroth, Gossman, Bilz?”
“No, sir.”
“Just so. Well, those are the men you would be wise to study. Those are the great naturopaths—the men whose teaching we have foolishly ignored. Fortunately”—M’s eyes gleamed enthusiastically—“there are a number of disciples of these men practicing in England. Nature cure is not beyond our reach.”
James Bond looked curiously at M. What the hell had got into the old man? Was all this the first sign of senile decay? But M looked fitter than Bond had ever seen him. The cold gray eyes were clear as crystal and the skin of the hard, lined face was luminous with health. Even the iron-gray hair seemed to have new life. Then what was all this lunacy?
M reached for his IN tray and placed it in front of him in a preliminary gesture of dismissal. He said cheerfully, “Well, that’s all, James. Miss Moneypenny has made the reservation. Two weeks will be quite enough to put you right. You won’t know yourself when you come out. New man.”
Bond looked across at M, aghast. He said in a strangled voice, “Out of where, sir?”
“Place called Shrublands. Run by quite a famous man in his line—Wain, Joshua Wain. Remarkable chap. Sixty-five. Doesn’t look a day over forty. He’ll take good care of you. Very up-to-date equipment, and he’s even got his own herb garden. Nice stretch of country. Near Washington in Sussex. And don’t worry about your work here. Put it right out of your mind for a couple of weeks. I’ll tell 009 to take care of the Section.”
Bond couldn’t believe his ears. He said, “But, sir. I mean, I’m perfectly all right. Are you sure? I mean, is this really necessary?”
“No.” M smiled frostily. “Not necessary. Essential. If you want to stay in the double-O Section, that is. I can’t afford to have an officer in that section who isn’t one-hundred-per-cent fit.” M lowered his eyes to the basket in front of him and took out a signal file. “That’s all, 007.” He didn’t look up. The tone of voice was final.