When they had both commented sourly and at length about the inflated bogosity of tourist-hotel food and particularly the mendacious misuse of the English language to describe materials which had certainly been in various deepfreezes for at least six months, they settled down on the balcony to discuss Bond’s findings of the morning. Half an hour and one more double dry martini later, their luncheon came. The whole thing amounted to about five shillings’ worth of badly cooked rubbish. They ate in a mood of absent-minded irritation, saying nothing. Finally Leiter threw down his knife and fork. “This is hamburger and bad hamburger. The French onion rings were never in France, and what’s more”—he poked at the remains with a fork—“they’re not even rings. They’re oval.” He looked belligerently across at Bond. “All right, Hawkshaw. Where do we go from here?”
“The major decision is to eat out in future. The next is to pay a visit to the Disco —now.” Bond got up from the table. “When we’ve done that, we’ll have to decide whether or not these people are hunting pieces of eight or £100,000,000. Then we’ll have to report progress.” Bond waved at the packing cases in a corner of the room. “I’ve got the loan of a couple of rooms on the top floor of police headquarters here. The Commissioner’s cooperative and a solid character. These Colonial Police are good, and this one’s a cut above the rest. We can set up the radio there and make contact this evening. Tonight there’s this party at the Casino. We’ll go to that and see if any of these faces mean anything to either of us. The first thing’s to see if the yacht’s clean or not. Can you break that Geiger counter out?”
“Sure. And it’s a honey.” Leiter went to the cases, selected one, and opened it. He came back carrying what looked like a Rolleiflex camera in a portable leather case. “Here, give me a hand.” Leiter took off his wrist watch and strapped on what appeared to be another watch. He slung the “camera” by its strap over his left shoulder. “Now run those wires from the watch up my sleeve and down inside my coat. Right. Now these two small plugs go through these holes in my coat pocket and into the two holes in the box. Got it? Now we’re all fixed.” Leiter stood back and posed. “Man with a camera and a wrist watch.” He unbuttoned the flap of the camera. “See? Perfectly good lenses and all that. Even a button to press in case you have to seem to take a picture. But in back of the make-believe there’s a metal valve, a circuit, and batteries. Now take a look at this watch. And it is a watch.” He held it under Bond’s eyes. “Only difference is that it’s a very small watch mechanism and that sweep secondhand is a meter that takes the radioactive count. Those wires up the sleeve hitch it on to the machine. Now then. You’re still wearing that old wrist watch of yours with the big phosphorus numerals. So I walk round the room for a moment to get the background count. That’s basic. All sorts of things give off radiation of some sort. And I take an occasional glance at my watch—nervous type, and I’ve got an appointment coming up. Now here, by the bathroom, all that metal is giving off something and my watch is registering positive, but very little. Nothing else in the room and I’ve established the amount of background interference I’ll have to discount when I start to get hot. Right? Now I come close up to you and my camera’s only a few inches away from your hand. Here, took a look. Put your watch right up against the counter. See! The sweephand is getting all excited. Move your watch away and it loses interest. It’s those phosphorus numerals of yours. Remember the other day one of the watch companies withdrew an air pilots’ watch from the market because the Atomic Energy People got fussy? Same thing. They thought this particular pilots’ watch, with the big phosphorescent numerals, was giving off too much radiation to be good for the wearer. Of course”—Leiter patted the camera case—“this is a special job. Most types give off a clicking sound, and if you’re prospecting for uranium, which is the big market for these machines, you wear earphones to try and pick up the stuff underground. For this job we don’t need anything so sensitive. If we get near where those bombs are hidden, this damned sweephand’ll go right off the dial. Okay? So let’s go hire ourselves a sixpenny sick and pay a call on the ocean greyhound.”