Fleming, Ian - Bond 12 - (1964) You Only Live Twice

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Richard Hughes

and

Torao Saito

But for whom etc…

You only live twice:

Once when you are born

And once when you look death in the face.

After BASHO

Japanese poet,

1643-94

Part One

'It is better to travel hopefully...

SCISSORS CUT PAPER

THE geisha called 'Trembling Leaf, on her knees beside James Bond, leant forward from the waist and kissed him chastely

on the right cheek.

'That's a cheat,' said Bond severely. 'You agreed that if I won it would be a real kiss on the mouth. At the very least,' he

added.

'Grey Pearl', the Madame, who had black lacquered teeth, a bizarre affectation, and was so thickly made up that she looked

like a character out of a No play, translated. There was much giggling and cries of encouragement. Trembling Leaf covered her

face with her pretty hands as if she were being required to perform some ultimate obscenity. But then the fingers divided and

the pert brown eyes examined Bond's mouth, as if taking aim, and her body lanced forward. This time the kiss was full on the

lips and it lingered fractionally. In invitation? In promise? Bond remembered that he had been promised a 'pillow geisha'.

Technically, this would be a geisha of low caste. She would not be proficient in the traditional arts of her calling - she would

not be able to tell humorous stories, sing, paint or compose verses about her patron. But, unlike her cultured sisters, she might

agree to perform more robust services - discreetly, of course, in conditions of the utmost privacy and at a high price. But, to the

boorish, brutalized tastes of a gaijin, a foreigner, this made more sense than having a tanka of thirty-one syllables, which in

any case he couldn't understand, equate, in exquisite ideograms, his charms with budding chrysanthemums on the slopes of

Mount Fuji.

The applause which greeted this unbridled exhibition of lasciviousness died quickly and respectfully. The powerful, chunky

man in the black yukata, sitting directly across the low red lacquer table from Bond, had taken the Dunhill filter holder from

between his golden teeth and had laid it beside his ashtray. 'Bondo-san,' said Tiger Tanaka, Head of the Japanese Secret

Service, 'I will now challenge you to this ridiculous game, and I promise you in advance that you will not win.' The big,

creased brown face that Bond had come to know so well in the past month split expansively. The wide smile closed the almond

eyes to slits - slits that glittered. Bond knew that smile. It wasn't a smile. It was a mask with a golden hole in it.

Bond laughed. 'All right, Tiger. But first, more sake! And not in these ridiculous thimbles. I've drunk five flasks of the stuff

and its effect is about the same as one double Martini. I shall need another double Martini if I am to go on demonstrating the

superiority of Western instinct over the wiles of the Orient. Is there such a thing as a lowly glass tumbler discarded in some

corner behind the cabinets of Ming?'

'Bondo-san. Ming is Chinese. Your knowledge of porcelain is as meagre as your drinking habits are gross. Moreover, it is

unwise to underestimate sake. We have a saying, "It is the man who drinks the first flask of sake; then the second flask drinks

the first; then it is the sake that drinks the man." ' Tiger Tanaka turned to Grey Pearl and there followed a laughing

conversation which Bond interpreted as jokes at the expense of this uncouth Westerner and his monstrous appetites. At a word

from the Madame, Trembling Leaf bowed low and scurried out of the room. Tiger turned to Bond. 'You have gained much

face, Bondo-san. It is only the sumo wrestlers who drink sake in these quantities without showing it. She says you are

undoubtedly an eight-flask man.' Tiger's face became sly. 'But she also suggests that you will not make much of a companion

for Trembling Leaf at the end of the evening.'

'Tell her that I am more interested in her own more mature charms. She will certainly possess talents in the art of love

making which will overcome any temporary lassitude on my part.'

This leaden gallantry got what it deserved. There came a spirited crackle of Japanese from Grey Pearl. Tiger translated.

Bondo-san, this is a woman of some wit. She has made a joke. She says she is already respectably married to one bonsan and

there is no room on her futon for another. Bonsan means a priest, a greybeard. Futon, as you know, is a bed. She has made a

joke on your name.'

The geisha party had been going on for two hours, and Bond's jaws were aching with the unending smiles and polite

repartee. Far from being entertained by the geisha, or bewitched by the inscrutable discords issuing from the catskin-covered

box of the three-stringed samisen, Bond had found himself having to try desperately to make the party go. He also knew that

Tiger Tanaka had been observing his effort with a sadistic pleasure. Dikko Henderson had warned him that geisha parties

were more or less the equivalent, for a foreigner, of trying to entertain a lot of unknown children in a nursery with a strict

governess, the Madame, looking on. But Dikko had also warned him that he was being done a great honour by Tiger Tanaka,

that the party would cost Tiger a small fortune, whether from secret funds or from his own pocket, and that Bond had better put

a good face on the whole thing since this looked like being a breakthrough in Bond's mission. But it could equally well be

disaster.

So now Bond smiled and clapped his hands in admiration. He said to Tiger, 'Tell the old bitch she's a clever old bitch,'

accepted the brimming tumbler of hot sake from the apparently adoring hands of Trembling Leaf, and downed it in two

tremendous gulps. He repeated the performance so that more sake had to be fetched from the kitchen, then he placed his fist

decisively on the red lacquer table and said with mock belligerence, 'All right, Tiger! Go to it!'

It was the old game of Scissors cut Paper, Paper wraps Stone, Stone blunts Scissors, that is played by children all over the

world. The fist is the Stone, two outstretched fingers are the Scissors, and a flat hand is the Paper. The closed fist is hammered

twice in the air simultaneously by the two opponents and, at the third downward stroke, the chosen emblem is revealed, The

game consists of guessing which emblem the opponent will choose, and of you yourself choosing one that, will defeat him.

Best of three goes or more. It is a game of bluff.

Tiger Tanaka rested his fist on the table opposite Bond. The two men looked carefully into each other's eyes. There was dead

silence in the box-like little lath-and-paper room, and the soft gurgling of the tiny brook in the ornamental square of garden

outside the opened partition could be heard clearly for the first time that evening. Perhaps it was this silence, after all the talk

and giggling, or perhaps it was the deep seriousness and purpose that was suddenly evident in Tiger Tanaka's formidable,

cruel, samurai face, but Bond's skin momentarily crawled. For some reason this had become more than a children's game.

Tiger had promised he would beat Bond. To fail would be to lose much face. How much? Enough to breach a friendship that

had become oddly real between the two of them over the past weeks? This was one of the most powerful men in Japan. To be

defeated by a miserable gaijin in front of the two women might be a matter of great moment to this man. The defeat might leak

out through the women. In the West, such a trifle would be farcically insignificant, like a cabinet minister losing a game of

backgammon at Blades. But in the East? In a very short while, Dikko Henderson had taught Bond total respect for Oriental

conventions, however old-fashioned or seemingly trivial, but Bond was still at sea in their gradations. This was a case in point.

Should Bond try and win at this baby game of bluff and double-bluff, or should he try to lose? But to try and lose involved the

same cleverness at correctly guessing the other man's symbols in advance. It was just as difficult to lose on purpose as to win.

And anyway did it really matter? Unfortunately, on the curious assignment in which James Bond was involved, he had a nasty

feeling that even this idiotic little gambit had significance towards success or failure.

As if with second sight, Tiger Tanaka spelled the problem out. He gave a harsh, taut laugh that was more of a shout than an

expression of humour or pleasure. 'Bondo-san, with us, and certainly at a party at which I am the host and you are the honoured

guest, it would be good manners for me to let you win this game that we are to play together. It would be more. It would be

required behaviour. So I must ask your forgiveness in advance for defeating you.'

Bond smiled cheerfully. 'My dear Tiger, there is no point in playing a game unless you-try to win. It would be a very great

insult to me if you endeavoured to play to lose. But if I may say so, your remarks are highly provocative. They are like the

taunts of the sumo wrestlers before the bout. If I was not myself so certain of winning, I would point out that you spoke in

English. Please tell our dainty and distinguished audience that I propose to rub your honourable nose in the dirt at this

despicable game and thus display not only the superiority of Great Britain, and particularly Scotland, over Japan, but also the

superiority of our Queen over your Emperor.' Bond, encouraged perhaps by the crafty ambush of the sake, had committed

himself. This kind of joking about their different cultures had become a habit between himself and Tiger, who, with a first in

PPE at Trinity before the war, prided himself in the demokorasu of his outlook and the liberality and breadth of his

understanding of the West. But Bond, having spoken, caught the sudden glitter in the dark eyes, and he thought of Dikko

Henderson's cautionary, 'Now .listen, you stupid limey bastard. You're doing all right. But don't press your luck. T.T.'s a

civilized kind of a chap - as Japs go, that is. But don't overdo it. Take a look at that mug. There's Manchu there, and Tartar.

And don't forget the soanso was a Black Belt at judo before he ever went up to your bloody Oxford. And don't forget he was

spying for Japan when he called himself assistant naval attache in their London Embassy before the war and you stupid

bastards thought he was okay because he'd got a degree at Oxford. And don't forget his war record. Don't forget he ended up as

personal aide to Admiral Ohnishi and was training as a kami-kaze when the Americans made loud noises over Nagasaki and

Hiroshima and the Rising Sun suddenly took a backward somersault in to the sea. And, if you forget all that, just ask yourself

why it's T.T. rather than any other of the ninety million Japanese who happens to hold down the job as head of the Koan-

Chosa-Kyoku. Okay, James? Got the photo?'

Since Bond had arrived in Japan he had assiduously practised sitting in the lotus position. Dikko Henderson had advised it.

'If you make the grade with these people,' he had said, 'or even if you don't, you'll be spending a lot of time sitting on your ass

on the ground. There's only one way to do it without cracking your joints; that's in the Indian position, squatting with your legs

crossed and the sides of your feet hurting like hell on the floor. It takes a bit of practice, but it won't kill you and you'll end up

gaining plenty of face.' Bond had more or less mastered the art, but now, after two hours, his knee-joints were on fire and he

felt that if he didn't alter his posture he would end up bandy-legged for life. He said to Tiger, 'Playing against a master such as

yourself, I must first adopt a relaxed position so that my brain may be totally concentrated.' He got painfully to his feet,

stretched and sat down again - this time with one leg extended under the low table and his left elbow resting on the bent knee

of the other. It was a blessed relief. He lifted his tumbler and, obediently, Trembling Leaf filled it from a fresh flagon. Bond

downed the sake, handed the tumbler to the girl and suddenly crashed his right fist down on the lacquer table so that the little

boxes of sweetmeats rattled and the porcelain tinkled. He looked belligerently across .at Tiger Tanaka. 'Right!'

Tiger bowed. Bond bowed back. The girl leant forward expectantly.

Tiger's eyes bored into Bond's, trying to read his plan. Bondhad decided to have no plan, display no pattern. He would play

completely at random, showing the symbol that his fist decided to make at the psychological moment after the two hammer

blows.

Tiger said, 'Three games of three?'

'Right.'

The two fists rose slowly from the table top, quickly hammered twice in unison and shot forward. Tiger had kept his fist

balled in the Stone. Bond's palm was open in the Paper that wrapped the Stone. One up to Bond. Again the ritual and the

moment of truth. Tiger had kept to the Stone. Bond's first and second fingers were open in the Scissors, blunted by Tiger's

Stone. One all.

Tiger paused and placed his fist against his forehead. He closed his eyes in thought. He said, 'Yes. I've got you, Bondo-san.

You can't escape.'

'Good show,' said Bond, trying to clear his mind of the suspicion that Tiger would keep to the Stone, or alternatively, that

Tiger would expect him to play it that way, expect Bond to play the Paper and himself riposte with the Scissors to cut the

paper. And so on and so forth. The three emblems whirled round in Bond's mind like the symbols on a fruit machine.

The two fists were raised - one, two, forward!

Tiger had kept to his Stone. Bond had wrapped it up with the Paper. First game to Bond.

The second game lasted longer. They both kept on showing the same symbol, which meant a replay. It was as if the two

players were getting the measure of each other's psychology. But that could not be so, since Bond had no psychological intent.

He continued to play at random. It was just luck. Tiger won the game. One all.

Last game! The two contestants looked at each other. Bond's smile was bland, rather mocking. A glint of red shone in the

depths of Tiger's dark eyes. Bond saw it and said to himself, 'I would be wise to lose. Or would I?' He won the game in two

straight goes, blunting Tiger's Scissors with his Stone, wrapping Tiger's Stone with his Paper.

Tiger bowed low. Bond bowed even lower. He sought for a throwaway remark. He said, 'I must get this game adopted in

time for your Olympics. I would certainly be chosen to play for my country.'

Tiger Tanaka laughed with controlled politeness. 'You play with much insight. What was the secret of your method?'

Bond had had no method. He quickly invented the one that would be most polite to Tiger. 'You are a man of rock and steel,

Tiger. I guessed that the paper symbol would be the one you would use the least. I played accordingly.'

This bit of mumbo-jumbo got by. Tiger bowed. Bond bowed and drank more sake, toasting Tiger. Released from the tension,

the geisha applauded and the Madame instructed Trembling Leaf to give Bond another kiss. She did so. How soft the skins of

Japanese women were! And their touch was almost weightless! James Bond was plotting the rest of his night when Tiger said,

'Bondo-san, I have matters to discuss with you. Will you do me the honour of coming to my house for a nightcap?'

Bond immediately put away his lascivious thoughts.According to Dikko, to be invited to a Japanese private house was a

most unusual sign of favour. So, for some reason, he had done right to win this childish game. This might mean great things.

Bond bowed. 'Nothing would give me more pleasure, Tiger.'

An hour later they were sitting in blessed chairs with a drink-tray between them. The lights of Yokohama glowed a deep

orange along the horizon, and a slight smell of the harbour and the sea came in through the wide-open partition leading on to

the garden. Tiger's house was designed, enchantingly, as is even the meanest Japanese salary-man's house, to establish the

thinnest possible dividing line between the inhabitant and nature. The three other partitions in the square room were also fully

slid back, revealing a bedroom, a small study and a passage.

Tiger had opened the partitions when they entered the room. He had commented, 'In the West, when you have secrets to

discuss, you shut all the doors and windows. In Japan, we throw everything open to make sure that no one can listen at the thin

walls. And what I have now to discuss with you is a matter of the very highest secrecy. The sake is warm enough? You have

the cigarettes you prefer? Then listen to what I have to say to you and swear on your honour to divulge it to no one.' Tiger

Tanaka gave his great golden shout of mirthless laughter. 'If you were to break your promise, I would have no alternative but to

remove you from the earth.'

CURTAINS FOR BOND?

EXACTLY one month before, it had been the eve of the annual closing of Blades. On the next day, 1 September, those

members who were still unfashionably in London would have to pig it for a month at Whites or Boodle's. Whites they

considered noisy and'smart', Boodle's too full of superannuated country squires who would be talking of nothing but the

opening of the partridge season. For Blades, it was one month in the wilderness. But there it was. The staff, one supposed, had

to have their holiday. More important, there was some painting to be done and there was dry-rot in the roof.

M., sitting in the bow window looking out over St James's Street, couldn't care less. He had two weeks' trout fishing on the

Test to look forward to and, for the other two weeks, he would have sandwiches and coffee at his desk. He rarely used Blades,

and then only to entertain important guests. He was not a 'clubable' man and if he had had the choice he would have stuck to

The Senior, that greatest of all Services' clubs in the world. But too many people knew him there, and there was too much

'shop' talked. And there were too many former shipmates who would come up and ask him what he had been doing with

himself since he retired. And the lie, 'Got a job with some people called Universal Export,' bored him, and though verifiable,

had its risks.

Porterfield hovered with the cigars. He bent and offered the wide case to M.'s guest. Sir James Molony raised a quizzical

eyebrow. 'I see the Havanas are still coming in.' His hand hesitated. He picked out a Romeo y Julieta, pinched it gently and ran

it under his nose. He turned to M. 'What's Universal Export sending Castro in return? Blue Streak?'

M. was not amused. Porterfield observed that he wasn't. As Chief Petty Officer, he had served under M. in one of his last

commands. He said quickly, but not too quickly, 'As a matter of fact, Sir James, the best of the Jamaicans are quite up to the

Havanas these days. They've got the outer leaf just right at last.' He closed the glass lid of the case and moved away.

Sir James Molony picked up the piercer the head waiter had left on the table and punctured the tip of his cigar with

precision. He lit a Swan Vesta and waved its flame to and fro across the tip and sucked gently until he had got the cigar going

to his satisfaction. Then he took a sip, first at his brandy and then at his coffee, and sat back. He observed the corrugated brow

of his host with affection and irony. He said, 'All right, my friend. Now tell me. What's the problem?'

M.'s mind was elsewhere. He seemed to be having difficulty getting his pipe going. He said vaguely, between puffs, 'What

problem?'

Sir James Molony was the greatest neurologist in England. The year before, he had been awarded a Nobel Prize for his now

famous Some Psychosomatic Side-effects of Organic Inferiority. He was also nerve specialist by appointment to the Secret

Service and, though he was rarely called in, and then only in extremis, the problems he was required to solve intrigued him

greatly because they were both human and vital to the State. And, since the war, the second qualification was a rare one.

M. turned sideways to his guest and watched the traffic up St James's.

Sir James Molony said, 'My friend, like everybody else, you have certain patterns of behaviour. One of them consists of

occasionally asking me to lunch at Blades, stuffing me like a Strasbourg goose, and then letting me in on some ghastly secret

and asking me to help you with it. The last time, as I recall, you wanted to find out if I could extract certain information from a

foreign diplomat by getting him under deep hypnosis without his knowledge. You said it was a last resort. I said I couldn't help

you. Two weeks later, I read in the paper that this same diplomat had come to a fatal end by experimenting with the force of

gravity from a tenth floor window. The coroner gave an open verdict of the "Fell Or Was Pushed" variety. What song am I to

sing for my supper this time?'

Sir James Molony relented. He said with sympathy, 'Come on, M.! Get it off your chest!'

M. looked him coldly in the eye. 'It's 007. I'm getting more and more worried about him.'

'You've read my two reports on his condition. Anything new?'

'No. Just the same. He's going slowly to pieces. Late at the office. Skimps his work. Makes mistakes. He's drinking too much

and losing a lot of money at one of these new gambling clubs. It all adds up to the fact that one of my best men is on the edge

of becoming a security risk. Absolutely incredible considering his record.'

Sir James Molony shook his head with conviction. 'It's not in the least incredible. You either don't read my reports or you

don't pay enough attention to them. I have said all along that the man is suffering from shock.' Sir James Molony leant forward

and pointed his cigar at M.'s chest. 'You're a hard man, M. In your job you have to be. But there are some problems, the human

ones for instance, that you can't always solve with a rope's end. This is a case in point. Here's this agent of yours, just as tough

and brave as I expect you were at his age. He's a bachelor and a confirmed womanizer. Then he suddenly falls in love, partly, I

suspect, because this woman was a bird with a wing down and needed his help. It's surprising what soft centres these so-called

tough men always have. So he marries her and within a few hours she's shot dead by this super-gangster chap. What was his

name?'

'Blofeld,' said M. 'Ernst Stavro Blofeld.'

'All right. And your man got away with nothing worse than a crack on the head. But then he started going to pieces and your

MO thought he might have suffered some brain injury and sent him along to me. Nothing wrong with him at all. Nothing

physical that is - just shock. He admitted to me that all his zest had gone. That he wasn't interested in his job any more, or even

in his life. I hear this sort of talk from patients every day. It's a form of psycho-neurosis, and it can grow slowly or suddenly. In

your man's case, it was brought on out of the blue by an intolerable life-situation - or one that he found intolerable because he

had never encountered it before -the loss of a loved one, aggravated in his case by the fact that he blamed himself for her death.

Now, my friend, neither you nor I have had to carry such a burden, so we don't know how we would react under it. But I can

tell you that it's a hell of a burden to lug around. And your man's caving in under it. I thought, and I said so in my report, that

his job, its dangers and emergencies and so forth, would shake him out of it. I've found that one must try and teach people that

there's no top limit to disaster - that, so long as breath remains in your body, you've got to accept the miseries of life. They will

often seem infinite, insupportable. They are part of the human condition. Have you tried him on any tough assignments in the

last few months?'

'Two,' said M. drearily. 'He bungled them both. On one he nearly got himself killed, and on the other he made a mistake that

was dangerous for others. That's another thing that worries me. He didn't make mistakes before. Now suddenly he's become

accident-prone.'

'Another symptom of his neurosis. So what are you going to do about it?'

Tire him,' said M. brutally. 'Just as if he'd been shot to pieces or got some incurable disease. I've got no room in his Section

for a lame-brain, whatever his past record or whatever excuses you psychologists can find for him. Pension, of course.

Honourable discharge and all that. Try and find him a job. One of these new security organizations for the banks might take

him.' M. looked defensively into the clear blue, comprehending eyes of the famous neurologist. He said, seeking support for

his decision, 'You do see my point, Sir James? I'm tightly staffed at Headquarters, and in the field, for that matter. There's just

no place where I can tuck away 007 so that he won't cause harm.'

'You'll be losing one of your best men.'

'Used to be. Isn't any longer.'

Sir James Molony sat back. He looked out of the window and puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. He liked this man Bond. He

had had him as his patient perhaps a dozen times before.

He had seen how the spirit, the reserves in the man, could pull him out of badly damaged conditions that would have broken

the normal human being. He knew how a desperate situation would bring out those reserves again, how the will to live would

spring up again in a real emergency. He remembered how countless neurotic patients had disappeared for ever from his

consulting-rooms when the last war had broken out. The big worry had driven out the smaller ones, the greater fear the lesser.

He made up his mind. He turned back to M. 'Give him one more chance, M. If it'll help, I'll take the responsibility.'

'What sort of chance are you thinking of?'

'Well now, I don't know much about your line of business, M. And I don't want to. Got enough secrets in my own job to look

after. But haven't you got something really sticky, some apparently hopeless assignment you can give this man? I don't mean

necessarily dangerous, like assassination or stealing Russian ciphers or whatever. But something that's desperately important

but apparently impossible. By all means give him a kick in the pants at the same time if you want to, but what he needs most of

all is a supreme call on his talents, something that'll really make him sweat so that he's simply forced to forget his personal

troubles. He's a patriotic sort of a chap. Give him something that really matters to his country. It would be easy enough if a war

broke out. Nothing like death or glory to take a man out of himself. But can't you dream up something that simply stinks of

urgency? If you can, give him the job. It might get him right back on the rails. Anyway, give him the chance. Yes?'

The urgent thrill of the red telephone, that had been silent for so many weeks, shot Mary Goodnight out of her seat at the

typewriter as if it had been fitted with a cartridge ejector. She dashed through into the next room, waited a second to get her

breath back and picked up the receiver as if it had been a rattlesnake.

'Yes, sir.'

'No, sir. It's his secretary speaking.' She looked down at her watch, knowing the worst.

'It's most unusual, sir. I don't expect he'll be more than a few minutes. Shall I ask him to call you, sir?'

'Yes, sir.' She put the receiver back on its cradle. She noticed that her hand was trembling. Damn the man! Where the hell

was he? She said aloud, 'Oh, James, please hurry.' She walked disconsolately back and sat down again at her empty typewriter.

She gazed at the grey keys with unseeing eyes and broadcast with all her telepathic strength, 'James! James! M. wants you! M.

wants you! M. wants you!' Her heart dropped a beat. The Syncraphone. Perhaps just this once he hadn't forgotten it. She

hurried back into his room and tore open the right hand drawer. No! There it was, the little plastic receiver on which he could

have been bleeped by the switchboard. The gadget that it was mandatory for all senior Headquarters staff to carry when they

left the building. But for weeks he had been forgetting to carry it, or worse, not caring if he did or didn't. She took it out and

slammed it down in the centre of his blotter. 'Oh, damn you! Damn you! Damn you!' she said out loud, and walked back into

her room with dragging feet.

The state of your health, the state of the weather, the wonders of nature - these are things that rarely occupy the average

man's mind until he reaches the middle thirties. It is only on the threshold of middle-age that you don't take them all for

granted, just part of an unremarkable background to more urgent, more interesting things.

Until this year, James Bond had been more or less oblivious to all of them. Apart from occasional hangovers, and the

mending of physical damage that was merely, for him, the extension of a child falling down and cutting its knee, he had taken

good health for granted. The weather? Just a question of whether or not he had to carry a raincoat or put the hood up on his

Bentley Convertible. As for birds, bees and flowers, the wonders of nature, it only mattered whether or not they bit or stung,

whether they smelled good or bad. But today, on the last day of August, just eight months, as he had reminded himself that

morning, since Tracy had died, he sat in Queen Mary's Rose Garden in Regent's Park, and his mind was totally occupied with

just these things.

First his health. He felt like hell and knew that he also looked it. For months, without telling anyone, he had tramped Harley

Street, Wigmore Street and Wimpole Street looking for any kind of doctor who would make him feel better. He had appealed

to specialists, GPs, quacks - even to a hypnotist. He had told them, 'I feel like hell. I sleep badly. I eat practically nothing. I

drink too much and my work has gone to blazes. I'm shot to pieces. Make me better.' And each man had taken his blood

pressure, a specimen of his urine, listened to his heart and chest, asked him questions he had answered truthfully, and had told

him there was nothing basically wrong with him. Then he had paid his five guineas and gone off to John Bell and Croyden to

have the new lot of prescriptions -for tranquillizers, sleeping pills, energizers - made up. And now he had just come from

breaking off relations with the last resort - the hypnotist, whose basic message had been that he must go out and regain his

manhood by having a woman. As if he hadn't tried that! The ones who had told him to take it easy up the stairs. The ones who

had asked him to take them to Paris. The ones who had inquired indifferently, 'Feeling better now, dearie?' The hypnotist

hadn't been a bad chap. Rather a bore about how he could take away warts and how he was persecuted by the BMA, but Bond

had finally had enough of sitting in a chair and listening to the quietly droning voice while, as instructed, he relaxed and gazed

at a naked electric light bulb. And now he had thrown up the fifty-guinea course after only half the treatment and had come to

sit in this secluded garden before going back to his office ten minutes away across the park.

He looked at his watch. Just after three o'clock, and he was due back at two-thirty. What the hell! God, it was hot. He wiped

a hand across his forehead and then down the side of his trousers. He used not to sweat like this. The weather must be

changing. Atomic bomb, whatever the scientists might say to the contrary. It would be good to be down somewhere in the

South of France. Somewhere to bathe whenever he wanted. But he had had his leave for the year. That ghastly month they had

given him after Tracy. Then he had gone to Jamaica. And what hell that had been. No! Bathing wasn't the answer. It was all

right here, really. Lovely roses to look at. They smelled good and it was pleasant looking at them and listening to the faraway

traffic. Nice hum of bees. The way they went around the flowers, doing their work for their queen. Must read that book about

them by the Belgian chap, Metternich or something. Same man who wrote about the ants. Extraordinary purpose in life. They

didn't have troubles. Just lived and died. Did what they were supposed to do and then dropped dead. Why didn't one see a lot of

bees' corpses around? Ants' corpses? Thousands, millions of them must die every day. Perhaps the others ate them. Oh, well!

Better go back to the office and get hell from Mary. She was a darling. She was right to nag at him as she did. She was his

conscience. But she didn't realize the troubles he had. What troubles? Oh well. Don't let's go into that! James Bond got to his

feet and went over and read the lead labels of the roses he had been gazing at. They told him that the bright vermilion ones

were 'Super Star' and the white ones 'Iceberg'.

Then, with a jumble of his health, the heat, and the corpses of bees revolving lazily round his mind, James Bond strolled

off in the direction of the tall grey building whose upper storeys showed themselves above the trees.

It was three thirty. Only two more hours to go before his next drink

The lift man, resting the stump of his right arm on the operating handle, said, 'Your secretary's in a bit of a flap, sir. Been

asking everywhere for you.'

'Thank you, Sergeant.'

He got the same message when he stepped out at the fifth floor and showed his pass to the security guard at the desk. He

walked unhurriedly along the quiet corridor to the group of end rooms whose outer door bore the Double-O sign. He went

through and along to the door marked 007. He closed it behind him. Mary Goodnight looked up at him and said calmly, 'M.

wants you. He rang down half an hour ago.'

'Who's M.?'

Mary Goodnight jumped to her feet, her eyes flashing. 'Oh for God's sake, James, snap out of it! Here, your tie's crooked.'

She-came up to him and he docilely allowed her to pull it straight. 'And your hair's all over the place. Here, use my comb.'

Bond took the comb and ran it absent-mindedly through his hair. He said, 'You're a good girl, Goodnight.' He fingered his chin.

'Suppose you haven't got your razor handy? Must look my best on the scaffold.'

'Please, James.' Her eyes were bright. 'Go and get on to him. He hasn't talked to you for weeks. Perhaps it's something

important. Something exciting.' She tried desperately to put encouragement into her voice.

'It's always exciting starting a new life. Anyway, who's afraid of the Big Bad M.? Will you come and lend a hand on my

chicken farm?'

She turned away and put her hands up to her face. He patted her casually on the shoulder and walked through into his office

and went over and picked up the red telephone. '007 here, sir.'

'I'm sorry, sir. Had to go to the dentist.'

'I know, sir. I'm sorry. I left it in my desk.'

'Yes, sir.'

He put the receiver down slowly. He looked round his office as if saying goodbye to it, walked out and along the corridor

and went up in the lift with the resignation of a man under sentence.

Miss Moneypenny looked up at him with ill-concealed hostility. 'You can go in.' •

Bond squared his shoulders and looked at the padded door behind which he had so often heard his fate pronounced. Almost

as if it were going to give him an electric shock, he tentatively reached out for the door handle and walked through and closed

the door behind him.

THE IMPOSSIBLE MISSION

M., HIS shoulders hunched inside the square-cut blue suit, was standing by the big window looking out across the park.

Without looking round he said, 'Sit down.' No name, no number!

Bond took his usual place across the desk from M.'s tall-armed chair. He noticed that there was no file on the expanse of red

leather in front of the chair. And the In and Out baskets were both empty. Suddenly he felt really bad about everything - about

letting M. down, letting the Service down, letting himself down. This empty desk, the empty chair, were the final accusation.

We have nothing for you, they seemed to say. You're no use to us any more. Sorry. It's been nice knowing you, but there it is.

M. came over and sat heavily down in the chair and looked across at Bond. There was nothing to read in the lined sailor's

face. It was as impassive as the polished blue leather of the empty chairback had been.

M. said, 'You know why I've sent for you?'

'I can guess, sir. You can have my resignation.'

M. said angrily, 'What in hell are you talking about? It's not your fault that the Double-O Section's been idle for so long. It's

the way things go. You've had flat periods before now—months with nothing in your line.'

'But I made a mess of the last two jobs. And I know my Medical's been pretty poor these last few months.'

'Nonsense. There's nothing the matter with you. You've been through a bad time. You've had good reason to be a bit under

the weather. As for the last two assignments, anyone can make mistakes. But I can't have idle hands around the place, so I'm

taking you out of the Double-O Section.'

Bond's heart had temporarily risen. Now it plummeted again. The old man was being kind, trying to let him down lightly. He

said, 'Then, if it's all the same to you, sir, I'd still like to put in my resignation. I've held the Double-O number for too long. I'm

not interested in staff work, I'm afraid, sir. And no good at it either.'

M. did something Bond had never seen him do before. He lifted his right fist and brought it crashing down on the desk. 'Who

the devil do you think you're talking to? Who the devil d'you think's running this show? God in Heaven! I send for you to give

you promotion and the most important job of your career and you talk to me about resignation I Pig-headed young fool!'

Bond was dumbfounded. A great surge of excitement ran through him. What in hell was all this about? He said, 'I'm terribly

sorry, sir. I thought I'd been letting the side down lately.'

'I'll soon tell you when you're letting the side down.' M. thumped the desk for a second time, but less hard. 'Now listen to me,

I'm giving you acting promotion to the Diplomatic Section. Four figure number and a thousand a year extra pay. You won't

know much about the Section, but I can tell you there are only two other men in it. You can keep your present office and your

secretary, if you like. In fact I would prefer it. I don't want your change of duty to get about. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'In any case, you'll be leaving for Japan inside a week. The Chief of Staff is handling the arrangements personally. Not

even my secretary knows about it. As you can see,' M. waved his hand, 'there's not even a file on the case. That's how

important it is.'

'But why have you chosen me, sir?' Bond's heart was thumping. This was the most extraordinary change in his fortunes that

had ever come about! Ten minutes before he had been on the rubbish heap, his career, his life in ruins, and now here he was

being set up on a pinnacle! What the hell was it all about?

For the simple reason that the job's impossible. No, I won't go as far as that. Let's say totally improbable of success.

You've shown in the past that you have an aptitude for difficult assignments. The only difference here is that there won't be

any strong-arm stuff,' M. gave a frosty smile, 'none of the gun-play you pride yourself on so much. It'll just be a question of

your wits and nothing else. But if you bring it off, which I very much doubt, you will just about double our intelligence about

the Soviet Union.'

'Can you tell me some more about it, sir?' 'Have to, as there's nothing written down. Lower echelon stuff, about the Japanese

Secret Service and so forth, you can get from Section J. The Chief of Staff will tell Colonel Hamilton to answer your questions

freely, though you will tell him nothing about the purpose of your mission. Understood?' 'Yes, sir.'

'Well now. You know a bit about cryptography?' 'The bare bones, sir. I've preferred to keep clear of the subject. Better that

way in case the Opposition ever got hold of me.'

'Quite right. Well now, the Japanese are past masters at it. They've got the right mentality for finicky problems in letters and

numbers. Since the war, under CIA guidance, they've built incredible cracking machines - far ahead of IBM and so forth. And

for the last year they've been reading the cream of the Soviet traffic from Vladivostok and Oriental Russia - diplomatic, naval,

air-force, the lot.' 'That's terrific, sir.' 'Terrific for the CIA.'

'Aren't they passing it on to us, sir? I thought we were hand in glove with CIA all along the line.'

'Not in the Pacific. They regard that as their private preserve. When Allan Dulles was in charge, we used at least to get

digests of any stuff that concerned us, but this new man McCone has cracked down on all that. He's a good man, all right, and

we get along well personally, but he's told me candidly that he's acting under orders - National Defence Council. They're

worried about our security. Can't blame them. I'm equally worried about theirs. Two of their top cryptographers defected a

couple of years ago and they must have blown a lot of the stuff we give the Americans. Trouble with this so-called democracy

of ours is that the Press get hold of these cases and write them up too big. Pravda doesn't burst into tears when one of their

men come over to us. Izvestia doesn't ask for a public inquiry. Somebody in KGB gets hell, I suppose. But at least they're

allowed to get on with their job instead of having retired members of the Supreme Soviet pawing through their files and telling

them how to run a secret service.'

Bond knew that M. had tendered his resignation after the Prenderghast case. This had involved a Head of Station with

homosexual tendencies who had recently, amidst world-wide publicity, been given thirty years for treason. Bond himself had

had to give evidence in that particular case, and he knew that the Questions in the House, the case at the Old Bailey, and the

hearings before the Farrer Tribunal on the Intelligence Services that had followed, had held up all work at Headquarters for at

least a month and brought about the suicide of a totally innocent Head of Section who had taken the whole affair as a direct

reflection on his own probity. To get M. back on the track, Bond said, 'About this stuff the Japanese are getting. Where do I

come in, sir?'

M. put both hands flat on the table. It was the old gesture when he came to the 64-dollar question, and Bond's heart lifted

even further at the sight of it. 'There's a man in Tokyo called Tiger Tanaka. Head of their Secret Service. Can't remember what

they call it. Some unpronounceable Japanese rubbish. He's quite a man. First at Oxford. Came back here and spied for them

before the war. Joined the Kempeitai, their wartime Gestapo, trained as a kami-kaze and would be dead by now but for the

surrender. Well, he's the chap who has control of the stuff we want, I want, the Chiefs of Staff want. You're to go out there and

get it off him. How, I don't know. That's up to you. But you can see why I say you're unlikely to succeed. He's in fief - Bond

was amused by the old Scottish expression -'to the CIA. He probably doesn't think much of us.' M.'s mouth bent down at the

corners. 'People don't these days. They may be right or wrong. I'm not a politician. He doesn't know much about the Service

except what he's penetrated or heard from the CIA. And that won't be greatly to our advantage, I'd say. We haven't had a

Station in Japan since 1950. No traffic. It all went to the Americans. You'll be working under the Australians. They tell me

their man's good. Section J says so too. Anyway, that's the way it is. If anyone can bring it off, you can. Care to have a try,

James?'

M.'s face was suddenly friendly. It wasn't friendly often. James Bond felt a quick warmth of affection for this man who had

ordered his destiny for so long, but whom he knew so little. His instinct told him that there were things hidden behind this

assignment, motives which he didn't understand. Was this a rescue job on him? Was M. giving him his last chance? But it

sounded solid enough. The reasons for it stood up. Hopeless? Impossible? Perhaps. Why hadn't M. chosen a Jap speaker? Bond

had never been east of Hongkong. But then Orientalists had their own particular drawbacks - too much tied up with tea

ceremonies and flower arrangements and Zen and so forth. No. It sounded a true bill. He said, 'Yes, sir. I'd like to have a try.'

M. gave an abrupt nod. 'Good.' He leant forward and pressed a button on the intercom. 'Chief of Staff? What number have

you allotted to 007? Right. He's coming to see you straight away.'

M. leant back. He gave one of his rare smiles. 'You're stuck with your old digit. All right, four sevens. Go along and get

briefed.'

Bond said, 'Right, sir. And, er, thank you.' He got up and walked over to the door and let himself out. He walked straight

over to Miss Moneypenny and bent down and kissed her on the cheek. She turned pink and put a hand up to where he had

kissed her. Bond said, 'Be an angel, Penny, and ring down to Mary and tell her she's got to get out of whatever she's doing

tonight. I'm taking her out to dinner. Scotts. Tell her we'll have our first roast grouse of the year and pink champagne.

Celebration.'

'What of?' Miss Moneypenny's eyes were suddenly wide and excited.

'Oh I don't know. The Queen's birthday or something. Right?' James Bond crossed the room and went into the Chief - of

Staff's office.

Miss Moneypenny picked up the inter-office telephone and passed on the message in a thrilled voice. She said, 'I do think

he's all right again, Mary. It's all there again like it used to be. Heaven knows what M.'s been saying to him. He had lunch with

Sir James Molony today. Don't tell James that. But it may have something to do with it. He's with the Chief of Staff now. And

Bill said he wasn't to be disturbed. Sounds like some kind of a job. Bill was very mysterious.'

Bill Tanner, late Colonel Tanner of the Sappers and Bond's best friend in the Service, looked up from his heavily laden desk.

He grinned with pleasure at what he saw. He said, 'Take a pew, James. So you've bought it? Thought you might. But it's a

stinker all right. Think you can bring it off?'

'Not an earthly, I'd guess,' said Bond cheerfully. 'This man Tanaka sounds a tough nut, and I'm no great hand at diplomacy.

But why did M. pick on me, Bill? I thought I was in the dog house because of messing up those last two jobs. I was all set to

go into chicken farming. Now, be a good chap and tell me what's the real score.'

Bill Tanner had been ready for that one. He said easily, 'Balls, James. You've been running through a bad patch. We all hit

'em sometimes. M. just thought you'd be the best man for the job. You know he's got an entirely misplaced opinion of your

abilities. Anyway, it'll be a change from your usual rough-housing. Time you moved up out of that damned Double-O Section

of yours. Don't you ever think about promotion?'

'Absolutely not,' said Bond with fervour. 'As soon as I get back from this caper, I'll ask for my old number back again. But

tell me, how am I supposed to set about this business? What's this Australian cover consist of? Have I got anything to offer this

wily Oriental in exchange for his jewels? How's the stuff to be transmitted back here if I do get my hands on it? Must be the

hell of a lot of traffic.'

'He can have the entire product of Station H. He can send one of his own staffers down to Hongkong to sit in with us if he

likes. He'll probably be pretty well off on China already, but he won't have anything as high grade as our Macao link, the "Blue

Route". Hamilton will tell you all about that. In Tokyo, the man you'll be working with is an Aussie called Henderson -

Richard Lovelace Henderson. Fancy name, but Section J and all the old Jap hands say he's a good man. You'll have an

Australian passport and we'll fix for you to go out as his number two. That'll give you diplomatic status and a certain amount of

face, which counts for damn near everything out there according to Hamilton. If you get the stuff, Henderson will push it back

to us through Melbourne. We'll give him a communications staff to handle it. Next question.'

'What are the CIA going to say about all this? After all, it's bare-faced poaching.'

'They don't own Japan. Anyway, they're not to know. That's up to this fellow Tanaka. He'll have to fix the machinery for

getting it into the Australian Embassy. That's his worry. But the whole thing's on pretty thin ice. The main problem is to make

sure he doesn't go straight along to the CIA and tell 'em of your approach. If you get blown, we'll just have to get the

Australians to hold the baby. They've done it before when we've been bowled out edging our way into the Pacific. We're good

friends with their Service. First-rate bunch of chaps. And, anyway, the CIA's hands aren't as clean as all that. We've got a

whole file of cases where they've crossed wires with us round the world. Often dangerously. We can throw that book at

McCone if this business blows up in our faces. But part of your job is to see that it doesn't.'

'Seems to me I'm getting all balled up in high politics. Not my line of country at all. But is this stuff really as vital as M.

says?'

'Absolutely. If you get hold of it, your grateful country will probably buy you that chicken farm you're always talking about.'

'So be it. Now, if you'll give Hamilton a buzz I'll go and start learning all about the mysterious East.'

'Kangei! Welcome aboard,' said the pretty kimono-ed and obi-ed stewardess of Japan Air Lines as, a week later, James Bond

settled into the comfortable window seat of the four-jet, turbofan Douglas D C 8 at London Airport and listened to the torrent

of soft Japanese coming from the tannoy that would be saying all those things about life jackets and the flying time to Orly.

The sick-bags 'in case of motion disturbance' were embellished with pretty bamboo emblems and, according to the exquisitely

bound travel folder, the random scribbles on the luggage rack above his head were'the traditional and auspicious tortoiseshell

motif. The stewardess bowed and handed him a dainty fan, a small hot towel in a wicker-basket and a sumptuous menu that

included a note to the effect that an assortment of cigarettes, perfumes and pearls were available for sale. Then they were off

with 50,000 pounds of thrust on the first leg of the four that would take the good aircraft Yoshino over the North Pole to

Tokyo.

Bond gazed at the picture of three oranges (no! after an hour he decided they were persimmons) in a blue bowl that faced

him and, when the aircraft flattened out at 30,000 feet, ordered the first of the chain of brandies and ginger ales that was to

sustain him over the Channel, a leg of the North Sea, the Kattegat, the Arctic Ocean, the Beaufort Sea, the Bering Sea and the

North Pacific Ocean and decided that, whatever happened on this impossible assignment, he would put up no resistance to his

old skin being sloughed off him on the other side of the world. By the time he was admiring the huge stuffed Polar bear at

Anchorage, in Alaska, the embrace of JAL's soft wings had persuaded him that he didn't even mind if the colour of the new

skin was to be yellow.

DIKKO ON THE GINZA

THE huge right fist crashed into the left palm with the noise of a .45 pistol shot. The great square face of the Australian

turned almost purple and the veins stood out on the grizzled temples. With controlled violence, but almost under his breath, he

intoned savagely.

'I bludge,

Thou bludgest,

He bludges,

We bludge,

You bludge,

They all bludge.'

He reached under the low table and then seemed to think better of it and moved his hand to the glass of sake, picked it up and

poured it down his throat without a swallow.

Bond said mildly, 'Take it easy, Dikko. What's bitten you? And what does this vulgar-sounding colonial expression mean?'

Richard Lovelace Henderson, of Her Majesty's Australian Diplomatic Corps, looked belligerently round the small crowded

bar in a by-street off the Ginza and said out of the corner of his large and usually cheerful mouth that was now turned down in

bitterness and anger, 'You stupid pommy bastard, we've been miked! That bludger Tanaka's miked us! Here, under the table!

See the little wire down the leg? And see that wingy over at the bar? Chap with one arm looking bloody respectable in his blue

suit and black tie? That's one of Tiger's men. I can smell 'em by now. They've been tailing me off and on for ten years. Tiger

dresses 'em all like little CIA gentlemen. You watch out for any Jap who's drinking Western and wearing that rig. All Tiger's

men.' He grumbled, 'Damn good mind to go over and call the bastard.'

Bond said, 'Well, if we're being miked, all this'll make sweet reading for Mr Tanaka tomorrow morning.'

'What the hell,' said Dikko Henderson resignedly. 'The old bastard knows what I think of him. Now he'll just have it in

writing. Teach him to stop leaning on me. And my friends,' he added, with a blistering glance at Bond. 'It's really you he wants

to size up. And I don't mind if he hears me saying so. Bludger? Well, hear me now, Tiger! This is the great Australian insult.

You can use it anyways.' He raised his voice. 'But in general it means a worthless pervert, ponce, scoundrel, liar, traitor and

rogue - with no redeeming feature. And I hope your stewed seaweed sticks in your gullet at breakfast tomorrow when you

know what I think of you.'

Bond laughed. The torrent of powerful swear-words had started its ceaseless flow the day before at the airport - Haneda, 'the

field of wings'. It had taken Bond nearly an hour to extract his single suitcase from the customs area, and he had emerged

fuming into the central hall only to be jostled and pushed aside by an excited crowd of young Japanese bearing paper banners

that said 'International Laundry Convention'. Bond was exhausted from his flight. He let out one single four-letter expletive.

Behind him a big voice repeated the same word and added some more. 'That's my boy! That's the right way to greet the East!

You'll be needing all those words and more before you're through with the area.'

Bond had turned. The huge man in the rumpled grey suit thrust out a hand as big as a small ham. 'Glad to meet you. I'm

Henderson. As you were the only pommy on the plane, I guess you're Bond. Here. Give me that bag. Got a car outside and the

sooner we get away from this blankety blank madhouse the better.'

Henderson looked like a middle-aged prize fighter who has retired and taken to the bottle. His thin suit bulged with muscle

round the arms and shoulders and with fat round the waist. He had a craggy, sympathetic face, rather stony blue eyes, and a

badly broken nose. He was sweating freely (Bond was to find that he was always sweating), and as he barged his way through

the crowd, using Bond's suitcase as a battering ram, he extracted a rumpled square of terry cloth from his trouser-pocket and

wiped it round his neck and face. The crowd parted unresentfully to let the giant through, and Bond followed in his wake to a

smart Toyopet saloon waiting in a no-parking area. The chauffeur got out and bowed. Henderson fired a torrent of instructions

at him in fluent Japanese and followed Bond into the back seat, settling himself with a grunt. 'Taking you to your hotel first -

the Okura, latest of the

Western ones. American tourist got murdered at the Royal Oriental the other day and we don't want to lose you all that soon.

Then we'll do a bit of serious drinking. Had some dinner?'

'About six of them, as far as I can remember. J AL certainly takes good care of your stomach.'

'Why did you choose the willow-pattern route? How was the old ruptured duck?'

'They told me the bird was a crane. Very dainty. But efficient. Thought I might as well practise being inscrutable before

plunging into all this.' Bond waved at the cluttered shambles of the Tokyo suburbs through which they were tearing at what

seemed to Bond a suicidal speed. 'Doesn't look the most attractive city in the world. And why are we driving on the left?'

'God knows,' said Henderson moodily. 'The bloody Japs do everything the wrong way round. Read the old instruction books

wrong, I daresay. Light switches go up instead of down. Taps turn to the left. Door handles likewise. Why, they even race their

horses clockwise instead of anti-clockwise like civilized people. As for Tokyo, it's bloody awful. It's either too hot or too cold

or pouring with rain. And there's an earthquake about every day. But don't worry about them. They just make you feel slightly

drunk. The typhoons are worse. If one starts to blow, go into the stoutest bar you can see and get drunk. But the first ten years

are the worst. It's got its point when you know your way around. Bloody expensive if you live Western, but I stick to the back

alleys and do all right. Really quite exhilarating. Got to know the lingo though, and when to bow and take off your shoes and

so on. You'll have to get the basic routines straight pretty quickly if you're going to make any headway with the people you've

come to see. Underneath the stiff collars and striped pants in the government departments, there's still plenty of the old samurai

tucked away. I laugh at them for it, and they laugh back because they've got to know my line of patter. But that doesn't mean I

don't bow from the waist when I know it's expected of me and when I want something. You'll get the hang of it all right.'

Henderson fired some Japanese at the driver who had been glancing frequently in his driving mirror. The driver laughed and

replied cheerfully. 'Thought so,' said Henderson. 'We've got ourselves a tail. Typical of old Tiger. I told him you were staying

at the Okura, but he wants to make sure for himself. Don't worry. It's just part of his crafty ways. If you find one of his men

breathing down your neck in bed tonight, or a girl if you're lucky, just talk to them politely and they'll bow and hiss themselves

out.'

But a solitary sleep had followed the serious drinking in the Bamboo Bar of the Okura, and the next day had been spent

doing the sights and getting some cards printed that described Bond as Second Secretary in the Cultural Department of the

Australian Embassy. 'They know that's our intelligence side,' said Henderson, 'and they know I'm the head of it and you're

my temporary assistant, so why not spell it out for them?' And that evening they had gone for more serious drinking to

Henderson's favourite bar, Melody's, off the Ginza, where everybody called Henderson 'Dikko' or 'Dikko-san', and where they

were ushered respectfully to the quiet corner table that appeared to be his Stammtisch.

And now Henderson reached under the table and, with a powerful wrench, pulled out the wires and left them hanging. 'I'll

give that black bastard Melody hell for this when I get around to it,' he said belligerently. 'And to think of all I've done for the

dingo bastard! Used to be a favourite pub of the English Colony and the Press Club layabouts. Had a good restaurant attached

to it. That's gone now. The Eyteye cook trod on the cat and spilled the soup and he picked up the cat and threw it into the

cooking stove. Of course that got around pretty quick, and all the animal-lovers and sanctimonious bastards got together and

tried to have Melody's licence taken away. I managed to put in squeeze in the right quarter and saved him, but everyone quit

his restaurant and he had to close it. I'm the only regular who's stuck to him. And now he goes and does this to me! Oh well,

he'll have had the squeeze put on him, I suppose. Anyway, that's the end of the tape so far as T.T.'s concerned. I'll give him hell

too. He ought to have learned by now that me and my friends don't want to assassinate the Emperor or blow up the Diet or

something.' Dikko glared around him as if he proposed to do both those things. 'Now then, James, to business. I've fixed up for

you to meet Tiger tomorrow morning at eleven. I'll pick you up and take you there. "The Bureau of All-Asian Folkways." I

won't describe it to you. It'd spoil it. Now, I don't really know what you're here for. Spate of top secret cables from Melbourne.

To be deciphered by yours truly in person. Thanks very much! And my Ambassador, Jim Saunderson, good bloke, says he

doesn't want to know anything about it. Thinks it'd be even better if he didn't meet you at all. Okay with you? No offence, but

he's a wise guy and likes to keep his hands clean. And I don't want to know anything about your job either. That way, you're

the only one who gets the powdered bamboo in his coffee. But I gather you want to get some high-powered gen out of Tiger

without the CIA knowing anything about it. Right? Well that's going to be a dicey business. Tiger's a career man with a career

mind. Although, on the surface, he's a hundred per cent demokorasu, he's a deep one -very deep indeed. The American

occupation and the American influence here look like a very solid basis for a total American-Japanese alliance. But once a Jap,

always a Jap. It's the same with all the other great nations - Chinese, Russian, German, English. It's their bones that matter, not

their lying faces. And all those races have got tremendous bones. Compared with the bones, the smiles or scowls don't mean a

thing. And time means nothing for them either. Ten years is the blink of a star for the big ones. Get me? So Tiger, and his

superiors, who, I suppose, are the Diet and, in the end, the Emperor, will look at your proposition principally from two angles.

Is it immediately desirable, today? Or is it a long-term investment? Something that may pay off for the country in ten, twenty

years. And, if I were you, I'd stick to that spiel - the long-term talk. These people, people like Tiger, who's an absolutely top

man in Japan, don't think in terms of days or months or years. They think in terms of centuries. Quite right, when you come to

think of it.'

Dikko Henderson made a wide gesture with his left hand. Bond decided that Dikko was getting cheerfully tight. He had

found a Palomar pony to run with. They must be rare enough in Tokyo. They were both past the eighth flask of sake, but Dikko

had also laid a foundation of Suntory whisky in the Okura while he'd been waiting for Bond to write out an innocuous cable to

Melbourne with the prefix 'Information-wise', which meant that it was for Mary Goodnight, to announce his arrival and give

his current address. But it was all right with Bond that Dikko should be getting plastered. He would talk better and looser and,

in the end, wiser that way. And Bond wanted to pick his brains.

Bond said, 'But what sort of a chap is this Tanaka? Is he your enemy or your friend?'

'Both. More of a friend probably. At least I'd guess so. I amuse him. His CIA pals don't. He loosens up with me. We've got

things in common. We share a pleasure in the delights of samsara - wine and women. He's a great cocks-man. I also have

ambitions in that direction. I've managed to keep him out of two marriages. Trouble with Tiger is he always wants to marry

'em. He's paying cock-tax, that's alimony in the Australian vernacular, to three already. So he's acquired an ON with regard to

me. That's an obligation - almost as important in the Japanese way of life as "face". When you have an ON, you're not very,

happy until you've discharged it honourably, if you'll pardon the bad pun. And if a man makes you a present of a salmon, you

mustn't repay him with a shrimp. It's got to be with an equally larg« salmon - larger if possible, so that then you've jumped the

man, and now he has an ON with regard to you, and you're quids in morally, socially and spiritually - and the last one's the

most important. Well now. Tiger's ON towards me is a very powerful one, very difficult to discharge. He's paid little slices of it

off with various intelligence dope. He's paid off another big slice by accepting your presence here and giving you an interview

so soon after your arrival. If you'd been an ordinary supplicant, -it might have taken you weeks. He'd have given you a fat dose

of shikiri-naoshi - that's making you wait, giving you the great stone face. The sumo wrestlers use it in the ring to make an

opponent look and feel small in front of the audience. Got it? So you start with that in your favour. He would be predisposed to

do what you want because that would remove all his ON towards me and, by his accounting, stick a whole packet of ON on my

back towards him. But it's not so simple as that. All Japanese have permanent ON towards their superiors, the Emperor, their

ancestors and the Japanese gods. This they can only discharge by doing "the right thing". Not easy, you'll say. Because how

can you know what the higher echelon thinks is the right thing? Well, you get out of that by doing what the bottom of the

ladder thinks right - i.e. your immediate superiors. That passes the buck, psychologically, on to the , Emperor, and he's got to

make his peace with ancestors and gods. But that's all right with him, because he embodies all the echelons above him, so he

can get on with dissecting fish, which is his hobby, with a clear conscience. Got it? It's not really as mysterious as it sounds.

Much the same routine as operates in big corporations, like ICI or Shell, or in the Services, except with them the ladder stops at

the Board of Directors or the Chiefs of Staff. It's easier that way. You don't have to involve the Almighty and your great-

grandfather in a decision to cut the price of aspirin by a penny a bottle.'

'It doesn't sound very demokorasu to me.'

'Of course it isn't, you dumb bastard. For God's sake, get it into your head that the Japanese are a separate human species.

They've only been operating as a civilized people, in the debased sense we talk about it in the West, for fifty, at the most a

hundred years. Scratch a Russian and you'll find a Tartar. Scratch a Japanese and you'll find a samurai - or what he thinks is a

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1ToRichardHughesandToraoSaitoButforwhometc…Youonlylivetwice:OncewhenyouarebornAndoncewhenyoulookdeathintheface.AfterBASHOJapanesepoet,1643-94PartOne'Itisbettertotravelhopefully...1SCISSORSCUTPAPERTHEgeishacalled'TremblingLeaf,onherkneesbesideJamesBond,leantforwardfromthewaistandkissedhimchastelyonth...

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Fleming, Ian - Bond 12 - (1964) You Only Live Twice

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