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now that, and the whine of the machine, receded softly until all was dead silence again save for the soft moan of the night wind
outside.
Bond let out a deep sigh. So now he had heard it all! He suddenly wanted to get back to his room and think. He slipped out
from under the sheet, got to his clothes, and put them on. He manipulated the lock without trouble. There was no movement,
no sound, in the passage. He slipped back into Number Two and eased the door shut. Then he went into his bathroom, closed
the door, switched on the light, and sat down on the lavatory and put his head in his hands.
Deep hypnosis! That was what he had heard. The Hidden Persuader! The repetitive, singsong message injected into the brain
while it was on the twilight edge of consciousness. Now, in Ruby's subconscious, the message would work on all by itself
through the night, leaving her, after weeks of repetition, with an in-built mechanism of obedience to the voice that would be as
deep, as compelling, as hunger.
But what in hell was the message all about? Surely it was a most harmless, even a praiseworthy message to instil in the
simple mind of this country girl. She had been cured of her allergy and she would return home fully capable of helping with
the family poultry business - more than that, enthusiastic, dedicated. Had the leopard changed his spots? Had the old lag
become, in the corny, hackneyed tradition, a do-gooder? Bond simply couldn't believe it. What about all those high-powered
security arrangements? What about the multi-racial staff that positively stank of SPECTRE? And what about the bob-run
murder? Accident? So soon after the man's attempted rape of this Sarah girl? An impossible coincidence! Malignity must
somewhere lie behind the benign, clinical front of this maddeningly innocent research outfit! But where? How in hell could he
find out?
Bond, exhausted, got up and turned off the light in the bathroom and quietly got himself into bed. The mind whirred on for a
36
sterile half-hour in the over-heated brain and then, mercifully, he went to sleep.
* * *
When, at nine o'clock, he awoke and threw open his windows, the sky was overcast with the heavy blank grey that meant
snow. Over by the Berghaus, the Schneefinken, and Schneevogel, the snow-finches and Alpine choughs, that lived on the
crumbs and left-overs of the picnickers, were fluttering and swooping close round the building - a sure storm-warning. The
wind had got up and was blowing in sharp, threatening gusts, and no whine of machinery came from the cable railway. The
light aluminium gondolas would have too bad a time in winds of this strength, particularly over the last great swoop of cable
that brought them a good quarter of a mile over the exposed shoulder beneath the plateau.
Bond shut the windows and rang for his breakfast. When it came there was a note from Fraulein Bunt on the tray. 'The Count
will be pleased to receive you at eleven o'clock. I.E.'
Bond ate his breakfast and got down to his third page of de Bleuvilles. He had quite a chunk of work to show up, but this
was easy stuff. The prospect of successfully bamboozling his way along the Blofeld part of the trail was not so encouraging.
He would start boldly at the Gdynia end and work back - get the old rascal to talk about his youth and his parents. Old rascal?
Well, dammit, whatever he had become since Operation 'Thunderball', there weren't two Ernst Stavro Blofelds in the world!
They met in the Count's study. 'Good morning, Sir Hilary. I hope you slept well? We are going to have snow.' The Count
waved towards the window. ' It will be a good day for work. No distractions.'
Bond smiled a man-to-man smile. 'I certainly find those girls pretty distracting. But most charming. What's the matter with
them, by the way? They all look healthy enough.'
The Count was off-hand. 'They suffer from allergies, Sir Hilary. Crippling allergies. In the agricultural field. They are
country girls and their disabilities affect the possibility of their employment. I have devised a cure for such symptoms. I am
glad to say that the signs are propitious. We are making much progress together.' The telephone by his side buzzed. 'Excuse
me.' The Count picked up the receiver and listened. 'Ja. Machen Sie die Verbindung.' He paused. Bond politely studied the
papers he had brought along. 'Zdies de Bleuville& Da& Da& Kharascho!' He put the receiver back. 'Forgive me. That was
one of my research workers. He has been purchasing some materials for the laboratories. The cable railway is closed, but they
are making a special trip up for him. Brave man. He will probably be very sick, poor fellow.' The green contact lenses hid any
sympathy he may have felt. The fixed smile showed none. 'And now, my dear Sir Hilary, let us get on with our work.'
Bond laid out his big sheets on the desk and proudly ran his finger down through the generations. There was excitement and
satisfaction in the Count's comments and questions. 'But this is tremendous, really tremendous, my dear fellow. And you say
there is mention of a broken spear or a broken sword in the arms? Now when was that granted?'
Bond rattled off a lot of stuff about the Norman Conquest. The broken sword had probably been awarded as a result of some
battle. More research in London would be needed to pin the occasion down. Finally Bond rolled up the sheets and got out his
notebook. 'And now we must start working back from the other end, Count.' Bond became inquisitorial, authoritative. 'We have
your birth date in Gdynia, May 28th, 1908. Yes?'
'Correct.'
'Your parents' names?'
'Ernst George Blofeld and Maria Stavro Michelopoulos.'
'Also born in Gdynia?'
'Yes.'
'Now your grandparents?'
'Ernst Stefan Blofeld and Elizabeth Lubomirskaya.'
'Hm, so the Ernst is something of a family Christian name?'
'It would seem so. My great-grandfather, he was also Ernst.'
'That is most important. You see. Count, among the Blofelds of Augsburg there are no less than two Ernsts!'
The Count's hands had been lying on the green blotting-pad on his desk, relaxed. Now, impulsively, they joined together and
briefly writhed, showing white knuckles.
My God, you've got it bad! thought Bond.
'And that is important?'
'Very. Christian names run through families. We regard them as most significant clues. Now, can you remember any farther
back? You have done well. We have covered three generations. With the dates I shall later ask you for, we have already got
back to around 1850. Only another fifty years to go and we shall have arrived at Augsburg.'
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