Christopher Wood: James Bond and Moonraker

‘Hold it just there, gentlemen.’ The cameraman held up his hand and the phalanx stopped obediently. Cameras Whirred. Frederick Gray saw the microphone boom above his head. He began to speak with the slow, pompous delivery that had bored millions of television viewers: ‘... A great day for Anglo-American co-operation and a great day for the world.’

The general whose name he had not caught looked at him in surprise. ‘Yeah.’ He moved from behind the shoulder that Gray had thrust in front of him and addressed the camera crew. ‘We’re going in to Mission Control now. I would appreciate it if you were to keep behind the prescribed limits and not crowd us. Thank you.’

An armed guard in white helmet and gaiters swung open the door and Gray stepped forward smartly. At first glance he appeared to have walked into a theatre, but there were rows of consoles instead of seats. Where the stage would be was an enormous map of the world with lines of illuminated dots showing the paths of orbiting satellites. Gray thought of the famous space shots that had been shepherded from this hallowed room and wished that he could remember the names of some of them. He should have got his private secretary to bone up on the necessary background information. A few well-chosen words might have impressed viewers with his alertness and knowledge of everything that was going on in the world. He saw that the microphone boom was out of range and felt better. ‘Very impressive,’ he said, just in case anybody was listening. The general turned and looked at him with scarcely concealed dislike. He hated all politicians, but British politicians acting as though they still had an empire gave him a special pain that was worse than his ulcer.

An authoritative man bearing the words ‘Mission Control Director’ on the breast pocket of his short-sleeved shirt stepped forward and nodded to the assembled company. ‘Gentlemen, welcome to Mission Control, Houston. We have received a position report and should have visual contact at any moment. If you observe the wall map you can see the trail of green lights approaching the Indian Ocean. The red light that you see flashing represents our tracking ship. Once Commander Bond and Dr Goodhead come within range we should have audio-visual from the remote on-board T.V. monitors.’

Gray began to relate to the excitement that was building up in the room, but for different reasons. He had heard his name mentioned twice by the man who was talking into the hand-held microphone to the television crew. They were transmitting live, and would be received at every corner of the globe. Not since the landing of Armstrong and Aldrin had there been an event like it.

The Mission Control Director began to speak again. His eyes sought out Gray. ‘We’re particularly glad to have you with us, Mr Gray. Because of the historical significance of this mission, I’m having this patched directly to the White House and Buckingham Palace, by satellite.’

Gray’s cup overranneth. ‘Most kind,’ was all he could blurt out. He could imagine the royal hand putting down the Spode cup, the corgi’s eyes obediently following its mistress’s to the screen. At such moments a man might be excused his dreams. What would his thought be, he wondered, when the call came from the Palace? He imagined himself sitting in the Rolls-Royce as it purred down the Mall, a sprinkling of sightseers craning forward as the sentries saluted and he sailed through the gates. ‘Will you form a government, Mr Gray?’ ‘Of course, Ma’am.’ The first of many meetings, perhaps culminating in the moment when his knee sank towards the damask cushion and there was a slight tap on his shoulder. ‘Arise, Sir Frederick.’ Sir Frederick Gray. The three words that formed a poem more lovely than any Shakespeare Sonnet.

‘We’re getting something!’ A technician spoke out excitedly from his position beside a large monitor screen and Gray elbowed aside the general. The camera crew closed in. A cueman. had his arm raised. This was the moment. Gray craned forward so that the world could see the tears of pride in his eyes as he welcomed back his protégé. His eyes opened in wonder as he took in the scene and then, very slowly, little by little, he began to edge back behind the general.

‘The Shoshones used to make love after battle to give thanks for still being alive,’ said Holly.

Bond kissed her naked shoulder and watched a flimsy undergarment drifting by. ‘Say not the struggle nought availeth,’ he murmured. ‘What a pity they couldn’t do it when they were weightless.’

‘I expect they found other compensations.’ Holly kissed Bond on the mouth and spread her arms wide. ‘Oh James, this is heaven.’

Bond raised his head to glance out of an imaginary porthole. ‘Already?’

Holly hugged him to her. ‘You’re a fool, James.’

‘I must be,’ said Bond. ‘Making love in zero-gravity in my condition. I should be in hospital.’

‘Nonsense. You’re in beautiful condition. I like my men slightly burnt at the edges.’

‘Gruesome girl!’ Bond kissed her hard on the mouth. ‘We should have saved all this till Venice.’

Holly pulled back her head. ‘Are you going to take me back to Venice, James?’

‘I think our respective employers will both turn a favourable eye on a period of convalescence.’

‘You don’t think we could convalesce up here?’

‘Food presents a problem.’

‘Who needs food?’ Holly took Bond’s cheeks between her fingers and kissed him greedily.

Bond enjoyed the kiss and floated away a few inches to enjoy the sight of her naked body. Something on the cabin wall attracted his attention. Something that was moving. A small television monitor. In the heart of the lens a small red light glowed lubriciously. Bond winced.

‘What’s the matter?’ Holly floated towards him like a solicitous mother.

‘Nothing too serious.’ Bond received her in his arms and reached surreptitiously over her shoulder to pluck the cable from the monitor. It stopped moving and the light went out. ‘Nevertheless, I think we ought to think about getting back. I have a feeling people will be worrying about us.’

Holly’s lips started to stitch a pattern of kisses down Bond’s chest. ‘Please, James. Take me once more round the world.’