"Certainly not." M.'s voice was gruff. "007 was a sick man. Not responsible for his actions. If one can brainwash a man, presumably one can un-brainwash him. If anyone can, Sir James can. Put him back on half pay for the time being, in his old Section. And see he gets full back pay and allowances for the past year. If the K.G.B. has the nerve to throw one of my best men at me, I have the nerve to throw him back at them. 007 was a good agent once. There's no reason why he shouldn't be a good agent again. Within limits, that is. After lunch, give me the file on Scaramanga. If we can get him fit again, that's the right-sized target for 007."
“Ask him how it feels to get beat by a woman,” Ann called out. Nervous laughter rippled throughthe room, but Ann wasn’t smiling; she glared at Martimano as if she were a black belt and he was astack of bricks. Kitty shot her an appalled look, but Ann ignored it and kept her eyes locked onMartimano. Martimano turned questioningly toward Kitty, but Kitty chose not to translate. In allher years of running ultras and pacing them for her dad, it was the first time Kitty had ever heardone runner taunt another.
Mrs. Phancey, an iron-gray woman with bitter, mistrustful eyes and a grim slit of a mouth, was at the desk when I came in that evening. She had looked sharply at me, a lone girl, and at my meager saddlebags, and, when I pushed the Vespa over to Number 9, she followed me with my card in her hand to check that I had not entered a false vehicle license. Her husband, Jed, was more genial, but I soon understood why when the back of his hand brushed against my breast as, later in the cafeteria, he put the coffee in front of me. Apparently he doubled as handyman and short-order cook and, while his pale brown eyes moved over me like slugs, he complained whiningly about how much there was to do around the place getting it ready for closing date and constantly being called away from some job to fry eggs for parties of transients. It seemed they were the managers for the owner. He lived in Troy. A Mr. Sanguinetti. "Big shot. Owns plenty property down on Cohoes Road. Riverfront property. And the Trojan Horse-roadhouse on Route 9, outside Albany. Maybe you know the joint?" When I said I didn't, Mr. Phancey looked sly. "You ever want some fun, you go along to The Horse. Better not go alone, though. Pretty gal like you could get herself roughed up. After the fifteenth, when I get away from here, you could give me a call. Phancey's the name. In the phone book. Be glad to escort you, show you a good time." I thanked him, but said I was just passing through the district on my way south. Could I have a couple of fried eggs, sunny-side up, and bacon?The gun flashed and boomed as Bond jerked his head under cover of the coal-tender. Scaramanga laughed harshly. "Watch your lip, limey, or you'll end up without it." The hoods hawhawed.
Lieberman was a scientist who believed that being hands-on meant being prepared to soak them inblood. For years, Lieberman had organized a Cro-Magnon barbecue on a Harvard Yard lawn aspart of his human evolution class. To demonstrate the dexterity necessary to operate primitivetools, he’d get his students to butcher a goat with sharpened stones, then cook it in a pit. As soon asthe aroma of roasting goat spread and the post-butchering libations began flowing, homeworkturned into a house party. “It eventually evolved into a kind of bacchanalian feast,” Lieberman toldthe Harvard University Gazette.