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tasks or now stood waiting in their planned dispositions.
Goldfinger spoke quietly into his microphone. 'Last stretcher out. Bomb squad ready.
Prepare to take over.'
Now the covering troops and the stretcher-bearers were hurrying for the exit, getting
down under cover of the guard wall. There would be five minutes' delay to clear the
area before the bomb squad, now waiting bunched at the main gate, would go in.
Bond said efficiently, 'They're a minute ahead of time.'
Goldfinger looked past Oddjob's shoulder. The pale eyes were aflame. They stared
into Bond's. Goldfinger's mouth twisted into a harsh snarl. He said through his teeth,
'You see, Mr Bond. You were wrong and I was right. Ten more minutes and I shall be
the richest man in the world, the richest man in history! What do you say to that?' His
mouth spat out the words.
Bond said equably, 'I'll tell you after those ten minutes are up.'
'Will you?' said Goldfinger. 'Maybe.' He looked at his watch and spoke rapidly into his
microphone. The Goldfinger squad loped slowly through the main gate, their heavy
burden slung from four shoulders in a cradle of webbing.
Goldfinger looked past Bond at the group on the roof of the second diesel. He called
out triumphantly, 'Another five minutes, gentlemen, and then we must take cover.' He
turned his eyes on Bond and added softly, 'And then we will say goodbye, Mr Bond.
And thank you for the assistance you and the girl have given me.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw something moving - moving in the sky. It was a
black, whirling speck. It reached the top of its trajectory, paused and then came the ear-
splitting crack of a maroon signal.
Bond's heart leapt. A quick glance showed him the ranks of dead soldiers springing to
life, the machine guns on the locked armoured cars swinging to cover the gates. A
loudspeaker roared from nowhere, 'Stand where you are. Lay down your arms.' But
there came a futile crackle of fire from one of the rearguard covering party and then all
hell broke loose.
116
Bond seized the girl round the waist and jumped with her.
It was a tenfoot drop to the platform. Bond broke his fall with his left hand and hoisted
the girl to her feet with a jerk of his hip. As he began to run, close to the train for cover,
he heard Goldfinger shout, 'Get them and kill them.' A splatter of lead from Goldfinger's
automatic whipped at the cement to his left. But Goldfinger would have to shoot left
handed. It was Oddjob that Bond feared. Now, as Bond tore down the platform with the
girl's hand in his, he heard the lightning scuffle of the running feet.
The girl's hand tugged at him. She screamed angrily, 'No, No. Stop! I want to stay
close to Pussy. I'll be safe with her.'
Bond shouted back, 'Shut up, you little fool! Run like hell!' But now she was dragging
at him, checking his speed. Suddenly she tore her hand out of his and made to dart into
an open Pullman door. Christ, thought Bond, that's torn it! He whipped the knife out of
his belt and swirled to meet Oddjob.
Ten yards away Oddjob hardly paused in his rush. One hand whipped off his
ridiculous, deadly hat, a glance to take aim and the black steel half-moon sang through
the air. Its edge caught the girl exactly at the nape of the neck. Without a sound she fell
backwards on to the platform in Oddjob's path. The hurdle was just enough to put
Oddjob off the flying high kick he had started to launch at Bond's head. He turned the
kick into a leap, his left hand cutting the air towards Bond like a sword. Bond ducked
and struck upwards and sideways with his knife. It got home somewhere near the ribs
but the momentum of the flying body knocked the knife out of his hand. There was a
tinkle on the platform. Now Oddjob was coming back at him, apparently unharmed, his
hands outstretched and his feet " splayed back ready for another leap or a kick. His
blood was up. The eyes were red and there was a fleck of saliva at the open, panting
mouth.
Above the boom and rattle of the guns outside the station, three blasts sounded on
the diesel's windhorn. Oddjob snarled angrily and leapt. Bond dived at full length
sideways. Something hit him a gigantic blow on the shoulder and sent him sprawling.
Now, he thought as he hit the ground, now the death stroke! He scrambled clumsily to
his feet, his neck hunched into his shoulders to break the impact. But no blow came
and Bond's dazed eyes took in the figure of Oddjob flying away from him up the
platform.
Already the leading diesel was on the move. Oddjob got to it and leapt for the
footplate. For a moment he hung, his legs scrabbling for a foothold. Then he had
disappeared into the cabin and the huge streamlined engine gathered speed.
Behind Bond the door of the quartermaster's office burst open. There was the
hammer of running feet and a yell 'Santiago!' - St James, the battle-cry of Cortez that
Leiter had once jokingly allotted to Bond.
Bond swivelled. The straw-haired Texan, clad in his wartime Marine Corps
battledress, was pounding up the platform followed by a dozen men in khaki. He carried
a one-man bazooka by the steel hook he used for a right hand. Bond ran to meet him.
He said, 'Don't shoot my fox, you bastard. Give over.' He snatched the bazooka out of
Leiter's hand and threw himself down on the platform, splaying out his legs. Now the
diesel was two hundred yards away and about to cross the bridge over the Dixie
Highway. Bond shouted, 'Stand clear!' to get the men out of line of the recoil flash,
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