18
A DREAM DIES SCREAMING
Bond blinked against the sweat that was soaking down through his eyebrows and twisted his head to look up at the laser turret just visible above the curve of the globe. The U.S. shuttle was now at its mercy. Bond looked along the metal seam he was clinging to and saw that it joined the central globe. Another protruding lip rose towards the turret.
Stretching out an arm, Bond gritted his teeth and performed the first painful movement towards achieving his goal. In what seemed an agonizingly long period of time, he had pulled himself to the central globe and made the perilous transfer to the vertical seam. Now he felt as if there was a pile of sandbags on his back pressing him against the surface. Each foot of progress had to be fought for at the cost of his fading strength. With ten feet to go to the turret, he saw the gun barrel being brought to bear again. He felt that he could almost reach out and touch it. The turret lunged out of the dome and he could see the portholes and the rectangular outline of a hatch in its side. Bond hauled himself along the seam and prayed that he would get there in time and that the small red square at the bottom right-hand corner of the hatch was what he thought it was. Five feet, four feet, three feet... A face pressed against one of the portholes would have seen him clearly. He craned forward and saw the steel handle in its recessed cavity. Above it were the words ‘DANGER! External Hatch Opening. Only to be used when station secured in N.P. situation’.
Tightening his grip with his left hand, Bond snaked out his arm and forced his fingers into the recess. They closed about the handle and he braced himself and pulled. Nothing happened. The handle merely flinched. Bond’s heart sank. He had nearly exhausted his physical resources. At any moment the laser gun might open up. Hanging on in space, he was only going to make himself weaker. He ground his teeth together and strained again until his sinews shrieked. The handle lifted a quarter of an inch but no more. Exhausted, Bond clung to the surface of the globe and felt his laser torch pressing into his chest. Maybe that was the answer; if not the answer, the only hope. He withdrew the torch and directed it into the aperture, avoiding the handle. Two quick flashes and the metal glowed a dull red. Bond fumbled for the handle and in his hurry let slip the torch. He snatched at it clumsily and it brushed against his fingertips before drifting away, gathering speed fast. Bond knew that he was now irrevocably alone. If the hatch did not open he had no chance. He inserted his hand again and felt the sweat clinging to his body. His heart was wedged at the bottom of his throat. Summoning up his last reserves of energy he tore at the handle. Slowly it began to respond. ‘Come on! Come on, damn you —’ There was a loud pop like a champagne cork being withdrawn clumsily, and the hatch slid sideways with Bond still clinging to it.
As if they had been leaning against the hatch, three men were sucked through the door with a chaos of equipment that represented everything not battened to the floor of the gun turret. The men hung before Bond’s eyes for a moment as if making a free-fall parachute drop and then were snatched from sight, disappearing fast into space. Bond swallowed, and clawed his way back round the hatch to the opening. He hauled himself up on the floor and slowly rose to a kneeling position. His breath was coming almost faster than the oxygen unit could cope with, and he paused before stealing out an arm and pulling the hatch shut. Now for the first time he really believed that he had succeeded. The gun crew had been expelled into space; the immediate danger to the U.S. shuttle was over. He rested on his knees for a few moments and then drew himself up to stumble past the laser gunner’s console and down the short flight of steps that led to a steel door. Bracing himielf, he activated the opening mechanism and found himself emerging in a circular gallery which he guessed must be situated on the far side of the station from the dormitories. He closed the door behind him and immediately responded to the conditions of re-entry into artificial gravity. Now he could move normally, if clumsily. He tore off his helmet and moved towards the sounds of battle that were coming from below. From what he could hear, it seemed that the U.S. space marines had broken into the station. If they could wipe out the Draxites quickly there might still be a chance of catching up with the three nerve gas globes before they entered the Earth’s atmosphere. There were so many events falling one on top of the other that it was difficult to select an order of priorities. Where were Holly and Jaws? Were they still alive?
Bond descended a spiral staircase and emerged into a long corridor that led to one of the satellites. There was a smell of burning and the lights flickered madly. Bond guessed that the space station was out of control. It only needed a severe breach in the outside wall and they would all suffer the fate of the gun turret crew. Space would suck them out like bone marrow.
Bond moved towards one of the satellites. Seen from this vantage point, he could get a clearer picture of what was happening to the central globe. He had taken ten paces when a figure emerged furtively from an intersection. It was large and it belonged to Drax. He turned and saw Bond. For a moment the two men faced each other, and then Drax read the look in Bond’s eyes and took a step backwards. Bond said nothing but followed. Drax’s hands stood away from his body, but there was nothing in them. His face was drawn. Hatred had been replaced by fear. Bond was looking at a different man from the one who had wanted to be God. The lights flickered again and there was a distant roar like thunder. The fabric of the corridor creaked ominously. It was almost as if some earthly storm was penetrating space. Intimations of the rewards for hubris. Drax took another step back. Behind him was an air-lock chamber and beside the entrance a Draxite and two U.S. space marines who had also died in the fighting. Bond stiffened as he saw what lay at the dead Draxite’s fingertips. A laser torch. He paused and, as if alerted by the gesture, Drax glanced behind him. With a speed that belied his size he bent down and scooped up the laser torch. Now his expression changed. A blotchy red suffused his plastic cheeks. His distorted eyes leered triumphantly. ‘At least I will have the pleasure of putting you out of my misery.’ He began to raise the laser torch and his words were charged with cruel mockery.
‘Desolated, Mr Bond.’
Bond began to raise his hands as if in a gesture of abject submissiori. Then with a sharp crack a vent appeared in his gauntlet. Drax clutched at the left-hand side of his chest. A dart protruded from between his fingers.
‘Heartbroken, Mr Drax.’ Bond’s words were no less of a jibe. He stepped forward and depressed the lever of the inner door of the air-lock chamber as Drax’s faltering fingers brushed against it. The laser gun had already dropped to the floor. ‘Allow me.’ Bond threw the door open with old-world courtesy and Drax staggered back to rest against the door that led into space. He looked from Bond to his chest as if unable to believe what had happened. ‘Cyanide,’ said Bond shortly. ‘A new world starts in thirty seconds.’ He started to close the inner door as Drax’s hand rose to stave off the inevitable. Bond slammed the door ruthlessly and moved his hand to the lever marked ‘Space Door Release’. Without pausing, he depressed it. Glimpsed through the porthole, Drax’s mouth was open wide, but he uttered no sound. His cheeks hollowed and his skin suddenly shrank on his body as if the core had been taken out of him. His eyes vanished and he hung in the air like a great, hulking scarecrow snatched up by the wind. Then he was drawn away by invisible strings, becoming smaller and smaller until he was no larger than the distant stars he had set out to emulate. Bond turned quickly as running footsteps brought Holly to his side. She clung to his arm. ‘Thank God! What’s happening? Where’s Drax?’