Blofeld

“By My Action, 

I gave a dramatic example 

for all to see.”

— Ernst Stavro Blofeld,

SPECTRE No.1

BOND DROPPED HIS lighted cigarette and left it to smoulder on the carpet. His whole body tensed. He said, ‘I suppose you know you’re both mad as hatters.’ 

‘So was Frederick the Great, so was Nietzsche, so was Van Gogh. We are in good, in illustrious company, Mister Bond. On the other hand, what are you? You are a common thug, a blunt instrument wielded by dolts in high places. Having done what you are told to do, out of some mistaken idea of Duty or Patriotism, you satisfy your brutish instincts with alcohol, nicotine and sex while waiting to be dispatched on the next misbegotten foray. 

Twice before, Your Chief has sent You to do battle with Me, Mister Bond, and, by a combination of luck and brute force, you were successful in destroying two projects of My Genius. 

You and Your Government would categorize these projects as Crimes Against Humanity, and various authorities still seek to bring me to book for them. 

But try and summon such wits as you possess, Mister Bond, and see them in a realistic light and in the higher realm of my own thinking.’ 

Blofeld was a big man, perhaps six foot three, and powerfully built. He placed the tip of the samurai sword, which has almost the blade of the scimitar, between his straddled feet, and rested his sinewy hands on its boss. 

Looking up at him from across the room, Bond had to admit that there was something larger than life in the looming, imperious figure, in the hypnotically direct stare of the eyes, in the tall white brow, in the cruel downward twist of the thin lips. 

The square-cut, heavily draped kimono, designed to give the illusion of bulk to a race of smallish men, made something huge out of the towering figure, and the golden dragon embroidery, so easily to be derided as a childish fantasy, crawled menacingly across the black silk and seemed to spit real fire from over the left breast. 

Blofeld had paused in his harangue. Waiting for him to continue, Bond took the measure of His Enemy. 

He knew what would be coming – Justification. 

It was always so. When they thought they had got you where they wanted you, when they knew they were decisively on top, before the knock-out, even to an audience on the threshold of extinction, it was pleasant, reassuring to The Executioner, to deliver his apologia – purge the sin he was about to commit. 

Blofeld, his hands relaxed on the boss of his sword, continued. The tone of his voice was reasonable, self-assured, quietly expository. 

He said, ‘Now, Mister Bond, take Operation Thunderball, as Your Government dubbed it. This project involved the holding to ransom of The Western World by the acquisition by Me of two atomic weapons. Where lies the crime in this, except in the Erewhon of international politics? Rich boys are playing with rich toys. A poor boy comes along and takes them and offers them back for money. If the poor boy had been successful, what a valuable by-product might have resulted for the whole world. These were dangerous toys which, in the poor boy’s hands, or let us say, to discard the allegory, in the hands of a Castro, could lead to the wanton extinction of Mankind. 

By my action, I gave a dramatic example for all to see. If I had been successful and the money had been handed over, might not the threat of a recurrence of my attempt have led to serious disarmament talks, to an abandonment of these dangerous toys that might so easily get into the wrong hands? 

You follow my reasoning? 

Then this recent matter of the bacteriological warfare attack on England. My dear Mister Bond, England is a sick nation by any standards. 

By hastening The Sickness to the brink of Death, might Britain not have been forced out of Her lethargy into the kind of Community Effort we witnessed during The War? 

Cruel to be kind, Mister Bond. Where lies the great crime there? And now this matter of my so-called “Castle of Death”.’ 

Blofeld paused and his eyes took on an inward look. He said, ‘I will make a confession to you, Mister Bond. I have come to suffer from a certain lassitude of mind which I am determined to combat. This comes in part from being A Unique Genius who is alone in The World, without honour – worse, misunderstood. 

No doubt much of the root cause of this accidie is physical – liver, kidneys, heart, the usual weak points of the middle-aged. 

But there has developed in me a certain mental lameness, a disinterest in Humanity and its future, an utter boredom with the affairs of Mankind. 

So, not unlike the gourmet, with his jaded palate, I now seek only the highly spiced, the sharp impact on the taste buds, mental as well as physical, the tickle that is truly exquisite. 

And so, Mister Bond, I came to devise this useful and essentially humane project – the offer of free death to those who seek release from the burden of being alive. By doing so, I have not only provided the common man with a solution to the problem of whether to be or not to be, I have also provided the Japanese Government, though for the present they appear to be blind to my magnanimity, with a tidy, out-of-the-way charnel-house which relieves them of a constant flow of messy occurrences involving the trains, the trams, the volcanoes and other unattractively public means of killing yourself. You must admit that, far from being a crime, this is a public service unique in the history of the world.’ 

‘I saw one man being disgustingly murdered yesterday.’ 

‘Tidying up, Mister Bond. Tidying up. The man came here wishing to die. What you saw done was only helping a weak man to his seat on the boat across the Styx. 

But I can see that we have no contact. I cannot reach what serves you for a mind. 

For your part, you cannot see further than the simple gratification of your last cigarette. 

So enough of this idle chatter. You have already kept us from our beds far too long. 

Do you want to be hacked about in a vulgar brawl, or will you offer your neck in the honourable fashion?’ 

Blofeld took a step forward and raised his mighty sword in both hands and held it above his head. 

The light from the oil lamps shimmered on the blade and showed up the golden filigree engraving. Bond knew what to do. He had known as soon as he had been led back into the room and had seen the wounded guard’s stave still standing in the shadowed angle of the wall. 

But there was a bell-push near the woman. She would have to be dealt with first! Had he learned enough of the thrusts and parries of bojutsu from the demonstration at the ninja training camp? 

Bond hurled himself to the left, seized the stave and leaped at the woman whose hand was already reaching upwards. The stave thudded into the side of her head and she sprawled grotesquely forward off her chair and lay still. 

Blofeld’s sword whistled down, inches from his shoulder. Bond twisted and lunged to his full extent, thrusting his stave forward in the groove of his left hand almost as if it had been a billiard cue. The tip caught Blofeld hard on the breastbone and flung him against the wall, but he hurtled back and came inexorably forward, swishing his sword like a scythe. 

Bond aimed at his right arm, missed and had to retreat. He was concentrating on keeping his weapon as well as his body away from the whirling steel, or his stave would be cut like a matchstick, and its extra length was his only hope of victory. 

Blofeld suddenly lunged, expertly, his right knee bent forward. Bond feinted to the left, but he was inches too slow and the tip of the sword flicked his left ribs, drawing blood. 

But before Blofeld could withdraw, Bond had slashed two-handed, sideways, at his legs. His stave met bone. Blofeld cursed, and made an ineffectual stab at Bond’s weapon. 

Then he advanced again and Bond could only dodge and feint in the middle of the room and make quick short lunges to keep the enemy at bay. 

But he was losing ground in front of the whirling steel, and now Blofeld, scenting victory, took lightning steps and thrust forward like a snake. Bond leaped sideways, saw his chance and gave a mighty sweep of his stave. It caught Blofeld on his right shoulder and drew a curse from him. His main sword arm! Bond pressed forward, lancing again and again with his weapon and scoring several hits to the body, but one of Blofeld’s parries caught the stave and cut off that one vital foot of extra length as if it had been a candle-end. 

Blofeld saw his advantage and began attacking, making furious forward jabs that Bond could only parry by hitting at the flat of the sword to deflect it. But now the stave was slippery in the sweat of his hands and for the first time he felt the cold breath of defeat at his neck. And Blofeld seemed to smell it, for he suddenly executed one of his fast running lunges to get under Bond’s guard. Bond guessed the distance of the wall behind him and leaped backwards against it. 

Even so he felt the sword-point fan across his stomach. But, hurled back by his impact with the wall, he counter-lunged, swept the sword aside with his stave and, dropping his weapon, made a dive for Blofeld’s neck and got both hands to it. 

For a moment the two sweating faces were almost up against each other. The boss of Blofeld’s sword battered into Bond’s side. Bond hardly felt the crashing blows. He pressed with his thumbs, and pressed and pressed and heard the sword clank to the floor and felt Blofeld’s fingers and nails tearing at his face, trying to reach his eyes. 

Bond whispered through his gritted teeth, ‘Die, Blofeld! Die!’ And suddenly the tongue was out and the eyes rolled upwards and the body slipped down to the ground. But Bond followed it and knelt, his hands cramped round the powerful neck, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, in the terrible grip of blood lust. 

Bond slowly came to himself. The golden dragon’s head on the black silk kimono spat flame at him. He unclasped his aching hands from round the neck and, not looking again at the purple face, got to his feet. He staggered. 

God, how his head hurt! What remained to be done? He tried to cast his mind back. He had had a clever idea. What was it? Oh yes, of course! 

He picked up Blofeld’s sword and sleep-walked down the stone passage to the torture room. He glanced up at the clock. Five minutes to midnight. 

And there was the wooden box, mud-spattered, down beside the throne on which he had sat, days, years before. He went to it and hacked it open with one stroke of the sword. Yes, there was the big wheel he had expected! He knelt down and twisted and twisted until it was finally closed. What would happen now? The End of The World?