The Man with the Golden Gun Page #5

That's all we need! Red Chinese waters.

We could stray|inadvertently into them, sir.

- I could fly low under their radar screen.|- Absolutely out of the question.

If the PM gets to hear of this,|he'll hang me from the yardarm.

Officially you won't know|a thing about it, sir.

There's a small seaplane|approaching your island.

Do you want us to take action?

No. No, please don't do anything.

Yes, it's a...

guest I'm expecting.

No, he won't be leaving.

Bonjour, Monsieur Bond.

I am Nick Nack.

Dom Prignon soixante-quatre.

I prefer the '62 myself.

Still, beats a bag of peanuts.

Monsieur Scaramanga|will welcome you personally.

Forgive me, Mr Bond.|A vulgar display, but I couldn't resist it

because I am so delighted|to see you again.

A harmless toy.

I am, as you can see now,|completely unarmed.

Cigarette?

We have so much in common|and so much to discuss.

We will never have this chance again.

Ours is the loneliest profession, so let us|spend a few pleasant hours together.

How can I refuse|such a gracious invitation?

Splendid. Splendid!

Nick Nack, I expect you to surpass|yourself. He's a cordon bleu, you know?

By the way, where's Miss Goodnight?

Oh, she's around here somewhere.

She can't leave,|so she does as she pleases.

How do you like my island?

A bit off the beaten track.

It's rent-free.|I do my landlords an occasional favour.

A cosy arrangement.

- Servant problem, I suppose?|- Not at all.

Nick Nack does for me very nicely.

Usually there's just us two,|but guests are no inconvenience.

We're entirely self-supporting. We have|every electrical device you can think of.

This is an airlock,|as you are doubtless aware.

Automatic, of course.

Naturally, we have an ample supply|of electricity here.

Let me show you.

This should run|a few electric toothbrushes.

Up here.

A solar-energy station.|So this is what it's all about. Ah!

Thermoelectric generators|to convert solar energy into electricity.

All built by Hai Fat's|construction company, no doubt.

Somehow I seem to have inherited it|from him. It's all fully automated.

Kra looks after maintenance and security|in here. Nick Nack does everything else.

They tell me the electricity|is stored in here... somewhere.

Science was never my strong point.

Superconductivity coils|cooled by liquid helium.

If I were you, I wouldn't stick my finger -|or anything else, for that matter - in there.

At 453% below zero, that liquid helium|would break it off like an icicle.

You really know|far more about it than I do.

I'm arranging for countries that can afford|the price to send experts here to see this.

But no solex|until the money is in the bank, right?

Right.

- I have run across similar situations.|- Not what I've got here.

This way the highest bidder|can build hundreds of stations

and sell franchises for hundreds more.

He will literally have the sun in his pocket.

A monopoly on solar power.

The oil sheikhs will pay you|just to keep solar energy "off" the market.

The thought had occurred to me.

This is the collection point.

Ah! So that's where it belongs.

Our famous solex in the still down there|transmits heat to the thermal generators.

It's collected through this?

But where is it collected from?|You need the sun.

Watch that mushroom-shaped rock.

Ingenious, isn't it?

The panels lock on to the sun,|then track it automatically.

Something like that, yes.

Ah. Reflected through this, those panels|must produce a heat of at least 3,500%F.

If you say so, Mr Bond.

But I do know we can focus the power|wherever we want. Here, I'll show you.

This is a bonus.

Goes with the solex. No extra charge.

This is the part I really like.

Now that's what I call solar power.

That's what I call trouble.

You must admit I am now undeniably|the Man with the Golden Gun.

Lunch.

This way, Mr Bond.

Ah, Miss Goodnight!

- James!|- Aren't we a little overdressed?

I like a girl in a bikini.|No concealed weapons.

Miss Goodnight, please. Mr Bond.

Let's see what Nick Nack has for us.

Ah, mushrooms.

The fried mushroom|looks terribly interesting.

Yes, I'd noticed that.|I'll get around to it later.

- Having fun in the sun, Goodnight?|- Yes!

I could stay here for ever.

Mm, excellent.

- Slightly reminiscent of a '34 Mouton.|- Then I must add it to my cellar.

You live well, Scaramanga.

At a million dollars a contract,|I can afford to, Mr Bond.

You work for peanuts. A "well done" from|the Queen and a pittance of a pension.

Apart from that, we are the same.

To us, Mr Bond. We are the best.

There's a useful four-letter word,|and you're full of it.

When I kill it's under specific orders|of my government.

And those I kill are themselves killers.

Come, come, Mr Bond.|You disappoint me.

You get as much fulfilment|out of killing as I do. Admit it.

- I admit killing you would be a pleasure.|- You should have done that before.

But then the English don't think|it's sporting to kill in cold blood.

Don't count on that.

I could have shot you when you landed,|but that would have been too easy.

You see, Mr Bond,

like every great artist, I want to create|an indisputable masterpiece

once in my lifetime.

The death of 007, "mano a mano",

face to face,

will be mine.

You mean stuffed and displayed|over your rocky mantelpiece.

That's an amusing idea,|but I was thinking in terms of history.

A duel between titans.

My golden gun against your Walther PPK.

Each of us with a 50-50 chance.

Six bullets to your one?

I only need one.

Sounds a bit old-fashioned, doesn't it?

I mean, pistols at dawn, that sort of thing.

Indeed it is, Mr Bond.

But it still remains|the only "true" test for gentlemen.

I doubt if you qualify on that score.

However, I accept.

As soon as I have finished this delicious|lunch that Nick Nack has prepared for us.

"Messieurs", I will remind you,|this is "un duel la mort".

Only one of you|can leave the field of honour.

If a "coup de grce" is necessary,

as your referee, I will administer it myself.

I do not expect wounds, only a clean kill.

each contestant will take 20 paces.

Are you ready, Monsieur Scaramanga?

- Ready.|- Are you ready, Monsieur Bond?

- Ready.|- I will now begin the count.

One, two,

three, four, five,

six, seven, eight, nine,

ten, eleven, twelve,

thirteen, fourteen,

fifteen, sixteen,

seventeen, eighteen,

nineteen, twenty!

If you kill him,

all this be mine.

This way, Monsieur Bond.

- Monsieur, good shooting.|- I've never killed a midget before.

But there can always be a first time.

Oh, monsieur!

You only have three bullets left.

I have fooled you.

- Goodnight!|- James!

Oh, James!

Steady, Goodnight.

Where is he?

Flat on his "coup de grce".

Come on, let's get out of this fun palace|and find that solex.

Wait here.|I'll take care of the maintenance man.

I already did.

I laid him out cold.

- You did?|- Yes.

There's more to you than meets the eye.

I hate to ask stupid questions, but|where exactly did you knock him cold?

He landed in that one.

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