Chapter 4. Hugo Drax at Home

Bond came down the corridor from the 747 at Los Angeles Airport, feeling a familiar sense of jet-lagged irritation that he had to relive half a day of his life.

Still, at least nobody had pushed him out of the airplane this time, and the cold buffet in first class had been a welcome change

from the usual overheated plastic food made particularly unbearable

by the bestowl of fatuous titles in gastronomic French.

There had even been a well-chilled bottle of Puligny Montresche,

rejoicing the eye with the

1971 printed on its damp label.

Will James Bond, passenger from London, please make himself known at the British Airways

Desk?

Bond heard the message as he came out into the open concourse, and stepped aside from the mass

of passengers streaming like

lemmings to see if their baggage had accompanied them on the flight. A clean-cut young man wearing a

short-sleeved shirt and a button bearing the legend, I'm happy when you're happy, was waiting behind

the British Airways desk with an upturned pencil poised for action.

Behind the desk stood a girl of surpassing beauty who could only have been American.

Her two rows of perfect teeth were not only white, but reflected enough light into the eyes of the beholder to dazzle.

The large blue eyes were widely spaced and balanced the longish, straight nose and the warm, generous mouth.

The blonde hair which shone like spun silk bounced as if animated by the aura of good health

that radiated from every chromosome of her body. As Venus rose off Paphos on the

island of Cyprus, so could this girl have appeared out of the sea off Malibu and stalked ashore to take her

natural place as a Californian beach goddess. She was wearing a one-piece uniform that looked like a

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