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to torture for the extraction of information.'
'Don't I know it!' said Bond from the heart. 'Some of our chaps wear a box when they think they're in for a rough house. I
don't care for them. Too uncomfortable.'
'What is a box?'
'It is what our cricketers wear to protect those parts when they go out to bat. It is a light padded shield of aluminium.'
'I regret that we have nothing of that nature. We do not play cricket in Japan. Only baseball.'
'Lucky for you you weren't occupied by the British,' commented Bond. 'Cricket is a much more difficult and skilful game.'
'The Americans say otherwise.'
'Naturally. They want to sell you baseball equipment.'
They arrived at Beppu in the southern island of Kyushu as the sun was setting. Tiger said that this was just the time to see
the famous geysers and fumaroles of the little spa. In any case, there would be no time in the morning as they would have to
start early for Fukuoka, their final destination. Bond shivered slightly at the name. The moment was rapidly approaching when
the sake and sightseeing would have to stop.
Above the town of Beppu, they visited in turn the ten spectacular 'hells' as they are officially designated. The stink of sulphur
was disgusting, and each bubbling, burping nest of volcanic fumaroles was more horrific than the last. The steaming mud and
belching geysers were of different colours - red, blue, and orange - and everywhere there were warning notices and skulls and
 30
crossbones to keep visitors at a safe distance. The tenth 'hell' announced in English and Japanese that there would be an
eruption punctually every twenty minutes. They joined a small group of spectators under the arc lights that pinpointed a small
quiescent crater in a rock area bespattered with mud. Sure enough, in five minutes, there came a rumbling from underground
and a jet of steaming grey mud shot twenty feet up into the air and splashed down inside the enclosure. As Bond was turning
away, he noticed a large red painted wheel, heavily padlocked and surrounded by wire-netting in a small separate enclosure.
There were warning notices above it and a particularly menacing skull and crossbones. Bond asked Tiger what it was.
'It says that this wheel controls the pulse of the geyser. It says that if this wheel were screwed down it could result in the
destruction of the entire establishment. It gives the explosive force of the volcano, if the exhaust valve of the geyser were to be
closed, as the equivalent of a thousand pounds of TNT. It is, of course, all a bit of nonsense to attract the tourists. But now,
back to the town, Bondo-sanl Since it is our last day together,' he added hastily, 'on this particular voyage, I have arranged a
special treat. I ordered it by radio from the ship. A fugu feast!'
Bond cursed silently. The memory of his eggs Benedict the night before was intolerably sweet. What new monstrosity was
this? he asked.
'Fugu is the Japanese blow-fish. In the water, it looks like a brown owl, but when captured it blows itself up into a ball
covered with wounding spines. We sometimes dry the skins and put candles inside and use them as lanterns. But the flesh is
particularly delicious. It is the staple food of the sumo wrestlers because it is supposed to be very strength-giving. The fish is
also very popular with suicides and murderers because its liver and sex glands contain a poison which brings death
instantaneously.'
'That's just what I would have chosen for dinner. How thoughtful of you, Tiger.'
'Have no fear, Bondo-san. Because of the dangerous properties of the fish, every fugu restaurant has to be manned by experts
and be registered with the State.'
They left their bags at a Japanese inn where Tiger had reserved rooms, enjoyed the o-furo, honourable bath, together in the
blue-tiled miniature swimming pool whose water was very hot and smelled of sulphur and then, totally relaxed, went off down
the street leading to the sea.
(Bond had become enamoured of the civilized, vaguely Roman, bathing habits of the Japanese. Was it because of these,
because they washed outside the bath instead of wallowing in their own effluvia, that they all smelled so clean? Tiger said
bluntly that, at the very best, Westerners smelled of sweet pork.) [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]