Where? Bond knew. They were in the Languard range, somewhere above Pontresina in the Engadine, and their altitude would be about 10,000 feet. He buttoned up his raincoat and prepared for the rasping dagger of the cold air on his lungs when the door was opened.
Irma Bunt gave her box-like smile. ‘We have arrived,’ she said unnecessarily.
The door, with a clatter of falling ice particles, was wrenched open. The last rays of the sun shone into the cabin. They caught the woman’s yellow sun visor and shone through, turning her face Chinese. The eyes gave out a false blaze, like the glass eyes of a toy animal, under the light. ‘Mind your head.’ She bent low, her tight, squat behind inviting an enormous kick, and went down the ladder.
James Bond followed her, holding his breath against the searing impact of the Arctic, oxygenless air. There were one or two men standing around dressed like ski guides. They looked at Bond with curiosity, but there was no greeting. Bond went on across the hard-trodden snow in the wake of the woman, the extra man following with his suitcase. He heard the engine stutter and roar, and a blizzard of snow particles stung the right side of his face. Then the iron grasshopper rose into the air and rattled off into the dusk.
It was perhaps fifty yards from where the helicopter had landed to the group of buildings. Bond dawdled, getting preliminary bearings. Ahead was a long, low building, now ablaze with lights. To the right, and perhaps another fifty yards away, were the outlines of the typical modern cable railhead, a box-like structure, with a thick flat roof canted upwards from close to the ground. As Bond examined it, its lights went out. Presumably the last car had reached the valley and the line was closed for the night. To the right of this was a large, bogus-chalet type structure with a vast veranda, sparsely lit, that would be for the mass tourist trade – again a typical piece of high-Alpine architecture. Down to the left, beneath the slope of the plateau, lights shone from a fourth building that, except for its flat roof, was out of sight.
Bond was now only a few yards from the building that was obviously his destination. An oblong of yellow opened invitingly as the woman went in and held the door for him. The light illuminated a big sign with the red G surmounted by the coronet. It said GLORIA KLUB. 3605 METRES. PRIVAT! NUR FÜR MITGLIEDER. Below in smaller letters it said ‘Alpenberghaus und Restaurant Piz Gloria’, and the drooping index finger of the traditional hand pointed to the right, towards the building near the cable-head.
So! Piz Gloria! Bond walked into the inviting yellow oblong. The door, released by the woman, closed with a pneumatic hiss.
Inside it was deliciously warm, almost hot. They were in a small reception room, and a youngish man with a very pale crew-cut and shrewd eyes got to his feet from behind a desk and made a slight bob in their direction. ‘Sir Hilary is in Number Two.’
‘Weiss schon,’ said the woman curtly and, only just more politely, to Bond, ‘Follow me, please.’ She went through a facing door and down a thickly-piled, carpeted passage. The left-hand wall was only occasionally broken by windows interspersed with fine skiing and mountain photographs. On the right were at first the doors of the club rooms, marked Bar, Restaurant, and Toiletten. Then came what were obviously the doors of bedrooms. Bond was shown into Number Two. It was an extremely comfortable, chintzy room in the American motel style with a bathroom leading off. The broad picture window was now curtained, but Bond knew that it must offer a tremendous view over the valley to the Suvretta group above St Moritz. Bond threw his brief-case on the double bed and gratefully disposed of his bowler hat and umbrella. The extra man appeared with his suitcase, placed it on the luggage stand without looking at Bond, and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The woman stayed where she was. ‘This is to your satisfaction?’ The yellow eyes were indifferent to his enthusiastic reply. She had more to say. ‘That is good. Now perhaps I should explain some things, convey to you some laws of the club, isn’t it?’
Bond lit a cigarette, ‘That would certainly be helpful.’ He put a politely interested expression on his face. ‘Where are we, for instance?’
‘In the Alps. In the high Alps,’ said the woman vaguely. ‘This Alp, Piz Gloria, is the property of the Count. Together with the Gemeinde, the local authorities, he constructed the Seilbahn. You have seen the cables, yes? This is the first year it is opened. It is very popular and brings in much money. There are some fine ski runs. The Gloria Abfahrt is already famous. There is also a bob-sleigh run that is much greater than the Cresta at St Moritz. You have heard of that? You ski perhaps? Or make the bob-sleigh?’
The yellow eyes were watchful. Bond thought he would continue to answer no to all questions. Instinct told him to. He said apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not. Never got around to it, you know. Too much bound up with my books, perhaps.’ He smiled ruefully, self-critically.
‘Schade! That is a pity.’ But the eyes registered satisfaction. ‘These installations bring good income for the Count. That is important. It helps to support his life’s work, the Institut.’
Bond raised his eyebrows a polite fraction.
‘The Institut für physiologische Forschung. It is for scientific research. The Count is a leader in the field of allergies – you understand? This is like the hay fever, the unableness to eat shellfish, yes?’
‘Oh really? Can’t say I suffer from any myself.’
‘No? The laboratories are in a separate building. There the Count also lives. In this building, where we are, live the patients. He asks that you will not disturb them with too many questions. These treatments are very delicate. You understand?’
‘Yes, of course. And when may I see the Count? I’m afraid I am a very busy man, Fräulein Bunt. There are matters awaiting my attention in London.’ Bond spoke impressively. ‘The new African States. Much work has to be done on their flags, the design of their currency, their stamps, their medals. We are very short-handed at the College. I hope the Count understands that his personal problem, interesting and important though it is, must take second place to the problems of Government.’
Bond had got through. Now she was all eagerness, reassurance. ‘But of course, my dear Sir Hilary. The Count asks to be excused tonight, but he would much like to receive you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. That is suitable?’