In a laboratory, Dr. Alois Morewood, a scientist wearing a white hazmat suit, marks a calendar. According to his mark, it is the 16th of December 1967. Through a thick window onto an adjacent, sealed chamber, Morewood observes as a similarly suited-up assistant, Bob, attaches a fuel tank to a large engine. The tank has dry-ice-like indotherms rising from it. Bob leaves the test chamber. Morewood then pushes a console button to remotely ignite the fuel, and the two men watch the enormous blast from the engine. They give each other the thumbs up when it is over.

Bob goes back in with another dry-icy tank and attaches it to the engine.

An alarm goes off. The two men look at each other through the window, unsure what to make of it. The sign over the door to the test chamber indicates "Lock Down." Bob tries to open the door but cannot make it budge. The door to the laboratory explodes open and Commandos in red hazmat suits, armed with submachineguns, rush through the smoking hole where the door had been. Machinegun fire is heard in the corridor outside. The Commandos grab Morewood along with an additional tank of fuel and hustle them out of the lab. One of the masked Commandos (Hereafter known as The Commando) goes over to the test chamber window, looks at the helpless Bob pounding against the glass on the other side. The Commando looks down at the console and pushes a button. The engine roars into action and Bob disappears in an immense ball of fire.

Opening credits: Assorted transparencies of violent men and scantily clad, undulating women move across the screen while Portishead, featuring Beth Gibbon, sings "All Mine," including the lyric, "Until the day I die."

We see a festive Montage of London, its streets decked out with Christmas decorations. We end up at MI6 Headquarters, finally in the outer office of M's suite. Miss Moneypenny types at her desk. The door opens. In comes James Bond. He tosses his hat from the doorway and it catches perfectly atop the hat rack.

"So you did learn something from that Oddjob fellow," says Moneypenny.

"Well, Miss Moneypenny," says Bond, "he was more practiced, but in the end he was shockingly bad."

The intercom on Moneypenny's desk comes to life:

"Is 007 in yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, if you two will stop making love, send him in."

Bond and Moneypenny exchange chastened looks, and Bond strides toward the door to the inner office.

Once inside M's sanctum sanctorum, Bond finds that there is a bespectacled bald man with an unlit pipe already seated in one of the two chairs in front of M's desk. M and the stranger both stand.

M says, "Professor Michaels, may I introduce Commander James Bond. Commander, this is Professor Woodward Michaels." The two men shake hands and exchange how-do-you-dos. M then says, "Be seated gentlemen." After a pause, he asks, "Commander, what do you know about rocket fuel?"

"Not much, sir. I know it tends to go boom if you treat it disrespectfully."

"Indeed." M looks at Michaels. "Would you please fill in the Commander on the relevant details?"

"I'd be happy to," says Michaels. "There are two types of fuel generally used in rocketry these days. We in the West prefer a liquefied gas that is cooled down so that it is like dry ice. The Soviet's are still using a solid fuel that is not as advanced or as efficient. That's the technical part in a nutshell."

"I presume," says Bond, "that these fuels are used both in ICBMs and in launch vehicles for the space programs."

"Ah," says Michaels, "you do know more than you let on."

"Yes, yes," says M impatiently. "Now that the Commander has shown off his brilliance, let us get down to brass tacks. The CIA has asked for our assistance in the matter of some stolen rocket fuel of the frozen liquefied gas type that you were just discussing. There is a kidnapped scientist involved, as well. They need your help in finding out how they were taken from their laboratory, which is located in..." M consults a piece of paper before pronouncing "...Pasadena, California."

"Then I am to go to the Colonies, sir?"

"Almost immediately, as soon as you've visited Q. He has some new gadget or other to show you. Nothing you need to bother about, Professor Michaels. I'll show you out. Thank you for your time."

"Not at all."

The men rise and shake hands again in farewell.

Bond wanders into the cavernous lab where Q's assistants are all either putting together or testing an array of devices from golf-club guns to exploding toasters to panel vans that turn into heavily armored battlewagons with mounted cannons and machineguns. Absently, Bond plays with a cigarette lighter he finds on a counter.

Don't touch that, 007!" says Q rushing over to his least favorite agent. "That may look like an ordinary cigarette lighter, but it's actually a laser weapon that could burn a hole in an aeroplane fuselage from a mile and a half away."

"Hmm. I'll bet it can keep a good cigar lit, too," says Bond.

"Come over here, 007," says Q. "I want to show you something."

"Show and tell," says Bond.

"Here. A perfectly ordinary-looking pair of cufflinks, but when you twist them clockwise they emit a 160 decibel sound wave that shatters the ear drums."

"Very interesting, but wouldn't that shatter mine, too?"

"Yes," allows Q, "but as much as that thought pleases me, I am giving you these special ear muffs. Put these on before you use the cufflinks, and then be sure to twist them counterclockwise before you take the earmuffs off. Got that?"

"I'll try not to muff it."

"Very droll, I'm sure."

"What is this?" says Bond, admiring a tailored suit on a manikin.

"Yes," says Q. "This one's not your size exactly, but we are having this system installed in one of last year's suits that fit you."

"System, Q?"

"If I am not mistaken, during one of your sojourns in Japan, you studied the sai, is that not correct?"

"Yes," says Bond cautiously.

Q steps behind the manikin and raises the arms of its coat so that the hollow sleeves point toward Bond. "Each of these sleeves contain a framework that will go around each arm. Just shoot your sleeves…" He snaps the coat sleeves forward. "…and voila!" A collapsible knife blade comes out of each sleeve. Not only does the blade itself telescope out until it is a foot long, but parallel guards pop out along both sides of each blade. "What do you think?"

"Impressive," says Bond, "but there are an awful lot of moving parts."

"That's why I want you to field test it, 007."

"Then I'll give it the old college sai."

Q rolls his eyes toward heaven.

On a Globe, we see the representation of a BOAC plane fly from Heathrow, across the Atlantic and then land in New York. We then see a TWA flight traverse the United States, landing at Las Vegas.

Bond walks into the terminal at McCarran Airport carrying one small carry-on and a bag of golf clubs slung over his shoulder. At the gate, he meets his old friend, Felix Leiter.

"Nice to see you again, Felix, old man."

"Hope you had a good flight, James."

"Long but luxurious," says Bond. "Has the package arrived?"

"If you call it a package. It's a huge crate. They had to use a military cargo plane. What do you have in there, a tank?"

"You aren't far off. Wait until you see it."

"We'll go over to Nellis tomorrow and pick it up. May I carry your clubs?"

"Thank you." They talk as they walk to the parking garage. "So what is the status of the case?"

"Well, I'm your liaison with the FBI," says Leiter. "They still don't know who took the fuel or the scientist or where they took them."

"Any chance we know who 'they' are?"

"Afraid not."

"Russians?"

"That was our first guess," says Leiter, "but our sources close to the KGB say, no."

"You believe them?"

"As far as it goes. There is always SPECTRE, of course."

"Of course. So what is first on the agenda?"

"I'm going to drop you off at the Flamingo and, then, get back to my hotel."

They get in a modest, new Chevy sedan and drive. We see a Montage of Vegas. Noteworthy are Christmas-themed decorations on the Hotels along the Strip. Finally we see the Flamingo.

Inside the casino at the Flamingo, Bond finds the brightly flashing casino lights to be extra bright with Christmas green and red lights added. Dean Martin sings a Christmas song—live in a nearby lounge, not recorded. The cacophony of bells in the casino proper goes off incessantly. Multiple Santa Clauses wander the floor, looking over the gambling patrons, whether they are working the one-armed-bandits or playing at cards or dice. Apparently, the Santas are not there only to bring cheer but to determine who is being naughty or nice.

Bond buys some chips and joins others at the roulette table. There are businessmen in dark suits, a bearded whale in a white suit and a glamorous lady in a green gown and red hair done up in a magnificent high-rise. Bond puts chips on black and wins several times in a row. A waiter takes his order and brings a martini while Bond plays.

"You're lucky, Mister." It's the woman in green at his elbow.

"It's Doctor, actually, but I'll bet you say that to all the boys."

"Just the ones who get lucky."

"Am I that lucky?"

"Buy me a drink and you'll see, Doctor," she says.

"Waiter, another of whatever the lady is having," says Bond. Then to her, "Do you have a name?"

"I do." She pauses a long time.

"Well, where are my manners? My name is Bond, James Bond."

"Why, hello, Dr. Bond-James-Bond. My name is Crystal."

"Clearly."

As the morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling window of the hotel room, the two figures in the bed stir, but only Bond opens his eyes and rouses himself. He looks at the woman next to him under the covers, her luxurious red hair down now and spread across her pillow. She smiles as she stirs in her sleep.

Bond gets out of bed and takes a quick shower, slips on a robe with "Flamingo" emblazoned on one breast. There is a knock at the door.

"Yes?"

"Room service."

"I don't recall ordering anything," says Bond.

"Compliments of the lady," comes the muffled reply.

Bond cautiously opens the door. The Bellhop tries to push a cart, topped with a covered dish, a bottle of Champaign and two fluted glasses, into the room. The door does not open all the way, however, because of the bag of golf clubs resting against the inside of the doorframe. Bond moves the bag aside, just enough to allow the door to open all the way.

"I see you play golf," says the Bellhop.

"Yes, I'm hoping to play before I leave town."

The Bellhop gets the cart inside, and Bond closes the door.

The Bellhop reaches beneath the covered platter on the cart and pulls out a gun with a silencer. The two men turn toward each other at the same time, and Bond grabs the Bellhop's gun hand by the wrist. They struggle. A suppressed shot fires toward the bed and sends feathers flying from the pillow on Bond's side of the bed, but Crystal only sighs and rolls over slowly, mercifully, Bonds thinks, away from the bullet.

Bond forces the Bellhop to let go of the gun, but the Bellhop knocks Bond against the wall with a punch. The Bellhop pulls out a throwing knife as the two men go round and round. The knife is thrown, but Bond dodges it. With some alarm, he glances over his shoulder and sees that it buries itself in the headboard above Crystal. She still does not wake up, though.

While Bond is distracted, the Bellhop dives for the gun, but Bond jumps him. They struggle on the floor until the Bellhop throws Bond off. Bond crashes into the bag of golf clubs, knocking them over. One of the clubs slides out onto the plush rug. The Bellhop points his gun at Bond, but Bond grabs up the golf club and shoots the Bellhop with it. The loud report of the golf-club gun is followed by a muttering sound from the bed, but when Bond gets to his feet and looks over at the her, he sees that Crystal is still sleeping.

Moving quickly, he puts away the golf club, puts the body and gun-with-silencer in the closet, covers the bloody stain in the rug with a loveseat, and takes the knife out of the headboard. Just then, Crystal rouses herself. Bond opens the drawer to the nightstand on her side of the bed, puts the knife in and closes it. He stands back as she opens her eyes. Sleepily, she yawns and stretches. Then she smiles at him.

"Have you showered already?"

"Yes."

She half sits up and sees the cart in the middle of the room, the cover of the empty platter on the floor beside it. "Is that breakfast?"

"It was," he says. "I'm afraid I was famished."

She smiles again. "I'm famished, too. But not for food." She reaches out and takes his hand, pulling him back into the bed. He goes down on her eagerly. "Why are there so many feathers?" she asks absently.

"I hope you're not allergic," he says before getting back to business.