Felix Leiter drives the van across the desert with Bond beside him in the passenger seat. It is night, but it is not dark outside because Nevada is thoroughly lit up. Ahead, though, beyond the toll booths arrayed along the California state line, is the vast blackness of a desert with no commercial use and therefore no lights save for the lights of vehicles.
"I hope it didn't put Q out to design the steering system for the American road," says Leiter.
"Not at all," says Bond. "After all, on the Continent they drive on the same side of the road as you."
"I hadn't thought of that," muses Leiter. "Say, I suppose it would be possible to put steering on the passenger's side, too."
"Could be done, I suppose."
There is a pause in the conversation while they go through the gate at the state line, and then they are in California. During the long drive, they take turns behind the wheel while the other sleeps. As they near Los Angeles, Leiter asks, "Have you ever been to Pasadena, James?"
"Can't say I have. Los Angeles a couple of times, but never Pasadena. No."
"Well, it's right next to L.A. but not as big. There are a lot of research facilities. University of California and NASA-related, mostly."
"I know. I did some research," says Bond.
"I thought we'd first go take a look at the lab. See where the rocket fuel was stolen."
"That sounds like a good idea."
An hour later, they drive past the sign that says "Cryonic Research" and up the long driveway to park the van in the lot in front of a rambling, two-storey stucco building with a typical Southwestern pan tile roof.
"It's a secret facility, of course," says Leiter. "That's why it doesn't say 'Rocket Scientists at Work' on the sign you see from the road."
"Understood," says Bond.
The two men go through the front door, past two plainclothes guards in navy blue blazers. They are not carrying rifles, but Bond notices the large bulges under their left arms. He assumes they are large caliber handguns, perhaps .44 Magnum revolvers or .45 semiautomatic pistols. He notices similarly dressed and armed men inside the wide, ultramodern lobby with its steel and space-age-plastic furnishings. There are evergreen fronds and twinkling lights everywhere, even along the length of a honey-colored reception counter. Bond puts his hand under the counter's ledge and feels a bullet hole that they haven't yet bothered to repair.
The Receptionist greets them with "Merry Christmas, gentlemen."
"Happy Holidays. I'm Felix Leiter, Office of Management and Budget. This is Dr. Bond from the London Institute of Technology."
"Just a minute," she says. Then, speaking to a Caterer in a vest and bowtie with a cart in tow, she says, "Is that for the party tonight?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Where does it go?"
"This man in the blue blazer will show you." With that, one of the Security Guards leads the Caterer into a corridor. The Security Guard has to swipe his badge so that they can gain entry through a heavy, thick glass door.
"You're having a party?" asks Leiter.
"Tonight is our annual Chrsitmas party," she says with a broad smile. Then she consults a schedule. "Yes, Mr. Bennett is expecting you. If you don't mind waiting over there?" She indicates some plush new easy chairs set around a glass-topped coffee table. Leiter stays where he is. Bond ambles over but does not sit. He notes that the magazines on the table are mostly about cryonics and that the cover of one prominently placed journal shows a man with an unruly mane of white hair holding aloft, in a heavily-gloved hand, a beaker with what looks like smoke coming out of it. The headline reads, "Dr. Max Glaublick Gets It Right: Cryogenic Breakthrough in Animal Tests."
"Mr. Leiter? Dr. Bond?" It is a tan, fit-looking man with an ID badge clipped to the breast pocket of a navy blue blazer. The badge identifies him as "Ned Bennett, Director of Security." He is walking toward them with his hand outstretched and a smile on his lips. He has a short, thin mustache, which matches his chestnut crew cut. "You must be Mr. Leiter from Washington."
Leiter takes the hand and says, "Glad to meet you, Mr. Bennett."
"Dr. Bond, I've heard so much about you," Bennett says, shaking 007's hand, too. "I hope you didn't have too grueling a trip. I know jet lag can be a bitch."
"Actually," says Leiter, "We spent last night in Las Vegas."
"Then you had a chance to unwind. Say, what a coincidence. Some people from our facility just flew back after a few days in Vegas. Well, let's move this meeting into my office, shall we?"
Once he closes the door to his office, Bennett wearily leans against his desk and gets to the point. "We lost five people the other day," he says. "Two wounded security guards managed to survive. So they left witnesses. Whoever pulled this off must've worked so quickly, they didn't have time to kill everyone they would probably have liked to."
"And about Dr. Morewood and the fuel tank?" prompts Leiter. "No ransom demand? No body?"
"Nothing. It's been a week, and we haven't got a clue. And the crazy thing is that they made such a clean getaway. I mean, nobody saw any cars or trucks or helicopters. They hit us and then just vanished."
"I presume you still have more valuable work here that someone might try to steal," says Bond.
"And valuable people, too," says Bennett.
"Are you sure the handguns are sufficient?" asks Bond. "I realize you have a lot of armed men, but it sounds as if whoever hit you last week was heavily armed, and I understand they used tear gas."
"That's right," says Bennett gloomily, "but while we are keeping things low-key for appearances sake, my men have access to over a dozen different stations in the lobby, and elsewhere around the building, where they can grab gasmasks and submachine guns at a moment's notice. We've been having drills every night for the past week."
Bond half-heartedly nods approval. He notices a picture on the wall of Bennett's office.
"Is that you with Dr. Glaublick?"
"Why, yes," says Bennett, seeming a bit surprised. "Do you know him?"
"Never heard of him before today," says Bond.
After further, decidedly unfruitful discussion, Bennett escorts Bond and Leiter back to the lobby.
At the opposite end of the long lobby, Bond spots a lithe young woman in a charcoal gray business suit walking with an older man toward a bank of elevators. As he sizes up her figure, Bond finds something familiar about them both, even from behind. At the same time, he wonders why they bother to have an elevator at all in a two-storey building. The elevator doors open. The two enter the cabin, then turn, as the old man pushes something inside the door, presumably choosing their floor by pushing buttons on a panel. Suddenly Bond recognizes them both. The man is Dr. Glaublick, and the woman is Crystal.
Bond and Leiter climb into the van. It is Leiter's turn to drive, and he pulls back onto the freeway.
"So Felix, what do you make of the subterranean levels of that facility?"
"You noticed," says Leiter. "I knew about it already, but I was aware that Bennett didn't mention it to you, even after you mentioned Glaublick. There is a separate facility in the basement, also a top secret government-contracted project, and they're doing a different kind of cryonic research."
"Cryogenic preservation of living tissue," says Bond. "I know."
"Yeah," replies Leiter. "Both facilities are funded by something called the B&B Corporation, which has its fingers in government research contracts in the United States and Europe, usually at arms length. I, personally, don't know much else about it. Except that the lower-level facility was unaffected by the attack last week."
Bond eyes the review mirror. "Don't look now, Felix, but we're being followed."
"I already noticed that, too."
As a pursuing dark sedan closes in from behind, Felix speeds up, and the car behind picks up speed, too. A man on the passenger side of the pursuing vehicle sticks his head and arm out and begins shooting at them. Bullets bounce off Q's van like tiny hail stones.
"Your guy, Q, bullet-proofed this thing!" exclaims Leiter.
"Q added a lot of options," says Bond, opening the dash board to reveal a control panel that includes a targeting scope and a joystick, which Bond uses to fire a rear machinegun at the car behind them. Another man in the backseat of the pursuing vehicle fires a rocket that takes out Leiter's driver side mirror. Leiter rolls down his window so he can stick his head out and see behind him.
"Careful, Felix!" warns Bond.
"You worry about your job; I'll do mine," says Leiter.
Bonds shoots up the pursuing vehicle until one of the gunman is wounded and the other dead, and the wounded driver is forced to pull onto the shoulder.
"How's that for a job well done?" says Bond.
"As you guys like to say, 'High marks'."
Another dark sedan pulls onto the freeway from an entrance ramp and swerves in front of their van. Leiter pulls the parking brake as he spins the driver's wheel until it turns the van around 180 degrees. He releases the brake and drives with rubber-peeling acceleration in the wrong direction on the freeway, forcing cars off the road, but as he passes the car that is pulled onto the shoulder, the wounded gunman fires a shot through the van's open window, wounding Leiter in the shoulder.
"I'm hit, James! I can't control the wheel!" shouts Leiter through gritted teeth. Meanwhile, the new pursuit vehicle, also driving the wrong way on the freeway, is gaining on them. Bullets continue to ping off the van.
"Take it easy, old man," says Bond. "I've got you covered. Remember that we were talking earlier about how nice it would be to switch the steering from one side of the van to the other? Well, Q thought of that already." Bond opens the glovebox door sideways and draws out a separate steering wheel. A hydraulic mechanism whirs as the vehicle switches steering command to the passenger side. "Don't worry, Felix. I'm used to driving on this side of the road."
As cars lurch out of the way in front of them, Bond increases their speed, only adjusting the drift of the van from side to side to avoid those cars that are not quick enough to get completely out of their way. He also uses an automatic switch to roll up the bullet-proof window on Leiter's side.
Bond glances at Leiter and sees that his head is lolling.
"Talk to me, Felix!"
"I'm OK, James," he says, but his voice trails off.
"Those driving skills you showed off back there," says Bond. "Impressive. They teach you that at the Farm?"
"I'd tell ya, but then I'd have ta kill ya," Leiter slurs.
"Well, I'm going to see if I can't match those skills." With that, Bond brakes and swivels, pulls into an opening in the slow lane, and barrels toward the enemy car, which is still coming toward them but in the opposite lane. Bond trades machinegun fire with them. His windscreen cracks but doesn't shatter. Their windscreen is less resilient. A half-dozen holes appear, each in the middle of a spider web of fracture lines, but they keep coming. Then, as they are closing in, Bond throws another switch on his control panel and turns his joystick and its on-screen targeting sight toward the enemy vehicle. The screen flashes to indicate that he is locked on target. He pushes the button atop his stick and watches as first smoke and then fire pour out of the front left headlight area of Q's van. A projectile flies at an angle across the lanes and into the driver's side of the assailants' car, which explodes in a brilliant flash before lifting into the air and turning in a mid-air spiral before crashing upside down onto the guardrail.
Bond grabs the radio-telephone handset.
"Papa Bear this is Goldilocks! Papa Bear this is Goldilocks! Come in, Papa Bear!" shouts Bond into the mouth piece.
"Goldilocks, this is Papa Bear," comes the response over the radio-telephone. "Are you headed to the cottage?"
"Affirmative, Papa Bear, but Baby Bear's porridge is cold! I repeat, Baby Bear's porridge is cold."
"Understood, Goldilocks. Mama Bear will be standing by. Can you find the cottage?"
"Affirmative, Papa Bear," says Bond. "ETA five minutes." Bond steps on the pedal.
Two minutes later, Bond pulls into the driveway of a rambling ranch-style home on a secluded street and nearly slams into the garage door, which opens immediately. A small medical team with a rolling gurney hustles out of the garage, takes Leiter from the van and wheels him into the garage and thence through a breezeway. Bond follows them at a trot. Beyond the breezeway is a small but state-of-the-art operating room with a surgeon and three nurses. They work feverishly on Leiter, cutting away his coat and shirt and hooking him up to tubes and bottles.
Bond stands by and watches helplessly for once.
"I'm Special Agent McNee, FBI," says a man in shirtsleeves with a .38 in his shoulder-holster, coming up to Bond and extending his hand. Bond takes the hand but without taking his eyes off of the medical team for more than a second. "Thanks for saving our man," says McNee.
"Don't mention it," says Bond. "He's my friend."
"He's in good hands. And he's a tough old bird. You look kinda beat up yourself. Sure you couldn't use some medical attention?"
"I'm all right," says Bond. "Besides, I've still got work to do."