THOUGH ANTON MURIK had presented the major trophies for the Murcaldy Games, people seemed reluctant to leave. On the Great Lawn, groups still performed reels and strathspeys, while those who had not been good enough to enter the major competitions were now availing themselves of the equipment, and space, to practise or emulate their superiors in the arts.
The marquees and tents remained thronged; there would be many a sore head or upset stomach in the glen by the following morning. It was now just past six in the evening, and after an enthusiastic speech amidst much applause and cheers, the Laird had set off in the direction of the castle, motioning Bond to follow him.
Lavender was left with Mary-Jane Mashkin, who, Bond noted, was never short of young and well-built male company-a fact that seemed not to upset the Laird. The previous night's experiences still puzzled Bond, who had begun to wonder how genuine the two women were. It could be a case of playing the hard and soft roles, as in a classic interrogation. Yet of the two, he would rather have Lavender on his side.
Murik led Bond through the hall, past the main staircase, pushing open a set of swing doors that led to a corridor, blocked at the far end by the great dividing line between old-style servants and their masters – the green baize door.
The Laird stopped half-way down the corridor, bringing out the ever-present keys – this time from his sporran – to unlock a solid oak door strengthened with steel grilles.
Bond followed him down a wide flight of stone stairs. Tiny guide lights gleamed, throwing vague shadows in the darkness. Half-way down, Murik turned towards him. With his mane of white hair, against the face in darkness, the visage took on the appearance of a negative. When he spoke the Laird's voice echoed eerily. 'You've already seen my inner sanctum. We're going to the most interesting part of the castle this time. The oldest remaining relic of my heritage. Now you are my Champion, Mr Bond, you should know of it.' The air smelled dank, and the stone stairs seemed endless, descending deeper and deeper underground until they came out into a flagged open space. Murik reached out to a switch hidden in the wall and the place was suddenly flooded with light. Huge arches supported the vaulted ceiling, which Bond thought must be as old as the original castle. There were two more doors, one on each side of the flagged space, while ahead of them another narrower passage continued. Murik nodded, 'That way leads to the old dungeons.' His jowl moved in a twitching smile. 'They are occasionally useful. To our right, a room which I do not like using. The old torture chamber.' He pushed open the door and Bond followed him in. At one end of the room Bond identified a rack, bolts and chains set into the walls, a flogging frame, brazier, and all the old and sinister instruments – from whips and branding irons to pincers and gouges. Murik pointed out other devices: 'You see, Mr Bond, all the old Scottish pleasures-the thumbikins and pilniewinks, and, of course, the boots. Very nasty things, the boots. Having your feet gradually crushed with wedges is not the way to ward off fallen arches.' 'Nor deal with your corns.' Bond shuddered in spite of the light-heartedness. In his time, he had suffered much physical torture, and its instruments were not unknown to him. Yet when he looked towards the far end of the room his blood ran cold. The walls there were tiled in white, and in the centre was an operating table. Cabinets along the far wall were of modern design, and Bond guessed they would contain more terrifying instruments than the brutal weapons of pain – hypodermics and drugs to send the mind reeling to the very edge of madness, and possibly even the means of inflicting agony through electrodes attached to the most sensitive areas of a man or woman. A man, well-trained, might withstand the exquisite pain that could be inflicted by the crude implements of torture; but few would keep truth or secrets for long in the more sophisticated part of this, Murik Castle 's chamber of horrors.
'Very occasionally this room is put to use, Mr Bond. Have care. All who serve me are given a guided tour. It usually does the trick, as a salutary warning. You defeated the good Caber, so you automatically serve me. Let your glimpse of this place act as a warning. I demand complete loyalty.'
Murik led the way out and across the flagged area to the door facing that of the torture chamber. He turned, smiling before he opened the door. 'My operations' room.'
The contrast was staggering. They were in a long, low, vaulted chamber. Its grey walls were covered with weapons: ranging, at the end nearest the door, from artistic and obviously valuable broadswords, rapiers, dirks and knives, through magnificently engraved crossbows decorated with inset stones, to wheel-lock, snaphance and flintlock pistols and muskets; and finally, on the far wall, there were modern rifles, carbines, pistols and automatic weapons.
'The most valuable part of your collection?' Bond recalled that Murik had already told him the best pieces were elsewhere in the castle.
Murik smiled, and Bond could not resist one gibe. 'No thermonuclear devices to bring it right up to date?'
The Laird's face darkened, then cleared into a seraphic smile. 'We have no need. The world provides them. They are all around us, sitting there ready and waiting to wreak disaster at the right moment.' Murik reached up, touching a large broadsword, 'A
'By turning a generator.' 'Quite; and the generator is operated usually by a turbine, in turn operated how, Mr Bond?' 'Water, in hydro-electric plants; boiling water producing steam in other types of plant.'
'Good; and the steam is produced through boiling the water, using coal, oil, gas – or the core of a nuclear reactor.' He gave another little laugh. 'An expensive way to boil water, don't you think? Using nuclear power?'
'I hadn't thought of it like that. It's always struck me as being one of the few sure ways to produce energy and power without using dwindling supplies of oil and fossil fuels.'
Murik nodded, 'In many ways I agree. I do not go along with Professor Lovins when he says that using nuclear power to boil water is like using a chainsaw to cut butter though he does have something on his side: wasted heat. No, the problem, Mr Bond, is one of safety and control. Nuclear reactors, as they now stand throughout the world, put our planet and its people at risk… '
'You mean the problem of radioactive waste?'
'No. I'm talking about unavoidable accident. There have already been incidents galore. If you're an intelligent man you must know that: 1952, Chalk River, Ontario;
!955, Idaho Falls; 1957, Windscale, England; '58, Chalk River, Canada; '61, Idaho Falls; 1970, Illinois; '71, Minnesota; '75, Alabama; '76, Vermont. Need I go on? Or should I mention the Kyshtym catastrophe in the U.S.S.R. when an atomic waste dump exploded in the Urals? Spillage, partial fuel meltdown. One day, with the kind of reactors we have at the moment, there will be catastrophe. Yet governments remain silent. The Carter Administration almost admitted it…' He rummaged among some papers. There. 1977 – 'Between now and the year 2000 there
Mr Bond?' 'Is that something to do with what they call the China Syndrome? I saw a movie with Jane Fonda…'