They stood, it appeared, at the very top of a huge Greek amphitheatre. Below them the stone steps were filled with an appreciative audience, which laughed and applauded. He could feel the breeze on his face, and the sun hot above them. He could even smell the crowd, a mixture of spices, bodies and an amalgam of scents.
Far below, in the stage area, actors proceeded with the play.
Long ago lessons at school slid from his memory and he suddenly even recognized the play. It was Aristophanes' The Frogs. He knew it because of the chorus which chanted, `Brekekekex Co-ax Co-ax.' The Greek playwright's version of the modern `ribbit-ribbit'.
So, as if by magic, they had been brought to a Greek amphitheatre, and to a performance being given some four hundred years BC. The reality of the thing was extraordinary, and only his logic told him that they were really experiencing a clever use of modern hi-tech and old projection and optical effects, plus the use of advanced robotics.
It was quite enthralling and amazing until he spotted something slightly off-key. One of the actors, far below, had lifted a mask to his face. The mask had nothing to do with Greek theatre of 400 BC, but was of the kind used in Japanese Kabuki performances, which did not really flourish until some time in the early eighteenth century.
Just as he spotted this odd chronological error, so the whole picture in which they appeared to be standing, began to fade into darkness, and to their right a figure rose up from the darkness: a luminous, beckoning figure, so real that Bond turned, gun in hand, ready to shoot if necessary.
The apparition was dressed as an old jester, and it capered and beckoned another projection, or moving hologram, which bade them follow. Even with the glaring error in the Greek amphitheatre, Dragonpol's Museum of Theatre was certainly quite something: a trip into the past, as though in some kind of time machine.
He took Fredericka's elbow and guided her as they followed the strange dancing jester who suddenly disappeared, and, as he vanished, light came up around them and their ears were again assaulted by noise, their sense of smell detecting a melange of scents, some ripe and unpleasant, others sweet.
This time the change of aspect was more realistic than before.
They stood in an English market place, on the fringe of a crowd.
Facing them was a rough platform, an outdoor stage, with beams at each corner, set upon which was a crude upper level on which men and women were working machinery behind cloth cloud shapes.
The players on the stage were acting out some kind of religious story, which Bond realized must be one of the medieval mystery plays, for the actors spoke in an oddly accented English. A clap of thunder came from the people working the primitive special effects, and it was plain that the play was the story of Noah, for one of the actors was bidding his `Wife, come in,' as God Himself leaned down from tattered clouds and declaimed that the rain would begin at any moment.
Once more, the sense of reality was strong. They were there, present in an English town hundreds of years ago. People seemed to brush against them, and one actually spoke to Fredericka, asking if she recognized Dickon dressed as a girl. The Dragonpol set was exceptional. Yet, once more, just as the scene around them was dissolving, Bond saw one of the actors consult a relatively modern pocket watch.
Another figure came out of the darkness, this time a small man in Elizabethan dress. They could see right through his body, but, as he beckoned, he spoke clearly. `Come, there is plenty of room.
Come tonight to the Globe where they perform Master Shakespeare's comedy and delight, A Midsummer Night's Dream.' They followed as though mesmerized.
A street rose up around them. There were cobblestones underfoot, and others pressing in towards the high curving wooden walls of the old Globe Theatre. Seconds later, they stood, surrounded by an audience, within what Shakespeare had called a Wooden 0.
Again, it was the sense of actually being there that amazed Bond, and he had to wrestle with his senses to move himself back out of the light, from the sixteenth-century audience enjoying the end of the Dream Puck, acted by a young boy, was just finishing the play. Bond literally had to drag Fredericka away, melting through `people' and `walls' into the darkness of what he knew had to be the huge, hangar-like second floor of Schloss Drache.
`But James...' She began to resist.
`We're losing time, Flick. Things are going on out there...' `But it's like a magic carpet ... time travel . a true Time Machine.' `I know. But we have to.
The lights came up suddenly, brilliantly, bringing them up against reality with a terrible jolt.
The sounds and pictures had gone, and in their place was as Bond had presumed a massive warehouse, with catwalks leading through complicated pieces of equipment, huge cycloramas, automata and battens of floods, spots, odd-shaped mirrors and projectors.
They stood on a metal catwalk-grilled, and with a chain guard hanging from metal rods set at intervals of around six feet. The catwalk was solid and did not swing or move under them, yet it stood about twenty feet from the ground. This time, there was no insubstantial figure, projected by laser or hologramatic means, facing them.
`I told them you'd got into the display,' Charles said in excellent English. `Mr Lester is really very angry with you. Mrs Horton is driving him to the nearest hospital. Did you know you'd broken his arm?' `That was my intention.' Fredericka's voice gave no sign of surprise or fear. `I also did my best to damage his future romantic prospects.' `If it was up to me, I'd damage more than your romantic prospects.' Charles held an automatic pistol very close to his hip. He also stood with legs slightly parted. All the signals were that this man was trained, and it is the training that separates the men from the boys. Lester had not struck Bond as being a trained bodyguard.
Charles, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was about. `Just put Mr Lester's gun down on the catwalk, Mr Bond.
Do it slowly please. Very slowly.' Bond took a step forward, bent his knees and placed the Colt .45 carefully on the metal, just to his right and slightly behind him. `Your friend about, is he?' he asked, straightening up.
`William? Yes, sure, William's around somewhere. I wish we could both spend the odd hour in a locked room with you two. `But you're not going to do that, Charles, because your boss, Mr Dragonpol, says we have to be kept safe.' He took another step forward, speaking softly, trying to get close enough for a move. It was like trying to tempt a wild animal.
`Unless it becomes necessary, Mr Bond. Far enough.' The pistol moved very slightly in Charles' hand. `We don't want any accidents, do we?' He gave a cheeky grin. `Well, I wouldn't mind. We can always make it necessary. I wouldn't mind that, and you'd positively hate it.
Fredericka brushed against Bond's shoulder as she stepped in front of him. `Oh, Charles,' she all but cooed. `You don't think we'd be so stupid as to play games with you. We'll come quietly, won't we, James?' She turned her whole body back towards Bond, and, in doing so, her wide skirt flared up and snagged, for a moment, on one of the metal stanchions holding the guard chain in place.
For a spectacular few seconds, her upper thighs and lace-decorated hips were revealed, in all their glory, to Charles whose eyes bugged out at the unexpected sight. It was a perfect piece of distraction.
Fredericka had moved to Bond's right while doing her unveiling pirouette, and he was able to launch himself towards Charles, tackling him low, getting right under the gun hand, his right shoulder connecting with the bodyguard's knees.
Charles gave an uncharacteristic squeal as he pitched over Bond's shoulder. Fredericka moved in to grasp the pistol, twisting it and almost wrenching the wretched man's wrist from his arm. There was another scream as Bond dumped him on to the guard chain.
`Let him go, James,' she called, and he instinctively did as she instructed, giving the body a little help with his shoulder.
Charles twisted and turned, then fell from the catwalk, landing on the hard stone below with a thud that made Bond wince. The squeal stopped, and there was silence.
Bond retrieved the Colt, and saw that Fredericka already had Charles' pistol in her hand. `Anyone ever tell you how good you are, Flick?' He patted her shoulder, urging her forward.
`Many times, James. My instructors were always generous in their praise-I was head of the school.' She winked, then walked quickly, with Bond at her heels. Every sixty feet or so, the catwalk expanded into a viewing platform with machinery, automata, lights, mirrors and scenery reaching out on each side. Whatever else, Dragonpol obviously possessed a wonderful imagination.
At the far end, they reached a single door. Thick metal with a large heavy lock: it stood half open, and they emerged into the far end of the long passage, which evidently ran right around the enclosed second floor. This time,
