The Israel Bond Omnibus (32 page)

Bond’s cruelly handsome face was undergoing a startling transformation into a clownish moronic simper.

“Three minutes,” said Dr. Nu.

“Geez, Gidget.” The gawky young teener on the screen fought to keep the tears from running into his pimples. “You mean you forgot you promised to go to the prom with me and now you’re going with Barney Kincaide, the smartest, handsomest boy in the class... even after I drove my hot rod off the cliff to impress you ’n’ ever’thing?” More riotous laughter from nowhere. “Well, I... I...” stammered the pixieish blonde sweetheart of Wollstonecraft Junior High. “Did I do something wrong, Daddykins, did I?” A man in a tweed smoking jacket puffed his pipe. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m just your schmuck of a father. Ask mommy. She knows everything. She’ll pull you out of this jam like she does every week on this matriarchally oriented situation comedy show.”

“Four minutes,” said Dr. Nu. Bond’s eyes were rolling around, tongue sliding in-and-out. “You may unbind his hands now, Topjob; he has been rendered harmless. I don’t want him to lacerate his wrists on his straps in his frenzy.”

“Certs is a candy mint.” “No, Certs is a breath mint!”

“Let Certs Hertz you in the driver’s seat!”

“You mean to say that if the cobalt bomb destroys the world, you’ll still cover my losses? H-m-m, John Hancock, huh?”

“How’d you like a nice Hawaiian punch?” Pow! “Fruit juicy, fruit juicy, Dippity Do, Dippity Do...”

The face of Bond was frozen into a mindless ear-to-ear grin. His thumb was on his nose, four fingers waving in cadence. He was humming “The Doublemint Gum” song.

“Ten seconds more, Topjob, and Secret Agent Israel Bond will be our unwitting tool.”

With a sob and a rush of breath a hooded figure leaped between them; jammed a finger into the WR button.

On the screen—a handsome man in a well-cut Jackie Gordon suit, his face full of urbanity, tenderness, intelligence, wit—all the qualities present in the best of Twentieth Century man—smiled: “Good evening. This is
Open End
and my name is David Susskind. Our panel discussion tonight is on the subject, ‘Will Automation, Carried to the Extreme, Throw Millions of Computers Out of Work?,’ and to probe this unique problem of our times I have asked the following panelists to appear tonight—Leonard Bernstein, Arthur Fiedler and the entire Boston Pops Orchestra, Nipsey Russell, Arlene Francis and, for comedy relief, Hugh Downs.”

From the first outpourings of that mellifluous, cultured voice of sweet reason, Bond had felt the horrible banalities of button
WD
fleeing his brain like frightened Lucky Thompson gazelles in the path of a Kenya brush fire. And those intellectual names! Bernstein! Francis! Russell! Each one a torch of truth and knowledge, burning away his torpor.

He was a steely spring again, lashing out with cast-iron hands on the jaws of the nonplussed Topjob, sending the killer karateist crashing into the wall.

A cold grey eye snapped a photo of the enraged Dr. Nu struggling with the slight hooded figure who had saved Bond from insanity. He battered the doctor’s midsection, fists flailing with devastating potency. Dr. Nu said, “Ugh!,” doubled up in agony and fell over his contour chair.

Bond swept the hooded figure into his arms.

“Israel! Israel!”

He looked down into the face of Sister Sweetcakes!

“My darling! Alive, but—”

“Hurry!” she cried. “We must find a way out!”

He carried her to the first door he could find, slammed it behind him, secured it with a bolt.

“Oh, Israel! You’ve taken me into the greenhouse again.”

“Gottenu!
We’re in another pickle! I hope it’s Kosher this time. But, my OLEO angel, how did you escape the clutches of that chlorophyll horror back there?” He gazed at Herbie, heard the rumble of hunger. A tentacle shot out, fell a few feet short of his leg.

He could hear a groan of frustration. “Eat your heart of lettuce out, you green son-of-a-bitch!” And to Sister: “You haven’t answered me, my nun turned wildcat.”

There was a mischievous sparkle in those violet eyes. “Israel, think it out for yourself with that keen mind I admire so.”

“I see,” Bond nodded.
“Herbis homnis fressoris.
Our Celery Cyclops only eats—”

“Men. Just as his generic name states. He really was quite flustered upon discovering I was what I was. Expelled me from his interior in an instant.”

“Damn fool, that Herbie.” And the grey eyes searched her violet ones and in a burning moment of revelation found something there—the reflection of grey eyes. I shall kiss her now, he told himself; my lips will start to home in on paradise.
Gottenu!
There was a staggering blow on the back of his neck. Sister screamed.

“It’s another bug! Oh, heavenly Father... it’s enormous!”

Bond spun, fell to the floor just in time to avoid another blow from a thing with the buzz of a light plane motor. A beetle with a horrifying seven-inch circumference and the black hardness of coal! It swooped back, rammed its body against his temple. He somersaulted under a table. Overhead it droned, seeking its prey.

“It’s after me, Sister.... Goliath beetle,” he panted. “Biggest of its breed. Comes from Africa.”

He felt the welts rising on his head and neck. Damn thing has the kick of a mule! And those pincers! They can tear out two inches of flesh!

“Sister,” he said tensely. “Give me a handkerchief,
tout de suite!”
[18]
She tossed it to him, fearful eyes looking upward.

Bond reached into his pocket. He found what he had hoped to find. A handful of Israeli coins, five of them, three
agorot
and two
escargot
.

He folded the handkerchief into a triangle, grabbed one point in his right hand, put the five coins in the fold. Then he drew himself up boldly.

“Come, Goliath. A son of the House of David awaits thee.”

Buzz-z-z-z-z! A sound from the far corner.

It was ready to meet his brazen challenge. Down it zipped in a black blur. Round and round swung tho muscular arm of Israel Bond. The Goliath was coming fast now... ten feet away... nine... eight... seven... six....

Five coins left the improvised sling, slicing through the air like tracer bullets strafing a train. They crunched into the Goliath. Two buried themselves in its back, smashing through the hard shell, biting deeply into its insides. One ripped off a leg; two more chipped out eyes with their ridged edges.

It fell to the floor with a thump, flopping about madly. Bond, his rage abated now, stubbed out the last vestige of its life.

He turned to Sister, whose eyes were filled with candid adoration.

“Borrowing a term from your old days in jazz, Sister: when it comes to fighting a Goliath, it don’t mean a thing if you ain’t got that sling!”

Fool that I am, I turned my back. Now my arm is dangling like a subway strap. I must combat this mass of Oriental sinews with one swollen arm.

The karateist circled Bond with a malevolent grin, those pointed teeth clicking with excitement, the mouth slobbering for the kill. He’ll make it a slow job, a top job, will Topjob, Bond knew. Crack every bone in my body with one well-placed chop after another to the vulnerable spots.

One chance! Back slowly away, Oy Oy Seven... slowly... let him advance inch by inch, savoring every moment of your fear... your whimpering is as delicious to this ape as a mouthful of leeches or a bat’s entrails... “ooooh”... that’s it... moan a little... his grin is widening... you’re almost there, but for God’s sake as soon as you feel the first prick—freeze! And pray to the Lord of Israel that your shirt is thick enough to keep the tip from going into your epidermis....

His back made contact with the tip.

“All right, Topjob, do your worst, you f— gook!”

Topjob snarled and made his run at Bond. His hand speared into Bond’s shoulder as the Israeli leaped to the left. The karate specialist’s follow-through sent him sprawling into the Malaysian death vine!

Bond gnashed his teeth as the pain spread through his torn shoulder. He opened his eyes and met those of the Korean, whose own were slowly being overcome by dullness. Topjob’s hand moved toward Bond’s neck. It’s the moment of truth, thought Bond. Has he got enough left to deliver the final death chop to my esophagus? If he has, I can’t stop it.

The hand brushed Bond’s neck but the blow was powerless. Topjob started to fall slowly like an oak severed from its base by a handsaw. He tumbled to the floor, shook in a cataclysmic paroxysm and lay still.

Bond rolled the Korean on his back with a shove of his foot. From his armpit to his thigh Topjob was pierced with a row of thorns.

Sister Sweetcakes had quietly returned through the crack in the glass wall. “Israel. What... what happened to this man?”

He fished into his lapel pocket with his usable arm; stuck a Raleigh into his lips.

“Topjob was tough all right, Sister... damn tough. But he ran into a Jew who was a thorn in his side.”

“Oh, Father in heaven, you’re hurt again!” she cried. “Your arm...”

“Broken, I’m afraid. But there’s no time for tears now, Sister. I’ve a little date with that machine in the next room.”

She helped him make his way into the lab. “This is IPECAC, Sister. What it does I’ll explain later. But don’t think me dotty when I talk to it. I know what I’m doing. Flick that red switch. And when I stop talking, flick it off.”

She complied.

Bond spoke into the microphone. “Attention, Rotten Roger, my leader. Those stupid insects are prepared to follow my instructions blindly. They will help us take over the world. Then when they have accomplished our task for us, I shall destroy them to the last bug! Ha-ha! The fools! They do not know that I, Dr. Watts Nu, have invented an insecticide so potent that it makes Black Flag and Raid seem like Breakstone Cream Cheese. Roger, Rotten Roger, and out.” tie dragged on the Raleigh again. “That should crack the unholy alliance wide open. Every bug within five miles has heard Dr. Nu’s plan for betrayal. Now, to find the man behind all this, Leader Colfax.”

They trod the corridor lightly, Sister in the lead steering the limping secret agent as best she could. She again felt that disturbing electricity as his long tapering fingers enclosed hers.

In the darkness Bond stumbled, banged his torn shoulder into the wall.

There was an ear-piercing ring.

“Damn it! The wall... it’s wired to set off an alarm when touched. We’re in for it again, Sister.”

At the other end of the corridor a door opened and three of the Orientals came tramping through.

“Sister, run! I can’t make it! Save your pretty neck.”

“No, Israel,” she whispered hotly. “Try, please try....”

She yanked at his sleeve and they began to run. As they traversed the corridor they saw a number of doors with slivers of light winking out. “These must be the rooms rented by the Temple of Hate to its vacationing clientele,” she said. “Quickly... into this one!”

They found themselves in the rear of a large dimly lit hall. In the front was a hideous potbellied idol with red eyes that bored into their very souls. A little man with a messianically maddened face sat in the cross-legged style of the East, addressing a group of dark-hued men in loincloths.