iam fleming.for your eyes only-第12部分

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　Was　this　a　hill　or　a　mountain？　At　what　height　does　a　hill　bee　a　mountain？　Why　don't　they　manufacture　something　out　of　the　silver　bark　of　birch　trees？　It　looks　so　useful　and　valuable。　The　best　things　in　America　are　chipmunks；　and　oyster　stew。　In　the　evening　darkness　doesn't　really　fall；　it　rises。　When　you　sit　on　top　of　a　mountain　and　watch　the　sun　go　down　behind　the　mountain　opposite；　the　darkness　rises　up　to　you　out　of　the　valley。　Will　the　birds　one　day　lose　their　fear　of　man？　It　must　be　centuries　since　man　has　killed　a　small　bird　for　food　in　these　woods；　yet　they　are　still　afraid。　Who　was　this　Ethan　Allen　who　manded　the　Green　Mountain　Boys　of　Vermont？　Now；　in　American　motels；　they　advertise　Ethan　Allen　furniture　as　an　attraction。　Why？　Did　he　make　furniture？　Army　boots　should　have　rubber　soles　like　these。
　With　these　and　other　random　thoughts　Bond　steadily　climbed　upwards　and　obstinately　pushed　away　from　him　the　thought　of　the　four　faces　asleep　on　the　white　pillows。
　The　round　peak　was　below　the　tree…line　and　Bond　could　see　nothing　of　the　valley　below。　He　rested　and　then　chose　an　oak　tree；　and　climbed　up　and　out　along　a　thick　bough。　Now　he　could　see　everything　…　the　endless　vista　of　the　Green　Mountains　stretching　in　every　direction　as　far　as　he　could　see；　away　to　the　east　the　golden　ball　of　the　sun　just　ing　up　in　glory；　and　below；　two　thousand　feet　down　a　long　easy　slope　of　treetops　broken　once　by　a　wide　band　of　meadow；　through　a　thin　veil　of　mist；　the　lake；　the　lawns　and　the　house。
　Bond　lay　along　the　branch　and　watched　the　band　of　pale　early　morning　sunshine　creeping　down　into　the　valley。　It　took　a　quarter　of　an　hour　to　reach　the　lake；　and　then　seemed　to　flood　at　once　over　the　glittering　lawn　and　over　the　wet　slate　tiles　of　the　roofs。　Then　the　mist　went　quickly　from　the　lake　and　the　target　area；　washed　and　bright　and　new；　lay　waiting　like　an　empty　stage。
　Bond　slipped　the　telescopic　sight　out　of　his　pocket　and　went　over　the　scene　inch　by　inch。　Then　he　examined　the　sloping　ground　below　him　and　estimated　ranges。　From　the　edge　of　the　meadow；　which　would　be　his　only　open　field　of　fire　unless　he　went　down　through　the　last　belt　of　trees　to　the　edge　of　the　lake；　it　would　be　about　five　hundred　yards　to　the　terrace　and　the　patio；　and　about　three　hundred　to　the　diving…board　and　the　edge　of　the　lake。　What　did　these　people　do　with　their　time？　What　was　their　routine？　Did　they　ever　bathe？　It　was　still　warm　enough。　Well；　there　was　all　day。　If　by　the　end　of　it　they　had　not　e　down　to　the　lake；　he　would　just　have　to　take　his　chance　at　the　patio　and　five　hundred　yards。　But　it　would　not　be　a　good　chance　with　a　strange　rifle。　Ought　he　to　get　on　down　straight　away　to　the　edge　of　the　meadow？　It　was　a　wide　meadow；　perhaps　five　hundred　yards　of　going　without　cover。　It　would　be　as　well　to　get　that　behind　him　before　the　house　awoke。　What　time　did　these　people　get　up　in　the　morning？
　As　if　to　answer　him；　a　white　blind　rolled　up　in　one　of　the　smaller　windows　to　the　left　of　the　main　block。　Bond　could　distinctly　hear　the　final　snap　of　the　spring　roller。　Echo　Lake！　Of　course。　Did　the　echo　work　both　ways？　Would　he　have　to　be　careful　of　breaking　branches　and　twigs？　Probably　not。　The　sounds　in　the　valley　would　bounce　upwards　off　the　surface　of　the　water。　But　there　must　be　no　chances　taken。
　A　thin　column　of　smoke　began　to　trickle　up　straight　into　the　air　from　one　of　the　left…hand　chimneys。　Bond　thought　of　the　bacon　and　eggs　that　would　soon　be　frying。　And　the　hot　coffee。　He　eased　himself　back　along　the　branch　and　down　to　the　ground。　He　would　have　something　to　eat；　smoke　his　last　safe　cigarette　and　get　on　down　to　the　firing　point。
　The　bread　stuck　in　Bond's　throat。　Tension　was　building　up　in　him。　In　his　imagination　he　could　already　hear　the　deep　bark　of　the　Savage。　He　could　see　the　black　bullet　lazily；　like　a　slow　flying　bee；　homing　down　into　the　valley　towards　a　square　of　pink　skin。　There　was　a　light　smack　as　it　hit。　The　skin　dented；　broke　and　then　closed　up　again　leaving　a　small　hole　with　bruised　edges。　The　bullet　ploughed　on；　unhurriedly；　towards　the　pulsing　heart　…　the　tissues；　the　bloodvessels；　parting　obediently　to　let　it　through。　Who　was　this　man　he　was　going　to　do　this　to？　What　had　he　ever　done　to　Bond？　Bond　looked　thoughtfully　down　at　his　trigger　finger。　He　crooked　it　slowly；　feeling　in　his　imagination　the　cool　curve　of　metal。　Almost　automatically；　his　left　hand　reached　out　for　the　flask。　He　held　it　to　his　lips　and　tilted　his　head　back。　The　coffee　and　whisky　burned　a　small　fire　down　his　throat。　He　put　the　top　back　on　the　flask　and　waited　for　the　warmth　of　the　whisky　to　reach　his　stomach。　Then　he　got　slowly　to　his　feet；　stretched　and　yawned　deeply　and　picked　up　the　rifle　and　slung　it　over　his　shoulder。　He　looked　round　carefully　to　mark　the　place　when　he　came　back　up　the　hill　and　started　slowly　off　down　through　the　trees。
　Now　there　was　no　trail　and　he　had　to　pick　his　way　slowly；　watching　the　ground　for　dead　branches。　The　trees　were　more　mixed。　Among　the　spruce　and　silver　birch　there　was　an　occasional　oak　and　beech　and　sycamore　and；　here　and　there；　the　blazing　Bengal　fire　of　a　maple　in　autumn　dress。　Under　the　trees　was　a　sparse　undergrowth　of　their　saplings　and　much　dead　wood　from　old　hurricanes。　Bond　went　carefully　down；　his　feet　making　little　sound　among　the　leaves　and　moss…covered　rocks；　but　soon　the　forest　was　aware　of　him　and　began　to　pass　on　the　news。　A　large　doe；　with　two　Bambi…like　young；　saw　him　first　and　galloped　off　with　an　appalling　clatter。　A　brilliant　woodpecker　with　a　scarlet　head　flew　down　ahead　of　him；　screeching　each　time　Bond　caught　up　with　it；　and　always　there　were　the　chipmunks；　craning　up　on　their　hind　feet；　lifting　their　small　muzzles　from　their　teeth　as　they　tried　to　catch　his　scent；　and　then　scampering　off　to　their　rock　holes　with　chatterings　that　seemed　to　fill　the　woods　with　fright。　Bond　willed　them　to　have　no　fear；　that　the　gun　he　carried　was　not　meant　for　them；　but　with　each　alarm　he　wondered　if；　when　he　got　to　the　edge　of　the　meadow；　he　would　see　down　on　the　lawn　a　man　with　glasses　who　had　been　watching　the　frightened　birds　fleeing　the　treetops。
　But　when　he　stopped　behind　a　last　broad　oak　and　looked　down　across　the　long　meadow　to　the　final　belt　of　trees　and　the　lake　and　the　house；　nothing　had　changed。　All　the　other　blinds　were　still　down　and　the　only　movement　was　the　thin　plume　of　smoke。
　It　was　eight　o'clock。　Bond　gazed　down　across　the　meadow　to　the　trees；　looking　for　one　which　would　suit　his　purpose。　He　found　it　…　a　big　maple；　blazing　with　russet　and　crimson。　This　would　be　right　for　his　clothes；　its　trunk　was　thick　enough　and　it　stood　slightly　back　from　the　wall　of　spruce。　From　there；　standing；　he　would　be　able　to　see　all　he　needed　of　the　lake　and　the　house。　Bond　stood　for　a　while；　plotting　his　route　down　through　the　thick　grass　and　golden…rod　of　the　meadow。　He　would　have　to　do　it　on　his　stomach；　and　slowly。　A　small　breeze　got　up　and　bed　the　meadow。　If　only　it　would　keep　blowing　and　cover　his　passage！
　Somewhere　not　far　off；　up　to　the　left　on　the　edge　of　the　trees；　a　branch　snapped。　It　snapped　once　decisively　and　there　was　no　further　noise。　Bond　dropped　to　one　knee；　his　ears　pricked　and　his　senses　questing。　He　stayed　like　that　for　a　full　ten　minutes；　a　motionless　brown　shadow　against　the　wide　trunk　of　the　oak。
　Animals　and　birds　do　not　break　twigs。　Dead　wood　must　carry　a　special　danger　signal　for　them。　Birds　never　alight　on　twigs　that　will　break　under　them；　and　even　a　large　animal　like　a　deer　with　antlers　and　four　hooves　to　manipulate　moves　quite　silently　in　a　forest　unless　he　is　in　flight。　Had　these　people　after　all　got　guards　out？　Gently　Bond　eased　the　rifle　off　his　shoulder　and　put　his　thumb　on　the　safe。　Perhaps；　if　the　people　were　still　sleeping；　a　single　shot；　from　high　up　in　the　woods；　would　pass　for　a　hunter　or　a　poacher。　But　then；　between　him　and　approximately　where　the　twig　had　snapped；　two　deer　broke　cover　and　cantered　unhurriedly　across　the　meadow　to　the　left。　It　was　true　that　they　stopped　twice　to　look　back；　but　each　time　they　cropped　a　few　mouthfuls　of　grass　before　moving　on　and　into　the　distant　fringe　of　the　lower　woods。　They　showed　no　fright　and　no　haste。　It　was　certainly　they　who　had　been　the　cause　of　the　snapped　branch。　Bond　breathed　a　sigh。　So　much　for　that。　And　now　to　get　on　across　the　meadow。
　A　five…hundred…yard　crawl　through　tall　concealing　grass　is　a　long　and　wearisome　business。　It　is　hard　on　knees　and　hands　and　elbows；　there　is　a　vista　of　nothing　but　grass　and　flower　stalks；　and　the　dust　and　small　insects　get　into　your　eyes　and　nose　and　down　your　neck。　Bond　focused　on　placing　his　hands　right　and　maintaining　a　slow；　even　speed。　The　breeze　had　kept　up　and　his　wake　through　the　grass　would　certainly　not　be　noticeable　from　the　house。
　From　above；　it　looked　as　if　a　big　ground　animal　…　a　beaver　perhaps；　or　a　woodchuck　…　was　on　its　way　down　the　meadow。　No；　it　would　not　be　a　beaver。　They　always　move　in　pairs。　And　yet　perhaps　it　might　be　a　beaver　…　for　now；　from　higher　up　on　the　meadow；　something；　somebody　else　had　entered　the　tall　grass；　and　behind　and　above　Bond　a　second　wake　was　being　cut　in　the　deep　sea　of　grass。　It　looked　as　if　whatever　it　was　would　slowly　catch　up　on　Bond　and　that　the