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laid off plenty for the breeze and fired the ball off into the sky. At first he thought he had laid off too much, but then the ball
began to float to the left. It pitched and stopped dead in the soft sand blown on to the green from the right-hand bunker. A
nasty fifteen-foot putt. Bond would now be glad to get a half. Sure enough, Goldfinger putted up to within a yard. That,
thought Bond as he squared up to his putt, he will have to hole. He hit his own putt fairly smartly to get it through the
powdering of sand and was horrified to see it going like lightning across the skiddy green. God, he was going to have not a
yard, but a two-yard putt back! But suddenly, as if drawn by a magnet, the ball swerved straight for the hole, hit the back of the
tin, bounced up and fell into the cup with an audible rattle. The sign from heaven! Bond went up to Hawker, winked at him and
took his driver.
They left the caddies and walked down the slope and back to the next tee. Goldfinger said coldly, 'That putt ought to have
run off the green.'
Bond said off-handedly, 'Always give the hole a chance!' He teed up his ball and hit his best drive of the day down the
breeze. Wedge and one putt? Goldfinger hit his regulation shot and they walked off again. Bond said, 'By the way, what
happened to that nice Miss Masterton?'
Goldfinger looked straight in front of him. 'She left my employ.'
Bond thought, good for her! He said, 'Oh, I must get in touch with her again. Where did she go to?'
'I couldn't say.' Goldfinger walked away from Bond towards his ball. Bond's drive was out of sight, over the ridge that
bisected the fairway. It wouldn't be more than fifty yards from the pin. Bond thought he knew what would be in Goldfinger's
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mind, what is in most golfers' minds when they smell the first scent of a good lead melting away. Bond wouldn't be
surprised to see that grooved swing quicken a trifle. It did. Goldfinger hooked into a bunker on the left of the green.
Now was the moment when it would be the end of the game if Bond made a mistake, let his man off the hook. He had a
slightly downhill lie, otherwise an easy chip - but to the trickiest green on the course. Bond played it like a man. The ball ended
six feet from the pin. Goldfinger played well out of his bunker, but missed the longish putt. Now Bond was only one down.
They halved the dog-leg twelfth in inglorious fives and the longish thirteenth also in fives, Goldfinger having to hole a good
putt to do so.
Now a tiny cleft of concentration had appeared on Gold-finger's massive, unlined forehead. He took a drink of water from
the tap beside the fourteenth tee. Bond waited for him. He didn't want a sharp clang from that tin cup when it was out-of-
bounds over the fence to the right and the drive into the breeze favouring a slice! Bond brought his left hand over to increase
his draw and slowed down his swing. The drive, well to the left, was only just adequate, but at least it had stayed in bounds,
Goldfinger, apparently unmoved by the out-of-bounds hazard, hit his standard shot. They both negotiated the transverse canal
without damage and it was another half in five. Still one down and now only four to play.
The four hundred and sixty yards fifteenth is perhaps the only hole where the long hitter may hope to gain one clear shot.
Two smashing woods will just get you over the line of bunkers that lie right up against the green. Goldfinger had to play short
of them with his second. He could hardly improve on a five and it was up to Bond to hit a really godlike second shot from a
barely adequate drive.
The sun was on its way down and the shadows of the four men were beginning to lengthen. Bond had taken up his stance. It
was a good lie. He had kept his driver. There was dead silence as he gave his two incisive waggles. This was going to be a vital
stroke. Remember to pause at the top of the swing, come down slow and whip the club head through at the last second. Bond
began to take the club back. Something moved at the corner of his'right eye. From nowhere the shadow of Goldfinger's huge
head approached the ball on the ground, engulfed it and moved on. Bond let his swing take itself to pieces in sections. Then he
stood away from his ball and looked up. Goldfinger's feet were still moving. He was looking carefully up at the sky.
'Shades please, Goldfinger.' Bond's voice was furiously controlled.
Goldfinger stopped and looked slowly at Bond. The eyebrows were raised a fraction in inquiry. He moved back and stood
still, saying nothing.
Bond went back to his ball. Now then, relax! To hell with Goldfinger. Slam that ball on to the green. Just stand still and hit
it. There was a moment when the world stood still, then& then somehow Bond did hit it - on a low trajectory that mounted
gracefully to carry the distant surf of the bunkers. The ball hit the bank below the green, bounced high with the impact and
rolled out of sight into the saucer round the pin.
Hawker came up and took the driver out of Bond's hand. They walked on together. Hawker said seriously, 'That's one of the
finest shots I've seen in thirty years.' He lowered his voice. 'I thought he'd fixed you then, sir.'
'He damned nearly did, Hawker. It was Alfred Blacking that hit that ball, not me." Bond took out his cigarettes, gave one to
Hawker and lit his own. He said quietly, 'All square and three to play. We've got to watch those next three holes. Know what I
mean?'
'Don't you worry, sir. I'll keep my eye on him.'
They came up with the green. Goldfinger had pitched on and had a long putt for a four, but Bond's ball was only two inches
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