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e a long second shot across an undulating hilly fairway to a plateau green guarded by a final slope which makes it easier to take three putts than two。
Bond picked up his usual fifty yards on the drive and Goldfinger hit two of his respectable shots to the gully below the green。 Bond； determined to get up； took a brassie instead of a spoon and went over the green and almost up against the boundary fence。 From there he was glad to get down in three for a half。
The fifth was again a long carry； followed by Bond's favourite second shot on the course … over bunkers and through a valley between high sand…dunes to a distant； taunting flag。 It is a testing hole for which the first essential is a well…placed drive。 Bond stood on the tee； perched high up in the sand…hills； and paused before the shot while he gazed at the glittering distant sea and at the faraway crescent of white cliffs beyond Pegwell Bay。 Then he took up his stance and visualized the tennis court of turf that was his target。 He took the club back as slowly as he knew how and started down for the last terrific acceleration before the club head met the ball。 There was a dull clang on his right。 It was too late to stop。 Desperately Bond focused the ball and tried to keep his swing all in one piece。 There came the ugly clonk of a mishit ball。 Bond's head shot up。 It was a lofted hook。 Would it have the legs？ Get on！ Get on！ The ball hit the top of a mountain of rough and bounced over。 Would it reach the beginning of the fairway？
Bond turned towards Goldfinger and the caddies； his eyes fierce。 Goldfinger was straightening up。 He met Bond's eyes indifferently。 'Sorry。 Dropped my driver。'
'Don't do it again；' said Bond curtly。 He stood down off the tee and handed his driver to Hawker。 Hawker shook his head sympathetically。 Bond took out a cigarette and lit it。 Goldfinger hit his drive the dead straight regulation two hundred yards。
They walked down the hill in a silence which Goldfinger unexpectedly broke。 'What is the firm you work for？'
'Universal Export。'
'And where do they hang out？'
'London。 Regent's Park。'
'What do they export？'
Bond woke up from his angry ruminations。 Here； pay attention！ This is work； not a game。 All right； he put you off your drive； but you've got your cover to think about。 Don't let him needle you into making mistakes about it。 Build up your story。 Bond said casually； 'Oh everything from sewing…machines to tanks。'
'What's your speciality？'
Bond could feel Goldfinger's eyes on him。 He said； 'I look after the small arms side。 Spend most of my time selling miscellaneous ironmongery to sheiks and rajahs … anyone the Foreign Office decides doesn't want the stuff to shoot at us with。'
'Interesting work。' Goldfinger's voice was flat； bored。
'Not very。 I'm thinking of quitting。 Came down here for a week's holiday to think it out。 Not much future in England。 Rather like the idea of Canada。'
'Indeed？'
They were past the rough and Bond was relieved to find that his ball had got a forward kick off the hill on to the fairway。 The fairway curved slightly to the left and Bond had even managed to pick up a few feet on Goldfinger。 It was Goldfinger to play。 Goldfinger took out his spoon。 He wasn't going for the green but only to get over the bunkers and through the valley。
Bond waited for the usual safe shot。 He looked at his own lie。 Yes； he could take his brassie。 There came the wooden thud of a mis…hit。 Goldfinger's ball； hit off the heel； sped along the ground and into the stony wastes of Hell Bunker …the widest bunker and the only unkempt one； because of the pebbles； on the course。
For once Homer had nodded … or rather； lifted his head。 Perhaps his mind had been half on what Bond had told him。 Good show！ But Goldfinger might still get down in three more。 Bond took out his brassie。 He couldn't afford to play safe。 He addressed the ball； seeing in his mind's eye its eighty…eight…millimetre trajectory through the valley and then the two or three bounces that would take it on to the green。 He laid off a bit to the right to allow for his draw。 Now！
There came a soft clinking away to his right。 Bond stood away from his ball。 Goldfinger had his back to Bond。 He was gazing out to sea； rapt in its contemplation； while his right hand played 'unconsciously* with the money in his pocket。
Bond smiled grimly。 He said； 'Could you stop shifting bullion till after my shot？'
Goldfinger didn't turn round or answer。 The noise stopped。
Bond turned back to his shot； desperately trying to clear his mind again。 Now the brassie was too much of a risk。 It needed too good a shot。 He handed it to Hawker and took his spoon and banged the ball safely through the valley。 It ran on well and stopped on the apron。 A five； perhaps a four。
Goldfinger got well out of the bunker and put his chip dead。 Bond putted too hard and missed the one back。 Still all square。
The sixth； appropriately called 'The Virgin'； is a famous short hole in the world of golf。 A narrow green； almost ringed with bunkers； it can need anything from an eight to a two iron according to the wind。 Today； for Bond； it was a seven。 He played a soaring shot； laid off to the right for the wind to bring it in。 It ended twenty feet beyond the pin with a difficult putt over and down a shoulder。 Should be a three。 Gold…finger took his five and played it straight。 The breeze took it and it rolled into the deep bunker on the left。 Good news！ That would be the hell of a difficult three。
They walked in silence to the green。 Bond glanced into the bunker。 Goldfinger's ball was in a deep heel…mark。 Bond walked over to his ball and listened to the larks。 This was going to put him one up。 He looked for Hawker to take his putter； but Hawker was the other side of the green； watching with intent concentration Goldfinger play his shot。 Gold…finger got down into the bunker with his blaster。 He jumped up to get a view of the hole and then settled himself for the shot。 As his club went up Bond's heart lifted。 He was going to try and flick it out … a hopeless technique from that buried lie。 The only hope would have been to explode it。 Down came the club； smoothly； without hurry。 With hardly a handful of sand the ball curved up out of the deep bunker； bounced once and lay dead！
Bond swallowed。 Blast his eyes！ How the hell had Gold…finger managed that？ Now； out of sour grapes； Bond must try for his two。 He went for it； missed the hole by an inch and rolled a good yard past。 Hell and damnation！ Bond walked slowly up to the putt； knocking Goldfinger's ball away。 e on； you bloody fool！ But the spectre of the big swing … from an almost certain one up to a possible one down … made Bond wish the ball into the hole instead of tapping it in。 The coaxed ball； lacking decision； slid past the lip。 One down！
Now Bond was angry with himself。 He； and he alone； had lost that hole。 He had taken three putts from twenty feet。 He really must pull himself together and get going。
At the seventh； five hundred yards； they both hit good drives and Goldfinger's immaculate second lay fifty yards short of the green。 Bond took his brassie。 Now for the equalizer！ But he hit from the top； his club head ca