- What happened? - Get in.
If you see a mad professor in a minibus, just smile.
Fred, get the sheriff's office.
You can drop me off at the next corner. This whole thing is getting out of hand.
No regrets, but when you steal moon machines from Willard Whyte, goodbye.
Just relax. I have a friend named Felix who can fix anything.
Is he married?
There goes that son-of-a-bitchin' saboteur.
Relax. You've got a friend named Felix who can fix anything.
Unfortunately, so can Willard Whyte.
Why, you dirty...
Come in, Larry. Larry?
Larry?
Go get him, Larry.
- I think Larry got him. - Sheriff...
Attaboy, Larry. Come in. Larry?
Sheriff...
I got you now.
Lean over.
Why are we suddenly staying in the bridal suite of the Whyte House?
In order to form a more perfect union, sweetheart.
James...
May I finally call you James?
What's going to happen to me?
You did talk to your friend Felix about me?
Well, what did he say?
Something about 20 years to life. Nothing important.
- 20 years to life? - Relax, I'm on top of the situation.
Mr. and Mrs. Jones?
Yes. That's the name on the register, Mr. Leiter. What's the score with WW?
- Washington says no go. We sit still. - Sit still?
And Miss Tiffany Case "Jones" has a lifetime reservation at another hotel.
The kind the government runs.
I'm cooperating, Mr. Leiter. Really I am.
I can vouch for that.
This is not the real White House and he's not the president.
- Why don't we just see him? - The president I can get you in to see.
But until Washington believes Whyte's a thief, that's the way it is.
In the mean time, I'm sure you and Mrs. Jones can amuse yourselves.
And just to make sure you're not disturbed, I have a man upstairs.
And Hamilton is right out here.
So long, James.
- Well, that's a switch. - What's that?
The wolf being guarded by the three little pigs.
I won't be long, darling.
Where are you going?
I'm just popping upstairs for a moment.
- Sixteenth floor? - No, lady. Starlight Lounge only.
OK, folks, stand clear of the doors. Here we go.
Starlight Lounge to the left. Express to street level only, folks.
OK. Stand clear of the doors. Here we go.
Howdy. Welcome. We've been expectin' you.
You got any personal business to take care of in there, go right ahead.
I suspect you're wearin' a hogleg. Would you mind standin' up and takin' it off?
Isn't that nice? You are a pleasant fella.
Why don't you just come on in, son? Relax, make yourself comfortable.
That's good. Right on over there.
- Good evening, Mr. Bond. - Blofeld.
Good evening, 007.
Double jeopardy, Mr. Bond. You killed my only other double, I'm afraid.
After his death, volunteers were understandably rather scarce.
Such a pity. All that time and expense,
simply to provide you with one mock-heroic moment.
Willard Whyte speakin'.
Yes, Governor, I got your message.
No, I'm afraid a personal appearance is quite out of the question.
I'll send a deposition to the committee. Thank you, Governor.
- That's a neat trick. - A voice box, Mr. Bond.
Science was never my strong suit, but the principle is easy enough.
Someone's voice patterns and resonance stored in a small oral-signature tape.
And a miniature, transistorized version is installed in his neck.
Or is it his neck? I never can remember.
Anyway, no matter. We both sound alike.
My congratulations to you both.
Nice little company.
Explosives, oil, electronics, houses, aviation.
I've done well with it. Tried to cut some of the fat off.
Actually, Mr. Whyte's a splendid administrator.
- Damn thing runs itself. - I suppose you killed him.
Nothing so melodramatic. I'm simply holding him in cold storage, so to speak.
An insurance policy against any outside interference with my plans.
The ideal kidnap victim. No one's seen the man for five years.
- So who'd miss someone who's missing? - How clever you are, Mr. Bond.
Nice to see you haven't lost that fine mental edge, 007.
Please don't get any foolish notions. That missile is not a practical weapon.
It's hardly worth the effort.
After all, I wouldn't know which one of you to kill.
We appreciate your predicament, Mr. Bond.
We deeply sympathize.
Right idea, Mr. Bond.
But wrong pussy.
I do so enjoy our little visits, Mr. Bond.
However potentially painful they may be. I'm afraid this one has come to an end.
What do you intend to do with those diamonds?
An excellent question.
And one which will be hanging on the lips of the world quite soon.
If I were to break the news to anyone, it would be to you first, Mr. Bond.
But it's late, I'm tired, and there's so much left to do.
Good night, Mr. Bond.
Well, go on, go on. It's merely a lift.
Or perhaps I should say "elevator".
You'll find it much more convenient than mountaineering outside the Whyte House.
You press L, Mr. Bond. The word "lobby" begins with L.
If at first you don't succeed, Mr. Kidd...
Try, try again, Mr. Wint.
One of us smells like a tart's handkerchief.
I'm afraid it's me. Sorry about that, old boy.
I don't mind the machine breaking down twice a day,
but why the hell does it always have to be 500 yards away from the nearest hatch?
All right, Charlie, it's your turn to play hunchback.
Thank you very much.
I was walking my rat and I seem to have lost my way.
- Willard Whyte. - This is Bert.
We got a problem.
What's the matter with your voice, Bert? Have you got a cold?
Never mind about that. I just saw James Bond in the casino.
- That's impossible. - Yeah? Have a look for yourself.
Listen, if he's half the genius they say he is, we're in for real trouble.
- Now calm down, Bert. - It's a cinch he's not working alone.
This place must be crawling with agents. I think we should move Willard Whyte.
Nonsense. Mr. Whyte is perfectly safe at his own summerhouse.
It's on the ridge, about ten miles out of town.
I'm a little surprised, Bert. It's not like you to panic.
I don't enjoy messing around with a guy as tough as James Bond.
Never mind James Bond. You get down to that house.
I'm afraid Mr. Whyte has suddenly outgrown his usefulness. Do it cleanly.
Don't worry. Just leave everything to me.
That ridiculous contraption actually seems to work, Q.
- You've surpassed yourself. - Not a bit of it.
Made one of these for the kids last Christmas.
James and I are heading for the house. Hit the penthouse as soon as we find Whyte.
Let me speak to Metz.
There's a change. Push all plans forward by 24 hours. I'm joining you immediately.
Give me five minutes to get up there and five minutes to find Whyte.
Are you sure you know what you're doing?
Ask me again in ten minutes' time.
Tell Maxwell to stand by to hit the penthouse.
Well, hi there.
I'm Bambi.
Good morning, Bambi.
And I'm Thumper. Is there something we can do for you?
I can think of several things offhand,
but at the moment I'm looking for Willard Whyte.
Willie. Why, he's right out there.
And that's all there is to it?
Not quite.
First we're gonna have a ball.
All yours, Bambi.
You're on again, Bambi.
Thumper.
Hello, Felix.
Wouldn't you know it? Willard Whyte is about to be executed,
and guess who's giving breaststroke lessons.
- Where the hell is Whyte? - I haven't found out yet.
Still haven't found out.
Right.
FBI? CIA?
No. British Intelligence, Mr. Whyte. James Bond.
I see you've met my friends Bambi and Thumper.
Yes, we did have a bit of a chat.
What the hell's happened to me and what can I do about it?
Let's get out of here first and I'll explain it to you en route.
Tell Maxwell to hit the penthouse...
Saxby.
- Bert Saxby? - Yeah.
Tell him he's fired.
Hi there, Mr. Q. Are you having any luck?
- I'm being somewhat successful, thanks. - Listen, Mr. Q, I was wondering.
Have you heard any talk about me from Felix or James?
No, I'm afraid not.
I guess I'm working for the good guys now, but I'm still two steps away from jail.
I thought you might be able to put in a good word.
That's unbelievable.
An electromagnetic RPM controller. Been aching to give it a try.
You see, pressure on the case here when the desired symbols appear,
this causes the rotation of the cylinders to stutter at the precise moment needed to...
Cab, lady?
Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.
I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Case.
I'd so dreaded the prospect of making this tedious journey alone.
It was right here. About six feet high, with a solar panel.
- It had these aerofoils that seemed to... - Draw it for me.
Was Dr. Metz on your payroll, Mr. Whyte?
No, but I heard of him. Everybody in our business has.
The world's leading expert on laser refraction.
A committed idealist to peace.
And how in the hell Blofeld got his hooks in him, I will never know.
How did he get security clearance to work here?
From you, sir. I talked to you personally about it.
I even recognized your voice just now.
I'm sure I told you not to keep the usual duplicate microfilm records of the project.
Exactly.
Tom, what did I tell you to do with this?
Send it to Vandenberg.
Well, get 'em on the phone, now.
Yeah?
You won't believe this. Willard Whyte for you.
Wow. This is a real honor, sir.
Shove it. Where's that satellite I sent down there?
Blasted off 24 minutes ago, sir.
Perfect trajectory. All systems go. We expect to enter orbit right on the nose.
- Wait. Something's happened. - Just a moment, Mr. Whyte.
The scanners have gone crazy.
- Premature separation. - It doesn't make sense.
Stand by to abort.
- We can't control it, sir. - Abort it.
- It's negative. - We can't.
Something's taken over the guidance systems.
- It's as if it had a will of its own. - And there's not a damn thing we can do.
We're working on it. I'll call you back.
Well, whatever it is, your friend Blofeld's controllin' it now.
A vast supply of diamonds manipulated by an expert in light refraction.
The first beam was generated through a diamond,
and if Metz deserves his reputation, the power of that thing could be incredible.
And Blofeld's got it.
- Where is it now? - Approaching North Dakota.
- Alert Strategic Air Command. - Give me an open line to SAC.
Attention all personnel. Attention all personnel.
We have a red alert. Stand by for emergency procedure.
Willard Whyte.
Yes, General.
One of our missiles just accidentally blew up in North Dakota.
Whatever's happenin', Mr. Bond, has started.
- Is this your herd? - Mr. Whyte, phone call from Washington.
- I'll catch it in the john. - What about Blofeld?
- Not a trace, but we found a tunnel. - Where's Tiffany?
Do you mind if we find Blofeld first? Come on, let's hit that tunnel.
Well, Washington just got word from your friend with the cat.
Would you believe that this whole country is bein' held for ransom
and we've got till noon tomorrow to pay up?
So that's it, then. Well, I'm sure you won't be alone.
An international auction, with nuclear supremacy goin' to the highest bidder.
Tell me, what does he need to control that satellite?
A simple set of tapes fed into a computer bank. All he really needs is a building.
And these tapes? Large or small?
Conceivably any size, from six inches to a cassette.
Assuming he's still using your empire as a cover,
Blofeld could be anywhere on this map.
From Alaska to Florida, from Maine to Oregon.
From Texas to Baja California.
Baja?
I haven't got anything at Baja.
There is still no official explanation of the simultaneous nuclear accidents
in North Dakota and Russia.
Presidential news secretary John Fenner has refused comment on a report
that a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is in session.
It is believed the United States and the Soviet Union have assured each other
that no offensive action has been taken by either nation.
Reports of another nuclear accident in Red China are as yet unconfirmed...
Two more submarines have taken up position.
Will those military aircraft stand off forever?
What if they won't accept our ultimatum? What if they decide to attack?
Calm yourself, Metz. This farcical show of force was only to be expected.
The Great Powers flexing their muscles like so many impotent beach boys.
I regret my threat to destroy a major city unless they give in, but there it is,
the nuclear powers, like all bullies, can only be intimidated by force.
- But how can... - There's still an hour left to reply.
One hour for both of us to achieve our common dream:
total disarmament and peace for the world.
- Sir, there's a single plane approaching. - Range?
Two miles, and closing.
Stage One alert, please.
Command Center. All crew to Stage One.
Weapons up, second platform.
There he is.
- Aim. - Hold your fire.
All recovery crew personnel, proceed to docking level and stand by.
Good morning. The Acme Pollution Inspection.
We're cleaning up the world and thought this was a suitable starting point.
How disappointing. I was expecting one head of state, at the very least.
Surely you haven't come to negotiate?
Your pitiful little island hasn't even been threatened.
Search him from his toenails to the last follicle on his head, then bring him to me.
I do so hate martial music.
But as usual, Mr. Bond, you were absolutely right.
You guessed correctly, that box contained the master satellite control tape,
and you came aboard presumably hoping to substitute this for the real thing.
So sorry to have ruined the line of your suit for nothing.
Which line did you use on Miss Case?
Miss Case has taken a reasonable attitude about all this.
Like any sensible animal, she's only threatening when she's threatened.
It appears that you're holding all the aces, down to the dragon lady here.
Jealousy? From you, Mr. Bond? I'm flattered.
As La Rochefoucauld observed, "Humility is the worst form of conceit."
I do hold the winning hand.
Why don't you let me take you on a little tour of our facilities?
Your chance to see the real tape once again.
Can I tag along, Ernst?
I'd put something on over that bikini first, my dear.
I've come too far to have the aim of my crew affected by the sight of your body.
No word yet from anyone.
Only 12 minutes left.
Well, I suppose a little gentle prodding is called for.
As you see, Mr. Bond, the satellite is at present over...
Kansas.
But if we destroy Kansas, the world may not hear about it for years.
Perhaps New York. All that smut and traffic.
It would give them a chance for a fresh start.
Washington, DC. Perfect.
Since we have not heard from them, they will hear from us.
- See to it, Metz. - Washington. Right.
And this, presumably, is the control bank with the coded tape.
Right again, Mr. Bond. All satellites are controlled by a coded tape.
The trick is, of course, to have the code.
Obviously. It all seems so perfectly simple.
I suppose one just presses that and out it pops.
Put it back, Mr. Bond. Immediately.
Hi, Ernst.
- Is Superman giving you any trouble? - Put it back very carefully.
You've suddenly become tiresome, Mr. Bond.
Target fixed. Commence countdown.
Ten minutes and counting.
Take him away and throw him in the brig. And search him again, just to make sure.
Bitch.
Your problems are all behind you now.
Stop him.
Nine minutes and counting.
I did it. I switched the tape in the machine.
- You twit. You put the real one back in. - Come on, let's go.
A weather balloon.
- What do you think? - That must be the signal.
There isn't a low-pressure area within 200 miles of here. Let's go.
This is Charlie One to Squadron. Charlie One to Squadron.
Ready all guns and proceed to target. I repeat: proceed to target.
Roger, Charlie One. Out.
Come on, Bond. Get the hell off that rig.
Eight minutes and counting.
Unidentified aircraft approaching rapidly. Range five miles.
But I don't understand. You said they wouldn't attack. You said...
The balloon was a signal. The fools must think Mr. Bond accomplished his mission.
- Activate defenses. - Activate defenses.
Seven minutes and counting.
This is Charlie One. Commence attack.
Commence attack.
Six minutes and counting.
Get them on the radio, Blofeld. Tell them we give up.
Give up? I've waited too long for this moment.
They'll pay dearly for making a fool out of me.
I see it all now. You don't give a damn about peace.
- All you care about... - Shut up, Metz.
Tiffany, my dear.
We're showing a bit more cheek than usual, aren't we?
Take her below and lock her up with Mr. Bond.
What a pity. Such nice cheeks, too.
If only they were brains. Destroy this, Metz.
Five minutes and counting.
Four minutes and counting.
Tell them we surrender. This is utter madness.
One more word, Metz, and I'll have you shot. Get back to your post.
Prepare my bathosub immediately.
Three minutes and counting.
All systems interlock.
Bathosub to crane: Commence lift.
Two minutes and counting.
Power and breathing systems on. Release catch is open.
Lower away.
Bathosub to crane: lower away.
Wake up, man. Lower away.
You stupid idiot. You could've killed me.
Disengage.
Lower. Not up.
One minute and counting.
Blofeld to Command Center: come in.
Damn you. Damn you. Command Center, come in.
40 seconds and counting.
Get the gun.
- Here. - Shoot 'em.
Jump.
Ten, nine...
So long, James. I'll wire M you're on your way home.
Don't tell him which direction we've taken.
If you're havin' a good time,
let the captain know and I'll have him steam around in circles.
James, there's something very important I've been meaning to ask you. About us.
I know in a relationship like ours, the girl's not supposed to ask, but I can't help it.
And please think before answering.
- That I promise. - James...
There must be some mistake. I didn't order anything.
No mistake, sir.
On the specific instructions and with the compliments of Mr. Willard Whyte.
Oysters Andaluz.
Shashlik.
Tidbits. Prime rib en jus.
Salade Utopia.
And for dessert, the pièce de résistance,
la bombe surprise.
That looks fantastic. What's in it?
But then there would be no surprise, would there, madame?
- If madam would care to be seated. - Thank you.
This will just take a moment, and then we will leave you in peace.
Wine, sir? Mouton Rothschild '55.
- May we begin? - Please do.
- A happy selection, if I may say. - I'll be the judge of that.
That's rather potent. Not the cork - your aftershave.
Strong enough to bury anything.
But the wine is quite excellent.
Although, for such a grand meal, I had rather expected a claret.
Of course. Unfortunately, our cellar is rather poorly stocked with clarets.
Mouton Rothschild is a claret.
And I've smelt that aftershave before. And both times I've smelt a rat.
Yee.
He certainly left with his tails between his legs.
James.
Yes, what were you about to ask me?
James...
how the hell do we get those diamonds down again?
Diamonds are forever
Sparkling round my little finger
Unlike men, the diamonds linger
Men are mere mortals who are not worth going to your grave for
I don't need love
For what good would love do me?
Diamonds never lie to me
For when love's gone
They'll luster on
Diamonds are forever, forever, forever
Forever
And ever
Visiontext Subtitles: Adrian Isaac