FICTION

AGENT 661

Jeri 49-K-3 FPE

Author's Note:

The recent untimely death of Ian Fleming, writer, will be noted with not a little sadness by the millions who have enjoyed the lusty adven- tures of Agent 007, one James Bond, with his impeccable tailoring, a penchant for choice viands and baccarat tables, and a near inhuman ruthlessness that will make him the archetype of the nemesis of crime for some years to come. Analysis of Fleming's style will result in an astonishing discovery-that of the immense array of stock devices used. Not the least of these is the "Gimmick" and the inside-look whereby the reader is shown in some detail the inner workings of some cabalistic bit of rookery, be it baccarat, heraldry, or the func- tions of SMERSH. Fleming never treated the topic of Transves- tism yet I feel sure he would have eventually. He came very close in Goldfinger, with something more in the way of hints in several others. The following short story is offered in imitation of the worst style of Ian Fleming. Perhaps he might have enjoyed the joke.

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The youthful looking young man entered the walnut-paneled recep- tion room, the steely-glint of his eyes and the resoluteness of his bear- ing quite at odds with the remainder of his appearance. The collarless, five-button, green, herringbone jacket, the deeply pegged pants and the glove leather boots with one inch heels rivaled for attention with the young man's near-shoulder length hair, clashing very definitely with the respectable gentility of the office appointments. A tall, dark-haired receptionist seated behind the imposing desk looked at him with a frac- tion of a second's annoyance, replaced by a slow smile of recognition.

"Welcome back, 661. I'll ring the Chief. He's been expecting you." The young man grunted as she manipulated several cords on the small switchboard-a pointed gesture that wasn't lost on 661 who, like his

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