Always makes me feel a little melancholy.
A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.
The inevitability of time, don't you think?
What do you see?
A bloody big ship.
Excuse me.
007. . .
I'm your new Quartermaster.
You must be joking.
Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?
Because you still have spots.
My complexion is hardly relevant.
Well, your competence is.
Age is no guarantee of efficiency.
And youth is no guarantee of innovation.
I'll hazard I can do more damage
on my laptop sitting in my pajamas
before my first cup of Earl Grey
than you can do in a year in the field.
Oh, so why do you need me?
Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled.
Or not pulled.
It's hard to know which in your pajamas.
Q.
007.
Ticket to Shanghai.
Documentation and passport.
Thank you.
And this.
Walther PPK/S 9mm short.
There's a micro-dermal sensor in the grip.
It's been coded to your palm print so only you can fire it.
Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement.
And this?
Standard issue radio transmitter.
Activate it and it broadcasts your location.
Distress signal.
And that's it.
A gun. . .
. . .and a radio.
Not exactly Christmas, is it?
Were you expecting an exploding pen?
We don't really go in for that anymore.
Good luck out there in the field.
And please return the equipment in one piece.
Brave new world.