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.