It's Grεεκ To Me

RichardTheBruce

Harpy, Harpie / στρίγκλα / här·pē / noun
1. in Greek myth, a combination of a bird of prey (wings and talons) with a woman’s body and head
2. a predatory person
3. a shrewish woman

Late Middle English (harpie). Latin (harpyia). Greek (harpuiai, or snatchers).

Harpies: a ferocious morphing of woman with the wings and talons of raptors—known as storm winds in human form. Hounds of Mighty Zeus. To the Greeks, usually with beautiful human bodies and faces. To Romans they were ugly, human-vultures.

Harpies stand with underworld guardians like Briareus, Centaurs, Chimera, Gorgons, Geryon, Lernaean Hydra, and Scylla. Said to reside in the Strophades Island, or alternately guard a cave entrance in Crete.

Most famously known with the story of Jason and the Argonauts, needing passage through the Cyanean Rocks (Clashing Rocks, two rocks that would small vessels between them on the Bosphorus River). In the story, King Phineus of Thrace misuses prophecy and reveals a secret plan of Zeus. Zeus blinds Phineas and leaves him on an island where he is perpetually hungry because the Harpies steal (or foul) his food. So Phineas struck a deal to help them on their way through the rocks for defeating the harpies. The flying sons of Boreas (The Boreads, The North Wind) drive the Harpies away.

Phineas beset by Harpies.

Argonauts and the Harpies.

Boreads battle Harpies.

RichardTheBruce

The Harpies, Yaroslav Horak, Jim Lawrence, 1968-1969.

The comic strip The Harpies runs 10 October 1968 to 23 June 1969 in The Daily Express.
Yaroslav Horak, artist. Jim Lawrence, writer. 816-1037

Fuglekvinderne (The Bird Women), published in Denmark.

CommanderRoss

Who else but the Israëli's:

http://www.israeli-weapons.com/weapons/aircraft/uav/harpy/HARPY.html

RichardTheBruce

CommanderRoss wrote: »

Who else but the Israëli's:

http://www.israeli-weapons.com/weapons/aircraft/uav/harpy/HARPY.html

Pretty impressive, @CommanderRoss, as a loitering munition for SEAD (suppression of enemy air defenses).
And Harpy 1 a ringer for a Vulcan.

HARPY is a lethal UAV designed to detect, attack and destroy radar emitters.

Harpy is a "Fire-and-Forget" all-weather, day/night autonomous weapon system, launched from a ground vehicle behind the battle zone or from ship based launchers.

HARPY effectively suppresses hostile SAM and radar sites for long duration, by detecting, attacking and destroying radar targets with a very high hit accuracy.

HARPY provides the most effective solution to the hostile radar problem, at the lowest price. HARPY is in production, is already operational with several nations Air Forces, and is currently available.

Weighs 135 kg, 2.1 meter long, 2.7 meter span and with range of 500 km. It is sealed in its sealed launcher/container, to endure harsh battlefield conditions. It can be fueled or defueled in the launcher, therefore retaining its readiness at all time. The system uses periodical built-in test to maintain full readiness.

RichardTheBruce

Calypso / Καλυψώ / kəˈ·lipsō / noun
1. in Greek myth, the nymph who held Odysseus captive
2. a tropical style of music originally from Trinidad, using African rhythms
3. the research vessel of explorer and marine biologist Jacques Cousteau

Greek (καλύπτω, kalyptō, also kalyptein, meaning to cover, conceal, hide, deceive).

Calypso (Καλυψώ): a nymph living at her island, Ogygia. Daughter of Atlas and Pleione. In Homer’s tale of The Odyssey, Calypso falls in love with Odysseus and keeps him captive. Seven years on, eventually his love for wife Penelope overcomes the power of Calypso’s song. He is aided by Athena (and her appeals to Zeus) to allow him to leave. Calypso relents, and sends him off with a raft, wine, bread. She represents diversion, distraction.

Odysseus and Calypso


Athena and Odysseus and Calypso

Calypso takes pity on Odysseus

RichardTheBruce

Dr. No, Ian Fleming, 1958.

Chapter IV – Reception Committee

…
Bond smiled to himself at the way Quarrel, like most West Indians, added an 'h' where it wasn't needed and took it off when it was. He went into his room and dressed in his old dark blue tropical worsted suit, a sleeveless white cotton shirt and a black knitted tie, looked in the glass to see that the Walther didn't show under his armpit and went down and out to where the car was waiting.

They swooped down quietly through the soft singing dusk into Kingston and turned to the left along the harbour side. They passed one or two smart restaurants and night clubs from which came the throb and twang of calypso music. There was a stretch of private houses that dwindled into a poor-class shopping centre and then into shacks. Then, where the road curved away from the sea, there was a blaze of golden neon in the shape of a Spanish galleon above green lettering that said 'The Joy Boat'.

They pulled into a parking place and Bond followed Quarrel through the gate into a small garden of palm trees growing out of lawn. At the end was the beach and the sea. Tables were dotted about under the palms, and in the centre was a small deserted cement dance floor to one side of which a calypso trio in sequined scarlet shirts was softly improvising on 'Take her to Jamaica where the rum comes from'.

Chapter VIII – The Elegant Venus

…
How had she got there? What was she doing? Bond looked up and down the beach. It was not black, he now saw, but a deep chocolate brown. To the right he could see as far as the river mouth, perhaps five hundred yards away. The beach was empty and featureless except for a scattering of small pinkish objects. There were a lot of them, shells of some sort Bond supposed, and they looked decorative against the dark brown background. He looked to the left, to where, twenty yards away, the rocks of the small headland began. Yes, there was a yard or two of groove in the sand where a canoe had been drawn up into the shelter of the rocks. It must have been a light one or she couldn't have drawn it up alone. Perhaps the girl wasn't alone. But there was only one set of footprints leading down from the rocks to the sea and another set coming out of the sea and up the beach to where she now stood on the tideline. Did she live here, or had she too sailed over from Jamaica that night? Hell of a thing for a girl to do. Anyway, what in God's name was she doing here?

As if to answer him, the girl made a throwaway gesture of the right hand and scattered a dozen shells on the sand beside her. They were violent pink and seemed to Bond to be the same as he had noticed on the beach. The girl looked down into her left hand and began to whistle softly to herself. There was a happy note of triumph in the whistle. She was whistling 'Marion', a plaintive little calypso that has now been cleaned up and made famous outside Jamaica. It had always been one of Bond's favourites. It went:

All day, all night, Marion,
Sittin' by the seaside siftin' sand...

The girl broke off to stretch her arms out in a deep yawn. Bond smiled to himself. He wetted his lips and took up the refrain:

"The water from her eyes could sail a boat, The hair on her head could tie a goat..."

Chapter IX – A Shower of Death

…
"Haw, haw. I'se sho surprised at you fellers. Dat's a fine piece of ass out dere on de crab walk."

More rattling and shuffling of feet, then, "Okay let's go! Two abreast till we gets to da main tunnel. Shoot at da legs. Whoever's makin' trouble, da Doc'll sure want him to play wit."

"Tee-hee."

Feet echoed hollowly on the concrete. Bond held his breath as they filed by. Would they notice the shut door of the buggy? But they went on down the garage and into the tunnel and the noise of them slowly faded away.

Bond touched the girl's arm and put his finger to his lips. Softly he eased open the door and listened again. Nothing. He dropped to the ground and walked round the buggy and . went to the half-open entrance. Cautiously he edged his head round. There was no one in sight. There was a smell of frying food in the air that brought the saliva to Bond's mouth. Dishes and pans clattered in the nearest building, about twenty yards away, and from one of the further Quonsets came the sound of a guitar and a man's voice singing a calypso. Dogs started to bark half-heartedly and then were silent. The Dobermann Pinschers.

Bond turned and ran back to the end of the garage. No sound came from the tunnel. Softly Bond closed the tunnel door and locked and bolted it. He went to the arms-rack on the wall and chose another Smith & Wesson and a Remington carbine. He verified that they were loaded and went to the door of the marsh buggy and handed them in to the girl. Now the entrance door. Bond put his shoulder to it and softly eased it wide open. The corrugated iron rumbled hollowly. Bond ran back and scrambled through the open hatch and into the driver's seat. "Shut it, Honey," he whispered urgently and bent and turned the ignition key.

The needle on the gauge swung to Full. Pray God the damned thing would start up quickly. Some diesels were slow. Bond stamped his foot down on the starter.

RichardTheBruce

For Your Eyes Only, Ian Fleming, 1960.
"For Your Eyes Only"

...
The accent was the sham American of a Jamaican taxi-driver. Colonel Havelock had got to his feet. He touched the outstretched hand briefly. He looked over the Major's shoulder at the other two men who had stationed themselves on either side of the door. They were both carrying that new holdall of the tropics — a Pan American overnight bag. The bags looked heavy. Now the two men bent down together and placed them beside their yellowish shoes. They straightened themselves. They wore flat white caps with transparent green visors that cast green shadows down to their cheekbones. Through the green shadows their intelligent animal eyes fixed themselves on the Major, reading his behaviour.

"They are my secretaries."

Colonel Havelock took a pipe out of his pocket and began to fill it. His direct blue eyes took in the sharp clothes, the natty shoes, the glistening fingernails of the Major and the blue jeans and calypso shirts of the other two. He wondered how he could get these men into his study and near the revolver in the top drawer of his desk. He said: "What can I do for you?" As he lit his pipe he watched the Major's eyes and mouth through the smoke.

RichardTheBruce

The Man With the Golden Gun, Ian Fleming, 1965.

Chapter 5 – Number 3-1/2 Love Lane

…
James Bond drank down the rest of his beer and got slowly to his feet. He walked towards Scaramanga and was about to pass him when the man reached out a languid left arm and caught him at the biceps. He held the snout of his gun to his nose, sniffing delicately. The expression in the dead brown eyes was faraway. He said, "Mister, there's something quite extra about the smell of death. Care to try it?" He held out the glittering gun as if he was offering James Bond a rose.

Bond stood quite still. He said, "Mind your manners. Take your hand off me."

Scaramanga raised his eyebrows. The flat, leaden gaze seemed to take in Bond for the first time.

He released his grip.

James Bond went on round the edge of the counter. When he came opposite the other man, he found the eyes were now looking at him with faint, scornful curiosity. Bond stopped. The sobbing of the girl was the crying of a small dog. Somewhere down the street a sound system--a loudspeaker record player--began braying calypso.

Bond looked the man in the eye. He said, "Thanks. I've tried it. I recommend the Berlin vintage Nineteen forty-five." He smiled a friendly, only slightly ironical smile. "But I expect you were too young to be at that tasting."

Chapter 6 – The Easy Grand

…
Scaramanga hadn't taken his eyes from Bond's face. Now he said, keeping his voice low, "I got myself a problem. Some partners of mine, they've taken an interest in this Negril development. Far end of the property. Place called Bloody Bay. Know it?"

"I've seen it on the map. Just short of Green Island Harbour."

"Right. So I've got some shares in the business. So we start building the Thunderbird Hotel and get the first storey finished and the main living rooms and restaurant and so on. So then the tourist boom slackens off--Americans get frightened of being so close to Cuba or some such crap. And the banks get difficult and money begins to run short. Follow me?"

"So you're a stale bull of the place?" "Right. So I'm opening the hotel for a few days because I got a half-dozen of the main stockholders to fly in for a meeting on the spot. Sort of look the place over and get our heads together and figure what to do next. Now, I want to give these guys a good time, so I'm getting a smart combo over from Kingston, calypso singers, limbo dancers, plenty of girls--all the jazz. And there's swimming, and one of the features of the place is a small-scale railway that used to handle the sugar cane. Runs to Green Island Harbour where I've got a forty-foot Chris-Craft Roamer. Deep-sea fishing. That'll be another outing. Get me? Give the guys a real good tune."

"So that they'll get all enthusiastic and buy out your share of the stock?"

Scaramanga frowned angrily. "I'm not paying you a grand to get the wrong ideas. Or any ideas for that matter."

"What for then?"

For a moment or two Scaramanga went through his smoking routine, the little pillars of smoke vanishing again and again into the black nostrils. It seemed to calm him. His forehead cleared. He said, "Some of these men are kind of rough. We're all stockholders, of course, but that don't necessarily mean we're friends. Understand? I'll be wanting to hold some meetings, private meetings, with maybe only two or three guys at a time, sort of sounding out the different interests. Could be that some of the other guys, the ones not invited to a particular meeting, might get it into their heads to bug a meeting or try and get wise to what goes on in one way or another. So it just occurs to me that you being live to security and such, that you could act as a kind of guard at these meetings, clean the room for mikes, stay outside the door and see that no one comes nosing around, see that when I want to be private I git private. D'you get the picture?"

Bond had to laugh. He said, "So you want to hire me as a kind of personal bodyguard. Is that it?"

Chapter 10 – Belly-Lick, etc.

…
As chatter broke out among The Group, James Bond picked up the hundred dollar bill and walked out into the spotlight. He bent down and lifted the girl up bv her arm. He pushed the bill down into her cleavage. He said, "That was a fine act we did together, sweetheart. Don't worry. You were in no danger. I aimed for the top half of the pineapple. Now run off and get ready for your next turn." He turned her round and gave her a sharp pat in the behind. She gave him a horrified glance and scurried off into the shadows.

Bond strolled on and came up with the band. "Who's in charge here? Who's in command of. the show?"

The guitarist, a tall, gaunt Negro, got slowly to his feet. The whites of his eyes showed, He squinted at the golden gun in Bond's hand. He said uncertainly, as if signing his own death warrant, "Me, sah."

"What's your name?"

"Kong Tiger, sah."

"All right then, King. Now listen to me. This isn't a Salvation Army fork supper. Mr. Scaramanga's friends want some action. And they want it hot. I'll be sending plenty of rum over to loosen things up. Smoke weed if you like. We're private here. No one's going to tell on you. And get that pretty girl back, but with only half the clothes on, and tell her to come up close and sing. "Belly-Lick" very clearly with the blue words. And, by the end of the show, she and the other girls have got to end up stripped. Understand? Now get cracking, or the evening'll fold and there'll be no tips at the end. Okay? Then let's go."

There was nervous laughter and whispered exhortation to King Tiger from the six-piece combo. King Tiger grinned broadly. "Okay, captain, sah. We was just holding off until the party got warmed up a little. He turned to his men. "Give 'em Iron Bar, but hot. And I'll go get some steam up with Daisy and her friends." He strode to the service exit and the band crashed into its stride.

Bond walked back and laid the pistol down in front of Scaramanga, who gave Bond a long, inquisitive look and slid it back into his waistband. He said flatly, "We must have a shooting match one of these days, mister. How about it? Twenty paces and no wounding?"

"Thanks," said Bond, "but my mother wouldn't approve. Would you have some rum sent over to the band? These people can't play dry." He went back to his seat. He was hardly noticed. The five men, or rather four of them, because Hendriks sat impassively through the whole evening, were straining their ears to catch the lewd words of the Fanny Hill version of "Iron Bar" that were coming across clearly from the soloist. Four girls, plump, busty little animals wearing nothing but white sequined G-strings, ran out on to the floor, and advancing towards the audience, did an enthusiastic belly dance that brought sweat to the temples of Louie Paradise and Hal Garfinkel. The number ended amidst applause, the girls ran off, and the lights were dowsed, leaving only the circular spot in the middle of the floor.

The drummer, on his calypso box, began a hasty beat like a quickened pulse.

The service door opened and shut, and a curious object was wheeled into the circle of light. It was a huge hand, perhaps six feet tall at its highest point, upholstered in black leather. It stood, half open on its broad base, with the thumb and fingers outstretched as if ready to catch something. The drummer hastened his beat. The service door sighed. A glistening figure slipped through, and after pausing in the darkness, moved into the pool of light round the hand with a strutting jerk of belly and limbs. There was Chinese blood in her, and her body, totally naked and shining with palm oil, was almost white against the black hand. As she jerked round the hand she caressed its outstretched fingers with her hands and arms and then, with well-acted swooning motions, climbed into the palm of the hand and proceeded to perform languorous, but explicit and ingenious, acts of passion with each of the fingers in turn. The scene, the black hand, now shining with her oil and seeming to clutch at the squirming white body, was of an incredible lewdness, and Bond, himself aroused, noticed that even Scaramanga was watching with rapt attention, his eyes narrow slits. The drummer had now worked up to his crescendo. The girl, in well-simulated ecstasy, mounted the thumb, slowly expired upon it, and then, with a last grind of her rump, slid down it and vanished through the exit. The act was over. The lights came on and everyone, including the band, applauded loudly. The men came out of their separate animal trances. Scaramanga clapped his hand for the bandleader, took a note out of his case, and said something to him under his breath. The chieftain, Bond suspected, had chosen his bride for the night!

Chapter 13 - Hear the Train Blow!

At twelve o'clock they all assembled in the lobby. Scaramanga had added a broad-brimmed white Stetson to his immaculate tropical attire. He looked like the smartest plantation owner in the South. Mr. Hendriks wore his usual stuffy suit, now topped with a grey Homburg. Bond thought that he should have grey suede gloves and an umbrella. The four hoods were wearing calypso shirts outside their slacks. Bond was pleased. If they were carrying guns in their waistbands, the shirts would hinder the draw.

Cars were drawn up outside, with Scaramanga's Thunderbird in the lead. Scaramanga walked up to the desk. Nick Nicholson was standing washing his hands in invisible soap and looking helpful. "All set? Everything loaded on the train? Green Island been told? Okay, then. Where's that sidekick of yours, that man Travis? Haven't seen him around today."

Nick Nicholson looked serious. "He got an abscess in his tooth, sir. Real bad. Had to send him in to Sav' La Mar to have it out. He'll be okay by this afternoon."

"Too bad. Dock him half a day's pay. No room for sleepers on this outfit. We're shorthanded as it is. Should have had his choppers attended to before he took the job on. Okay?"

"Very good, Mr. Scaramanga. I'll tell him."

Chapter 14 – The Great Morass

…
The train ran over a small culvert, and the song of the wheels changed to a deep boom. Bond looked ahead. In the distance was the spidery ironwork of the Orange River bridge. The still shrieking tram was losing steam. The gauge said nineteen miles per hour. Bond looked down at the dead Rasta. In death, his face was as horrible as it had been in Me. The bad teeth, sharpened from eating sugar cane from childhood, were bared in a frozen snarl. Bond took a quick glance under the surrey roof. Hendriks' slumped body lolled with the movement of the tram. The sweat of the day still shone on the doughy cheeks. Even as a corpse he didn't ask for sympathy. In the seat behind him, Leiter's bullet had torn through the back of Gengerel-la's head and removed most of his face.

The three gangsters now gazed up at James Bond with whipped eyes. They hadn't expected all this. This was to have been a holiday. The calypso shirts said so. Scaramanga, the undefeated, the undefeatable, had said so.

Until minutes before, his golden gun had backed up his word. Now, suddenly, everything was different. As the Arabs say when a great sheikh has gone, has removed his protection, "Now there is no more shade!" They were covered with guns from the front and the rear. The train stretched out its iron stride towards nowhere they had ever heard of before. The whistle moaned. The sun beat down. The dreadful stink of The Great Morass assailed their nostrils. This was abroad. This was bad news, really bad. The Tour Director had left them to fend for themselves. Two of them had been killed. Even their guns were gone. The tough faces, as white moons, gazed in supplication up at Bond. Louie Paradise's voice was cracked and dry with terror. "A million bucks, mister, if you get us out of this. Swear on my mother. A million."

The faces of Sam Binion and Hal Garfinkel lit up. Here was hope!

"And a million."

"And another! On my baby son's head!"

The voice of Felix Leiter bellowed angrily. There was a note of panic in it. "Jump. Damn you, James! Jump!"

…
Bond crept off along the line of mangroves towards the bridge. For the time being, he would have to keep more or less in the open. He prayed that, nearer the river, the swamp would yield to drier land so that he could work down towards the sea and then cut back towards the river and hope to pick up the man's tracks.

It was one o'clock and the sun was high. James Bond was tired and very thirsty, and his shoulder wound throbbed with his pulse. The wound was beginning to give him a fever. One dreams all day as well as all night, and now, as he stalked his prey, he found, quizzically, that much of his mind was taken up with visualizing the champagne buffet waiting for them all, the living and the dead, at Green Island. For the moment, he indulged himself. The buffet would be laid out under the trees, as he saw it, adjoining the terminal station, which would probably be on the same lines as Thunderbird Halt. There would be long trestle tables, spotless tablecloths, rows of glasses and plates and cutlery, and great dishes of cold lobster salad, cold meat cuts. And mounds of fruit--pineapple and such --to make the decor look Jamaican and exotic. There might be a hot dish, he thought. Something like roast stuffed sucking-pig with rice and peas--too hot for the day, decided Bond, but a feast for most of Green Island when the rich "tourists" had departed.

And there would be drink! Champagne in frosted silver coolers, rum punches, Tom Collinses, whisky sours, and, of course, great beakers of iced water that would only have been poured when the train whistled its approach to the gay little station. Bond could see it all. Every detail of it under the shade of the great ficus trees. The white-gloved, uniformed coloured waiters enticing him to take more and more; beyond, the dancing waters of the harbour; in the background the hypnotic throb of the calypso band, the soft, enticing eyes of the girls. And, ruling, ordering all, the tall, fine figure of the gracious host, a thin cigar between his teeth, the wide white Stetson tilted low over his brow, offering Bond just one more goblet of iced champagne.

James Bond stumbled over a mangrove root, threw out his right hand for support from the bush, missed, tripped again, and fell heavily. He lay for a moment measuring the noise he must have made. It wouldn't have been much. The inshore wind from the sea was feathering the swamp. A hundred yards away the river added its undertone of sluggish turbulence. There were cricket and bird noises. Bond got to his knees and then to his feet. What in hell had he been thinking of? Come on, you bloody fool! There's work to be done! He shook his head to clear it. Gracious host! Goddamn it! He was on his way to kill the gracious host! Goblets of iced champagne? That'd be the day! He shook his head angrily. He took several very deep slow breaths. He knew the symptoms. This was nothing worse than acute nervous exhaustion with--he gave himself that amount of grace--a small fever added. All he had to do was to keep his mind and his eyes in focus. For God's sake, no more daydreaming! With a new, sharpened resolve he kicked the mirages out of his mind and looked to his geography.

RichardTheBruce

Dr. No, Terence Young, 1962.
“Three Blind Mice”

Three blind mice in a row
Three blind mice, there they go
Marching down the street, single file
To a calypso beat all the while

They're looking for the cat
The cat that swallowed the rat
They want to show that cat the attitude of three blind mice

Three blind mice, here and there
Three blind mice, everywhere
Searching all around for the cat
All over Kingston town, pit-a-pat

They got the carving knife
To cut the pussy cat's life
The puss will get that knife for trifling
The three blind mice
Oh, the mice...

RichardTheBruce

Thrilling Cities, Ian Fleming, 1963.

Chapter XIII – Monte Carlo

…
For me a strong rival attraction to the casino is the Musée Océanographique that adjoins the Royal Palace of Monaco. This is now in charge of one of my heroes, Captain Jacques-Yves Cousteau, who is in process of reorganizing and rebuilding it to be the greatest aquarium in the world. He took me round the new laboratories, now equipped with every kind of modern instrument for measuring the physical qualities of sea-water and other abstruse oceanographic problems, and I saw the latest public exhibits which dramatically show creatures of the abyssal depths phosphorescently illuminated against a dark-room effect. Soon he will announce a grandiose scheme for building, above sea-level and adjoining the aquarium, vast tanks where dolphins will give public performances (as they do, for instance, at Miami), and other spectacular marine exhibits.

This fantastically energetic man engages each year on marine adventures and exploits of which, alas, we hear too little in England. In 1958 he invented a jet-propelled underwater 'flying saucer' for submarine exploration, and this is now being manufactured in small quantities. Early in 1959 he was employed by the French government to survey the submarine route for natural gas pipelines from Oran to Cartagena. The first pipes will continue across Europe to the Ruhr, and perhaps even
to England, bringing Sahara gas to revolutionize the power problems of the whole continent. Cousteau, who incidentally surveyed the Persian Gulf off-shore wells for the British Petroleum Company, is technical adviser for all underwater aspects of this six-hundred-billion-franc pipeline plan. Amongst smaller projects, he is now experimenting with a collapsible ship made of nylon coated with plastic. The prototype is sixty-three feet by twenty-three feet and is powered by two 600 h.p. diesels. This deflatable vessel will be used in conjunction with the diving saucer for short-term marine exploration wherever it is needed, the entire equipment being transportable by air at short notice.

Unfortunately Cousteau's writing never catches up with all his various projects and it is only now that he is considering a sequel to The Silent World. Meanwhile he has formed his own film company (after experience of 'show biz' in connection with his film of The Silent World, he has called it Requins Associés, Sharks Ltd.) which is to produce a television series of fifty-two films.

His company recently won a Hollywood Oscar for Cousteau's film The Golden Fish. This is the story of a small Chinese boy who wins a goldfish in a lottery. In his small room he already has a canary in a cage and when he goes off to school each day the goldfish in its bowl and the canary make friends. A hungry black cat hears the canary
singing for joy over the acrobatics of the goldfish and we see him climb in through the window just as the boy is leaving school. As the boy saunters home, the cat tries to get at the canary and, prepared to sacrifice himself for his friend, the fish jumps out of the bowl on to the table. The cat leaves the canary and slowly stalks the fish. Will the little boy be in time? No, he can't be! Hurry! Hurry! The cat picks up the fish in his mouth! Disaster! But, as the little boy walks into the room, the cat reaches up and drops the goldfish back into his bowl.

Cousteau's famous research ship, the Calypso, is now in Greek waters, but the days of treasure hunts and archaeological discoveries are, alas, over, and Cousteau's whole research programme is devoted to scientific work. But whatever he touches he infects with so much brilliance and enthusiasm that a morning spent in his company is a wonderful refreshment for the spirit--particularly when it is jaded by the life of too many cities, however thrilling, in too short a time.

And then it was time to take off on the last lap along the screaming hubbub of the Côte d'Azur, up through the olive groves of Provence, and the mysterious maze of the Auvergne, to the soft Loire. Then the long straight hack across north-west France to the bustling little aerodrome of Le Touquet.

One last delicious meal at the airport restaurant (five stars in my personal good-food guide), the pangs of jealousy as the other cars come off the planes to begin their holidays, and then the melancholy flight back across the Channel. How many excitements and alarums, how many narrow squeaks, how many thrilling sights and sounds in those six weeks! What fun it all was! What fun 'abroad' will always be!

RichardTheBruce

R/V Calypso

Research Vessel Calypso: originally a minesweeper for the British Royal Navy during World War II, later a ferry. Put into service for oceanographer Jacques-Yves Cousteau 1950. Sunk following a collision with a barge in Singapore 1996. Raised and returned to France. Cousteau passed in 1997. The vessel is being restored to resume its scientific mission. Named for the Greek nymph Calypso.

"Calypso", a stirring song by John Denver, 1975.

Agent_99

I should have thought of this one as my family had a cat named Calypso. (She was a Tonkinese and very graceful.)

RichardTheBruce

Sounds like a nice cat, @Agent_99.

I want to double down on the Cousteau short films mentioned. The first seems to have informed Fleming (and the filmmakers) on the possibilities for Thunderball. And later the film For Your Eyes Only, even.

Le Monde du Silence (The Silent World), Jacques-Yves Cousteau, Louis Malle, 1956.
Academy-Award, Best Documentary Feature.

Histoire d'un poisson rouge (The Golden Fish), Edmond Séchan, 1959.
Jacques-Yves Cousteau, producer. Academy Award, Best Short Feature.

CommanderRoss

Oh, lovely story about Cousteau and his crew, and the fight between archeologists and divers in the early years. Divers would tell archeologists looking for ancient greek wrecks was their 'business' and archeologists had little to do with it, the latter argueing they needed to be part of expeditions because those divers new squat about ancient ships and their cargo. This was underlined when Cousteau and his team found a wrech with sealed amfora (bottles). There was still wine in there. So, what did they do? secure the load, send samples of this more then 2000y/o wine to a lab to test it's quality and substance? Nope, they drank it!

RichardTheBruce

Apollo / Ἀπόλλων / əˈpɒ·ləʊ / noun
1. Greek (and Roman) god of light, beauty, music, poetry, healing, prophecy
2. a handsome man
3. a large butterfly found in the mountains of mainland Europe
4. a series of U.S. space missions that put men on the moon

Greek (Απολλων / Apollon, also apollymi / απολλυμι "to destroy").

Apollo (Ἀπόλλων): son of Zeus and Leto. Brother of Artemis. Enraged over the Zeus-Leto coupling, Hera--Queen of the Gods--condemned the pregnant Leto to stay away from the mainland. Leto diverted to the floating island Delos, where twins Apollo and Artemis were born. It became his sacred land. In his youth, Apollo killed the dragon Python sent to rape Leto. In adulthood, he fired plague-tainted arrows into the Greek army at Troy. His actions triggered events of The Iliad. Clean-shaven. Normally shown with bow, or lyre, or plectrum and sword. Apollo is the god of light, associated with truth, music, medicine, healing.

Apollo

Apollo and Artemis

Sons of Zeus, Heracles and Apollo fight for the tripod and rights to Delphi

Apollo launches plague-laden arrows into the army at Troy.

RichardTheBruce

Thrilling Cities, Ian Fleming, 1963.
Chapter XXII – Naples

…
Our last bit of sightseeing was to Cumae, just north of Naples and adjoining Lake Avernus, into which, you will recall, the descent is so facile. Here is the grotto of the sibyl, and it was hereabouts that Aeneas approached the infernal world over the Styx. (I had not thought about these things since, as a youth, I had had to write out hundreds of lines of Virgil as a punishment.) The grotto, hardly visited by tourists, is a most doomful and awe-inspiring sculptured cave of Minoan origin. It is a hundred yards long, more than six feet wide and some eighteen feet in height, and leads through various ante-chambers, lit by great windows to seawards, to the circular inner chamber with a connecting bedroom where the sibyl, no doubt a simple peasant girl with the gift of second sight, was kept by her priests. Along the walls of the grotto are curious and unexplained channels in the sandstone and these were perhaps acoustic devices to carry the voices of the priests through the secret inner draperies when they had some sibylline prophecy to announce to the crowds outside. Other slots and holes in the walls were presumably for curtain rods and draperies.

The atmosphere of this dark and ancient place is powerful but not inimical. One feels that many mysterious things were indeed enacted here, but that they were for good and not for evil. Apparently the Christians, when they came, were also sympathetic and treated the shrine with respect. Otherwise one suspects they would surely have destroyed it.

A couple of hundred yards from the hillock, on which stand the ruins of the Temple of Apollo and the Temple of Zeus and beneath which is the shrine, is a large tunnel through the mountainside leading down to the neighbouring Lake Avernus. This tunnel was used as an ammunition store by the Germans, who blew up the central section during their retreat.

(Roman) Temple of Apollo

The whole area is amazing and made me wish for the first time in my life that I had bent my head more faithfully to my Aeneid.

One final word to the visitor to Naples--don't bother to go up Vesuvius, or at any rate not by the motor road. There is absolutely nothing at the top but a few muddy bubbles and wisps of steam coming from the fumaroles in the crater, and anyway the volcano was due to erupt again that year--an even stronger reason for leaving it alone. But the reason I particularly counsel against it is that lava--that beautiful word that is almost the name of a girl--is harsh, brittle, smelly, black and, above all, immensely dull. It is true that my wife found a rare orchid on the lower slopes under the young umbrella pines, but the great pile of dead lava that is Vesuvius oozes a kind of mental depression that requires many drams of Lacrimae Christi, the wine grown at the foot of the mountain, to repair.

RichardTheBruce

You Only Live Twice, Lewis Gilbert, 1967.

Bond and Spectrenauts in spacesuits.

3D Printable Bond Astronaut.

Compare to Apollo 8 astronauts.

RichardTheBruce

Diamonds Are Forever, Guy Hamilton, 1971.

IMDb Trivia https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0066995/trivia
Filming of the moon buggy chase took place on July 20, 1971--the second anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission which landed men on the moon. Six days after the filming Apollo 15 was launched, which was the first "J" mission to use the Lunar Roving Vehicle. In real life the mission was originally slated as Apollo 19, but the cancellation of three Apollo flights (the original Apollo 15 mission was scheduled as an H4 mission and Apollo 20 was the first one to be canceled, since it was reassigned to the Apollo Applications Program, which the Skylab space station was launched).

Lunar Roving Vehicle a.k.a. Moon Buggy.
IMCDB: Made for Movie Moon Buggy, Custom. 00:57:33

https://imcdb.org/vehicle.php?id=56954

Deleted scene.

Conspiracy craziness here.

Thunderfinger

Excellent!

RichardTheBruce

Thanks, @Thunderfinger!

j_w_pepper wrote: »

..Bond's request for Drax to take "a giant leap for mankind" refers to the Apollo 11 moon landing...

Moonraker, Lewis Gilbert, 1979.

Apollo Airways, Handley Page HP.137 Jetstream 1
http://www.impdb.org/index.php?title=Moonraker#Handley_Page_HP.137_Jetstream_1

IMPDB: James Bond returns from his African job in this plane, but the pilot and the air hostess are working together with Jaws to kill him. The pilot shoots at the controls, before he is pushed out of the plane by Bond. Then, Bond is pushed out of the plane by Jaws.

Registration N5VH, c/n 209 built in 1969.

Drax: At least I shall have the pleasure of putting you out of my misery. Desolated, Mr. Bond.

OO7: Heartbroken, Mr Drax. Allow me. Take a giant step for mankind.

Holly: Where's Drax?

OO7: He had to fly.

Apollo 11, Neil Armstrong, 1969.
"One small step for (a) man. One giant leap for mankind."


Command Module

Command-Service Module

Command-Service Module and Lunar Module.

Lunar Module

Apollo 11 Astronauts Neil Armstrong, Michael Collins, Buzz Aldrin.

RichardTheBruce

Basilisk / βασιλίσκ / ˈba·sə·lisk / noun
1. literally “little king”
2. in European myth, a serpent that kills with a look or a breath
3. a green lizard with a crest running head to tail
4. a large cannon
Adjective
1. intense or frightening (stare)

Middle English (Basilisk). Latin (basiliscus, like a snake). Greek (basilískos, a serpent, or a minor prince/king; from basil-, base of basileús or king/prince).

Basilisk (βασιλίσκ): in the original Greek-- little king. Later a creature in European myth, a small king of serpents. In egg form, the offspring of reptile and rooster (an understandably rare occurrence). While small in size, enormously poisonous and able to kill with lethal breath or even a deadly stare.

Many times mistaken/misappropriated with the later, larger, legged Cockatrice—a sort of dragon with a cock's head and legs. Heraldic references are unfortunately fast and loose with the two terms, misapplying Basilisk to Cockatrice.

More interesting information here.
http://karlshuker.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-basilisk-and-cockatrice-monstrous.html

Also: Basilisk as a South American lizard with a crown and ridge down its tail--noted for its ability to run upright across the water's surfacce. And Basiliscus was formerly used to identify the Golden-crested wren.

Basilisk as European myth.

Basilisk and Cockatrice. Cockatrice repelled by weasel and rue.


Basilisk cannon.

Basiliscus a.k.a. Gold-crested wren or Goldcrest.

Basilisk a.k.a. The Jesus Lizard.

RichardTheBruce

On Her Majesty's Secret Service, Ian Fleming, 1969.

Dedication:

For
SABLE BASILISK PURSUIVANT
and HILARY BRAY
who came to the aid of the party

Chapter 6 - Bond of Bond Street

...
Griffon Or Pursuivant looked genuinely affronted. 'And here is a name going back at least to Norman le Bond in 1180! A fine old English name, though one perhaps originally of lowly origin. The Dictionary of British Surnames suggests that the meaning is clearly "husbandman, peasant, churl".' Was there an edge of malice in the Griffon's watery eye? He added with resignation, 'But, if you are not interested in your ancestry, in the womb of your family, then, my dear sir, in what can I be of service?'

At last! James Bond let out a sigh of relief. He said patiently, 'I came here to inquire about a certain Blofeld, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. It seems that your organization has some information about this man.'

Griffon Or's eyes were suddenly suspicious. 'But you represented yourself as a Commander James Bond. And now the name is Blofeld. How does this come about?'

Bond said icily, 'I am from the Ministry of Defence. Somewhere in this building is information about a man called Blofeld. Where can I find it?'

Griffon Or ran a puzzled hand round his halo of curls. 'Blofeld, is it? Well, well.' He looked accusingly at Bond. 'Forgive me, but you certainly have wasted plenty of my, of the College's time. Commander Bond. It is a mystery to me why you did not mention this man's name before. Now let me see, Blofeld, Blofeld. Seem to recall that it came up at one of our Chapter meetings the other day. Now who had the case? Ah, yes.' He reached for a telephone among the nest of books and papers. 'Give me Sable Basilisk.'

Chapter 7 - The Hairy Heel of Achilles

JAMES BOND'S heart was still in his boots as he was conducted again through the musty corridors. Sable Basilisk indeed! What kind of a besotted old fogy would this be?

There came another heavy door with the name in gold and this time with a nightmare black monster, with a vicious beak, above it. But now Bond was shown into a light, clean, pleasantly furnished room with attractive prints on the walls and meticulous order among its books. There was a faint smell of Turkish tobacco. A young man, a few years younger than Bond, got up and came across the room to meet him. He was rapier-slim, with a fine, thin, studious face that was saved from seriousness by wry lines at the edges of the mouth and an ironical glint in the level eyes.

'Commander Bond?' The handshake was brief and firm. 'I'd been expecting you. How did you get into the claws of our dear Griffon? He's a bit of an enthusiast, I'm afraid. We all are here, of course. But he's getting on. Nice chap, but he's a bit dedicated, if you know what I mean.'

Chapter 8 - Fancy Cover

'AND WHO the hell are you supposed to be?'

M more or less repeated Bond's question when, that evening, he looked up from the last page of the report that Bond had spent the afternoon dictating to Mary Goodnight. M's face was just outside the pool of yellow light cast by the green-shaded reading lamp on his desk, but Bond knew that the lined, sailor's face was reflecting, in varying degrees, scepticism, irritation, and impatience. The 'hell' told him so. M rarely swore and when he did it was nearly always at stupidity. M obviously regarded Bond's plan as stupid, and now, away from the dedicated, minutely focused world of the Heralds, Bond wasn't sure that M wasn't right.

'I'm to be an emissary from the College of Arms, sir. This Basilisk chap recommended that I should have some kind of a title, the sort of rather highfalutin one that would impress a man with this kind of bee in his bonnet. And Blofeld's obviously got this bee or he wouldn't have revealed his existence, even to such a presumably secure and - er - sort of remote corner of the world as the College of Arms. I've put down there the arguments of this chap and they make a lot of sense to me. Snobbery's a real Achilles heel with people. Blofeld's obviously got the bug badly. I think we can get to him through it.'

RichardTheBruce

On Her Majesty's Secret Service, Peter Hunt, 1969.

Sir Hillary Bray (to Bond): Have a look at this--arms of Sir Thomas Bond. Baronet of Peckham. Died. Argent on a chevron sable. Three bezants. Good motto, eh? 'The world is not enough.'

Sir Hillary Bray (to assistant): You´re doing a splendid job.

Assistant (to Sir Hillary): Thank you, Mr. Sable Basilisk!

RichardTheBruce

Ian Fleming's James Bond: Annotations and Chronologies for Ian Fleming's Bond Stories, John Griswold, 2006.

Sable Basilisk: This was the name Fleming assigned as a cover for fictionalization of Robin de La Lanne-Mirrlees (b. 1925 – d.) who was the Rouge Dragon Pursuivant from 1952 to 1962 at the College of Arms. Mirrlees provided background material to Fleming concerning the College of Arms. Fleming created the name ‘Sable Basilisk’ by changing the color of the dragon from red to sable (black) and using the word ‘basilisk’ which is a mythical monster that is similar to a dragon and also happened to be the street name of where Mirrlees' apartment was located. In 1962, Mirrlees succeeded to the title Comte de La Lanne (France) and titular Prince of Coronata and from 1962 to 1967, Mirrlees was the Richmond Herald of Arms. He has various foreign orders of knighthood.

Of special note, Mirrlees genealogy traces back to Peyrigné de La Lanne’s, one of the oldest families in Spain and Navarre. One of the common physical traits of this family is that they are born with no ear lobes. Fleming used this physical trait for Blofeld in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

Count Robin de La Lanne-Mirrlees. (1925–2012)

Thunderfinger

Basilisk reminds me of basillusk, which is Norwegian slang for bacill. Not to be confused with Basillicum. Or Basil.

RichardTheBruce

Thunderfinger wrote: »

Basilisk reminds me of basillusk, which is Norwegian slang for bacill. Not to be confused with Basillicum. Or Basil.

Well, we wouldn't want that, would we.

RichardTheBruce

Came across a Calypso item of interest.

Calypso, the first truly "amphibious" (underwater) 35mm film camera, rather than some clumsy housing. As created by Jacques Cousteau, Jean de Wouters. Production from 1960 by Atoms, sold by La Spirotechnique (a subsidiary of Air Liquide S.A., with ties to Cousteau and engineer Émile Gagnon and their introduction of the Aqua-lung--practical scuba gear).

RichardTheBruce

You might guess where this led.

Nikon / Νίκων / nē′•kôn / noun
1. a name variation of the Greek Nike (meaning victory)
2. a manufacturer of cameras, binoculars, optics

Nikon (Νίκων, Nikon, from Nike--see page 9).

Saint Nikon the "Metanoite" was a Byzantine Monk 930-998 who became the patron saint of Sparta.
Known for his preaching, over praying.

RichardTheBruce

Enter the Calypso Nikkor. A Calypso Nikkor prototype features in 1965 as the Geiger counter camera from Q Branch. All this on the way to the Nikonos and other Nikon products.

Thunderball, Terence Young, 1965.

[

A lot of great information here.

https://casualphotophile.com/2018/01/22/the-legendary-cameras-of-james-bond/

RichardTheBruce

Diamonds Are Forever, Guy Hamilton, 1971.

Nikon F SLR.