Bond's body jackknifed out of bed and onto the floor.

At once he was on his feet and at the door. He turned on the light. He
found he was shaking uncontrollably. He staggered to the bed. There it was
crawling out of sight over the pillow. Bond's first instinct was to twitch the
pillow onto the floor. He controlled himself, waiting for his nerves to 
quieten. Then softly, deliberately, he picked up the pillow by one corner
and walked into the middle of the room. He dropped it. The centipede
came out from under the pillow. It started to snake away swiftly across the
matting. Now Bond was uninterested. He looked round for something to
kill it with. Slowly he went and picked up a shoe and came back. The
danger was past. His mind was now wondering how the centipede had got
into his bed. He lifted the shoe and slowly, almost carelessly, smashed it
down. He heard the crack of the hard carapace.

Bond lifted the shoe.

The centipede was whipping from side to side in agony. Five inches of
grey-brown, shiny death. Bond hit it again. It burst open, yellowly.

Bond dropped the shoe and ran for the bathroom. He was violently sick.

