Get Smart 5 - Missed It By That Much!

by William Johnston

  JOE’S AMERICAN DINER

  “Saved!” Max shouted happily. “American food!”

  “Hurry, Max!”

  They raced toward the diner.

  “Max, see those signs on the windows!” 99 cried joyously. “See what they serve! After that horrible foreign food, isn’t that a sight for sore eyes! Look! Peanut Butter Burgers! And Rice Krispies Burgers!”

  “And Marshmallow Burgers!”

  “And Home-Baked Mom’s Apple Pie Burgers!”

  They rushed up to the door of the diner. Max whipped the door open and they dashed in—and immediately plummeted downward.

  “99, we’re falling through the air,” Max said. “We’re dropping into the water.”

  “Max! What happened to the diner? It disappeared!”

  “I think I can explain that, 99.”

  “What happened!”

  “Blug-Blug-Blug,” Max replied, hitting the water and sinking beneath the surface.

  A moment later, Max and 99 reappeared, gasping for breath. They began treading water.

  “Max . . . what . . . what did you say?” 99 gulped.

  “I said . . . Blug-Blug-Blug . . .”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, I think we’ve finally made contact with the KAOS agent, Whitestone. Remember? The Chief told us that he’s a master illusionist. That diner we saw didn’t really exist. It was an illusion. Whitestone used it to try to destroy us. He hoped that we’d drown.”

  “Max! That’s terrible!”

  “It certainly is. I had my heart set on a peanut butter burger.”

  “We better get back to the dock, Max.”

  “In our condition, I think you’re right. I think it’s a dry dock.”

  They dogpaddled to the dock, then climbed up out of the water. “Well, at least we got where we were going,” Max said. “There’s the Chop House over there.”

  99 looked. “That taxi driver was right,” she said. “That’s a den of thieves, if I ever saw one. If he’s never been down here, I wonder how he was able to describe it so well.”

  “Oh, I suspect he’s been down here often enough,” Max smiled. “Those tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking cab drivers get around more than they like to admit.”

  “What shall we do now, Max?”

  “What else? Go in and ask for Dr. Livingstrom. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

  As they approached the doorway of the Chop House, a small, wizened, hobbling man came out. He was carrying an unlit cigar in one hand.

  The man spoke to Max. “Got a match, Mac?”

  Max hit him with a karate chop, dropping him to the sidewalk.

  “Max! Why did you do that!” 99 squealed, peering down at the prostrate little man.

  “99, for heaven’s sake, didn’t you recognize that? That was the old match trick. If I’d delayed for just a second, reaching for a match, he’d have fired at us with that poison gas gun.”

  99 looked around. “What poison gas gun, Max?”

  “The cigar. You don’t really think that’s a cigar, do you?” He bent down and picked up the cigar from where it had fallen on the sidewalk. “You see, if you unroll these tobacco leaves, inside you find . . . uh . . . more tobacco leaves. Well, it could have been a poison gas gun, 99. It never pays to take chances.”

  The little man began to stir.

  “I think we better get inside,” Max said, urging 99 on. “You can’t depend on these little short guys having a sense of humor.”

  Inside, the Chop House was dimly-lighted, foul-smelling and smoke-filled. There were tables and booths, most of them occupied by fiendish-looking men and wicked-looking women. Satanic-looking waiters were snaking in and out among the tables, delivering orders. Just inside the doorway was a sign saying: No Children Allowed After 6 P.M.

  “A wise policy,” Max said. “At least, they’re keeping the welfare of the community in mind.”

  “What now, Max?” 99 whispered.

  “Play it cool,” Max replied. “Act as if we belong here.”

  “Right.”

  With Max leading the way, they entered and sat down at a table. A waiter appeared.

  “Yeah, what’ll it be?” the waiter growled.

  “Our usual,” Max replied.

  “Yeah? I don’t remember seeing you in here before. What’s your usual?”

  “Two peanut butter burgers,” Max replied.

  “And I’ll have the same,” 99 said.

  The waiter stared at Max. “Now I know I ain’t never seen you before,” he said. “I ain’t never even heard of nobody that ate a thing like a peanut butter burger. Where you from, Mac? The Moon? Anyway, we don’t serve no food. Unless you want to put our free lunch in the category of food. Which hardly nobody but a tourist with a cast-iron stomach does. All what we serve is drinks. You want a drink?”

  “If we’ll have to settle for that, yes,” Max replied. “Two milks.”

  “Milks!”

  “On the rocks,” Max added.

  The waiter shrugged and departed.

  “That was close, Max,” 99 whispered. “I think he was getting suspicious—until you told him to put ice cubes in the milks.”

  “Ice cubes? Is that what ‘on the rocks’ means, 99?”

  “Yes, Max.”

  “Live and learn.” He squinted his eyes, peering into the cigar and cigarette smoke, looking about the room. “I don’t see any tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking master illusionists,” he said. “We must have given that KAOS agent the slip.”

  “I hope so,” 99 said. “A person who could make us see what didn’t exist—the way he made us see that diner—would be hard to handle.”

  “You’re right. But I think—”

  Max looked up. A small, olive-skinned man, dressed in a flowing white Arab burnoose, was standing at the table, grinning down at them.

  “Permit me,” the little man said. “I am Hassan Pfeiffer, at your service.”

  Max shook his head. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,” he said.

  “Perhaps if I joined you at your table we could discuss the matter,” Hassan Pfeiffer said, still grinning. “My goods are in great demand. I have jewels, stolen from King Solomon’s mines. I have fresh eggs, stolen directly from under the chickens, still warm. I have teflon-coated fry pans, stolen from Macy’s Department Store, Pahzayk branch. I have—”

  “No, nothing, thanks,” Max broke in.

  “I have the jewel stolen from the eye of the idol.”

  “No, really— Uh, what idol?”

  “What difference does it make? An eye from an idol is an eye from an idol. They’re all alike. Oh, maybe one glitters a little more than another, but, at base, they’re all the same, just a hunk of worthless paste.”

  “No sale,” Max said.

  “I have a genuine chain-driven saxophone—the only one of its kind,” the little man went on.

  “Believe me, fella, there’s nothing you could mention that would interest us.”

  “I have love potions—five parts coca cola and ninety-five parts radish juice.”

  Max flinched. “What does that make?”

  “Depends on what you like,” the little man replied. “It’s either great radish juice or a lousy coke.”

  Max shook his head again. “Nothing. Just go away.”

  “I have information about missing scientists named Dr. Livingstrom.”

  Max indicated a chair. “Maybe you’d like to join us.”

  The little man sat down at the table with them. “What’ll it be?” he said. “Fresh eggs? Fry pans? The eye from the idol? Chain-driven saxophone? Love potion? Or, I could make you a nice little deal on the whole kit’n’kaboodle.”

  “What I had in mind was about a quart of that information on missing scientists named Dr. Livingstrom,” Max said. “What would that come to?”

  “In the can or in the bottle?”

  Max narrowed his eyes and leaned across the tabl
e. “I think there’s something you ought to know, Hassan,” he said. “The young lady and I are not really tourists, as you appear to think. Actually, we’re crack secret agents. I’m Max Smart, Agent 86. And the young lady is Agent 99. And, as crack secret agents, we are trained to get what we want, when we want it, in any way that we can get it. Now, I don’t want to scare you. But what we want at the moment is information about a missing scientist named Dr. Livingstrom. And we will go to any lengths to get it. Is that clear?”

  “Sure. You want to bargain,” Hassan smiled.

  “Not exactly. What I want is that information. And I’m prepared to get ver-ry mean about it if I don’t get the information immediately—and at the lowest possible price.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Hassan said. “I’ll give you the secret agent rate. It’s better than wholesale.” He spread his hands, grinning again. “Sure, I’m losing money. But maybe you’ll send other secret agents to me, and, in the long run, I’ll make it up.”

  “How much?”

  “Slip me a fiver.”

  Max handed him the money. “Now, what do you know about Dr. Livingstrom?”

  “I know that he’s the only other man in the world with a chain-driven saxophone—the only one of its kind,” Hassan replied. “It’s just like mine. I sold it to him just before he left for the interior.”

  “The interior?” Max said.

  “That’s what we call the inside-the-jungle-place here in Africa,” Hassan replied.

  “Are you telling me that Dr. Livingstrom has gone into the jungle? How do you know?”

  “I gave him directions,” Hassan answered. “I sold him the sax, then he said, ‘Incidentally, which way to the jungle?’ So, I pointed, and he took off.”

  Max turned to 99. “We’ll have to form a safari,” he said.

  “Right, Max,” 99 replied.

  “Wrong, Max,” Hassan said. “You don’t want a safari. You know what a safari is? Strip away all the romantic gloss and all it is is a bunch of natives. You want to be responsible for a bunch of natives? Think of the paperwork. Making deductions for Social Security. Keeping track of all those income tax withholding statements. Insuring the safari against rain damage, hit and run elephants and lion attacks. Is that what you want?” He shook his head. “That’s not what you want, Max. What you want is a plain old everyday guide. One man. A guide who knows the interior like the palm of his hand.”

  “He may be right, Max,” 99 said.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I think he is,” Max said. “After all, we are on a secret mission. And if you tell a safari a thing like that, before long the whole country knows it. I saw that happen once.”

  “Really, Max?” 99 said, surprised. “I didn’t know you’d been to the jungle before.”

  “I wasn’t in the jungle, 99. I saw it happen to a Great White Hunter in a Tarzan movie.” He turned back to Hassan. “I suppose, just by coincidence, you happen to know where we can find a guide,” he said.

  “Just by coincidence, I happen to have one right here in my Arab costume.”

  “Your burnoose, you mean,” Max said.

  “Is that what it’s called? Okay, in my burnoose, then.”

  Max leaned forward again. “Where?”

  “Me,” Hassan grinned.

  Max looked at him narrowly once more. “I don’t know, Hassan. Somehow, I don’t trust you. No offense intended, of course.”

  “Perhaps if I tell you something more you will believe me,” Hassan said. “I will tell you why Dr. Livingstrom went into the interior. He went in search of a rare plant—the Dog Rose. It grows only here in New Ghirzy, and only in the interior. He needs it for a new dish he is inventing.”

  ‘That’s Dr. Livingstrom, all right,” Max said. “All right, Hassan, I believe you—you did meet him and you did talk to him. At first, frankly, I doubted you. But, you’re hired. Your information proves, I think, that we can trust you.” He extended a hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

  Hassan took his hand and pumped it. “You have made me a very happy guide,” he said. “It is such a good feeling to be trusted.”

  “Ah . . . Hassan . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to have my ring back, please. It stuck to your fingers when we shook hands.”

  “Sorry about that,” Hassan grinned. “It was a mistake. I recently removed some chocolate-covered cherries from a breast of white dove, and my fingers are still sticky.”

  3.

  EARLY THE next morning, by prior arrangement, Max and 99 met Hassan Pfeiffer at the edge of the jungle. Hassan, as he had promised, had brought the supplies they would need for the long trek into the interior.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” Max said, inspecting the supplies. “A dozen cans of peaches . . . a fly swatter . . . a number of—” He looked back over his shoulder at Hassan. “A fly swatter?”

  “For malaria,” Hassan explained.

  “I don’t think I quite understand that.”

  “With the fly swatter, you swat the tsetse fly before it bites you. That way, you don’t get malaria.”

  “Good idea,” Max said. “I wonder why the scientists didn’t think of that.” He turned his attention back to the supplies. “Another dozen cans of peaches. A can of—”

  There was a ringing sound.

  “There’s the doorbell,” Hassan said.

  “No, Hassan, that’s my shoe,” Max explained. “You see, actually, it’s a telephone. I think my chief is calling me.”

  Max removed his shoe and put it to his ear.

  Max: Yes, Chief?

  Chief: Max, I was getting a little worried. I haven’t heard from you.

  Max: We’re A-OK, Chief. Nothing to worry about. We’ve found out that Dr. Livingstrom has gone into the jungle, and we’ve hired ourselves a native guide and we’re about to set out to find him.

  Operator: That’s not how Arnold would do it. Arnold would form a safari.

  Max: Sure. And get himself tied up in a lot of paperwork. I don’t doubt it. Incidentally, Chief . . . have you rejected Arnold yet?

  Chief: I haven’t even seen him, Max.

  Operator: That’s impossible. He started out for Headquarters two days ago.

  Chief: Maybe he got lost.

  Operator: No. His mother was with him.

  Max: She’s right, Chief. 99 and I met Arnold and his mother outside headquarters two days ago. The last time I saw him, he was entering the building. But, frankly, judging from what I saw of him, if he hasn’t turned up, it’s no great loss.

  Operator: Chief, look around—he must be there somewhere.

  Chief: I’ll send out a search party. Max—are you still there? Have you seen that KAOS agent yet?

  Max: Not exactly, Chief. But we have made contact. He lured us into a hamburger joint that wasn’t there and for a second we were in danger of drowning.

  Operator: Arnold would never drown in a hamburger joint.

  Chief: Keep your eyes open, Max. And don’t believe anything you see. It may be an illusion.

  Max: I’ll remember that, Chief.

  Chief: Good luck, Max.

  Operator: Never mind about him, Chief. Go look for Arnold.

  Max hung up and slipped his shoe back onto his foot.

  “Well, are we ready?” he said to 99 and Hassan.

  “You haven’t finished checking the supplies, Max,” 99 said.

  “There’s no more time for that,” Max replied. “Besides, I trust Hassan. It’s very important, 99, to trust your guide. After all, when you go into the jungle, you’re putting your life in your guide’s hands. If you don’t trust him, you shouldn’t be going into the jungle with him in the first place. Right?”

  “That makes sense, Max.”

  “All right, then, as the natives say—‘Mush!’ ”

  Hassan loaded the pack containing the supplies on his back, and led the way into the undergrowth. Max and 99 followed close at his heels. The going soon became extre
mely difficult. Jungle vines criss-crossed the trail, forming an almost impenetrable barrier. Hassan had to hack the path through the vines with a machete.

  “It is very tough going,” Hassan panted.

  “It’s a wonder they haven’t built a highway through here,” Max said.

  “The highway is about a mile to the east of here,” Hassan replied.

  Max halted. “There’s a highway? Then why aren’t we using it?”

  “The traffic is terrible,” Hassan explained. “This way is faster.”

  “I guess I know what you mean,” Max said. “We have the same trouble in Washington at rush hour.”

  “Max . . .” 99 said uneasily, “I know we’re supposed to trust Hassan, but . . . Well, if Dr. Livingstrom came this way, didn’t he clear a path? And, if he cleared a path, why is it that we have to clear a path again?”

  Max put a finger to his lips and shook his head.

  “But, Max—”

  “99, please,” Max said, speaking softly, “you’ll offend Hassan. You’re as much as intimating that he’s not telling us the truth.”

  “But, Max,” 99 whispered, “I don’t understand. Why do we have to clear a path where a path has already been cleared?”

  “It’s obvious,” Max replied. “This isn’t the way Dr. Livingstrom went. He probably took the highway. But, don’t forget, he’s days ahead of us. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “That’s why we’re hacking our way through the jungle?”

  “Right. You heard what Hassan said about the highway. This is the shortcut.”

  “Oh.”

  “Instead of wasting your time questioning Hassan’s truthfulness, think about that notation that was found in Dr. Livingstrom’s laboratory,” Max said. “If we can figure out that formula, we won’t need Dr. Livingstrom.”

  “All right, Max. Let’s see,” she mused, “Brassica Oleracia—212°. What could that be?”

  “Let’s try it syllable by syllable,” Max said. “Now, the first syllable is ‘brass’. Brass is a metal. Iron is also a metal. Maybe Dr. Livingstrom created the odor by leaving the iron on and scorching a shirt. That makes a terrible smell.”

  “I don’t think that’s it, Max.”