“What do you take me for—a country bumpkin?”
“How about a hat and a rabbit and a chain-driven saxophone—the only one of its kind?”
“No, thanks. Face it, Whitestone—you’re stuck with that formula.”
“A hat and a rabbit and a chain-driven saxophone—the only one of its kind—and my collection of three-hundred odd baseball cards?”
Max frowned. “How odd are they?”
“I’ve got one with a picture of Benedict Arnold on it. And, as you well know, he never made the major league.”
“Well . . .”
“Max, no!” 99 said. “Don’t weaken!”
Max shook his head. “Sorry, Whitestone.”
Whitestone suddenly shoved the pistol into Max’s hand, and raised his own hands high above his head. “You win!” he shouted gleefully. “I give up! Don’t shoot!”
Max looked at the pistol in his hand. Then he turned to 99. “Now I know why they call them the Bad Guys,” he said. “That was as dirty a trick as I’ve ever witnessed.”
“Sticks and stones, but you-know-what,” Whitestone jeered.
“Max, you know, maybe it isn’t as bad as it seems,” 99 said. “You’ve taken Whitestone prisoner. Now we can take him back to Control and put him under lock and key. We’ll be eliminating a source of evil from the world. That’s something.”
“But, 99, we’ll have the formula.”
“Couldn’t we give it back to Dr. Livingstrom?”
“Curses!” Whitestone growled. “Why didn’t I think of that!”
“Because you’re a Bad Guy,” Max told him. “Bad Guys just don’t think that way. With Bad Guys, it’s always take, take, take!”
“You didn’t think of it, either,” Whitestone snapped.
“But I would have! We Good Guys think like that all the time. Give, give, give!”
“Then give me back my gun.”
“Here, you—”
“Max!” 99 snatched the gun from Max’s hand as he was about to give it back to Whitestone.
“Sorry, 99. It just seemed like the natural thing to do.”
“Try not to be yourself for a while, Max,” 99 said, passing the gun back to him. “At least, not until we get our prisoner under lock and key.”
“Excuse me,” Dr. Livingstrom said, “but would anybody mind if I went back to my work?”
“Just a second,” Max said. “I want to return your formula to you.”
“I didn’t know I’d lost it.”
“Doctor, I’d do something about that absent-mindedness if I were you,” Max said.
11.
DR. LIVINGSTROM returned to the hut to continue wrapping Dog Flowers in Brassica Oleracia. As he departed, Max called after him. “We’ll inform the anxious world that you’ve been found, and that you’re in good health!” he said.
Dr. Livingstrom halted. “What good health?” he said. “I haven’t been able to taste or smell a thing since the age of six months.” He then disappeared into the hut.
“I think that probably explains a lot,” Max said to 99. “I’ve always suspected there was something not quite right with people who could stomach those exotic foods. As for me, give me a peanut butter burger every time.”
“Max, don’t you think you ought to report-in to the Chief,” 99 said.
“99, the Chief knows I like peanut butter burgers.”
“About the mission, I mean, Max.”
“You’re right, 99.” He handed the pistol toward her. “Here, hold this on Whitestone while I make the call.”
“She’s busy,” Whitestone said. “I’ll hold it.”
“Whitestone, why don’t you face it?” Max said. “Your evil days of trickery are over. You’ve pulled your last prank. As soon as I make this call to the Chief, 99 and I are going to take you back to the States. You’ll be put behind bars and kept there. And I hope it teaches you a lesson. Remember, Whitestone: Pranking Does Not Pay!”
“Spare me the goody-goody,” Whitestone said sourly. “Make your call, and let’s go.”
Keeping a cautious eye on Whitestone, Max removed his shoe, then dialed.
Chief: Control. Chief speaking.
Max: This is Max, Chief. I just want to report that our mission has been completed.
Chief: Max, that’s great! Now, get the formula back here as soon as possible. We’ll rush it to our scientists, so they can begin producing a supply of the gas, or whatever it is! Incidentally, Max—what is it?
Max: Boiled cabbage, Chief.
(pause)
Chief: Max, we must have a bad connection. I thought you said boiled cabbage.
Operator: That’s right, blame it on the telephone company. You send a secret agent—so-called—out to get the formula for a mysterious gas, or whatever it was, and he comes back with a formula for boiled cabbage, and do you blame the secret agent—so-called? Oh, no! You blame it on the telephone company. The telephone company gave me a bad connection, you say. Well, let me tell you, Chief, the telephone company is getting pret-ty sick and tired of that kind of treatment. The telephone company has feelings, too, you know. The telephone company is just like anybody else—sensitive. What do you think the telephone company is, anyway? Just a mass of wires and dial tones and wrong numbers? A telephone company is people. People, Chief! Thousands and thousands of people! And if you don’t lay off, those thousands and thousands of people are going to come down there to Control headquarters and slug somebody in the old musherino! Got it?
Chief: I’m sorry, Operator. But, try to understand. I actually thought I heard Max say that the gas, or whatever it was that was causing that terrible odor, was boiled cabbage.
Operator: Maybe you have a bad connection.
Max: Chief, there’s nothing wrong with the connection. That’s what I said: boiled cabbage.
Operator: Just a second, Chief. I’ll try another line. I thought he said boiled cabbage, too.
Max: Operator, stop it. I did say boiled cabbage. And I’ll say it again. Boiled cabbage. Boiled cabbage. Boiled cabbage.
Chief: Max, do you realize what that means? The mission was a complete waste of time and money. What kind of a weapon is boiled cabbage?
Max: I’m aware of that, Chief. After all, you could hardly be expected to order your men to attack a KAOS installation armed with pots of boiled brassica oleracia. It just wouldn’t be dignified. But, Chief, you’re wrong about the mission being a complete waste of time and money. I’ve captured Whitestone.
Chief: Great, Max! But are you sure it’s him? It isn’t just an illusion, is it?
Max: I don’t think so, Chief. He’s tall, white-haired and distinguished-looking.
Operator: So is my Aunt Martha.
Max: Can your Aunt Martha pull a rabbit out of a hat, Operator?
Operator: She can do better than that. She can put on a sweater.
Max: What kind of trick is that?
Operator: It’s called: pulling the wool over your own eyes.
Chief: Never mind her, Max. Just get Whitestone back here to headquarters as quickly as you can. I won’t feel that this mission is a complete success until he’s behind bars.
Operator: Chief, you know Max will never get Whitestone back to headquarters. He’ll muff it. Doesn’t he always? Chief, tell Max to stay right where he is, and send Arnold to get Whitestone. Please, Chief, give Arnold another chance!
Max: Another chance? Chief, did Arnold finally show up?
Chief: You might say that, Max. We found him in the telephone booth on the main floor. He was dangling there. His finger was caught in the dial.
Operator: It could happen to anybody.
Max: Chief, you know, she’s right about that—it could happen to anybody. The question is, did he do anything to free himself?
Chief: He kept dialing numbers, trying to reach me.
Max: Did he finally get you?
Chief: No. He got the Busy Bee Bakery in Eskilstuna, Sweden, Frank’s Bar & Grill in Chinde, Mozambique, Da
rla’s Dress Shoppe in Matagalpa, Nicaragua, and Bob’s Kangaroo and Koala Bear Hospital in Sydney, Australia. Our telephone bill is going to be outrageous. Oh, yes, and he got two D.A.s.
Max: D.A.s?
Chief: Two numbers that didn’t answer.
Max: Oh. Listen, Chief, will you tell Arnold that I’m sorry about that. But he hung up before I could get to my shoe.
Chief: He isn’t here, Max. Agent 44 found him hanging by his finger and released him. I believe his mother took him home.
Operator: I’ll give him your message, Max. As soon as he stops sobbing his little heart out.
Max: Thank you, Operator. Chief—I think I better hang up now. Whitestone is beginning to get that crafty look in his eyes. The sooner I get him back to the States, the better.
Chief: Good thinking, Max. Be careful. Don’t let him trick you with another illusion.
Max: I don’t think there’s anything to worry about on that score, Chief. I’m wise to him now. Anything I see that looks the least bit fishy, I’ll avoid.
Chief: Good luck, Max.
Operator: And, as we say in my country, Max: May the Bird of Paradise lay its eggs in your onion soup.
Max: Operator, is that an expression of good will?
(silence)
Max: Operator! Operator!
(silence)
Max put his shoe back on. “99,” he said, “how would you take it if a Bird of Paradise laid its eggs in your onion soup?”
“For heaven’s sakes! Why, Max?”
“I’m trying to figure out whether the Operator was wishing me well or evil.”
“Worry about that later, Max. I’m afraid Whitestone is plotting something.”
Max retrieved the pistol from 99 and, pointing it at Whitestone, said, “Remember what I told you before: Pranking Does Not Pay. One false move, one attempt to create an illusion, and I’ll be forced to shoot.”
“With what?” Whitestone smiled.
“With this pistol, of course.”
Whitestone laughed. “Do you really believe that’s a pistol, 86? Don’t forget where you got it—from me. Would I be carrying a pistol? What need would I have for it? If I wanted a pistol, all I’d have to do would be create the illusion of a pistol.”
Max examined the gun. “You mean this is only an illusion?”
“Max . . . careful . . .” 99 warned.
“Actually, it’s a pigeon,” Whitestone said.
Suddenly a white bird was flapping in Max’s hand, trying to get free. But Max held tight. He aimed the pigeon into the air and pulled the trigger. A shot rang out.
“Shucks!” Whitestone said churlishly.
“All right, now that you know that I can’t be fooled,” Max said, “let’s get going. It’s a long ride back to Pahzayk.”
“Ride, Max?” 99 said.
“Yes, 99. I thought we’d take the subway. There’s the entrance right over there. See the sign above it? It says: Subway Entrance.”
“Max . . . in the middle of the jungle?”
Max turned back to Whitestone, looking at him disappointedly. “Now, I ask you: was that really fairsies?” he said.
“It was fairsies of me,” Whitestone protested. “But was it fairsies of her? If she’d kept quiet, we could have ridden back to Pahzayk on the subway. Now, we’ll have to walk.”
Max faced 99 again. “99, think before you debunk, will you?”
“I only wanted to help,” Whitestone said, pouting. “I’ve come to realize, 86, how right you are. Pranking Doesn’t Pay. As of now, I’m turning over a new leaf. No more tricks. I want to get back to the States as much as you do. I want to get behind bars, and start paying my debt to society. I realize now that I’ve been a bad illusionist. I used my talent for evil rather than good. I deserve whatever happens to me.”
“It’s another trick, Max,” 99 warned.
“Maybe yes, and maybe no,” Max said. “Only time will tell.” He gestured with the pistol. “March, Whitestone!”
They left the clearing, entered the jungle, and proceeded in the direction of Pahzayk. Soon, they reached the river, crossed it at the falls, then continued.
“Notice that he hasn’t tried any more tricks,” Max whispered to 99. “I think he’s really reformed.”
“I suppose it’s possible. But I still doubt it.”
“You know, there’s a little good in everybody, 99. And I think Whitestone’s good has finally asserted itself. Look at the way he’s charging ahead, anxious to get back to the States so he can begin getting what he deserves.”
“I just hope you’re right, Max.”
“I think I know something about people, 99. And it’s my judgment that Whitestone has— Oh-oh.”
“Max! That was amazing! He vanished! Just completely vanished, right before our eyes!”
“Yes, and that’s not the worst of it, 99.”
“What, Max?”
“He’s making it very difficult for me to continue believing that there’s a little good in everybody.”
“86!” a voice called. “Get me out!”
Max and 99 looked around, baffled.
“Max, wasn’t that Whitestone’s voice?” 99 said.
“It certainly sounded like it. But, of course, it could have been an illusion.”
“Down here!” the voice called.
“In that direction—up ahead,” 99 said.
They hurried on—and came to the edge of the pit they had dug earlier. Whitestone was at the bottom of it.
“Will you give me a hand?” he said.
Max began applauding. “And you certainly deserve it,” he said. “That was the best trick I’ve ever seen. How did you do it? There you were, right in front of us, and suddenly—”
“Max . . .” 99 broke in.
“I’m just trying to encourage him, 99. There’s no harm in harmless tricks. After he’s paid his debt to society, maybe he can get back into vaudeville.”
Max and 99 pulled Whitestone from the pit. Again, the three struck out into the jungle. And, in time, they reached the outskirts of Pahzayk.
“We’ll be at the airport soon, Whitestone,” Max said. “Then we’ll board a plane, and, before we know it, we’ll be back in the States.”
“I can hardly wait,” Whitestone said. “Now that the good in me has asserted itself, there’s nothing I want more than to be locked up.”
“Take it easy,” Max said. “You know, it’s as bad to be all good as it is to be all bad. You can become a nut on the subject. Then you have to be locked up.”
A few minutes later, they reached the airport. The clerk at the ticket counter, a tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman, advised them that the next plane for the States was warming up on the runway, and would be leaving in ten minutes.
“There’s a stroke of luck for you,” Max said. “See what happens, Whitestone, when you’re a Good Guy.”
Max purchased three tickets, and he and 99 and Whitestone left the terminal, made their way to the plane, and boarded. The stewardess, a tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking young lady escorted them to their seats.
“Hear the roar of those airplane engines.” Max smiled. “That’s music to the ears. In a few hours we’ll be home.”
“Behind bars,” Whitestone said expectantly.
The tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking stewardess returned. “Fasten seat belts, please,” she said. “We’ll be taking off in just a second.”
Max, 99 and Whitestone buckled themselves in.
“Max . . .” 99 said. “That stewardess—doesn’t she look a little familiar?”
“Not to me, 99. But maybe she was our stewardess on the trip here.”
“No,” 99 said, shaking her head. “And that clerk at the ticket counter—”
“Not now, 99. The plane is moving down the runway.”
“Max—”
“99, will you save it, please, until after we get into the air. Take-offs make me nervous.”
“But, Max
—”
“99, please! The plane is taking off. See, there it goes. Nose up. Climbing higher and higher. Isn’t that a beautiful sight, 99?”
“Max—”
“Yes, what is it, 99? You can talk now—now that we’re off the ground.”
“Max, that’s what I was trying to tell you! We’re not off the ground! We’re still sitting here at the end of the runway!”
Max looked around. “So that’s why my ears didn’t pop,” he said.
“Max! The plane was an illusion!”
“And Whitestone flew off in it,” Max sighed. “We missed getting him back to headquarters by that much. Well, 99, I suppose we shouldn’t be too surprised. It was expecting too much to believe that Whitestone would reform. We have a saying in my country: When the frost is on the pumpkin, there’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover.”
“What does that mean, Max?”
“Once a prankster, always a prankster.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILLIAM JOHNSTON (1924-2010), author of many movie and TV tie-in novels was born January 11th, 1924 and passed away October 15th, 2010.
On January 4th, 2010, The International Association of Media Tie-in Writers www://iamtw.org announced it was bestowing The Faust, its Grand Master Award for excellence, to author William Johnston, the writer of over a hundred tie-in novels and the most prolific practitioner of the craft.
(From the January/February 2010 Newsletter - IAMTW)
The Newsletter of the International Association
of Media Tie-in Writers
IAMTW’s GRAND MASTER SCRIBE AWARD,
THE FAUST, GOES TO THE GENRE’S MOST
PROLIFIC PRACTITIONER
By David Spencer
The inarguable preeminent author of tie-ins, with more published tie-in titles to his credit (well more than 100) than any writer in the game before or since—the legendary and until now somewhat elusive William Johnston—will be honored by the IAMTW with a Faust Award, the honor bestowed upon Grand Masters. He is currently residing in San Jose, California, and will turn 86 on January 11th, 2010—a fitting number, as it is his series of novels based on the spy sitcom Get Smart, about Secret Agent 86 for CONTROL, which turned his byline into a virtual tie-in “brand” and thereafter defined the nature of his tie-in (and the largest proportion of his literary) career as the industry’s comedy specialist.
Get Smart 5 - Missed It By That Much! Page 13