Get Smart 2 - Sorry, Chief . . .
Page 4
“Rorff!”
“Yes, that is amazing,” Max said, holding up the gadget. “Imagine getting all that into a capsule the size of this. Why, it’s not much bigger than a tube of lipstick.”
“Rorff!”
Max scowled. “That’s possible. Maybe they did attach the wrong label to it.”
“Rorff!”
“That’s even more possible,” Max admitted. “Maybe it is a tube of 99’s lipstick. I think I better check it out. I’ll just pull the top off and—”
There was a sudden WHOOSH! The capsule exploded, and large, small and medium-sized objects filled the air, then settled down on Max and Fang, burying them.
They clawed their way to the surface.
“Fang! Are you all right!”
“rurff.”
“Oh, there you are. Take your head out of the oven.”
Max struggled to his feet, then, disgusted, stared down at the rubble of food containers and cooking utensils. “Look at that!” he said. “Fourteen boxes of instant oatmeal! Is that what they call food rations! I wouldn’t feed that gunk to a dog!”
“Rorff!”
“Sorry, Fang. I didn’t mean that personally.” He groaned. “Well, let’s get this stateroom straightened up. Shove everything under the bunk.”
When the rubble had been cleared away, Max and Fang turned their attentions to the attache case of gadgets once more.
Max plucked an item from the case that looked like a nozzle for a hose. “What do you suppose this is?” he said, curious.
“Rorff!”
“I know what it looks like. But it can’t be that. The thing about these gadgets is, they’re designed to look like something harmless to disguise the fact that, actually, they’re lethal weapons. Now then, let’s read this tag and see what this instrument really is.” He read—silently. “Hmmmmmmm,” he said, finally, “a nozzle, eh?”
“Rorff!”
“Fang, nobody likes an ‘I-told-you-so.’ ” He peered into the business end of the nozzle. “Very interesting. But highly impractical. What good is a nozzle without a hose? And, more to the point, what good is a nozzle without a hose that’s attached to a water hydrant? No, I’m afraid I’ll have to give Research and Development a thumbs down on this one.”
At that moment, 99 put her head in the doorway.
“Hi, Max. I’m back.”
“Welcome home,” Max said. “Did you get the list?”
“Oh, yes. I found the list officer and asked him for the list, but he said that lists were restricted, he couldn’t give any lists out to anybody who wasn’t authorized personnel.”
“That’s the usual story,” Max said. “What did you do?”
“I said, ‘All right, don’t give me the list, but may I have a copy of it?’ So that was okay, he gave me a carbon of the list. He said there wasn’t any rule about who could get copies.”
“Good, good. I’d ask you to bring the list in, 99, but there just isn’t room. So, do this. Make a paper airplane out of it and sail it over to me, will you?”
“All right, Max.”
99 began folding the list into the shape of a paper airplane, but then she stopped and looked at Max puzzledly.
“Max,” she said, “why are you standing there holding a nozzle?”
“Oh. This is one of the gadgets that Research and Development sent along in the attache case,” Max explained. He smiled. “Looks like a nozzle, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. What is it really?”
“It’s a nozzle.”
99 giggled. “Max, you’re kidding.”
“No. No, I’m not. It’s really a nozzle.”
“Let’s see. Squirt some water.”
Max looked pained. “99, you can’t squirt water out of a nozzle that doesn’t have a hose attached to it. That’s elementary logic.”
“Max, R and D wouldn’t have sent it if it didn’t work. Turn it on.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Try it, Max.”
“I’d feel like a silly-Billy.”
“Oh, go on, Max. It won’t hurt.”
“Well . . .”
Max turned the nozzle. And a thunderous stream of water gushed from the end.
“Max! Turn it off!” 99 shrieked.
“I can’t! It’s stuck!”
The stream of water sprayed the stateroom. It knocked pictures off the walls. Fang became drenched. Max became drenched. 99 tried to fight her way into the stateroom to help Max, and she became drenched.
Water began to rise in the stateroom. A stove floated out from under the bunk.
“Max!” 99 called. “Open the porthole!”
Max dropped the nozzle, waded to the porthole, and yanked it open.
The sea came rolling in!
“Max!” 99 screamed. “I forgot how far down we are! Close the porthole!”
Max threw his weight against the porthole cover, and finally got it closed, shutting off the rush of sea water.
A grayish ooze began bubbling up from under the bunk!
“Max! What is that!” 99 wailed.
“That,” Max said disgustedly, “is fourteen boxes of instant oatmeal!”
“Max! Do something!”
“Close the door!” Max called back.
“Max, no! You’ll drown in there!”
“Close the door!” Max commanded. “I want to get this nozzle into the bathroom and put it in the sink. But I can’t open the bathroom door unless you close the stateroom door.”
“Oh. All right, Max.”
99 tried to close the stateroom door. But she didn’t have much success.
“99—what’s the matter!”
“It’s the oatmeal, Max. The doorway is so full of oatmeal, I can’t get the door closed.”
“All right—belay that last order.” Max turned to Fang. “Fang, I’m going to open the porthole once more. When I do, you throw the nozzle out the opening. Ready?”
“Rorff!”
“Fang, I don’t think this is the time to worry about whether you should throw it underhanded or overhanded. Just throw!”
“Rorff!”
“All right, underhanded, if that’s your best throw. And, yes, I promise I’ll watch.”
Again, Max yanked the porthole open.
Fang gripped the nozzle firmly in his jaws, then, with considerable skill, pitched it out the opening—underhanded.
Once more, Max pressed his full weight against the porthole cover. The sea yielded, and the cover closed.
Max sat down on the edge of the bunk, exhausted.
“Rorff!”
“Yes, Fang,” he said wearily, “I do think you’re good enough for the New York Mets.”
“Max . . . are you all right?” 99 said worriedly from the doorway.
“All right? Yes, I’m all right. Considering that my shoes are full of instant oatmeal.”
“You better get someone to clean up this mess, Max.”
“Yes, sure. And how will I explain it?”
“Well . . . there’s the stove, and the pans, and the oatmeal. You could say you were having breakfast in bed and it got out of hand.”
“99, that’s preposterous.”
“I don’t know why. There’s the stove and the pans and the oatmeal.”
“Oh, that part of it makes sense enough,” Max said. “But, 99, it’s the middle of the afternoon. Who would believe that I would be having breakfast at that time of day?”
99 nodded sadly. “I guess we’ll have to clean it up ourselves.”
It took only a few hours to clear away the mess in Max’s stateroom. By then it was time for dinner, but still too early to go stateroom-searching.
“Shall we eat now, Max?” 99 said.
“Mess,” Max replied.
“Max, why do we have to miss dinner?”
“Not ‘miss’, ‘mess.’ That’s what meals are called on board ship.”
99 looked at him dubiously. “Mess?”
“Yes. Mess.”
“Well . . . you just saw what my breakfast looked like. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Oh . . . yes.”
“Rorff!” Fang barked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Max agreed. “The Chief did say that he wanted us to keep in touch. I think I’d better put in a call to Control before we go to mess.”
Max sat down on the edge of the lower bunk and took off his communicating shoe. He dialed, then waited, listening to the tone.
Operator: What number were you calling, please?
Max (surprised): Operator, this is a direct line. You’re not supposed to be on it.
Operator: This is an overseas call, sir. All overseas calls are handled by we operators.
Max: I think that should be ‘us’ operators, operator.
Operator: Oh? Are you one of we?
Max: Us.
Operator: Is that you, Mabel? What happened to your voice?
Max: Operator, this is not Mabel. This is Max.
Operator: Oh . . . Maxine! Gee, honey, you sounded just like Mabel. Golly, dearie, no wonder I didn’t recognize your voice. I haven’t seen you in ages. Not since you told that Night Supervisor what she could do with her trunk line. Did she resent that, Maxine? Is that why I haven’t seen you around?
Max (testily): Operator, this is not Maxine. This is Max. M-a-x—Max. I am Maxwell Smart, Secret Agent 86, and I am trying to place a call to Control. Now, may I have your cooperation, please?
Operator: I’m sorry, sir. But, you know, you sure do sound like Mabel. Or Maxine, as the case may be. But, if you say you’re not . . . if you say you’re some kind of secret agent . . . I guess you have a right to that opinion. After all, it’s a free country, isn’t it, six? Now, what number do you want, sir?
Max: I can’t tell you that, operator. Control is a secret organization. Consequently, its number is classified information.
Operator: But can’t you even tell me, sir? I won’t tell anybody, honest.
Max: I’m afraid not, operator. That would be a violation of my oath. You’ll have to look it up yourself. It’s right there in the book.
Operator: Yes, sir. And what did you say the name was?
Max: Control. C-o-n-t-r-o-l.
(sound of Operator leafing through pages)
Operator: I have the page, sir. Now, what is the first name?
Max: There isn’t any first name, operator. It’s just plain old Control.
Operator (to herself): Gee . . . let’s see . . . here’s Frank Control . . . Algernon Control . . . Pest Control . . . oh, here’s a P. O. Control. Could that be it, sir?
Max: Yes, I suppose it is. P. O. Control. Plain Old Control. Let’s try that number, anyway.
Operator: Yes, sir. I’m ringing that number, sir.
(ringing sound)
Chief: Control. Chief speaking.
Max: Chief, this is Max. I’m calling from the “Queen Edward.” Just giving you a buzz to let you know that the mission is rolling right along on schedule.
Chief: Max, have you spotted the diabolical Dr. X yet?
Max: I’m almost positive we have, Chief. In our wanderings about the ship we’ve seen practically everybody on board. One of those persons must have been the diabolical Dr. X. Now, all we have to do is narrow it down to the one.
Chief: Well, I suppose that’s better than nothing. What else have you accomplished?
Max: For one thing, Chief, I think I’ve found a new pitcher for the New York Mets. That is, if they’re interested in an underhanded lefty. Oh, yes, and I’ve experience-tested a couple of those gadgets that R and D sent along. One thing, Chief: I think a warning should be attached to those boxes of instant oatmeal. It probably should say something like this: Do Not Open in Flooded Stateroom.
Chief: I’ll make a note of that, Max. R and D is very anxious to get your reaction to those new gadgets.
Max: I have one little disappointment for them, Chief. I won’t be bringing back that nozzle. I have an excellent reason for it. But it’s a long, wet story, so I won’t bore you with it.
Chief: They will be disappointed. That nozzle was one of their prize gadgets.
Max: Tell them I’m sorry about that, Chief.
Chief: What are your plans now, Max?
Max: Right now, Chief, we’re going to mess.
Chief: Mess, Max?
Max: That’s what meals are called on board ship, Chief.
Chief: Why is that?
Max: If you’d been here in my stateroom a few minutes ago, you wouldn’t have to ask. But, I suppose it’s because the ship’s crew is an untidy lot, and they mess around a lot at meals.
Operator (breaking in): Your three minutes are up. Deposit another seventy-six dollars and twenty-five cents, please.
Chief: Operator, this isn’t a pay phone. The charge goes on our regular bill.
Operator: Pardon my impudence, sir, but that’s what they all say.
Chief: Max—I don’t have that kind of change handy, so I guess we’ll have to ring off now. But keep in touch.
Max: So long, Chief.
Operator: So long from me, too, Chief. And so long to you, Maxine.
The line went dead.
4.
MAX, 99 and Fang dined in the main dining room, then went out on the deck to wait for night to fall, at which time they intended to begin searching the scientists’ staterooms.
As they stood at the rail, the sound of soft music floated in the air, wafted by a cooling, caressing, sea-scented breeze.
99 sighed dreamily. “Somewhere, Max, they’re dancing,” she murmured romantically.
“I hope so,” Max replied. “It would be a shame to waste that music.”
“Max—look. The stars are peeping through the clouds.”
“Technically, that isn’t correct, 99,” Max said. “Those stars are just sitting there, and the clouds are passing in front of them. Stars don’t peep. They’re not interested in that sort of thing.”
“Max, do you have to be so literal!”
“I’m not so literal,” Max replied gruffly. “I’m five-foot-eleven. There are a lot of guys that are literal than that.”
“Rorff!”
“Fang is right,” Max said. “I just look literal to you because you’re a tall girl.”
“What I mean is, Max, don’t you ever have any romantic thoughts? Look—the stars are out, the moon is a yellow gondola in the sky, the—”
“99,” Max broke in, “if you think the moon looks like a gondola, you’ve got a lot of gondola research to do.”
“Max, I was speaking poetically. The stars . . . the moon . . . the night . . . doesn’t that mean something to you?”
“99, you’re right. I’ve been a blind fool. Now, I understand what you’ve been trying to tell me. It’s night—time to start searching those staterooms. Come on!”
99 groaned—then obediently trotted after Max and Fang, who were striding down the deck.
“We’re going to do this alphabetically—from Z to A,” Max said when 99 caught up.
“Isn’t alphabetically the other way around, from A to Z?” 99 said.
“Not if you’re in a hurry, and you’re looking for a Dr. X,” Max replied.
They entered a corridor that was lined with the doors to staterooms. Max, leading the way, began checking the numbers on the doors.
“Whose stateroom are we looking for, Max?” 99 asked.
“The stateroom of a Dr. Zee,” Max replied. “Dr. Ludwig Zee.”
“Zee,” 99 mused. “Dr. Zee . . . that is suspicious, isn’t it, Max?”
Max halted. “How’s that?”
“Well . . . Dr. Zee . . . Dr. X . . . they’re so close together. You know, X, Y, Z.”
“Oh, is that how it goes? I thought it was ‘I’ before ‘E’, except after ‘C’, and, on rare occasions, ‘W’ and ‘Y’ ”
“That’s something else, Max, I’m talking about the alphabet—the way it ends. It ends with
X, Y, Z.”
Max shook his head. “Sorry, 99. Good try, but it just doesn’t have it. You see, in this case, we’re working from Z to A. Consequently, the alphabet ends not in X, Y, Z, but in C, B, A. Nevertheless, as I said, good try. Keep thinking.”
“Yes, Max.”
They moved on—then Max halted again. “This is it,” he said.
He looked up and down the corridor.
“All clear,” 99 whispered.
Max tried the door. “Locked,” he announced.
“That’s not surprising,” 99 said.
“No, and not unexpected, either,” Max replied. “Fortunately, I’m prepared. R and D sent along a gadget that—it claims—is guaranteed to unlock any locked door. This looks to me like an excellent opportunity to experience-test it.” He reached into a pocket and extracted a tiny, penny-sized gadget, then read from the tag that was attached to it. “ ‘Turn Indicator to ON, place in Keyhole, Then Run Like the Devil!’ ”
“It must be an explosive,” 99 said.
Max scowled. “I’m not sure I can get this tag in that keyhole,” he said.
“Max, I think it means to put the gadget in the keyhole—not the tag.”
“Oh . . . yes. I wish R and D would be more explicit about these things.” He tore the tag from the gadget, then set the indicator on ON, and pushed the gadget into the keyhole.
“Now, then, to see what develops,” he said.
“Max, aren’t we supposed to run like the Devil?”
“See what I mean? Why can’t R and D be more explicit? I, for one, haven’t the faintest idea how a Devil runs. Is a Devil a slow runner, or a fast—”
The question was suddenly cut short by a thunderous explosion. There was a flash of flame, then black, roiling smoke filled the corridor.
“Well, I guess that answers that,” Max said, choking.
They fanned the smoke away—and found the stateroom door at their feet. They also found themselves joined by a number of other passengers.
“Don’t panic,” Max said to them. “Nothing to get excited about. We’re the ship’s carpenters—doing a little repair work. This, uh, door was stuck.”
The other passengers seemed satisfied. They returned to their staterooms.
“That was close,” Max said.
“You handled it beautifully, Max,” 99 complimented him.