Max: Would it make any difference, operator, if I told you that the fate of the whole civilized world hangs in the balance?
Operator: There isn’t any rule for that, sir. I’m sorry.
Max: Then let me put it to you as one human being to another. Would you, one human being, put me, another human being, through to the Chief, if I told you that unless you do the whole of civilization, as we know it, will be torn asunder?
Operator: I couldn’t do that, sir.
Max: Operator, for the love of mankind, why not?
Operator: I’m not a human being, sir. I’m a recorded announcement.
Max: Oh . . . sorry about that.
Max slipped his shoe back onto his foot. “We’ll have to try something else,” he said. “The line is busy.”
“I wish we had that attache case with us,” 99 said. “Maybe R and D sent along something to cover this type of emergency.”
“99—that’s it!” Max cried.
99 looked him up and down. “You have the attache case? Where?”
“No, no, not the attache case. But I do have one of the gadgets.” He held out a hand. “See this ring?”
“Very attractive,” 99 said.
“That’s what I thought—and why I put it on my finger. Little did I know that it would also prove practical. 99, this ring contains a nerve serum.” He removed the ring and showed it to her. “See this little pin? When I shake hands with the bad guy, this pin will penetrate his flesh and inject the nerve serum into his blood stream—assuming, of course, that I’m lucky enough to hit a vein.”
“Wonderful, Max! What does the serum do?”
“It puts the bad guy in a state of paralysis for a period of two hours. In other words, it knocks him stiff.”
“How are you going to use it, Max?”
“I was afraid you’d ask that. Unfortunately, in order for this to work effectively, I have to have a bad guy to shake hands with. And, at the moment, there’s a shortage of bad guys. I have only you and Fang.”
“Maybe a bad guy will come along, Max.”
“No, the only human we’ll see while we’re in here is the waiter who will bring us our food. And it’s very unlikely that the waiter will be a bad guy. Unpleasant, perhaps. But not a genuine, bona fide bad guy.”
“Max . . . couldn’t we fudge a little?”
“You mean pretend that the waiter is a genuine bad guy?”
“Why not, Max? How do we know—maybe, deep down, he really will be a bad guy.”
“We’ll fudge,” Max agreed. “When our waiter arrives with our food, I’ll get him to shake hands with me and inject the serum into his blood stream—assuming, of course, that I’m lucky enough to hit a vein. Then, 99, you and I and Fang will sneak out and do a little investigating.” He brightened. “In fact, we can sneak out between all of our meals.”
“We might get caught, Max.”
“So what? Who would object to a little between meal sneak?”
9.
THE WAITER arrived on schedule at dinner time. He was carrying a tray of food.
“We’re certainly glad to see you,” Max said. “We’re starving.” He put his ring hand through the bars. “Welcome.”
“Glad to be of service, sir,” the waiter replied, ignoring the hand.
“Not yet, Max!” 99 whispered. “Wait ’till he opens the door.”
“Oh . . . yes.”
The waiter put the tray down, then got the key from the hook.
“You look to me like a man with large veins,” Max said. “Am I right?”
“No, sir,” the waiter said, unlocking the cell door. “I come from a family of small-veined people. It’s our pride—our dainty veins.”
“Imagine that!” Max said. “I come from a dainty-veined family myself.” He extended his hand again. “Nice to meet you.”
But at that moment the waiter turned away to retrieve the tray.
“Keep trying, Max,” 99 whispered.
The waiter opened the door and entered the cell. He put the tray down on the cot. “I’ll come back for it in about an hour,” he said.
“And we’ll be happy to welcome you,” Max said heartily. “Welcome you with a merry ho-ho and a joyous handshake.” Once more he extended the hand.
The waiter smiled. “Sorry, sir. Ship’s personnel aren’t allowed to indulge in physical contact with passengers.”
Max kept the hand extended. “It’ll be our little secret,” he said.
“I would know, sir. I couldn’t sleep at night with a thing like that on my conscience.”
“We wouldn’t have to call it a handshake,” Max suggested. “We could say that you were admiring my dainty veins. What could be more natural—one dainty-veined man admiring the dainty veins of another dainty-veined man.”
The waiter shook his head. “It would be cribbing, sir.”
“Suppose, waiter, my dainty-veined hand had a ten-dollar bill in it? Would that be cribbing?”
“No, sir,” the waiter smiled, “that would be dandy.”
Max got a ten-dollar bill from his pocket, folded it, and placed it in his hand. “Now, then, waiter . . .” He said, extending a hand.
The waiter took the hand, warmly, and he and Max shook hands. When Max withdrew his hand, the ten-dollar bill was gone.
“How are you feeling, waiter?” Max said. “A little woozy?”
“No, sir. Just fine. And much richer.”
“Max . . .” 99 said.
“Yes?”
99 whispered to him. “You shook hands with your right hand, Max.”
“Of course. I’m right-handed.”
“But the ring is on your left hand, Max.”
Max faced back to the waiter. “There’s been a slight miscalculation,” he said. “Let’s try that handshake again.”
The waiter shook his head. “I couldn’t, sir. I’m already in too deep. Psychologically, I’m already scarred for life—probably.”
“You won’t shake hands with me, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right then, I won’t shake hands with you.”
“Fine, sir.”
“That’s an agreement—right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine—let’s shake on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
They shook hands again. This time, Max used his left hand. And the instant their hands gripped, the waiter dropped like a stone.
“Ha! Dainty veins, eh!” Max sneered. “He had a vein big enough to drive a truck through.”
“We’d better hurry, Max,” 99 said. “He’ll only be out for a couple hours.”
“Just a minute, 99. We can’t go out on deck like this. That steward would spot us in a second. We’ll have to disguise ourselves.”
“How, Max?”
“Well, I’ll trade clothes with this waiter. And you . . . hmmm, that does present a problem.”
“Rorff!”
“The perfect solution!” Max exclaimed.
99 stared at Fang. “I didn’t know his sheepdog coat could be taken off,” she said.
“A little gimmick worked up by R and D,” Max said. “He’s fitted out with a zipper. Come here, boy.”
Fang trotted over to Max. Quickly, Max zipped him out of his sheepdog coat.
99 stared, stunned. “He looks like—”
“Right—like a Mexican Hairless,” Max said. “That is his disguise.”
“Rorff!”
“I know you’re chilly, Fang. But bare up. Remember, it’s for the good of mankind.”
“Rorff!”
“In this case,” Max said, “mankind includes dog-kind, too.”
“But, Max, that still leaves me—I’m not disguised,” 99 said.
“No sooner said than done.”
Max picked up Fang’s sheepdog coat and tossed it casually about 99’s shoulders. “There you are—you’re a wealthy eccentric.”
“Wealthy, Max?”
“You’re wearing a fur.”<
br />
“Eccentric, Max?”
“Have you ever seen a conformist with a sheepdog around his shoulders?”
99 nodded. “You’re right—as usual—Max.”
“Now then, if you two will step outside,” Max said. “I’ll change clothes with this waiter. And then we’ll be off.”
99 and Fang slipped out of the cell, and waited for Max in the corridor. A few minutes later, he appeared, looking exactly like a ship’s waiter.
“Rorff!”
“Take your own soup back to the kitchen,” Max snapped.
“Now, Max?” 99 said.
“Now,” Max said. He led the way along the corridor, then up the stairs to the deck. “Ah . . . fresh air,” he breathed as they emerged.
“You—waiter!” a voice barked.
Max turned—and found himself facing a steward.
“What are you doing out here?” the steward said. “Get back to the dining room where you belong. Dinner is being served.”
“I just stepped out for a breath of fresh air,” Max said. “The odor of that food in the dining room was making me a little ill.”
“It makes us all a little sick,” the steward said. “But duty is duty. Back to the dining room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll go along with you, just to make sure you get there,” the steward said.
“That won’t be necessary, sir. I know the way.”
“That’s why I’m going with you,” the steward said. He looked about sheepishly. “You see,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’m lost. But if I can just make it back to the dining room, I’ll be all right. I know my way from there.”
“Yes, sir,” Max sighed. “Follow me.”
Max and the steward walked off down the deck.
“Fang, what’ll we do?” 99 wailed.
“Rorff!”
“Yes, I suppose we might as well,” 99 agreed. “That way, we’ll be near Max. And, we can have dinner, too.”
99 and Fang hurried off toward the dining room.
As Max entered the dining room a different voice called to him. Turning toward it, he found himself being addressed by a sportily-dressed man at a table. Across from the man was a woman, presumably his wife.
“Waiter,” the man said, “we ordered our chicken livers and fried rice an hour ago. It isn’t here yet. Where is it?”
“That’s a special order,” Max replied. “It takes time, you know, to prepare a delicacy like chicken livers and fried rice. First, of course, before you can fry the rice, you have to catch it. Ever tried chasing down a rice? On a ship? And, even after you catch it, there’s the chicken liver to contend with. A chicken doesn’t give up its liver willingly. You have to fight it for it.”
“Then we’ll change our order,” the man said. “Just bring us a couple hamburgers and chocolate malts.”
“With or without?” Max asked.
“With or without what?”
“That’s waiter talk,” Max explained. “It means do you want your hamburger with or without meat. And your malt—with or without malt.”
“With.”
“Roger,” Max replied. He winked. “More waiter talk,” he explained.
Max moved on, crossing the dining room, then entered the kitchen through the swinging doors. The cooks were at the stoves, and other waiters were bustling about, picking up orders.
“Two longhorns under the covers! Two moo-moos, dark brown!” Max called out.
A cook raised his eyes from his work and stared at him. “What?”
“That’s waiter talk,” Max explained. “It means two hamburgers and two malts.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” the cook grumbled. He set about preparing the order.
Max, meanwhile, began looking for a rear exit through which to escape.
“You!” the cook called. “Go get me another order! You think two longhorns under the covers and two moo-moos, dark brown will keep me busy all night?”
“Yes, sir,” Max said grudgingly. “More orders—coming up.”
Max left the kitchen and returned to the dining room. He stopped at the nearest table. “What’ll it be, folks?” he said.
“Max—it’s us,” the girl at the table said.
He stared at her. “99!”
“Rorff!”
“I don’t have to guess who you are,” Max said testily.
“And this,” 99 said, indicating the man at the table, “is Herbert Wai—pronounced ‘Y’. You remember Mr. Wai, don’t you, Max? He’s the tour director, escorting the scientists on the tour of European laboratories. Mr. Wai joined us at our table.”
“All the other tables were taken,” Wai explained.
“Well, in that case, I guess I’ll have to sit here, too,” Max said, pulling out a chair.
“Are you, uh, doing double duty?” Wai asked, as Max sat down. “That is, dining and waiting on tables, too?”
Max nodded. “It’s the only way you can get any service in here,” he said. He took out his order book. “As I said before, ‘What’ll it be, folks?’ ”
“I’ll have the Special,” Wai said.
“Me, too, Max,” 99 said.
“Rorff!”
“That makes it unanimous,” Max said. “I’ll have the Special, too.” He wrote up the order, tore the page from the book, and handed it to Wai. “Just take this to the kitchen and hand it to a cook,” he said. “He’ll put the order on a tray. Just bring the tray back here.”
“Why me?” Wai said puzzledly, accepting the order.
“There’s a waiter shortage,” Max explained. “We all have to pitch in and do our part.”
“Oh . . . well, in that case . . .”
Wai got up and headed for the kitchen.
“A little trick,” Max explained to 99 and Fang. “I had to get him out of the way so we could talk privately.”
“I understand, Max,” 99 said. “What is it you have to say?”
“I want you to stall your dinner,” Max said. “Do anything you can to keep from finishing. Because as soon as I get off duty here as a waiter I want to continue the search for the diabolical Dr. X. And I want you and Fang to be close at hand. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
“We’ll be right here, Max.”
Max felt a finger tapping him on the shoulder. “Yes?” he said, turning and looking up. The man whose order he had taken earlier was standing by his chair.
“Where are my two hamburgers and two malts?” the man asked crossly.
Max turned away and looked at the table. “They’re certainly not here,” he said. “Try the kitchen.”
“Oh . . . all right.”
The man moved on.
“There’s one in every dining room,” Max muttered.
At that moment, Herbert Wai reappeared. He was carrying a tray. “All out of the Special,” he said. “But I did manage to get us some longhorns under cover and some moo-moos, dark brown.”
“What’s that?” 99 asked.
“Actually, it’s the same as the Special,” Wai replied. “Except without malt.”
He put the food on the table, then sat down. “The cook was asking about you,” he said to Max. “He has some orders he wants you to deliver, I believe.”
“First things first,” Max said. “I haven’t eaten yet.”
Wai turned to 99. “You’re not eating,” he said curiously.
“I’m waiting for my moo-moo to cool,” she smiled.
“And your longhorn under cover?”
“I’m waiting for it to cool, too.”
“Fact is,” Wai said, “it’s stone cold as it is. The order had been sitting around out there in the kitchen for hours, waiting for a waiter to deliver it.”
“Then she’s waiting for it to warm up,” Max said.
“Her moo-moo?”
“You noticed, of course, that she’s a rich eccentric,” Max said. “That’s one of her eccentricities—she likes hot malteds.”
Wai stared baffledl
y for a moment—at Max, then at 99, then at Fang. Then he shrugged and began to eat.
The man whose order Max had taken earlier reappeared. He picked up the tray that Herbert Wai had put aside. Then, on it, he put Max’s hamburger and malt and Fang’s hamburger and malt. Then, without a word, he marched off, headed for his own table.
Max glared at him as he moved away. “Yep,” he said disgustedly, “there’s one in every dining room—a sorehead.”
“Sorry about that,” Wai said sympathetically. “May I get you another order?”
Max shook his head. “No, thank you,” he replied. “That hamburger was stone cold, anyway.”
Wai touched his napkin to his lips. “Too bad,” he said. “It was tasty.”
“Oh, finished?” Max said.
“Yes. And I think I’d better be toddling on.”
“Just a moment—I’ll give you your check,” Max said. He picked up the order. “Let’s see, that’s four longhorns under cover and four moo-moos, dark brown . . .”
“Scratch the dark brown,” Wai said. “Remember—no malt.”
“Oh, yes. Four moo-moos plain. That comes to exactly four dollars and some change, give or take a nickel or two.” He handed the check to Wai. “If you’ll just sign this . . .”
Wai accepted the check and the pencil and signed it. Then, rising, he smiled and said, “It’s been delightful.”
“Well, it would have been if the kitchen hadn’t run out of dark brown,” Max said.
Wai bowed. “Ta-ta.”
“Ta-ta to you, too-too,” Max said.
Wai smiled once more, then departed.
“Isn’t he charming, Max,” 99 said. “A real gentleman.”
“Yes, my kind of folks,” Max said. He frowned. “Let’s see . . . what was his name again?” He picked up the check to look at the signature. “Oh, yes . . . X.”
“No, Max—Wai.”
“No, 99—X.”
“Wai.”
“X.”
“Rorff!”
“No, Fang, Zee was the fellow with the beard.”
“Max,” 99 said, “his name is Wai—pronounced ‘Y’ ”
“Then why did he sign this check with an X?” Max suddenly straightened, stunned. “99! That charming gentleman we’ve been dining with! That is the diabolical Dr. X!”
“Max, if couldn’t be. No beard. No foreign accent.”
Get Smart 2 - Sorry, Chief . . . Page 10