“Give him a mop and let him pretend to be the cleaning woman,” a fourth ballet dancer suggested.
“We don’t have a cleaning woman. You know how atrocious the servant problem is,” the second ballet dancer said.
“I do a pretty good imitation of Jimmy Cagney doing a fair imitation of Edward G. Robinson,” Max said. “Do you think that would fool him?”
“The mop!” a twelfth ballet dancer said.
Max shook his head. “I do a lousy imitation of a mop.”
“Put the mop on his head and dress him in tights and he’ll look like one of us,” the twelfth ballet dancer explained.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door.
“It’s him! It’s Dr. Yeh!” the ballet dancers cried in unison.
The second ballet dancer snatched up a pair of tights and the mop. She shoved them into Max’s hands, then shoved Max into a closet. “Dress!” she hissed. “You’re our new flung!”
“But I—”
The door slammed.
Inside the closet, Max grudgingly changed into the tights and mop. Through the door, he could hear Dr. Yeh! in conversation with the ballet dancers.
“Where is the new flung?” he heard Dr. Yeh! ask.
“She’ll be right out,” a ballet dancer replied.
“This is a great night for me,” Dr. Yeh! said. “How long has it been since my troupe last had a flung to fling? It seems like weeks.”
“It’s been weeks,” a ballet dancer confirmed.
Max opened the closet door and stepped out.
“Ah!” Dr. Yeh! cried happily. “Here is our new—” He stared. “This is our new flung?” he continued. He approached Max. “You look different,” he said. “I don’t recall that you had a handle in your hair.”
“Oh . . . that,” Max said, glancing back over his shoulder at the mop handle. “Actually, you see, that isn’t a handle. It’s a new technical advance in flung-wear. It’s what you might call a rudder. We flungs were being flung into the air and losing our course. The rudder keeps us on the straight and narrow.”
“Didn’t you have dark hair before?” Dr. Yeh! said, squinting at Max puzzledly.
“It suddenly turned mop water gray,” Max explained. “It happens quite often to us flungs. We’re tossed high in the air, and, unfortunately, sometimes we look down. It’s scarey. Enough to turn anybody’s hair mop water gray.”
Dr. Yeh! shrugged. “On with the ballet!”
The ballet dancers, taking Max with them, moved to the center of the room. Dr. Yeh! seated himself on the collapsible throne he had brought along.
“Just relax,” one of the ballet dancers whispered to Max. “We’ll do all the work. You just fly.”
“Fine,” Max whispered back. “I think I can handle— Fly?”
“There’s nothing to it. Just—”
“On with the ballet!” Dr. Yeh! shouted.
One of the dancers stepped forward, facing Dr. Yeh! “This is a new routine we’ve worked out,” she announced. “It’s titled ‘The Birth, Life and Death of the Count of Monte Cristo as performed by Mr. Feldstein’s Social Studies students at Fairfield Elementary School and directed by Lewis and Clark while Lewis plays “A Hard Day’s Night” on the left-handed piccolo and Clark whistles the Second Movement from Daniel Webster’s fugue for adverbs, verbs, pronouns, adjectives and kettle drums blues.’ ”
Dr. Yeh! applauded. “Snappy title,” he said. “What’s it about?”
“We haven’t worked that out yet,” the dancer replied. “We’re still sort of ad-libbing.”
“Good. I like surprises,” Dr. Yeh! said. “On with the ballet!”
The troupe split into two groups. One group, including Max, remained at the left side of the room. The other group moved to the right side of the room.
“Allez-oop!” cried a dancer on the right side of the room.
At the signal, the dancers on the left side of the room lifted Max from the floor and threw him high into the air.
He landed with a plop in the middle of the room, right between the two groups of dancers.
“It’s good,” Dr. Yeh! said. “But it doesn’t live up to the title yet. Needs work.”
Painfully, Max got to his feet. As he did, he was swooped up by one of the groups of dancers. Again, they lifted him into the air. Holding him aloft, they bounded about the room.
“I see it! I see it!” Dr. Yeh! cried excitedly. “That’s Lewis playing the piccolo!”
The dancers put Max on his feet and twirled him around. His mop handle swung wide and dropped three of the dancers, leaving them prostrate.
“Ho! The Count of Monte Cristo!” Dr. Yeh! exulted. “I’d recognize him anywhere!”
Once more the dancers scooped Max up and raised him high. Then, swinging him low, two grabbed his arms, two grabbed his legs, and one grabbed his mop handle, and, again, they flung him toward the opposite side of the room.
Max landed in the middle—minus the mop.
“Impostor!” Dr. Yeh! cried, leaping to his feet.
“Just in time,” Max groaned, rising. “One more fling and I’d’ve been an ex-flung.”
“What are you doing in my ballet dancer place!” Dr. Yeh! raged, confronting Max.
Max faced him squarely. “Would you believe that I was waiting for the 7:07 to Hackensack?”
“Absolutely not! There is no 7:07 to Hackensack. The 7:07 goes to Darien.”
“Then would you believe that I was looking for the airport and took a wrong turn at the oasis?”
“It wouldn’t make any difference whether I believed you or not,” Dr. Yeh! replied. “The penalty for getting caught in the ballet dancer place is death. That’s the rule, whether you’ve got a good reason or not. To the wall!” he shouted.
“Just a minute,” Max said. “You mean you’re going to take me out to the wall, stand me up in front of a firing squad and execute me?”
“Is that what that means?” Dr. Yeh! replied.
“As I understand it, yes,” Max nodded.
“Then that’s what I’m going to do,” Dr. Yeh! said. He went to the door, opened it, and called out. “Guards! To the wall!”
There was a clatter of bootsteps outside. But no guards appeared.
“No! No! No! Not you!” Dr. Yeh! screamed down the corridor. “Him! He goes to the wall, not you! Come back here!”
Again there was the clatter of bootsteps. Then a half-dozen guards burst into the room and seized Max.
“Just one second!” Max said crisply. “As I recall, according to the rules of execution, the doomed man is entitled to a last request.”
“Later,” Dr. Yeh! said. “After the execution.”
“Later will be too late,” Max objected. “I demand that I be allowed to change back into my other clothes.” He popped the elastic of his tights. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like this,” he said.
“Request granted,” Dr. Yeh! said grudgingly. “But hurry it up.”
Max stepped into the closet. Inside, with the door closed, he opened the satchel and looked for a gadget that might help him escape. Soon he found a gadget that was labeled “For Use When Trapped in a Closet.” It looked like a skeleton key.
“Obviously, it’s not really a skeleton key,” Max said softly to himself. “When inserted in the keyhole it probably expels a smoke screen that confuses the adversary and allows the user to escape under the cover of fog.”
Max inserted the key into the lock, then turned it.
The door creaked slowly open. That was all.
“Well, are you coming?” Dr. Yeh! demanded.
“Don’t nag!” Max snapped.
He closed the door, dropped the skeleton key back into the bag, changed clothes, then stepped out.
Once more the guards seized him. They dragged him toward the doorway. Dr. Yeh! tagged along.
“I have one other last request,” Max said, as the guards hustled him along the corridor. “There’s a little chili joint called ‘Me
xican Fred’s’ in lower Manhattan. I’d like to have one more bowl of Mexican Fred’s chili before I die.”
Dr. Yeh! shuddered. “I know the place,” he said. “By refusing your request, I’m doing you a favor. That stuff could kill you.”
They reached the courtyard, and the guards dragged Max to the wall.
99 was there, still waiting. “Max! Where have you been?” she demanded irritably.
“Where I’ve been isn’t terribly important to me right now,” Max replied. “The important question is: Where am I going? At a time like this, a fellow begins to wonder.”
“Max—are you in some sort of trouble?” 99 asked worriedly.
He pointed to the guards, who, a short distance away, were trying to form a straight line. “You are about to witness an execution, 99,” he replied. “Mine.” He handed her the satchel. “You better hold this. I might drop it when I fall.”
“Oh, Max, no!” 99 cried. “Isn’t there something I can do?”
“Well . . . there’s a little joint in lower Manhattan called ‘Mexican Fred’s.’ What you could do, 99, is—”
“Ready!” Dr. Yeh! commanded the guards.
They raised their rifles.
“It’s probably too late,” Max said to 99. “Besides, the chili would undoubtedly be cold by the time you got it back here.”
“Aim!” Dr. Yeh! commanded.
Max addressed one of the guards. “A little bit to the left,” he said, gesturing. “As it is, you’re going to miss me by a mile.”
The guard adjusted his aim.
“No . . . too far,” Max said. “Just a squinch back to the right.”
Again the guard adjusted his aim.
“Right on target!” Max said approvingly.
Dr. Yeh! stormed up to Max. “Who’s directing this execution?” he demanded. “You or me?”
“Sorry about that,” Max replied.
“You think you’re so hot!” Dr. Yeh! barked. “You want me to come over here and stand by the wall and you go over there and give the orders? Is that what you want?”
“No, no, I apologize,” Max said. “You’re doing fine, fine. I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“Just butt out, that’s all!”
“I told you—I’m sorry.”
Dr. Yeh! stomped back to his place at the end of the line of guards.
“Sorehead,” Max muttered.
“Aim!” Dr. Yeh! bellowed.
“You said that,” Max pointed out.
Dr. Yeh! shook an outraged finger at him. “I’m warning you! One more word, and you’re gonna get it!”
Max turned to 99. “He’s right, you know. The word is ‘fire.’ ”
“Max! What can I do!”
“Try the black bag,” Max suggested. “Look for something labeled ‘For Use at Executions.’ ”
Hurriedly, 99 rummaged through the bag. “Here!” she cried excitedly, extracting a gadget.
“99, that’s a cigarette lighter.”
“I know. But it says, ‘For Use at Executions.’ Just a second, I’ll read the instructions. It says, ‘When you are standing at the wall and you are offered a last cigarette, use this gadget to light it.’ ”
“Somehow, I expected a little more from R & D,” Max said disappointedly.
“Max, maybe the instructions are a ruse. Maybe the cigarette lighter is something more than a cigarette lighter.”
“Yes, it might expel a smoke screen,” Max replied. “I don’t suppose, at this point, it will do any harm to try it.”
Quickly, 99 aimed the cigarette lighter at the guards and pressed the button.
“Fire!” Dr. Yeh! shouted.
The guards instantly dropped their rifles, wailed, “Magic! Magic!” and fell to their knees.
Baffled, Max stared at the prostrate guards.
99 stared at the flame that the lighter had produced.
Dr. Yeh! rushed up to Max. “Magic!” he gushed happily.
Max felt his body. “Did they all miss?” he asked.
“They didn’t shoot,” Dr. Yeh! replied. “They were too astounded. It’s Magic!”
“But I heard you yell ‘fire!’ ” Max said.
“I didn’t yell ‘fire!’ ” Dr. Yeh! replied. “I yelled ‘fire!’ ”
“Oh . . . is there a difference?”
“When I yelled ‘fire!’ I wasn’t ordering them to fire, I was exclaiming over the fire,” Dr. Yeh! said, indicating the lighter flame.
Max smiled. “Oh, yes, now I understand. I forgot there for a second that I’m among ignorant savages. When you saw the flame appear, you thought it was magic. The fact is, however, that that gadget is a quite common ordinary little gadget in civilized societies. There’s no magic to it.”
“Look who’s calling who an ignorant savage,” Dr. Yeh! replied. “What you don’t know about cigarette lighters! This one works the first time the button is pushed. That’s Magic!”
“Unusual, yes,” Max agreed. “But magic? I frankly—”
“Who’s the sheik around here!” Dr. Yeh! snarled. “I say it’s Magic!”
“All right. We won’t debate the matter,” Max said. “I think we’ve held up the execution long enough. Now, if you’ll just get those guards to their feet, and if you’ll just return to your own—”
“You’re trying to run the show again!” Dr. Yeh! said warningly.
Max raised his hands in a gesture of apology.
“The execution is off!” Dr. Yeh! beamed. “Instead, we’ll have a big party!”
“What’s the occasion?” Max asked.
“Who needs an excuse for a party?” Dr. Yeh! replied. He turned to 99. “Flung,” he ordered, “return to the ballet dancer place. Get the flingers together and report to my throne room. Tell them it’s Party Time. My American Advisor and I wish to be entertained. We will feast and we will tell tall stories and we will watch the ballet. And then—” He winked at Max. “—we will open the black bag and play marbles with the money!”
“Max . . . ?” 99 said.
“Do what you’re told, flung,” Max replied.
99 scurried off. She was still carrying the black bag.
“Shall we adjourn to the throne room, American Advisor?” Dr. Yeh! smiled, putting an arm around Max’s shoulder.
“Why not?” Max replied. “It beats the firing squad.”
4.
BY THE time Max and Dr. Yeh! reached the throne room it had already been transformed into a banquet hall. A sumptuous, banquet-style meal awaited them—chicken à la king, stale rolls, peas, stuffed celery, canned peaches, and warm milk. And not long after they had seated themselves at the table, the ballet troupe appeared.
“On with the ballet!” Dr. Yeh! cried.
The ballet began. 99 was the center of attraction. The flingers flung her from one side of the banquet hall to the other, always catching her just before she hit the floor.
“It’s magnificent,” Max said, not really paying much attention, but looking around for some place to plant a pellet.
“It’s good, yes,” Dr. Yeh! frowned. “But there’s something not quite right about that new flung.”
Max peered at 99, who was, at that moment, sailing through the air. “Maybe it’s because she’s carrying that black satchel,” he said.
“I think that’s it,” Dr. Yeh! agreed. “Somehow, it detracts from the usual grace of the dance.”
“It’ll do it every time,” Max said. “You get a ballet dancer carrying a suitcase and she’s all thumbs.”
Dr. Yeh! suddenly tugged at Max’s sleeve. “Watch! This is the climax!” he said.
Max concentrated on the gyrations of the dancers. He saw the flingers hurl the flung high into the air. Oddly, she appeared to be headed straight for the table.
“I think we’re going to have a guest,” Max said. “You should have set another place.”
“No. You see—”
At that moment, the flung hit the table. And Max understood why it would have been pointles
s to set another place. As the flung skidded toward them along the table top she cleared everything from her path, dishes, food and all. Then, as if it had been planned that way, she came to a stop directly in front of Max and Dr. Yeh!
“Magnifico!” Dr. Yeh! applauded.
Max removed his plate of chicken à la king from his lap. “Frankly, I’ve seen neater landings,” he said.
“Sorry about that, Max,” 99 apologized.
“Flung, you performed stupendously!” Dr. Yeh! said to 99. “And, as is the custom, to celebrate your triumph, you and I will exchange gifts.”
“Gee, I don’t really have much to give,” 99 said.
“You need only a bauble,” Dr. Yeh! replied. “According to the custom, when the sheik (that’s me) is pleased, he gives his most valuable possession to the one who has pleased him. And, in return, that person presents the sheik (that’s me) with a trinket of no worth at all.” He indicated Max. “This is my gift to you,” he said. “I make you a present of my American Advisor.”
“So much!” 99 gasped.
“It’s not that much,” Dr. Yeh! replied. “Soon we will open the black bag, and, after that, he will be of no use to me, anyway. Advice, I can get anywhere.” He smiled expectantly. “And now, what do you have for me?”
“Well . . .” 99 took a string of beads from around her neck . . . I do have these.”
“Perfect!” Dr. Yeh! beamed. “What could be more worthless to a sheik (that’s me)?”
99 placed the string of beads around Dr. Yeh!’s neck. “May I take my gift with me?” she asked.
“You don’t want it wrapped?”
99 shook her head. “I’ll carry it. I have a helicopter waiting right outside.”
Dr. Yeh! giggled. “Not only is she a talented flung, she’s got a sense of humor,” he said.
99 got Max by the hand. “Let’s go, Max!”
He resisted. “Not now, 99! Duty first.”
“Go with her,” Dr. Yeh! commanded. “But leave the black bag.”
“Oh, well, I have to take the bag with me,” 99 said. “I have my change of clothes in it. But I’ll bring it back later.”
Dr. Yeh! smiled again, but sinisterly this time. “Take the clothes out, and leave the bag here,” he said.
99 clung to the bag. “Max!” she hissed, tugging at him.
Get Smart 4 - Max Smart and the Perilous Pellets Page 4