Get Smart 1 - Get Smart! Read online

  Max (sympathetically) : I’m sorry, Chief. You’re right. I should have mentioned the ferries. Now, will you stop crying, please? Look, as soon as I wrap up this case, I’ll take you out to dinner. That’s a promise.

  Chief: Cross your heart?

  Max: Cross my heart with butter beans on it.

  Chief: You’re a nice secret agent, Max.

  Max: Welllll . . . you’re a nice Chief.

  Chief: I’ll station some agents at the ferries. They’ll complain about it—‘Why do I always have to watch the ferries?’—that’s what I’ll get. But I’ll do it.

  Max: So long, Chief. And . . . take it easy. And remember: Tomorrow is another day.

  Chief: Big deal! All my days are alike. Complaints, com—

  Max hung up and turned his attention back to the driving.

  “What did he say?” Blossom asked.

  “I’d rather not say. It’s very sad.” He pointed. “There’s the T. C. & S. Building. Now . . . if we can just find a parking space . . .”

  Much, much later that afternoon, Max, Blossom and Fang entered the building where Typewriters, Computers & Stuff had its offices. Max approached the starter who was standing near the elevators.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I’m looking for a computer—”

  “You came to the right place, friend,” the starter said. “We got thirty-six floors of computers. Anything special you got in mind? We got computers that add, we got computers that subtract, we got computers that multiply and divide. Long division, short division.”

  “How about a computer that quotes Charlie Chan?” Max said.

  “If it exists, we got it,” the starter said.

  Max signalled to Blossom and Fang. “This is the place,” he said.

  “There’s a tour starting in ten minutes,” the starter said. “Go to the tenth floor. There, you’ll find a crowd of people standing around complaining. They’re complaining because the tour was supposed to start a half-hour ago. Join them. They’ll be standing on one foot, then the other. You can do that, too. It will help pass the time. Actually, it will probably be another half-hour before the tour really starts. That ten minutes is just a rough estimate.”

  “On this tour,” Max said, “will we be shown every computer in the building?”

  “Every blessed one,” the starter said. “And if the tour director likes you he may even take you across the street and show you the computer over there. It isn’t ours—but if the tour director likes you, he gets carried away.”

  Max thanked the starter, then led the way as he and Blossom and Fang boarded an elevator.

  “Fifth floor,” Max said to the operator.

  “The starter said ‘ten,’ ” Blossom said.

  “The tour doesn’t start for half-an-hour,” Max said. “That will give us time to do a little scouting around on our own.”

  “Gee . . . is that wise?”

  “It’s preferable to getting mixed up with an eager-beaver tour director,” Max said.

  “Five,” said the operator.

  They got out. The elevator door closed behind them. Facing them was a frosted-glass door marked: EMPLOYMENT

  “Fred may have gone in here,” Max said. “He’d want a job if he planned to stay here. He isn’t the kind who’d be happy just sitting around rolling his eyeballs. We’ll check it out.”

  Max opened the door. They entered a large room that was chock full of computers. Attending the machines was a slender, bifocaled young man.

  “Come right on in,” the young man smiled. “I’m Mr. Wright.”

  “I’ve been looking for you for simply years!” Blossom giggled.

  “Stow that,” Max snapped. To Mr. Wright, he said, “We’re on the trail of a computer. We thought—”

  “Now, now,” Mr. Wright smiled, “don’t be nervous. No evasions. I know why you’re here. After all, this is EMPLOYMENT, isn’t it? And I know exactly how you feel. You’re afraid of the computers. You think of them as some sort of Black Magic! Well, that’s silly, of course. They’re machines, that’s all they are. Simple, everyday, complex machines.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Max said. “But—”

  “Of course, if they take a dislike to you they can be nasty, I’ll admit that,” Mr. Wright went on. He glanced warily toward the computers, then whispered. “See that one over there? The one with the black patch over its left hiccometer?”

  “Hiccometer?”

  “Sometimes it hiccups,” Mr. Wright explained. “The hiccometer measures the hiccups per revolution. Anyway, last Thursday it stole my lunch.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Max said.

  “Cross my heart. I put my lunch down for just a second, and the next thing I knew it was gone. It hates me.”

  “It’s probably not you personally,” Max said. “It probably just has a bad disposition. Maybe something it ate. I’d suggest an Alka-Seltzer.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, it hates me!” Mr. Wright insisted. “I don’t know why, but it does. It certainly isn’t because I’ve given it any reason to. I treat it like all the other computers.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” Max suggested. “Perhaps it wants a little special attention. Try singing it a lullaby.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “Or patting it on the back the next time it has hiccups.”

  Mr. Wright sighed sorrowfully. “Well, that’s my problem, not yours. You’re here to be tested, and I’m here to test you, so let’s be about it.”

  “Tested?” Max said. “For what?”

  “To determine what occupation you’re best suited for.”

  “You mean you can test me and tell me what job I should have?” Max said. He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I already know what job I’m best suited for. And, at the moment, I’m on the trail of a computer. Actually, ‘robot’ describes him better, I suppose. He has revolving eyes and a lever at his side and goes: ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’ ”

  “Oh, you are in trouble,” Mr. Wright said. “You’ll never find a job like that. In the first place, I don’t think any such robot exists. And in the second place, if it did, who would want to find it? Now then,” he said, smiling again, “if you’ll just answer a few questions for me, I’ll jot the answers down on this card, then we’ll turn it over to the computers.”

  “If I do that for you, then will you do me a favor and discuss my robot with me?” Max said.

  “Cross my heart. I might even sing you a lullaby.”

  “Fire away,” Max said.

  “Here’s the first question: If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, how many peepers . . . uh, peppers, that is . . . did he have to pay in income tax?”

  “That would depend on how many dependents he had,” Max replied.

  “Well, just for the sake of argument, let’s say he had a wife, three children, a cocker spaniel, and an old maid aunt who lived in the spare room.”

  “Three peepers . . . uh, peppers,” Max said.

  Mr. Wright punched a hole in the card he was holding. “Too bad,” he said. “But that was close, anyway.” He punched another hole. “I’ll give you that for good behavior,” he said.

  “Just for curiosity’s sake, what is the right answer,” Max said.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Mr. Wright replied. “You see, these weren’t Peter’s peppers that Peter Piper picked. He was an employee of the Pickled Pepper Packer’s Association. I imagine the Association paid him something for picking the peppers, but I wouldn’t know what it might be. I don’t pry.”

  “Next question,” Max said.

  “Oh, that’s just a waste of time,” Mr. Wright said. “You wouldn’t know any of the answers, anyway. I’ll just punch your card full of holes and we’ll put it in the machine. That’s the fun part!”

  “Anything to get this over with,” Max said wearily.

  Mr. Wright took the card to the machine with the black patch over its hiccometer. “Now, for heaven’s sake, behave,” he s
aid to the machine. “We have guests!”

  The machine hiccuped.

  Mr. Wright sighed, then fed the card into the slot. He punched a button. The machine whirred, hiccuped again, then disgorged the card.

  “Here’s the answer,” Mr. Wright grinned, returning to where Max, Blossom and Fang were waiting. “It says—” His grin disappeared. Horror spread over his countenance.

  “Yes . . . ?” Max said, a little worriedly.

  “It says you’re best suited to tend the computers that decide what occupation a man is best suited for!” He began to cry. “That’s my job!”

  “Probably an error,” Max said.

  “Error, my great grandmother!” Mr. Wright screamed. “It’s sheer nastiness! That machine did it on purpose! It hates me!”

  “Rorff!”

  “You’re right,” Max said. To Blossom, he said, “Let’s get out of here!”

  As they departed, Mr. Wright snatched up his lunch pail and charged at the computer, revenge gleaming in his eye!

  “I don’t think that’s the job that guy’s best suited for,” Max said, as they returned to the elevator.

  “Or maybe it was the computer,” Blossom said. “Maybe it wasn’t suited for the job it was doing.”

  The door of the elevator opened. They stepped aboard.

  “Ten,” Max said to the operator.

  “If you’re going on the tour, it’s already left,” the operator said.

  Max looked at his watch. “We’re early,” he said. “It’s another five minutes until it will be an hour late in leaving.”

  “I guess it’s early today,” the operator said. “But if you want to catch it, I can drop you at the ninth floor. That’s where it’ll be about now.”

  “Nine,” Max said.

  The car stopped. The operator opened the door. “Nine,” he announced.

  Max, Blossom and Fang stepped out—and were nearly trampled by a thundering herd of tourists.

  “That’s the tour,” the elevator operator informed them. The door closed.

  Max and party joined the crowd.

  The tour director, a bright-eyed young man, clearly—judging from his dress—a graduate of Brooks Brothers, was addressing his followers as he led them along the corridor.

  “Just out of its teens,” he said, in a well-modulated voice, “the computer is beginning to affect the very fabric of society, kindling both wonder and widespread apprehension. Is the computer a friend or enemy of man? Will it cause hopeless unemployment by putting men out of work? Will it devalue the human brain, or happily free it from drudgery? Will it ever learn to think for itself? The answers will not be in for quite a while. But one thing is already clear. Swept forward by a great wave of technology, of which the computer is the ultimate expression, human society is headed for some deep-reaching changes.”

  There was a scattering of applause.

  The director smiled back at the tourists. “I read that in a magazine,” he said. “Memorized it word for word. Are there any questions?”

  “What did it mean?” a middle-aged lady asked.

  “Haven’t the faintest,” the director replied. “Something about a change—I got that much out of it. But . . . let’s not worry about it. I’m sure it won’t have any effect on any of us. Any other questions?”

  “Where’s the washroom?” a small boy asked.

  “I have a question,” Max said. “Has anybody here seen a computer with revolving eyes and a lever at its side that goes ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’?”

  The director eyed him coldly. “We don’t have a computer like that,” he said.

  “I didn’t say it was yours, I asked if anybody had seen it.”

  “I think that is abominable manners, coming in here plugging our competitor’s computers,” the director said. “Get a tour of your own. Don’t come sneaking in here trying to steal my tour!”

  “I don’t want your tour—” Max began.

  “Oh-ho!” the director sneered. “My tour isn’t good enough for you, eh?” He addressed the crowd. “Did you hear that? He says you’re not good enough for him.”

  There were indignant mutterings.

  Max sagged. “I give up,” he said. “I promise I won’t try to steal your tour.”

  “That’s better,” the director said victoriously. “But don’t think I’m not going to keep an eye on you. One false move, and—” He spoke to the group again. “Forward!”

  They entered a gigantic area that was lined, row after row, with computers. The machines were happily humming away.

  “None of these look like Fred,” Blossom said.

  “You’re right,” Max said. “I guess we better drop the tour and—”

  “Rorff!”

  “That’s a point,” Max said.

  “What say?”

  “He reminded me that Fred disguised himself with a false beard when he tried to hide in the Village. He may be trying the same thing here.”

  Blossom looked around. “Not a single beard in sight.”

  “I meant he might be trying another trick. The only thing to do is check out each and every one of these computers. The one that says ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta’ is Fred.”

  “Then I guess we better stick with the tour,” Blossom sighed.

  The director halted the group at the first machine. “Now this computer,” he said, “is busily at work on a problem given it by one of our great universities. Hear the gears meshing? Grind, grind, grind! It’s sorting through all the possible answers to pick out the correct one.”

  “What did the college ask it?” a voice inquired.

  “Where, on campus, to put the new parking lot,” the director replied.

  At that moment, Max sidled up to the machine, and, in a quiet voice, said, “Fred? Is that you, Fred?”

  “You, there!” the director snapped. “What are you doing?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” Max said.

  “Try me.”

  “I was merely asking this computer if it was Fred,” Max replied. “There, see, I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

  The director screeched at the top of his voice. “Guards!”

  Two uniformed men came rushing up.

  “Him!” the director said, indicating Max.

  “What did he do?” one of the guards asked.

  The director put a hand to his brow. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  The guards grabbed Max. “That’s enough for us,” one of them said.

  “Help! Fang!” Max called.

  Fang covered his eyes with his paws!

  “Just wait’ll the next time you come whining around for some liverwurst!” Max growled.

  The guards dragged Max away. Blossom and Fang trailed after them.

  “He’s innocent!” Blossom protested. “All he did was ask a computer if it was Fred!”

  The guards stopped. They peered at Blossom.

  “Better bring her along, too,” one of the guards said finally. “They’re probably working as a team!”

  “Rorff!”

  “You, too!” the guard said incredulously. “All right, the three of you, then!”

  The guards took Fred, Blossom and Fang to a small room down the corridor. The room was furnished with hard-backed chairs, a desk, and a spotlight.

  “If you’ll be seated . . .” one of the guards said politely.

  Max and Blossom occupied chairs. Fang settled down on the floor.

  “All right, Harry, bring on the rubber hose,” one of the guards said to the other.

  “Where is it, Bert?” the other asked.

  “You had it last,” Bert said. “Remember—that little old lady who snuck in and tried to get the computer to give her the winner of the Derby.”

  “No, you had it after that,” Harry said. “That little old lady who tried to get the winner of the World Series from the computer—remember?”

  “But, after I worked her over, I gave it to you,” Bert said. “I
remember distinctly. I handed you the rubber hose, and I said, ‘Here’s the rubber hose, Bert.’ ”

  “I’m not Bert, I’m Harry,” Harry said. “You’re Bert.”

  Max broke in. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, could you get this over with? We’re in a bit of a rush.”

  “Well, I don’t know about him,” Harry said peevishly, indicating Bert, “but I can’t do a thing without the rubber hose. He knows that, too. That’s why he hid it!”

  “How would you like a rubber hose right square in the mush?” Bert said belligerently.

  “If all you two are going to do is stand around arguing,” Max said, “we’re going to leave.”

  Harry sighed. “All right, I’ll interrogate you. But it won’t be my best effort. I just don’t work well without a rubber hose.”

  Bert spoke to Max. “The last time he used it,” he said, referring to Harry, “he dropped it on his toes. That’s how well he works with it.”

  Harry pulled back a fist.

  “Boys, boys, boys!” Max interceded. “If you can’t work together, we’re going to have to separate you! Now, settle down!”

  “Yes, sir,” Harry said, lowering his eyes sheepishly. “But he started it.”

  “He started it!” Bert shouted.

  Harry cocked his fist again.

  “One more outburst like that, and somebody’s going to sit in the corner!” Max warned.

  Bert kicked the floor.

  Harry muttered.

  “Now then, let’s get on with it,” Max said. “Harry, you start off.”

  “How come he’s always first?” Bert said crankily. “I’m never—”

  “Bert!”

  “Okay, okay!” He turned away. “Nobody ever lets me go first.”

  Harry eyed Max menacingly. “Where do you think you get off going around asking computers if they’re Fred,” he said, beginning the interrogation. “Who do you think you are—anyway?”