Get Smart 1 - Get Smart! Page 13

  “I refuse to answer on the grounds that that’s a ridiculous question,” Max replied.

  Harry grinned. “Right there, that’s where I give you the old rubber hose,” he said. “Could you scream—just to get me in the mood?”

  Max shrieked horrendously.

  “That’ll teach you to act wise with the authorities,” Harry said grimly.

  Behind him, Bert said, “My turn.”

  Harry turned to him. “Your turn, Bert,” he said.

  Bert faced Max. “This Fred you’re looking for, what does he look like?” he said.

  “He has revolving eyes, a lever at his side, and goes ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’ ” Max replied.

  Bert faced back to Harry. For a second, they stared at each other. Then they retired to a corner and spoke to each other in low tones.

  “What now?” Blossom whispered to Max.

  “Somehow, I think we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest,” Max said.

  Harry and Bert came back. “On your feet,” Harry said.

  “My friend here,” Max said, indicating Blossom, “would like to know what now?”

  “Do you really think of me as your friend?” Blossom glowed. “How good a friend?”

  “Stow that,” Max snarled.

  “We’ve come to a contretemps—whatever that means,” Harry said to Max. “You mentioned a guy with revolving eyes and a lever at his side and goes Peep-a-dotta-you-know. And it just so happens that the new president of the company, just named to the post today, has a lot in common with that description. So Bert and me think that maybe this Fred might be one of the Big Boss’s relatives. We don’t want to take no chances. So we’re going to check it out. Then, boy, are you going to get it!”

  “Come along,” Bert said, leading the way to the door.

  They left the room and walked along the corridor.

  “This new president of the company, just named to the post today, what’s his name?” Max asked.

  “Let’s see . . .” Harry said thoughtfully. “Ned? Jed? Dred? Something like that. What is it, Bert?”

  “Fred, I think,” Bert replied.

  “There’s another coincidence,” Harry said to Max. “Your Fred and the new company president, just named to the post today, have the same name.”

  “Fantastic!” Max said. “Two people with revolving eyes and a lever at their side that go ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’ Fact is sometimes stranger than fiction, eh?”

  They came to an impressive door marked:

  PRESIDENT

  (Just Named to the Post Today)

  “Inside,” Harry said.

  They entered. Seated at a desk in a small reception area was a gorgeous brunette who looked remarkably like Noel.

  “Two tourists and a dog to see the new president for purposes of identification,” Harry said to the girl.

  “Rorff!”

  “Okay, okay,” Harry said. To the receptionist, he said, “Make that three tourists, no dog.”

  Max bent over to Noel. “So we meet again,” he said slyly.

  She lowered her eyes, smiling girlishly. “You remember . . .”

  “I never forget a summer,” Max said.

  Noel spoke to Bert and Harry. “You two can go now. The new president, just named to the post today, will handle this.”

  “Yes’m.” They departed.

  Rising, Noel hooked a thumb toward another door, which was marked

  FRED

  “Inside,” she said.

  Max led the way. He opened the door, then halted. Seated at a large, ornately-carved desk was a robot-like computer with a lever at his side.

  “The resemblance is absolutely amazing!” Max said.

  Blossom edged past him. “Fred!” she cried.

  Max’s mouth fell open. “You don’t mean—”

  “That’s my Fred!” Blossom said. Then, suddenly not so sure, she said, “Aren’t you, Fred?”

  Fred’s arm came up. His nickel dropped into the slot. “Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!” The lemons came up. He spoke.

  “Hiya, gang.”

  Blossom ran to him, embraced him. “Fred . . . my poor Fred!”

  “Poor Fred!” Max said. “He happens to be president of T. C. & S., that’s all.” He moved closer to Fred. “How did you do it, boy?”

  “I rose through the ranks,” Fred replied. “It took me all afternoon practically, but I did it. I demonstrated that I know more about computers than anyone else on the staff.”

  “That makes sense,” Max nodded.

  “He weel not be president long, however,” Noel said. “I am only waiting for nightfall. Then I weel take heem weeth me to zee land of love.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Max said meaningfully.

  “Who can offer him more than love, romance?” Noel smiled.

  “It just so happens,” Max said, addressing Fred, “that I am authorized to offer you cash. What’s your answer to that?”

  “Man who talks about cash but doesn’t say how much is about as much use to computer as bum transistor,” Fred replied.

  “I intended to get to that—the amount,” Max said. “What would you say to twelve dollars and eighty-six cents?”

  “I offer you love and romance unlimited,” Noel said.

  “Yes, but try putting that in the bank and drawing interest,” Max countered. “With twelve dollars and eighty-six cents, on the other hand, put it in a savings account and within ten or twelve years or so you can run it up to thirteen dollars. Put that in your mechanism and digest it!”

  Fred’s gears ground. Then came the reply. “Pooey!”

  “Is that yes or no?” Max asked.

  “I think you’re both horrid,” Blossom said. “Fred has all that you’re offering him, anyway. Love—why, as president of a big company, I’m sure his employees just adore him. And money. With his job, I’m sure he makes at least twelve dollars and eighty-six cents.” She turned to the robot. “Isn’t that right, Fred?”

  “True,” Fred said. “But there are other considerations. For one, I don’t think I’m cut out for a career in business. As Charlie Chan says, ‘Man who always breathes in, and never out, should not go near the water.’ ”

  “I’m not sure I get the connection,” Max said.

  “I’m not in my element here,” Fred explained. “Do you know what these people are doing with these computers they’re building? They’re selling them!”

  “That’s the business,” Max said.

  “But selling them! As if they were so many machines! I had a very unfortunate experience with the practice earlier this afternoon. I met a cute little computer in the Assets Receivable Department. We made a date for later. Then suddenly she was sold. Bartered off like some inhuman contraption to a department store chain. It opened my eyes!”

  “Enough of this chitter-chatter!” Noel said. “If you are not interested in love, then—”

  She was interrupted as the door suddenly burst open. Boris charged in.

  “Stuck ’em up!” Boris commanded.

  “You forgot one little thing,” Max pointed out. “You didn’t draw your gun.”

  Boris looked at his empty hand. “An honest mistake,” he said. “I meant to draw it.” He began going through his pockets. “It was right here a minute ago. Let’s see, I had it when I forced that elevator starter to reveal the whereabouts of Fred. Where did I go from there? Oh, yes, I met the tour director. But did I use it on him or not? No. I wanted to conceal it from him. He looked like the nervous type. So I—Ah, yes . . .” He produced the gun from the handkerchief pocket of his jacket. “Stuck ’em up!” he commanded again.

  “Au contraire!” Noel said, drawing her own gun and pointing it at Boris. “You stuck ’em up!”

  “Not so fast!” Max said, drawing his gun and aiming it at Noel. “If anybody’s going to stuck ’em up, it’s you!”

  They stood fixed. Boris with his gun on Noel, Noel with her gun
on Boris, and Max with his gun on Noel.

  “Your move,” Max said to Blossom.

  “Gee, I’m sorry. I don’t have a gun.”

  “Send out for one,” Max said. “And hurry. As it is, nobody can make a move. We could be here for weeks!”

  “It looks like a stand-off,” Fred said. “Which leaves me free to go.”

  “Would you mind telling us where you’re going?” Max said. “I’m a little tired of chasing all over the city without a clue to where I’m going.”

  “Yes—I’ve made my decision,” Fred said.

  “Which is it?” Noel said. “Love?”

  “Or cash?” Max said.

  “Hold it!” Boris said. “I haven’t yet made my final offer. Come with me, Fred. I will see to it that you are awarded the highest honor of the land. My government will make you a Worker First Class. At the beginning, you get a little tin medal. But after fifty years you can retire with a gold watch. Think about it! Where can you buy a gold watch for love or money?”

  “Any jewelers,” Fred said.

  “I retract my previous statement,” Boris said. “Don’t think about it.”

  “I can’t help but think about It,” Fred said. “Thinking is the thing I do. And, after serious thought, I have decided—”

  “Yes?” Noel said.

  “I have decided to cast my lot with love,” Fred said.

  Noel smiled. “I’m not surprised. There’s one born every minute.”

  “Look,” Max said, “before you make a final final decision, I’d like to raise my offer to a full thirteen dollars.”

  “I will do even better than that,” Boris said. “A tin medal, a gold watch, and three weeks vacation every year in Siberia.”

  Fred shook his head. “Love it Is,” he said.

  Noel lowered her gun. “Gome along, darling.”

  “Not that kind of love,” Fred said. “I was referring to Universal Love.”

  “Universal, unischmersal,” Noel said. “We got all kinds.”

  “No,” Fred said. “I’m returning to the U.N. I should have stayed there in the first place. It needs me. There, I can work not for one nation, but for all nations. All that are paid-up members, anyway.”

  “Dirty capitalist trick,” Boris grumbled.

  “You know,” Max said, “if you look at it in the right light, this way, we all win. Fred will be working for all of us. All of us who are paid-up, that is.”

  “Dirty capitalist trick,” Boris grumbled again.

  Noel shrugged. “Well, you can’t win ’em all.”

  “I better be going,” Fred said. “There’s a particular problem I have to work on.”

  “I’m sure you can solve it,” Blossom said fondly.

  “I’m not sure,” Fred said. “The problem is this. I learned while at the U.N. that there are some countries that produce so much food that they can’t use it all. They have to store it—at great cost to the governments. Then, on the other hand, there are other countries that produce so little food that some of their people are starving. I’m sure that somewhere there must be an answer to it.”

  “Mmmmmm . . . it’s a puzzler, all right,” Max frowned.

  “The answer is obvious,” Noel said. “What those starving people need is love.”

  “Who can eat love?” Boris said. “The answer is to send them all to Siberia.”

  “Well, it’s a tricky situation,” Max said. “But if anyone can solve it, I’m sure you can, Fred.”

  Fred looked worried. “I keep telling myself there’s a simple answer,” he said.

  “Rorff!”

  “Ridiculous,” Max said.

  “What say?” Blossom said.

  “It’s too ridiculous to repeat,” Max said crossly.

  “So long, gang,” Fred said, moving toward the door.

  “Good luck in your new post,” Max said.

  “Don’t be a slave to nobody,” Boris called. “Remember, you can always have a job with us. And tin medals don’t grow on trees!”

  “Vive l’amour!” Noel said hatefully.

  Then Fred was gone.

  “Well, gang,” Max said, “I guess we can all stow our guns. In the final analysis, Mankind has won the day. We know now that we have a computer working on the side of Universal Brotherhood. That ought to make us all sleep more peacefully at night, eh?”

  “Eet makes one weep,” Noel said, putting away her gun, and, at the same time, picking up a heavy paperweight from Fred’s desk.

  “Da,” Boris said. He deposited his pistol in his handkerchief pocket, and, simultaneously, palmed the knife-like letter opener that was on Fred’s desk.

  “It’s been fun,” Max said, shaking hands all around. “I hope we’ll all meet again soon.”

  “Rorff!”

  “Oh . . . that’s right, you’re with me. Sorry.”

  “So am I,” Blossom said.

  “I’m trying to forget that.”

  “Bon soir,” Noel said, leaving.

  Boris backed toward the doorway. “Eef you’re ever in Zinzinotti, Alleybama, you stop in,” he said. “Hear, y’all?”

  “Southern hospitality,” Max said, brushing a tear from his eye. “It gets me every time.”

  “Well, imagine that!” Blossom giggled. “It’s dinner time. And I just happen to know of the darlingest, most secluded French restaurant. We could—”

  “I have a dinner date,” Max said. “With the Chief.”

  “Oh. Well, I could join you. Then later, you and I—”

  “Which reminds me,” Max said. “I better report in and tell the Chief that the case is closed. He’ll be wondering.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Blossom said.

  Max removed his shoe and spoke into it.

  Max: Chief? This is 86.

  Chief: That you, Max?

  Max: Yes. I’m happy to report, Chief, that the case of the gallivanting computer has been solved.

  Chief: You have him? You’re bringing him in?

  Max: Not exactly, Chief. He’s decided to work for another outfit. There are a lot of details, but, in a nutshell, he’s going into the food business.

  Chief (slowly, furiously) : Max . . . your . . . assignment . . . was . . . to . . . bring him in!

  Max: Chief, if you look at it in the right light, that is only a small detail. You have to take the broad view. Look at it as history. By letting Fred go, I may have ensured the peace of the world for the next ten centuries.

  Chief: That’s all well and good. But what am I going to tell my superiors? This isn’t my Secret Service, you know. I don’t own it.

  Max: We’ll discuss it over dinner, Chief. I’m positive that between us we can think up an acceptable excuse. Incidentally—(He glanced at Blossom)—do you mind if I bring along an unwelcome guest?

  Chief: Nothing, but nothing, could faze me now!

  Max: Meet you in half an hour, then, at our favorite French restaurant. Over and out.

  Chief: What’s that ‘over and out’ business?

  Max: I’ll explain that, too, Chief. So long.

  “The Chief says he’ll be happy to have you as his unwelcome guest,” he said to Blossom.

  “I gathered that.”

  “Rorff!”

  “You, too,” Max said. “But only on one condition—that you don’t embarrass me by asking for a sauce on your liverwurst.”

  They left the office and walked down the corridor toward the elevators.

  “I must have picked up a bullet during the fray,” Max said. “I’m limping.”

  “You didn’t hang up your shoe,” Blossom pointed out.

  “Oh . . . yes.” He hung up his shoe.

  They stepped aboard an elevator, descended to street level, then left the building and walked toward the French restaurant.

  “You know,” Max said sentimentally, “there’s something about this case that is very reminiscent. It’s just as if it’s all happened before.”

  “Oh?”

 
“Rorff!”

  “I think you’re right,” Max said, brightening. “It’s been almost like a repeat of the summer of ’61. The only difference is, then it was ping-pong balls, this time it was a computer.” He turned to Blossom. “Did I tell you, by any chance, about the summer of ’61?”

  “Yes,” Blossom said grimly.

  “Well, a good story always bears repeating,” Max said. “It began in Paree, Illinois. There was a gorgeous little brunette there. I wonder what ever happened to her? But, that’s neither here nor there. As I was saying . . .”

  They had reached a corner. As Max ambled on, talking, Blossom made a sharp left turn, and, unnoticed by Max, disappeared into the gathering dusk.

  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.