Get Smart 1 - Get Smart! Page 4

  Max eyed Fang sternly. “ ’Fess up, boy! Did you read those directions?”

  Fang whined and hid his face.

  Max looked at him scathingly. “I hope that’s the last time that ever happens. Remember this: Cheaters never win!”

  “Rorff!”

  “That’s a very poor philosophy for a secret agent!” Max snapped.

  “What did he say?” Blossom asked.

  “He said that cheaters win all the time—you just never hear about it.”

  “There’s probably something to that. You know, once—”

  “Never mind!” Max broke in. “I don’t want Fang to hear about it. He’s got enough wrong ideas in his head as it is.” He faced the door. “All right . . . this is it! Fred is in there somewhere! There’s no time for the amenities. We’ll charge in, overpower the guards, release Fred, then make a run for it! All set?”

  “But—”

  “Ready?”

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  Max threw the door open wide and charged in. Fang went yelping down the corridor in the other direction, tail between his legs. Blossom just stared.

  As in the previous office, there was a small desk and a female receptionist seated behind it. There were two other men present. They were seated also, reading, as if they were waiting for an audience with the person behind another door that was marked Private.

  Max challenged the larger of the two young men. “On your feet!”

  Puzzled, the man rose.

  “Hold out your right hand!” Max ordered.

  Still perplexed, the man obeyed.

  Max grasped the hand, and, using a jujitsu hold, flung the man across the room. The man splattered against the wall, slid to the floor, and lay silent.

  “One down!” Max chortled. To the other man, he said, “Next!”

  The man made a break for the doorway.

  Max tackled him, brought him down, then, rising, grasped him by the left arm, wrenched him to his feet, then, using another jujitsu hold, flattened him again on the floor. The man lay silent.

  Max stepped up to the reception desk.

  “Yes sir?” said the receptionist. “Something I can do for you?”

  “I’d like to see the head man,” Max said crisply.

  “Yes sir . . . if you’d like to wait. There are two ahead of you.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” Max said. “I had that trick pulled on me in the summer of ’61. I called for an interview at the office of a FLAG agent who was smuggling orange ping-pong balls. His girl kept me waiting in the outer office for three hours—telling me the other guys were ahead of me. As it turned out, the other guys were store window manikins. And the orange ping-pong ball smuggler slipped out the rear exit.”

  “I am sorry,” the girl said, “but the Ambassador is in conference.”

  “Grilling Fred, eh?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind announcing me,” Max said. “I’ll just break in.”

  He went to the door marked Private, gave it a hefty kick, and it splintered open. There was a large, bearded man seated inside at a huge, ornate desk. He was munching a sandwich.

  Max stiffened. “Oh, no!”

  “Who are you!” the man bellowed.

  “Just one thing,” Max said. “Is that, by any chance, a liverwurst sandwich?”

  “Of course!” the man growled. “Liverwurst is my favorite!”

  Max sighed. “It’s also Fang’s favorite,” he said. He smiled weakly. “Sorry,” he said to the Ambassador. “Wrong scent!”

  Max backed out, turned, and, stepping over a body, left the office. In the corridor, he reported to Blossom. “A minor error,” he said. “It wasn’t Fred that Fang was sniffing, it was liverwurst.” He shrugged. “A natural mistake . . . it could happen to anybody.” He looked around. “Where is the noble beast?”

  “I think ‘noble beast’ means a horse,” Blossom said.

  “That’s right. When I catch him, I’m going to make horsemeat out of him.”

  They went searching for Fang, and found him down the corridor, cowering in a broom closet.

  As Max was castigating him, Blossom suddenly put a hand on his arm and said, “Shhhh! Listen!”

  “What? What?”

  “Listen!”

  Max cupped a hand to his ear. Dimly, he heard, “Peep-a-doooo . . .”

  “It’s Fred!” Blossom said.

  “Quick—look for a lavatory!” Max said.

  “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “It sounds to me like Fred is brushing his teeth!”

  “No, no, he sounds as if he’s strangling!”

  Again, distantly, they heard, “Peep-a-dooooo . . .”

  “Do something!” Blossom wailed. “Fang—find Fred!”

  Fang put his nose to the ground.

  “Your ears, you idiot!” Max snapped. “Peep-a-dotta is a sound, it isn’t a scent!”

  So Fang put an ear to the ground.

  “Peep-a-doooo . . .”

  Fang went bounding down the corridor. Max and Blossom dashed after him. He pulled up, skidding, at a door marked FREDONIA.

  “I told you!” Blossom said.

  “Pure coincidence,” Max said peevishly. “The odds are a thousand-to-one against it. It wouldn’t happen again in a hundred years.”

  “Well, do something!”

  Max drew back and threw himself against the door. It splintered and fell in—and Max followed it, ending up flat on his face inside the office.

  The office was vacant except for the receptionist at the desk. The girl looked remarkably like Noel, the girl guide who had escorted them to the door in the basement marked DANGER!

  “Haven’t we met somewhere before?” Max said, peering up from his prone position on the floor.

  “Perhaps Paree?” the girl smiled.

  “Of course! The summer of ’61. Paree, Illinois. How could I ever forget?”

  “Where is Fred!” Blossom demanded.

  “Fred who?” Noel said innocently. “All who is here is the Ambassador from Fredonia.”

  From behind the door marked Private came, “Peep-a . . .”

  “He’s growing weaker,” Max said, jumping up. “No time to waste!”

  He threw himself against the second door—and bounced off it, hitting the far wall. Then, coming back strong, he approached the door again, turned the knob, and flung the door open. Next, entering, he tripped on the sill and fell flat on his face.

  Looking up, Max found himself at the feet of Fred, who looked more like the Tin Man than Rock Hudson. There was the pointed tin hat, tin torso, tin arms, tin legs, tin feet. And, as Blossom had said, a lever at his side.

  Blossom came bursting in. “Fred!” She threw her arms around him. “Are you all right!”

  “Peep-a . . .” He seemed to be strangling, as Blossom had feared.

  Max leaped to his feet. “He’s been gagged,” he said.

  “But I don’t see any—”

  “Ah, here it is!” Max said. He removed a coin from Fred’s slot. “Somebody forced a slug into his mechanism,” Max explained.

  Fred made a sound that could have passed for a sigh of relief. Then—clank, clank, clank—his arm raised. He dropped his nickel into the slot. Clink, clank, rattle, the nickel dropped back into his pocket—actually, a compartment in his hand. Next, he depressed his lever. “Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!” His eyes rolled. Three lemons came up. Then he spoke—in a hollow, far-away voice.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “That’s a heck of a lot of buildup for one word,” Max said.

  “It isn’t what he says, it’s how he says it,” Blossom said. “There was a lot of feeling in it. He really appreciates your help.”

  “Great—that makes my job all the easier,” Max said. Then, addressing Fred, he said, “Fella . . . if you don’t mind my calling you that . . . my mission is to bring you back. With, your brains, you’re invaluable to the nation that contr
ols— Let me put it another way. It just so happens that—as matters stand—we are the Good Guys, and everybody else is the Bad Guys . . . or is that ‘are’ the Bad Guys? Anyway, we’re the Good Guys, and whether it’s ‘is’ or ‘are’ is their problem; let them worry about it. Or should that be ‘are’ their problem?”

  “Rorff!”

  Max sneered. “Anybody who spells the way you do is in no position to give advice on grammar. Stay out of this!” He turned back to Fred. “Fella . . . this is how it stands. Being the Good Guys, we’re willing to give you a choice. Self-determination it’s called. You can join up with us—that’s choice number one. Or we’ll take you apart, transistor by transistor, and ram you down your own slot. That’s choice number two.” He glanced at his watch. “You have three months to decide.”

  “Three months?” Blossom said incredulously.

  “Belay that!” Max said. “I meant three seconds. This is a calendar watch, and I always get the seconds and the months mixed up. Minutes, I confuse with weeks. I remember in the summer of ’61 I spent the whole month of May trying to boil a four-minute egg.” To Fred, he said, “I’m counting, fella . . .”

  Fred’s arm ascended. The nickel clink-clanked through his anatomy. Down went the lever. His eyes revolved, accompanied by “peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!” Three lemons appeared. He spoke:

  “Man who sits on firecracker should watch out behind!”

  Max stared for a second, then turned in bafflement to Blossom. “Man who sits on firecracker should watch out behind?”

  She giggled. “I guess he gets that from me. I watch a lot of old Charlie Chan movies on TV.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I think it means there’s something going on behind us.”

  As one, they turned.

  And found themselves facing a large automatic pistol being held by Noel.

  “Steeek ’em up!” Noel said.

  Max slumped dejectedly. “I knew I’d met you somewhere before. It wasn’t Paree, Illinois, and it wasn’t the summer of ’61. It was just a few minutes ago in the basement. You know,” he said reprovingly, “you made a clumsy mistake down there. That door didn’t lead to a private office, it led to the East River. We could have been severely injured.” He pointed to the pistol. “And that goes for that gun you’re holding, too. Guns are not toys. They’re dangerous weapons. Especially in the hands of a female. Now, give me that—”

  Noel fired. A little round hole with singed edges appeared in the sleeve of Max’s jacket.

  “See what I mean!” he said disgustedly. “You could have killed me!”

  “She’s a FLAG agent,” Blossom whispered.

  “Nonsense. She’s just a nice girl from Paree, Illinois, who doesn’t know a thing about handling a dangerous weapon. Now, look—” he said to Noel.

  “Silence!” Noel snapped. “I will speak with Fred.”

  Max turned back to Fred. “Okay, you tell her what a dangerous weapon a gun is.”

  “I will do the telling,” Noel said. Then, speaking to Fred, she said, “This fool is lying to you. It is really we who are the Good Guys. He is the Bad Guys.”

  “I think that should be ‘are,’ ” Max said.

  “Silence!”

  “Okay, okay,” Max shrugged. “If you want to be one of those people who makes mistakes in grammar . . .”

  “Come with me,” Noel said, addressing Fred again. “I will take you to the land of love, love, love. We will—”

  “Could you be a little more specific about that?” Max broke in. “The land of love, love, love could be practically anywhere.”

  “Let it suffice to say that the land I represent is the Good Guys,” Noel replied. “I would not work for anyone else. Surely, you believe that. Knowing me as you do, could you imagine me in league with the Bad Guys?”

  “It would be difficult,” Max admitted.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be difficult for me!” Blossom said. “I think she’s working for—”

  “Ah-ah-ah!” Max said, stopping her. “No names, please. That’s the first rule of a secret agent—”

  “Second rule,” Noel corrected.

  “That’s right—I forgot the one about never leaving your secret code book on a lunch counter.” To Blossom, he said. “The second rule is: No names! If you go around mentioning names you’re liable to find out that you and your adversary are both working for the same client. It could get sticky.”

  “Silence!” Noel said again.

  “Sorry. I just can’t resist the opportunity to explain these little inside technical aspects.”

  Once more, Noel spoke to Fred. “This is what I can offer you,” she said. “Your own apartment on the Champs Elysees. A credit card—paid up—with Carte Blanche. An introduction to Brigitte Bardot.”

  Max whispered to Blossom. “There’s a clue there. Keep listening; a slip of the tongue, and she may reveal her client.”

  “I, too, offer you a choice,” Noel said to Fred. “You can come with me peacefully, or I will put a bullet through your main transistor. You have two seconds to decide!”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Max said to Fred. “I’ll match her offer—item for item—and throw in seventy-five cents cash!”

  “Silence!” To Fred, she said, “The time is fleeting!”

  “Or, to put it another way,” Max said, “tempus fugits, eh?”

  “Exactly,” Noel nodded.

  “A-ha!” Max cried. “I’ve got it! You’re Panamanian!” To Blossom, he explained, “I had a teacher in sixth grade who used that phrase. ‘Tempus fugit, tempus fugit,’ she kept saying. She was Panamanian as—”

  “Siiiiiiilence!” Noel shrieked.

  “Can’t take the pressure, eh?” Max said smugly.

  “What is your decision?” Noel said to Fred.

  Fred’s arm came up. He dropped the nickel in, and pushed down his lever. “Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!” His eyes rolled three lemons. He spoke:

  “Woman who sits on firecracker should watch out behind!”

  “His needle’s stuck,” Max said.

  “No . . . look!” Blossom said, pointing.

  They all looked.

  Boris had appeared in the doorway. He was dripping wet; a pool of water began to form at his feet. He was gripping an automatic pistol that was even larger and more evil-looking than the one Noel was holding.

  “Stuck ’em up!” Boris commanded.

  Noel’s arms flew skyward; her gun clattered to the floor.

  Relieved, Max lowered his arms. “You got here just in the nick of time,” he said to Boris. “Difficult as it is to believe, this nice little girl from Paree, Illinois, has turned out to be a FLAG agent. She works for—”

  “Ah-ah-ah! No names!” Boris cautioned. “And stuck up your hands!”

  “I think you’re a little confused, Boris,” Max said, raising his arms again. “It’s the young lady here who’s the FLAG agent. I’m the Good Guy.”

  “How do I know?” Boris said. “I am only a simple tourist from Zinzinotti, Alleybama. To me, simple tourist that I am, there is only one solution. I will shoot you both.”

  “Peeeg!” Noel snarled.

  “That’s Panamanian,” Max explained to Boris. “And, about that other thing—let’s talk it over. I think you’d feel very foolish if you shot us both, and then discovered later that you’d shot a genuine Good Guy along with a Bad Guy. I might add that it certainly wouldn’t enhance the reputation of Zinzinotti, Alleybama. I’m afraid you’d get a good knuckle-rapping once you got back home.”

  “Talk, talk, talk!” Boris growled. “Enough talk! Now, shoot!” He aimed the pistol directly at Max.

  “Hold on there!” Max said. “Since you won’t listen to reason, let’s try a little subterfuge. It just so happens that this building is surrounded by a battalion of troops from the Fifth Armored Division. Pull that trigger, and you’re a doomed man!”

  “You are insane!”

&n
bsp; “Don’t believe it, eh? All right, would you believe: fifty motorcycle cops and a troop of Boy Scouts?”

  “Prepare to die!”

  “In that case, would you believe: a troop of Girl Scouts armed with rock-hard Girl Scout cookies?”

  Boris aimed the pistol. “On the count of three. One . . . two . . .”

  “Last chance,” Max said. “Would you believe: one small boy with a water pistol?”

  “Three!” Boris counted. He pulled the trigger. The pistol clicked. A drop of river water fell from the end of the barrel.

  Max stared. “I must have magic powers. All I said was ‘water pistol.’ ”

  Again, frantically now, Boris pulled the trigger. “Click!”

  “This comes as a complete surprise to me,” Max said. “I had no idea I was magic.”

  Boris pulled the trigger of his gun rapidly. “Click . . . click . . . click . . . click . . . click . . . click . . .”

  “Now I’ll try something really difficult,” Max said. “Allakazam and hocus-pocus . . . I command a full battalion of the Fifth Armored Division to appear.”

  They all turned expectantly to the doorway.

  But nothing happened.

  “Maybe that was asking a little too much,” Max said. “Allakazam and hocus-pocus . . . how about one teensy-weensy motorcycle cop . . . off-duty if necessary.”

  Still nothing.

  Max shook his head puzzledly. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Rorff!”

  “I beg your pardon!” Max said coolly. “It just so happens that ‘allakazam’ is so spelled with two l’s.”

  “Click . . . click . . . click . . . click . . . click!” went Boris’s gun.

  “Okay, two can play at that game,” Max said. He whipped out his own pistol, took dead aim on Boris, and pulled the trigger. “Click!” went the pistol. A drop of river water fell from the barrel.

  Boris fired again. “Click!”

  Max’s turn. “Click . . . click . . . click . . . click!”

  Boris. “Click . . . click . . . click!”

  Max. “Click . . . click . . . click!”

  Then silence.

  Both Max and Boris continued to pull their triggers, but there was no sound.

  “I think we’re out of ammunition,” Max said finally. Then, thinking fast, he turned to Blossom and said, “Quick . . . get the girl’s gun!”