Get Smart 1 - Get Smart! (9 page)

“Would you mind elaborating on that?” Max said.

“We will be drowned,” Boris said.

“Drowned? In a hole? What makes you think so?”

“My feet are wet.”

Max pointed the flashlight downward. He saw that his own feet were wet, too—as were Blossom’s and Fang’s. The hole was filling with water.

“Some butterhead left a faucet running somewhere,” Max grumbled.

Blossom panicked again.
“Do something!”

“I wonder if this hole has a stopper,” Max said. “If we pull it . . .”

“Rorff!”

“Right again!” Max said. To the others he explained, “Actually, this flooding is our salvation. A flooded hole is one emergency for which I’m prepared. It slipped my mind for a second. This is the first time the situation has ever come up.”

“Then do something!” Blossom shrieked.

Max got out his cigarette lighter. “I just flick the top open—” he said.

A rubber life raft suddenly popped from the cigarette lighter and began inflating. The timing was fortunate, for by then the water had reached their waists.

The four climbed aboard the raft and began rising toward the top of the hole.

“That cigarette lighter—it’s wonderful!” Blossom said.

“It has its drawbacks,” Max said. “There are times when I forget that it’s a life raft and try to light somebody’s cigarette with it.”

When they reached the trap door, Max pushed it open. He and Boris helped Blossom out, then followed her. Fang was the last to exit. The slot machine players had disappeared.

“Now then,” Max said, “another hour or so and we’ll be on our way.”

“An hour?” Blossom said. “Why so long?”

“Ever try to put a life raft back into a cigarette lighter?”

“If you will excuse me,” Boris said, backing away, “I will look for my tour.”

“Sure . . . maybe we’ll see you around.”

Boris hurried away.

“How long is this going to take?” Blossom muttered as Max began trying to stuff the raft into the lighter.

“As I said, sometimes an hour or so. But, then, sometimes I get lucky.”

“Rorff!”

Max looked thoughtful for a second, then said, “That might help.”

“All right . . . what did he say?”

“He suggested that I try letting the air out of it.”

“Good heavens! Any idiot would know that!”

“Careful! Fang is
very
sensitive!”

Max released the air from the life raft, and, seconds later, had it replaced in the cigarette lighter. He patted Fang on the head. “Now I know why they call you man’s best friend,” he said.

“Now, can we go?” Blossom asked.

“Right. Clear sailing from here on out. We’ll pick up Fred’s trail, and, by nightfall, have him locked up and safe from himself. Forward!”

T
HEY RETURNED
to the main room of the Idyll Hour and made their way between the tables of beatniks toward the exit. But they had not gone far when Max suddenly pulled up.

“That beatnik—the one just mounting the stage to perform,” he said. “Isn’t there something strangely familiar about him?”

Blossom looked in the direction in which Max was pointing. She saw the small stage that was opposite the long counter of espresso machines. A robot-like beatnik, with a lever at his side, was about to recite. But—

“It couldn’t be him,” Blossom sighed. “He has a beard.”

“I wonder . . . a false beard, perhaps?”

“He looks taller than Fred.”

“A false beard sometimes makes a computer
look
taller.”

“Well . . .”

“On a hunch,” Max said, “let’s hang around for a second.” He glanced around. “There’s a table over there with only one person at it. Let’s join her.”

They went to the table. Seated at it was a gorgeous brunette. She was wearing a clinging, one-piece air raid warden’s suit, and looked a great deal like Noel, the girl guide, secretary to the ambassador from Fredonia, and hostess at the Idyll Hour.

“Howdy stranger,” Max said. “Mind if we join you?”

“Non.”

Max and Blossom seated themselves at the table. Fang collapsed on the floor at Max’s feet.

“Good boy,” Max said. “You listen for the phone.”

The beatnik on the stage raised his arm, dropped a nickel into his slot. “Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!” His eyes revolved. Lemons came up.

There was tremendous applause from the audience.

“Oh, the rare beauty of pure truth,” Noel breathed.

“But can he back it up with facts?” Max said caustically.

Blossom whispered to Max. “It is! It’s Fred!”

“I’m no longer so sure,” Max said. “Did you hear that garbage he just spouted? Fuzzy-minded rhetoric if I ever heard it!”

Now, the beatnik on stage spoke:

“Stale bread, unbuttered—Life!

Tapioca without the lumps,

A pad all full of bumps!

Air pollution, the cell door locked.

No escape; O, how Life is mocked.”

“There’s something very familiar about those lines,” Max whispered to Blossom.

The audience rose to its feet screaming approval. There were cries of “Yeah! Yeah!” and “You tell ’em!” and “Right down the old middle, Man!”

The beatnik on stage continued:

“Tenement, slum, no heat in the winter—Life!

Hunger, war, fighting in the streets,

The victims: The innocent and the beats!

Slaughter the birds for table.

I’d go somewhere’s else if I was able!”

The crowd went wild! Applause exploded in the room, shivering the walls. The beatniks leaped to their feet and stomped and screamed.

“Encore!”
This from Noel.

“More . . . More . . . More!”

Max spoke to Blossom. “That beatnik is as phony as a three-dollar bill! I now suspect that he is really Fred!”

“Gee, he didn’t sound like Fred.”

“As a matter of fact, he sounded exactly like Fred. Who, unless I’m greatly mistaken, is really a square at heart. And, as soon as this noise dies down, I’ll prove it.” The applause heightened. The beatniks danced among and on the tables.

They chanted the words of the poem:

“Tapioca without the lumps!”

“Slaughter the birds for table!”

And occasionally mixed up the lines:

“A pad full of bread—unbuttered Life!”

The beatnik on the stage bowed modestly to the acclaim. And, in time, the audience settled down, exhausted.

At which time, Max arose.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!”

“Boooooo!”

“If you. will give me a moment of your time, I will reveal a hoax!” He pointed to the beatnik who had recited, and who was still on stage. “That fellow there is a fake! A charming fake, and a lovable fake—but a fake nonetheless!”

“Throw ’im out!” cried a voice.

Two beatniks grabbed Max by the arms.

“Hold!” Max bellowed, pulling loose. “Give me your ears! Give me your attentions! Let me prove it!”

Quiet settled over the room.

“Now then,” Max said. “I claim that this poet’s poem is a direct steal from another poet’s poem! I claim that this poet’s poem was actually written in the early 1920’s by another poet named Unknown—at least, that’s the way he signed it. Although, of course, that may have been a pseudonym.”

“Prove it! Where’s your proof!”

“Let’s compare,” Max said. “Take the first line of our friend here’s poem—‘Stale bread, unbuttered—Life!’ I suggest that that is a flagrant corruption of the line—‘Like a bread without the spreadin’, Like a puddin’ without the sauce.’ ”

“Booooooo! Throw ’im out!”

“Hear me out!” Max cried. “Listen! Listen! Here’s the first stanza of Unknown’s poem. Listen, and see what you think!”

Max recited:

“Like a bread without the spreadin’,

Like a puddin’ without the sauce,

Like a mattress without beddin’,

Like a cart without the hoss,

Like a door without a latchstring

Like a fence without a stile,

Like a dry an’ barren creek bed—

Is the face without a smile.

“There!” he said. “If that isn’t the same poem, almost word for word, you can stand me on stilts and call me Longfellow!”

There was stunned and morose silence for a second.

Then a buzzing began. It was clear that some were taking one side of the controversy and others taking the other side. Soon the voices raised. Heated words were exchanged.

“They’re reasoning together,” Max said to Blossom. “That’s always a good beginning.”

One beatnik broke a coffee mug over the head of another.

“Activism,” Max commented. “Young people today are involved in their society.”

Crockery began to fly. There were shrieks of indignation and pain. One beatnik leaped to the counter and started pegging doughnuts at random at the crowd. Hair was pulled. Blows were struck.

The table at which Max and Blossom were seated remained an island of calm in the storm.

“As soon as this blows over,” Max said, “I hope we’ll be able to get down to a serious discussion of the similarities between the two poems.”

“I don’t think they’re much interested in talking.”

“Nonsense. They’re eager for debate. At the moment, they’re simply choosing up sides.” He glanced across the table. “What happened to our friend—the girl who was sitting here with us?”

“She went toward the stage,” Blossom said.

“Oh, yes . . . there she is now. She’s forcing that beatnik to leave with her at gunpoint.”

“Max! That’s Fred! She’s robotnapping Fred!”

“You’re right! Fang—after her!”

Fang had crawled under the table. He whined.

“I have to do everything myself!” Max complained. “All right, all of us, then—after her!”

They jumped up and began pushing through the crowd, headed for Noel, who was now steering Fred toward the exit.

“Excuse me,” Max said, halting a beatnik as he was about to lambaste a compatriot with an espresso machine.

Moments later they arrived at the door—and collided with Boris!

“You again!” Max said. “Still haven’t found your tour?”

“I’m a simple peasant,” Boris apologized, “easily led astray in the big city. What’s new with you?”

“We’re on the trail of a FLAG agent who is robot-napping Fred. You remember Fred?”

“A gorgeous brunette who looks much like the guide at the U.N.?” Boris said.

“No, no, Fred has a beard.”

“I mean the FLAG agent.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Max said. “Have you seen her?”

“This way!” Boris said, leading them out of the Idyll Hour.

Reaching the sidewalk, they saw Noel forcing Fred into a taxi.

“Stop! That’s Government property—in a sort of unofficial way!” Max yelled.

But the cab door slammed closed, and the cab roared away.

Boris opened a rear door of the limousine. “Quick! Inside! We will pursue them!”

“We’re constantly in your debt!” Max said. “I promise you, Boris, we’ll never forget this!”

“In, in!” Boris urged.

Max, Blossom and Fang crowded into the back seat of the limousine.

Boris slammed the door—then ran off down the street.

“No, no! We’re back here!” Max called after him.

Boris kept going. He hailed a cab, boarded it, and drove off.

Max sighed wearily. “Well, you can take the boy out of Zinzinotti, Alleybama, but you can’t take Zinzinotti, Alleybama out of the boy! Let’s admit it—Boris is a yokel. When the pressure was on, he panicked. Did you see that? He went zooming off in that cab, completely forgetting that he had locked us in the back seat of this limousine again!”

“You know,” Blossom said, “I have a feeling
—
ⁿ

“Let’s not get emotional about it,” Max said, cutting her off. “You can make all the excuses in the world for him, but the fact remains, he flubbed this operation for us. It was a strictly amateur performance.”

“What I meant was—”

This time Blossom was interrupted by a jangling sound.

“Excuse me,” Max said, “my shoe is ringing.”

He removed his shoe and spoke into it.

Max:
Hello . . . 86 here.

Operator:
Congratulations, Mr. 86! This is the Telephone Company. Your name has been chosen to receive a free call to Europe via the Early Bird Satellite. What number in Europe would you like, please?

Max:
Is that you, Operator?

Operator:
Oh, hello . . . is that you?

Max:
Yes, this is me . . . is that you?

Operator:
Yes, this is me. I thought I recognized your voice. How’re things in the limousine?

Max:
Oh, you know about it, then.

Operator:
About what?

Max:
We’re locked in again.

(Long silence)

Max:
Look, if you’re tracing this call, I’ll tell you exactly where we are. We’re parked almost in front of the Idyll Hour, just a few steps down from that telephone booth with the man leaning against it.

Operator:
Oh, no, I wasn’t tracing the call. I was just wondering—how could anybody get locked in a limousine
twice
in one day?

Max
(smugly) : I have my ways. But never mind that now. Just connect me with that phone booth. I want that fellow who’s leaning against it to come over here and let us out.

Operator:
Gee, I’m sorry. I can’t do it. You see, we have this promotion going on—publicizing the Early Bird satellite—and that’s the only facility I can use. Wouldn’t you just as soon talk to someone in Europe?

Max:
All right, if that’s the best you can do. Connect me with Agent 94 in Berlin.

Operator:
Hold on, pliz.

Max:
I’m holding.

Male voice:
Hello . . . 73 here.

Max:
73? This is 86. Is 94 there?

73:
Oh, hi, that you, Max? Howsit?

Max:
I’m in a little jam, 73. If 94 isn’t there, maybe you can help me. I’m locked in a limousine—

73
(breaking in) : Max, I’m sorry, I’m not authorized to take any action. You know that. If I had a higher number . . . but, you know the rules.