Get Smart 3 - Get Smart Once Again! (4 page)

“We have these letters,” Max said. “The letters are: CBAABHDE. Now, the problem is to change the letters around until they make a message. Got it?”

“Got it,” the driver replied, facing front once again.

Max smiled happily. “I may have just saved a human soul,” he said to Peaches. “There was a man who felt discriminated against by society. We were all playing games, but we wouldn’t let him play. In time, he could have become a criminal cab driver. But, now, I think he’ll be all right. He’s in the mainstream of society. Before long, he’ll have enough confidence in his ability to give up driving a cab and get an executive position in one of our major industries. He’ll be a Somebody. And when he rides in cabs he’ll remember what happened today. He’ll play games with the drivers, and send them on the road to Success.”

“That’s nauseating,” Peaches said. “Now, can we get back to work?”

“Yes.” Max leaned forward. “Do you have anything yet?” he said to the driver.

“I worked out a name,” the driver replied.

“What is it?”

“C. B. Aabhde.”

“That’s a name?”

“That’s all I can figure out it could be.”

“Keep trying,” Max said, settling back in the seat.

“I think I’m getting something,” Peaches said. “So far, I have the words ‘bad’ and ‘he’. That leaves me with ‘acb’.”

“Hmmmm. Bad he. Or, he bad. You’re right, there might possibly be something there.”

“But I can’t make anything out of ‘acb’.”

“How about ‘bac’? He bad bac. Perhaps it refers to someone with a slipped disc or a strained sacroiliac.”

“Max! I have it!”

“What? What?”

“It’s ‘He bad cab’.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max said. “It doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Max—what are we riding in?”

“A taxi.”

“No, no, what’s the other word for taxi?”

“Hack?”

“No, Max. Cab!”

“In other words, you’re saying that we’re riding in a bad cab. Or, in still other words, that our cab driver is a bad guy.”

“That’s it, Max. Our driver is—”

At that moment, the driver turned in the seat to face them. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said, smiling sinisterly. “I am I. M. Noman!”

“Yes,” Max said peevishly, “and you also bad cab.”

A
S
M
AX
spoke, the cab suddenly shot forward at a tremendous speed. And at the same time, Noman turned completely in the front seat, facing Max and Peaches, and ignoring the steering wheel and other controls.

“Help!” Peaches shrieked. “We’ll be killed.”

“You know, that possibility does exist,” Max said to Noman. “We’re hurtling forward at—” He looked at the speedometer. “At ninety-one-point-three miles per hour, and no one is at the wheel. It’s conceivable that an accident
could
occur.”

“As a matter of fact, it’s entirely unlikely,” Noman replied. “This cab is electronically-controlled—and programmed to avoid all obstacles.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Max said.

“Would you believe, then, that it’s programmed to avoid ninety per cent of the obstacles?”

“That sounds a bit more like it,” Max said. “After all, no one is perfect—not even an electronically-controlled cab.”

“This cab is as close to perfect as any cab now in existence,” Noman said. “It was the cab, in fact, that made it possible for me to find you in that deserted section of the city. You see, it has a homing device. I can direct it toward any of several objects and it will speed unerringly to the target. To find you, all I had to do was set the dial on ‘Max Smart’.”

“This is insane!” Peaches said. “I don’t believe it—not any of it!”

Noman indicated a dial on the control panel. “See for yourself.”

Max and Peaches leaned forward and peered at the dial. It had several settings—‘Max Smart’—‘Potomac River’—‘Busy Bee Lunch’—‘Public Library’—‘Frank’s Shoe Repair’—‘Hotel Windsor (Room 603)’—‘Miscellaneous’.

“Busy Bee Lunch?” Max said.

“They serve the best beet soup in town,” Noman explained.

“I see. I also notice that, right now, the indicator is set on ‘Potomac River’. Is that significant?”

“No, it’s a plain old river.”

“What I mean is, is the cab, by any chance, headed for the Potomac River?”

“I’m glad you asked that,” Noman replied. “It saves me the trouble of pointing it out. And time is important in this case. For, in a very few minutes, this cab will plunge—carrying with it all its occupants—directly into the Potomac River.”

“Help!” Peaches shrieked again.

“That won’t help,” Noman said. “The cab can be stopped only by disengaging its homing device. And, of the three of us, only I know how to do that.”

“Would it be unreasonable to suggest, then, that you
do
it—before we all plunge into the river and drown?” Max said.

“Not unreasonable, but pointless. I have no intention of disengaging the device until I have the Dooms Day Plan in my hands.”

“Give it to him!” Peaches screamed at Max.

Max looked at her disappointedly. “You seem to forget—the fate of the entire you-know-what hangs in the you-know-what.”

“But we’ll all be drowned!” she wailed.

“That’s a telling point,” Max admitted. “However, I sort of promised the Chief that I’d look after this Plan. And it just isn’t nice to break a promise. So, I guess we’ll all just have to drown.”

Noman pulled a gun and pointed it at Max’s head. “Maybe this will change your mind.”

“To a drowned man, a hole in the head is not particularly troublesome,” Max replied.

“But suppose I shoot you, take the Plan, then disengage the homing device and escape?”

“Now,
that
could be troublesome,” Max admitted.

“Give him the Plan!” Peaches begged.

“No,” Max said. “Obviously, the only honorable thing to do is swallow it.”

“It’s too big to swallow!”

“Not bite by bite, it isn’t,” Max replied. And, so saying, he took a bite off the corner of the sheet of paper.

“You fool!” Noman raged. “This means your death!”

Max frowned. “Is paper poisonous?”

“No, but it means that I have no choice. Now, I must send you to your end in the river.” He looked out the front window. “And the river is only minutes away.”

“For heaven’s sake, hurry,” Peaches said to Max. “If you’re going to swallow the Plan, do it!”

“My mother taught me to chew thoroughly,” Max said. “It’s the secret of good digestion.”

“What does that matter! You’re going to die!”

“Perhaps so. But not because of poor digestion.”

“We’re almost to the river!” Noman cried. “Hold your noses!”

Max sighed heavily. “I can’t go through with it,” he said. He handed the Plan to Noman. “Here, take it.”

“Oh, Max,” Peaches squealed. “You did this for me.”

“No, I did it for my digestive system,” Max said. “I just couldn’t eat that Plan. It’s the most poorly seasoned Plan I ever tasted. It tastes like . . . well, like paper.”

Peaches turned to Noman. “You have the Plan. Now, stop the cab!”

“Like fudge, I will!” Noman laughed. “Your doom is sealed. Now that I have the Plan, I intend to eject myself from the cab, and leave you two here to plunge into the Potomac.”

“Exactly what I’d expect from a KAOS agent,” Max said. “Your actions are like your Plans—tasteless.”

“Toodle-loo!” Noman said. “I am now going to activate my ejection seat, rocket into the air, and descend safely by parachute.”

Then, smiling evilly, Noman punched his ejection button.

But, just as he did, Max reached out and snatched the Plan from his hand.

Noman went shooting through an opening in the roof of the cab—without the Plan.

“I did it!” Max cried. “I saved the day!”

“For how long?” Peaches said gloomily. “We’re still headed for the river.”

“But we have the Plan! The entire you-know-what of the you-know-what is no longer hanging in the you-know-what.”

“In a few minutes, I don’t think that’s going to make much difference to me,” Peaches moaned.

“We may still be able to escape,” Max said. “Try the doors.”

But the doors were all locked.

“Good-by, Max,” Peaches wept. “I wish I could say it had been a pleasure knowing you.”

Max was looking out the rear window. “There’s Noman,” he said. “He’s floating safely down to earth by parachute.
But
—without the Plan. I guess that proves it—the good guys always win.”

“Max! I can see the river! We’re lost!”

“We couldn’t be lost if you can see the river,” Max said. “That’s where we’re headed—the river. So how could we be lost?”

“I mean we’re doomed!”

“No—wait! Parachute! That gives me an idea!”

“Even if we had parachutes, what good would it do? We’re too close to the ground to jump.”

“A parachute can be used for other things besides jumping,” Max said. He began poking in his pockets. “Let’s see now, where did I put that parachute?”

“You’re mad!” Peaches sobbed.

Max extracted a ballpoint pen from an inside pocket. “Ah! Here it is!”

“That’s a parachute?”

“Yes. A parachute, and an acetylene torch, and a six-shot revolver, and a hair-dryer, and half of a set of chopsticks, and a miscellaneous. The only thing it won’t do is write.”

“But how will it help?”

“Just watch!”

Max punched the button at the top of the pen and a sledge hammer popped out the end. “That’s the miscellaneous,” he explained.

“You’re mad, and your pen is mad!”

Quickly, with one blow, Max smashed the rear window of the cab.

“That’s wonderful!” Peaches enthused.

“It could have been neater,” Max said.

“What now?”

Max retracted the sledge hammer, then pointed the pen out the opening. “Now—”

He punched the button again. This time a parachute popped from the pen. It opened, billowed, and then, acting as a brake, brought the cab to a halt.

“We’re saved!” Peaches cried joyfully.

“Yes,” Max said, less happily. “But every blessing has its drawbacks. Now, I have to re-pack that parachute.”

“But we’re alive, Max!”

“That’s fine for you. But have you ever tried to pack a parachute into a ballpoint pen?”

“Then leave it,” Peaches said disgustedly.

“Leave it?” Max was appalled. “That’s Government property. Every parachute I lose comes out of my salary.”

“But Max, we don’t have time to re-pack it. Noman might catch up with us. And, as you keep saying, the fate of the entire you-know-what hangs in the you-know-what.”

“I guess you’re right,” Max sighed. “I’ll have to leave the parachute. Even though it’ll mean that, to pay for it, I’ll have to skip lunches for a week.”

“What now, Max?” Peaches said.

“Onward and upward.”

“What does that mean?”

“Onward to the airport, and upward in a plane,” Max replied. “But first, I think I’d better report in to the Chief. He’ll be worried. You know how Chiefs are—they worry.”

Peaches looked at him warily. “This is where you contact the Chief on your shoe—right?”

“Right. But we can’t stay here by the river. Noman will probably come looking for us.” He pointed. “There’s a building over there. We’ll get inside, out of sight, then I’ll phone the Chief.”

“Oh, I see,” Peaches said, brightening. “That’s the Telephone Company.”

Max looked at the building again. “As a matter of fact, it is,” he said. “But, that’s all right—any building will do.”

“Any building with a phone, you mean.”

“No, I mean— Let’s not discuss it any more. The longer we stay here, the better chance Noman has of catching us.”

Max and Peaches left the river and walked to the Telephone Company building. Entering, they spotted a doorman.

Max walked up to him. “I’d like to make a private call,” he said. “Where would be a quiet place?”

The doorman pointed. “Public telephones, second door on the right, sir.”

“No, I don’t want a public telephone. This is a private call.”

“All private calls are made on public telephones, sir.”

“If you’ll think about it a second, you’ll see how ridiculous this is,” Max said. “What I want is a quiet little corner where I won’t be disturbed.”

“There are booths, sir.”

“All right,” Max said, “I suppose that will have to do.”

With Max leading the way, he and Peaches walked to the door that the doorman had pointed out. They entered a large room where a great number of operators were operating switchboards. Near the entrance were a great many booths.

“We’ll just duck into one of these,” Max said.

“I don’t think there’s room enough for both of us.”

“All right, we’ll leave the door open. I have trouble getting my shoe off in a closed telephone booth, anyway. You stand guard.”

Peaches nodded agreement.

Max stepped into the booth, then, bending over, removed his shoe.

“Mad!” Peaches groaned.

Max dialed, then held the shoe to his ear.

Operator:
The number you have dialed is not a working number, sir.

Max:
Of course it’s a working number. I dial it a dozen times a day.

Operator:
What number did you dial, sir?

Max:
I can’t tell you that, Operator. It’s top secret.

Operator:
Are you the same kook who was trapped in a limousine in Greenwich Village a while back, sir?

Max:
Operator—is that you? How’re things?

Operator:
Oh, fine—in general. My Aunt Harriet isn’t doing too well these days, though. Her lumbago.

Max:
That’s too bad. I have an Uncle Horace who suffers from the same thing. Has your Aunt Harriet tried milk baths? That seems to work for Uncle Horace.

Operator:
She tried it. But she had to give it up. It was bad for her psychologically. She said, sitting there in a tub of milk, she felt like a giant Rice Krispie.

Max:
That’s hard to believe.

Operator:
Would you believe a shredded wheat biscuit?

Max:
I’d be more likely to believe a Rice Krispie, frankly.

Operator:
Every time she opened her mouth she said ‘snap, crackle, pop!’