“I’m still not sure about this,” Peaches said. “I’m afraid we’re making a mistake.”
“At these prices? Impossible.”
“That clerk—he looked familiar to me. He looked a lot like that tout. As a matter of fact, he looked a lot like our first cab driver, too.”
“Ridiculous. They all had different faces.”
“I think they were all Noman. They were all plump.”
“So is Santa Claus. But I don’t think you’d get very far accusing Santa Claus of being Noman. Besides, if you did, you’d break a lot of little hearts.”
“Children’s hearts mend quickly.”
“I wasn’t thinking of children, I was thinking of me.”
Peaches pointed. “There’s the plane. See, it has Arr Dee Airline painted on it—in fresh paint.”
“I can read,” Max replied sharply.
They boarded the plane, then stopped in the aisle. All of the seats except two were occupied by passengers. But, oddly, all the other passengers appeared to be asleep.
“That’s funny,” Peaches said.
“Funny? What’s funny about it? They’re probably all first-time-flyers, and they were probably up all night worrying. No wonder they’re tuckered out.”
“Where’s the stewardess?” Peaches said, looking around.
“You get in your seat and buckle yourself in and I’ll look for her,” Max said. “I want to make a thorough inspection of the plane, anyway. It’s just possible that Noman has slipped aboard and is hiding somewhere.”
“Would you know him if you found him?”
“I think so. He’s plump—reminds me a bit of Santa Claus.”
Peaches buckled herself into her seat, and Max made his way forward, tiptoeing so he wouldn’t disturb the other passengers, to the cockpit.
A moment later, he returned. “No pilot,” he said. “I’m beginning to understand why the prices are so reasonable.”
“He’s probably still at the terminal, checking the weather,” Peaches said.
Max looked out a window. “He could do that from here,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“The weather in New York, I mean.”
“Oh. Well, if he can see what the weather is in New York from the terminal, he’s got better eyes than I have. I can barely see the terminal.”
“You better check the rear of the plane,” Peaches said.
Max moved on, toward the rear of the plane, then disappeared into a rear compartment.
He checked the lavatory, then the baggage compartment. Both were empty. Next, he opened a small door marked: ‘Danger—Do Not Open.’
A bland, unsmiling face appeared. “Hello, Max.”
“Agent 44! What are you doing back here?”
“On duty, Max.”
“Good fella!” Max peered through the opening. “What’s in this compartment?”
“A lot of wires,” 44 replied. “I think they control the plane.”
“Hmmmm. All right. But don’t fiddle with anything. It could be dangerous. They ought to put a warning sign on the door to this compartment.”
Max returned to the cabin and buckled himself into the seat next to Peaches.
“Did you find anything?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Would you believe me if I told you I found Agent 44 hiding in the little compartment that contains the wires that control the plane?”
“Hardly.”
“Would you believe Agent 22?”
“No.”
“Agent 11?”
Peaches did not get a chance to reply. At that moment, they heard a sound behind them—the sound of hearty laughter. And, turning, they saw that the pilot had entered the plane. He moved toward them along the aisle.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” he laughed. He was plump, and looked like a typical airline pilot.
“What’s so funny?” Max asked.
“ ’Tis the season to be jolly.”
Max peered at him closely. “Are you sure you know how to fly a plane?”
“Positive,” the pilot replied. “Although, frankly, I prefer reindeer.”
Max turned to Peaches. “I’ve seen that face somewhere before,” he whispered.
“I think—”
But the pilot broke in. “All ready to fly, are you?”
“Have you checked the weather in New York?” Max asked.
“I can’t see New York from here,” the pilot replied. “I can barely see the terminal.”
“That’s what I told her,” Max said, indicating Peaches. “But she had some crazy idea that—”
“Fasten Seat Belts,” the pilot said, breaking in again.
“Don’t you have a co-pilot?” Max asked.
The pilot shook his head. “They’re too much trouble. They keep wanting to take over the controls. And you’re so busy slapping their hands, you sometimes lose your way.” He saluted. “See you in Kansas City.”
“New York,” Max corrected.
“Oh, yes. Good thing you reminded me.”
The pilot headed up the aisle, then disappeared into the cockpit.
“I still say I’ve seen that face somewhere before,” Max said.
“No, I think it’s the body. It’s plump.”
Max shook his head. “No, it’s the face. I have a little trouble remembering faces, but I never forget a body.”
The engines roared, then the plane began taxiing.
“You’d think the passengers would wake up,” Peaches said.
“Never mind the other passengers. We have work to do.” He took the Plan from his pocket and began studying it. “Let’s see now. We have Sad Al / Astor / Mays / Bronco Con / Map Change / Three Bs and Watch.”
“I’m going to try the Frankmacher method,” Peaches said. “You take the second letter of every word, transpose the letters to numbers, spell out the numbers, then take the first letter of each word, transpose the letters into numbers, then—”
“Do you mind?” Max interrupted. “I’m trying to think. How can I think with you babbling that gibberish in my ear? Please keep your Frankmacher to yourself.”
“Oh, all right.”
The engines were being revved up.
“We must be about ready for take-off,” Max said.
At that moment, sliding panels opened at the front of the cabin, exposing a movie screen.
“Scratch that take-off,” Max said. “Revving up the engines apparently means that the movie is about to start.”
The picture flashed on the screen.
“Drat!” Max said. “I’ve seen it. That’s what happens when you fly these cheap re-run airlines.”
“Max, will you do something about that picture,” Peaches said. “I can’t think with that going on.”
Max got up and went to the front of the cabin. In a service compartment he found a blanket, and he hung it over the screen, then returned to his seat. At that moment, the plane began to move.
“Finally—take-off,” Max said. “Now, let’s settle down to work.”
Peaches began muttering to herself, decoding by means of the Frankmacher method.
“Sad Al,” Max mused aloud. “That might refer to Al Capone. I imagine he was pretty unhappy when they plunked him in jail.”
“So far, I have ‘ALSAROAHHSA’,” Peaches said.
Max ignored her. “Astor. That’s a hotel. That gives me Al Capone in a hotel. Or, any gangster in a hotel. Mays. That definitely refers to baseball.”
“ ‘ALSAROAHHSA’ breaks down to ‘1-12-19-1-18-15-1-8-8-19-1’,” Peaches said.
“And Bronco Con can’t mean anything but Trojan horse. So, that gives me a gangster in a hotel room playing baseball with a Trojan horse. I think I’m getting close.” He frowned, cogitating, and, as he thought, he glanced out the window. Then suddenly he straightened in his seat. “That’s an airport down there,” he said.
“So?”
“It looks like the airport we ju
st left.”
Peaches looked out the window. “It does, doesn’t it.”
“We seem to be flying in circles,” Max said.
“That is strange.”
“Oh well,” Max said, relaxing. “The pilot is probably just taking no chances. My guess is that he’s waiting for another New York-bound plane to take off so he can follow it. That’s the surest way. Especially if you have difficulty distinguishing between New York and Kansas City.”
“I think it’s strange,” Peaches said.
“Back to work,” Max said. “That’s the important thing.” He turned his attention back to the Plan. “Map Change. That might refer to the time when the days change—in other words, 12 midnight. Now, let’s see—Three Bs.”
“I have ‘OTNOEFOEENO,’” Peaches informed him.
Again, Max ignored her. “Three Bs. Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. Music. A tune. A certain tune. ‘Over the Waves.’ ”
“Over the Waves?” Peaches said puzzledly.
“I used to play ‘Over the Waves’ on my piccolo when I was a child.”
Peaches turned back to her deciphering.
“All right now, let’s see what I have,” Max said. “A gangster in the Astor hotel will play baseball with a Trojan horse at 12 midnight to the tune of ‘Over the Waves.’ ” He shook his head, “dose, but not yet it.”
“What about ‘Watch’?”
“That, apparently, is the key word,” Max replied. “But it’s a stumper.”
“Here’s what I have,” Peaches said. “I have ‘FFFFFF.’ Now, ‘F’ is the sixth letter of the alphabet. So, I have ‘666666’. And, following the Frankmacher method, I turn those 6s upside down, and I get ‘999999.’ in other words, I have a series of 9s. And 9 times 9 equals 81. That is two separate numbers, an 8 and a 1. Now, 8 is H—”
“How do you arrive at that?” Max asked.
“ ‘H’ is the eighth letter of the alphabet.”
“Oh, yes, I see.”
“So the 8 and the 1 stand for H and A.”
“HA!”
Peaches saddened. “I’m afraid so.”
From the cockpit they heard the sound of laughter again.
The pilot emerged. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“No, it’s ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!,’ ” Max corrected.
“You’re right,” the pilot replied, grinning sinisterly. “The laugh is on you!”
Max stared, stunned. “Noman!”
“It ain’t Santy Claus,” Noman smirked.
“Now I know why we’re circling the airport,” Max said. “You never had any intention of flying us to New York.”
“This is as far as you go,” Noman said. “Hand over the Dooms Day Plan.”
“Not so fast, Noman. We are not alone,” Max said. He got to his feet and addressed the other passengers. “Fellow air travelers,” he said, “there comes a time in every secret agent’s life when he must go to the people for support. My time has come.”
“In spades,” Noman commented.
“The fight waged against the forces of evil by your secret agents is a lonely fight,” Max continued, still addressing the passengers. “Imagine yourself in a lonely hotel room, on a dark and stormy night, in a strange city, with the forces of evil knocking on your door. Sometimes a secret agent wants to cry out ‘Help! Help!’ But he knows that it is his duty to stand alone. However, this is not a hotel room, it is not a dark and stormy night, and we are not in a strange city—so, I think that, for this one time, we can forget about the rules. It would be permissible, I think, considering the circumstance, for me to yell ‘Help! Help!’ ”
“Yell already,” Noman shrugged. “Yell your head off.”
“With your permission, I will,” Max replied. He faced the passengers again. “Help! Help!”
The passengers slept on.
“They are tuckered out!” Max said, disappointed.
“They’re dummies,” Noman said.
Max looked at him disapprovingly. “You’re not going to have this airline very long, referring to your passengers in that way,” he said.
“When I say dummy, I mean dummy,” Noman replied. He picked up a passenger and tossed it to the floor. “See? Dummy. Filled with rags. It was a trick to lure you onto the plane. I knew you wouldn’t board the plane if it was empty.”
“As a matter of fact, I would,” Max said. “I like my privacy, too.”
“Enough of this babble,” Noman said. “Hand over the Dooms Day Plan!”
“Not quite yet,” Max said. “A Control secret agent is always prepared for emergencies like this.” He reached into a pocket and brought out a cigarette lighter. “I’ll burn the Plan before I’ll turn it over to you, Noman!”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Just watch me!”
Max flicked the lighter—and a fully inflated life raft popped out.
“Right emergency, wrong lighter,” he muttered. “Or, to put it another way—wrong emergency, right lighter.”
“It amounts to the same thing,” Noman said. “Hand over the Plan.”
Resigned, Max passed the Plan to Noman. “Little good it will do you,” he said. “When this plane lands it will be immediately surrounded by the National Guard, the city police, and a retired General of the Army, all armed to the teeth.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Noman said.
“Would you believe six members of the Seaford, Long Island, Lions Club, all carrying firecrackers?”
“Hardly.”
“Then would you believe—”
“I wouldn’t even believe a toy fox terrier with a lit match in its teeth.”
“Then there’s no point in my mentioning it,” Max said. “However, we are thousands of feet in the air, so I see no way for you to escape with the Plan.”
“Look out the window,” Noman commanded.
Max looked. “That airport is much nearer than it was the last time I looked,” he said.
“Before I left the cockpit I put the plane in a crash dive and locked the controls,” Noman said. “Within minutes it will hit the ground and explode.”
Max shook his head derisively. “That’s no way to run an airline,” he said.
“You, Max Smart, and your lady cryptographer, will be destroyed.”
“And you?”
“You’ll notice that I’m wearing a parachute.”
“Oh. Is that a parachute? I thought you were putting on a little weight in the rear.”
“Now,” Noman said, “I’m going to the door and jump.” He headed down the aisle toward the rear of the plane.
Max followed him. “I know you have your orders, Noman,” he said. “But, secret agent to secret agent, couldn’t we talk this over?”
“I’d like to,” Noman said. “But there isn’t time. The plane is going to crash very soon.”
“Oh . . . well, I understand, then.”
Noman opened the door. “Happy landing!”
“The same to you.”
“Sorry about this,” Noman said.
“You’d better go—time is running out.”
“Yes . . . well . . .”
Noman dived out the doorway. But, just as he did, Max reached out and snatched the Dooms Day Plan from his grasp.
Noman’s cry of protest floated back. “That’s dirty pooooooo . . .”
5.
PEACHES RUSHED to Max’s side. They stood together in the doorway of the plane, watching Noman float safely to earth.
“History repeats itself,” Max said. “Once more, the bad guy bites the dust.”
“But, Max—he’s safe, and we’re hurtling to our doom.”
“True,” Max replied. “But you forget one little element—we have the Plan.”
“Hooray for us,” Peaches said sourly.
“You have to look at it in the broad perspective,” Max said. “It’s true, as you say, that you and I are doomed. But, on the other hand, the you-know-what of the you-know-what is you-know-whated. That’s worth something, you k
now.”
“How much in actual cash?”
Max thought for a second. “You have a point there. It might not be unpatriotic for us to try to get ourselves out of this scrape. Let’s trot up to the cockpit and see what we can do about changing the course of the plane.”
Reaching the cockpit, they slipped into the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats. Max grasped the wheel and pulled back on it.
“Locked! Just as Noman said. Well, it’s comforting to know, anyway, that he’s no liar.”
“Max! Do something!”
“I’ll call the tower,” Max said. “They might have a suggestion. I suppose this is old hat to them.” He picked up the pilot’s microphone, punched the button, and spoke.
Max: Crashing airplane calling tower. Crashing airplane calling tower. Come in, please. Over.
Tower: Identify yourself, crashing airplane. Over.
Max: Well, let’s see . . . what can I say? We’re the plane with the sun shining brightly on our fuselage. Our nose is down and our tail is up. And we’re about to make violent contact with the earth and explode in a shower of multicolored flames. Over.
Tower: Yes, I see you now. What seems to be the trouble? Over.
Max: Think back on that description I just gave you and I think you’ll be able to figure it out. Over.
Tower: Oh, yes . . . Well, I wish there were something I could do to help. But I just don’t have time right now. I’m going off duty. Could you call back tomorrow? About eight hours earlier? Over.
Max: May I make a countersuggestion? Over.
Tower: It’s your nickel. Over.
Max: Perhaps I could talk to your relief. He might have something to offer. Over.
Tower: Oh, I’m sure he would. Old Big Mouth. You name it and he’s got the answer. But I’m afraid that would involve us all in a nasty jurisdictional dispute. You see, you’re crashing in my time period. So you’re my responsibility. If I turn you over to Big Mouth, he’d get to share in all the glory. Over.
Max: Glory? Over.
Tower: Whenever there’s a crash, the tower operator on duty is always interviewed on TV. Over.
Max: I can understand that. But I’m a little vague on the jurisdictional aspect. Could you fill me in? Over.
Tower: My wife has jurisdiction over my TV appearances, and Big Mouth’s wife has jurisdiction of his TV appearances. My wife would have a tantrum. She’s grooming me to be the new Arthur Godfrey. Over.
Get Smart 3 - Get Smart Once Again! Page 5
