“Well, frankly, Max—”
“Nevermind that,” Max broke in. “There’s always a first time for everything, you know. This time, it might work. Now, listen—here’s my first idea. Get up off the cot and let me lie down, and I’ll pretend to be ill. I’ll moan and groan and attract the guard’s attention. When he comes in here to find out what’s the matter with me, you’ll drop him with a karate chop. Okay?”
“Didn’t I see that in a movie, Max?”
“Yes, 99. In an old movie—on television.”
“As I recall—”
“That’s irrelevant, 99. This time, it will work.”
99 got up, and Max stretched out on the cot and began moaning and groaning. After a few moments, the guard appeared at the ceil door.
“You sound like you got the miseries,” the guard said sympathetically.
“And I’m terribly ill, too,” Max replied.
“Shouldn’t you do something?” 99 said to the guard.
“I’m no doctor, ma’am.”
“But shouldn’t you come in and get him and maybe take him to the guest house? There must be a doctor among the guests.”
“He don’t want no doctor,” the guard said. “Don’t you know about doctors, ma’am? They’re a bunch of scalywags, every last one of them. My mom used to say, anybody who goes to a doctor, there’s something wrong with them. The home remedies, they’re the best.” He addressed Max again. “Where does it hurt?” he asked. “Somewhere around the rib section?”
“That’s it!” Max groaned.
“Then you’ve probably got what mom used to call riboflavin,” the guard said. “What’s good for that is fish-eye stew. You get yourself a pot and put in some turnip tops, and the bark of a weeping willow, and a ten-months-old badminton net, then fill it to the brim with rusty rainwater, and let it simmer ’til the badminton net dissolves. You serve it—”
“What about the fish eye?” 99 asked.
“You bury that out in back of the woodshed,” the guard replied.
Max groaned again.
“That don’t sound like riboflavin to me,” the guard said.
“The pain has moved,” Max said.
“Since you know so much about healing,” 99 said to the guard, “maybe you could help him. Why don’t you at least come inside and look at him.”
“Oh, I can see what he’s got all the way from over here,” the guard said. “You’ll notice that he’s lying down and his eyes are closed. That’s a sure sign of the blind staggers. If he got up, he’d fall flat on his face. What’s good for the blind staggers is chicken soup.”
“That sounds good,” Max said. “Why don’t you get some and bring it in?”
“It’d have to be Mom’s recipe,” the guard replied. “And I don’t have any shoe tongue handy.”
Max peered at him. “Shoe tongue? For chicken soup?”
“The way the recipe goes,” the guard said, “you take a tongue out of an old shoe, you put it in a big pot, then you add an old horse blanket—diced, of course—the scrapings off a squirrel carcass, the last leaf of summer, the glue from an old book binding, the want ad section out of the July 4th edition of the Clinton, Illinois, Daily Courier (being sure, naturally, to remove the Personal Ads), four hounds teeth, a pinch of salt, and a gallon of spring cider. You cook it for—”
“Chicken,” Max interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“You forgot the chicken,” Max pointed out.
“Shucks you don’t put chicken in it. That’d spoil it.”
“You don’t put chicken in chicken soup?”
“It’s not for putting chicken in, it’s for feeding to the chickens,” the guard explained. “They’re the ones that get the blind staggers. You’re the first human I ever saw to get it.”
Max sat up. “Nevermind,” he said to the guard.
“Max . . . what about you-know-what,” 99 said.
“99, if I he here listening to any more of these recipes, I’ll get sick,” Max explained.
“Glad to do whatever I could do,” the guard said, returning to his post.
“That didn’t work too well, did it, Max?” 99 said.
“It wasn’t perfect,” Max admitted. “But that doesn’t mean that we’re defeated, 99. We’ll just have to try something else. How about the old setting-the-cot-on-fire trick? That always works—more or less—in old movies. Do you have a match, 99?”
“No, Max.”
“Neither do I. Well . . . that boots that one, too. Unless we could rub a couple sticks together.”
“No sticks, Max.”
“Ask the guard—maybe he has a couple.”
99 went to the cell door and called to the guard. “I wonder,” she said, “if you might have a couple sticks we could borrow?”
“The last time I loaned a prisoner a couple sticks, he got careless and started a fire,” the guard replied.
“Matches, then?”
“That was the kind of sticks I loaned him,” the guard explained.
“Oh.”
The guard returned to his post, and 99 moved back to where Max was waiting. Max had lit a cigarette.
“Max! How did you do that?”
“It wasn’t easy, 99. Since I had no matches, I had to use my lighter.”
“Ah . . . Max . . . couldn’t you—”
“Hold it, 99! I think I’ve got an idea.”
Max got out his lighter, strolled over to the bunk, then set fire to the mattress.
“Fire!” 99 cried.
“Take it easy, 99,” Max scolded. “I did that. I told you I planned to set the bunk on fire.”
“I know, Max. I’m trying to attract the attention of the guard.”
“Good idea, 99. I’ll help you. Fire! Fire!”
99 joined in, screaming. “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
The guard came to the door. “You know you got a fire in there?” he said.
“Help! Save us!” 99 wailed.
“Open the door and let us out before we burn to death!” Max urged.
“Shucks, that’s the hard way,” the guard smiled. He walked to the wall, got down the fire hose, pointed it into the cell, then turned on the water. It was only a few seconds before the fire died out.
“I did it that way the last time, too—when that fellow borrowed the two sticks from me,” the guard said.
“Yes. Well, that’s quick-thinking on your part.”
“Funny thing is, he didn’t look any happier about it than you do now,” the guard said, puzzled. “Sometimes I wonder if it really pays to do things for folks.”
“How would you like to try it just once more?” Max asked.
“Well . . .”
“You could turn off the water,” Max suggested. “We’d appreciate it, I assure you.”
The guard shut off the water. “How come you’re not smiling?” he asked.
Max and 99 grinned.
“I like to have a happy jail,” the guard said, going back to his post.
“Well, Max?” 99 said gloomily.
“We’ll have to try to bribe him,” Max decided. “What have we got, 99, that’s very valuable?”
“I left everything I had in my room, Max.”
Max dug into his pocket, and came up with a number of tablets. “Mmmmm . . . I must have had some of those aspirins left over,” he said. “Maybe I actually gave that guard an aspirin instead of the explosive. And that means that I still have the explosive. Maybe. On the other hand, it could have been the explosive I gave the guard instead of an aspirin.”
“Max . . . what are you talking about?”
“It’s not important, 99. Or, to put it another way, it’s so important, I don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, I don’t have anything in my pocket that’s valuable enough to use as a bribe. So, apparently, we’re stuck. I—”
“Yes? What, Max?”
“99, do you suppose that guard would be interested in owning a shoe telephone?”
“Well, it’s
a tricky little gadget, Max. If he’s interested in tricky little gadgets— Try it, Max.”
Max went to the door and called the guard over. “Say, fella, I wouldn’t be out of line, would I, if I asked you if you might be susceptible to a bribe?”
“Out of line how?” the guard asked.
“I mean, you wouldn’t take offense, would you?”
“Why do you think I gave you all those recipes instead of getting you a doctor? And why do you think I turned the hose on your fire instead of letting you out of the cell?”
“You mean—”
“Stalling,” the guard said. “I watch the movies on television, too. And the way I had it figured, a bribe had to be next. What’ve you got to offer?”
“Tell me, do you have a lot of headaches?”
“You can keep your aspirin tablets,” the guard replied. “That last one tasted funny.”
“Then how interested are you in gadgets?” Max asked.
“I’m a bug, man. Have you ever seen that gadget where when you turn it on all it does is a hand comes out and turns it off? I’ve got a gadget that does that gadget even one better. You turn it on and nothing happens at all. No hand, no nothing.”
“Say, that’s fascinating,” Max said, impressed. Then he frowned. “But how do you know when it isn’t working?”
“When it’s on the blink, it does things,” the guard explained.
“Oh. Well, anyway, getting back to the subject, how would you like to have a shoe that’s really a telephone?”
The guard looked at him doubtfully. “It’s a shoe and it’s also a telephone? Where do you keep it?”
“On your foot.” Max raised his foot. “See? That’s it right there.”
“It’s black,” the guard said.
“I’m aware of that.”
“Everybody has color phones these days.”
“Yes—but do they wear them on their foot?”
The guard thought for a moment. “That’s a point,” he admitted.
“Would you like to make a test call?” Max asked.
“Well . . . I haven’t talked to Mom in a good while.”
Max took off his shoe. He asked the guard for his mother’s number, dialed it, then handed the shoe to the guard.
Mom: Just terrible, now that you ask. I’ve got pains in my back, pains in my shoulders, pains in my legs, and my only son never calls me. Who’s this?
Guard: It’s me, Mom. Guess what I’m calling from?
Mom: You’re probably calling from your shoe. You’ve always been a strange boy. I remember when you used to talk for hours into a soup can. Nobody ever answered, though, did they, boy? Didn’t that learn you? If you’ve taken to talking into a shoe, give it up boy. Nobody’ll answer.
Guard: You sure know how to take the fun off a surprise, Mom.
Mom: Is that why you haven’t called? ’Fraid I’d make fun of you, calling on a shoe? I’ll change, boy. I promise. You call me on your shoe any time you want. I won’t say a word about it. Just to hear your voice, that’s all I want. You call me on your shoe, or your shirt, or your garters or anything you want, boy. Just call me, that’s all.
Guard: You want to know why I don’t call you, Mom?
Mom: Why, boy?
Guard: You’re a nutty old lady.
Mom: Son, you call me a nutty old lady all you want—just so you call me, that’s what’s important.
The guard handed the shoe back to Max. “Not interested,” he said.
“But it’s a fabulous gadget!”
“What’s so fabulous about it? It’s the same as the phone out in the booth. Pick it up, and you get the same nutty old lady.”
“You could dial another number, you know,” Max said.
The guard shook his head. “She’s got me hexed,” he said. “No matter what number I dial, I get the same nutty old lady.” He leaned forward, whispered. “And you know what? She’s not even my mom!”
“She isn’t?”
“I got her one time when I dialed a wrong number. Haven’t been able to shake her.” He pointed to Max’s shoe phone. “You’ll probably never be able to get her off the line,” he said. “When it comes to a hex, she’s dynamite.”
“Nonsense,” Max said.
The guard shrugged and went back to his post.
Max looked at his shoe. He put the receiver to his ear.
Mom: —except a Mother’s Day card, but the least you could do is call me every five or ten minutes or so. I get lonely, boy. Dad won’t talk to me anymore, you know—not since we buried him. He was a good old man, but—
Max put the shoe back on his foot.
“Still on, Max?” 99 asked.
“She’ll get tired when she doesn’t get any answer,” Max said confidently. “Right now, 99, our big problem is to get out of here and rescue Hymie and Number One. Sickness, fire and bribery haven’t helped. So, what next? Isn’t it about time you thought of something?”
“Well, Max, we might call the Chief and have him send reinforcements.”
“That’s a great idea, 99! Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“Well, Max, I don’t have much seniority. It didn’t occur to me that my idea would be worth anything.”
“It’s such a natural,” Max said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
Max removed his shoe and put the receiver to his ear.
Mom: —on Christmas, but you could have at least telephoned me. I had nobody to talk to but Santy. And he wasn’t saying anything fit to hear. He burned his boots in the fireplace, and you’d think it was the last pair of boots in all creation, the way he carried on. I told him, I said, if you’d brought me a call from my sonny-boy, ’stead of that tinker-toy set, you’d’ve got a warmer welcome. He said it was warm enough as it was. Well, I told—
Max: Lady, would you get off the line, please? I have an important call to make.
Mom: Sonny-boy! I thought you’d hung up on me, as always. What a joy it is to this old heart to hear your voice again. How long has it been? A half-hour? Seems more like forty-five minutes.
Max: Lady, I’ve never talked to you before in my life. I’m not your son. And, according to that other fellow, he’s not your son, either. Wise up, lady. Whether you know it or not, you’ve been disconnected for a long time.
Mom: Insult me! Go on! It’s music to my ears. You don’t have to love me, just talk to me. Call me a nutty old lady, like you always do. I know how happy that makes you. And what’s a mother for? To make her baby-boy happy, that’s what a mother’s for.
Max placed his shoe back on his foot. “Now I know why I didn’t think of it, 99,” he said. “It wasn’t such a hot idea. The line is busy.”
9.
EVERY QUARTER-HOUR or so, Max tried again to get through to the Chief to ask for reinforcements. But each time he found that Mom was still on the line. Eventually, however, the problem was solved. Ways and Means returned, accompanied by Hymie. And even if the line had been open it was unlikely that Ways and Means would have allowed Max to call the Chief, thus, the fact that it wasn’t open no longer mattered much.
“The fact that you’re here must mean that you got Number One straightened out,” Max said to Ways and Means. “You came back to gloat, I assume.”
“Button your lip, buster!” Hymie said to Max. “Secret agents should be seen but not heard.”
Max peered at him. “Hymie?”
“They brainwashed him, Max,” 99 explained. “Remember? They said they were going to turn him into a KAOS agent.”
“Well, you certainly did a top-drawer job of it,” Max said to Ways and Means. “He even has that evil look in his eyes.”
“When we do a job, we do a job,” Ways said.
“And what about Number One?” Max asked.
“That’s a different story,” Ways said gloomily. “We took this robot to her, but she wouldn’t even give him a second click. She’s still reciting that crummy poetry.”
“Anything wort
h hearing?” Max asked.
“She’s still working on her epic,” Ways replied.
“You mean the one that goes: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways? You mean she’s still counting?”
“She’s up to seven billion, six million, five hundred thousand, four hundred and thirty-two,” Ways replied.
“Baffling,” Max mused. “I was sure it was Hymie she was pining for.” He suddenly brightened. “Maybe it’s because you turned him into a KAOS agent. Number One could never love a KAOS agent. Her heart belongs to the Establishment, you know.”
“That’s not it,” Means said. “We took him to her before we brainwashed him. Nothing. We figured it was because we hadn’t gimmicked him yet. So, after, we took him back. Still nothing.”
“All right—let’s not give up,” Max said. “If we all put on our thinking caps, I’m sure—”
“Max!” 99 interrupted. “We’re not supposed to help them. They’re the Bad Guys.”
“Oh . . . yes. A challenge always fascinates me. Sometimes I get carried away.”
“We’ve got the problem solved, anyway,” Means said.
“Really? What’s the answer?” Max asked.
“We’ve decided to fall back on KAOS Rule No. 1,” Ways replied. “It goes: When in trouble, kill somebody.”
Max thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t see how that could help in this situation.”
“Beats me, too,” Means said. “But we’ve tried playing it by ear, and that hasn’t worked. So, we’re going to revert to going by the book—starting with Rule No. 1.”
“Yeah,” Hymie said. “Boy, are you going to get it!”
“Max!” They’re going to kill us!” 99 cried.
“Now, don’t jump to conclusions,” Max said. “So far, no names have been mentioned. Cross your fingers. They may be thinking about killing some strangers.”
Ways winced. “Strangers! What do you take us for? Animals? Madmen? Psychos? Why should we kill perfect strangers when the joint is crawling with Control agents?”
“Gab, gab, gab!” Hymie said. “Let’s get this over with!”
Get Smart 8 - Max Smart Loses Control Page 11
