Get Smart 1 - Get Smart! (15 page)

“Cross my heart. I put my lunch down for just a second, and the next thing I knew it was gone. It hates me.”

“It’s probably not you personally,” Max said. “It probably just has a bad disposition. Maybe something it ate. I’d suggest an Alka-Seltzer.”

“Oh, no, no, no, it
hates
me!” Mr. Wright insisted. “I don’t know why, but it does. It certainly isn’t because I’ve given it any reason to. I treat it like all the other computers.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Max suggested. “Perhaps it wants a little special attention. Try singing it a lullaby.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “Or patting it on the back the next time it has hiccups.”

Mr. Wright sighed sorrowfully. “Well, that’s
my
problem, not yours. You’re here to be tested, and I’m here to test you, so let’s be about it.”

“Tested?” Max said. “For what?”

“To determine what occupation you’re best suited for.”

“You mean you can test me and tell me what job I should have?” Max said. He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I already know what job I’m best suited for. And, at the moment, I’m on the trail of a computer. Actually, ‘robot’ describes him better, I suppose. He has revolving eyes and a lever at his side and goes: ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’ ”

“Oh, you
are
in trouble,” Mr. Wright said. “You’ll never find a job like that. In the first place, I don’t think any such robot exists. And in the second place, if it did, who would want to find it? Now then,” he said, smiling again, “if you’ll just answer a few questions for me, I’ll jot the answers down on this card, then we’ll turn it over to the computers.”

“If I do that for you, then will you do me a favor and discuss my robot with me?” Max said.

“Cross my heart. I might even sing you a lullaby.”

“Fire away,” Max said.

“Here’s the first question: If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, how many peepers . . . uh, peppers, that is . . . did he have to pay in income tax?”

“That would depend on how many dependents he had,” Max replied.

“Well, just for the sake of argument, let’s say he had a wife, three children, a cocker spaniel, and an old maid aunt who lived in the spare room.”

“Three peepers . . . uh, peppers,” Max said.

Mr. Wright punched a hole in the card he was holding. “Too bad,” he said. “But that was close, anyway.” He punched another hole. “I’ll give you that for good behavior,” he said.

“Just for curiosity’s sake, what is the right answer,” Max said.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Mr. Wright replied. “You see, these weren’t Peter’s peppers that Peter Piper picked. He was an employee of the Pickled Pepper Packer’s Association. I imagine the Association paid him
something
for picking the peppers, but I wouldn’t know what it might be. I don’t pry.”

“Next question,” Max said.

“Oh, that’s just a waste of time,” Mr. Wright said. “You wouldn’t know any of the answers, anyway. I’ll just punch your card full of holes and we’ll put it in the machine. That’s the
fun
part!”

“Anything to get this over with,” Max said wearily.

Mr. Wright took the card to the machine with the black patch over its hiccometer. “Now, for heaven’s sake, behave,” he said to the machine. “We have guests!”

The machine hiccuped.

Mr. Wright sighed, then fed the card into the slot. He punched a button. The machine whirred, hiccuped again, then disgorged the card.

“Here’s the answer,” Mr. Wright grinned, returning to where Max, Blossom and Fang were waiting. “It says—” His grin disappeared. Horror spread over his countenance.

“Yes . . . ?” Max said, a little worriedly.

“It says you’re best suited to tend the computers that decide what occupation a man is best suited for!” He began to cry.
“That’s my job!”

“Probably an error,” Max said.

“Error, my great grandmother!” Mr. Wright screamed. “It’s sheer nastiness! That machine did it on purpose! It hates me!”

“Rorff!”

“You’re right,” Max said. To Blossom, he said, “Let’s get out of here!”

As they departed, Mr. Wright snatched up his lunch pail and charged at the computer, revenge gleaming in his eye!

“I don’t think that’s the job that guy’s best suited for,” Max said, as they returned to the elevator.

“Or maybe it was the computer,” Blossom said. “Maybe it wasn’t suited for the job
it
was doing.”

The door of the elevator opened. They stepped aboard.

“Ten,” Max said to the operator.

“If you’re going on the tour, it’s already left,” the operator said.

Max looked at his watch. “We’re early,” he said. “It’s another five minutes until it will be an hour late in leaving.”

“I guess it’s early today,” the operator said. “But if you want to catch it, I can drop you at the ninth floor. That’s where it’ll be about now.”

“Nine,” Max said.

The car stopped. The operator opened the door. “Nine,” he announced.

Max, Blossom and Fang stepped out—and were nearly trampled by a thundering herd of tourists.

“That’s the tour,” the elevator operator informed them. The door closed.

Max and party joined the crowd.

The tour director, a bright-eyed young man, clearly—judging from his dress—a graduate of Brooks Brothers, was addressing his followers as he led them along the corridor.

“Just out of its teens,” he said, in a well-modulated voice, “the computer is beginning to affect the very fabric of society, kindling both wonder and widespread apprehension. Is the computer a friend or enemy of man? Will it cause hopeless unemployment by putting men out of work? Will it devalue the human brain, or happily free it from drudgery? Will it ever learn to think for itself? The answers will not be in for quite a while. But one thing is already clear. Swept forward by a great wave of technology, of which the computer is the ultimate expression, human society is headed for some deep-reaching changes.”

There was a scattering of applause.

The director smiled back at the tourists. “I read that in a magazine,” he said. “Memorized it word for word. Are there any questions?”

“What did it mean?” a middle-aged lady asked.

“Haven’t the faintest,” the director replied. “Something about a change—I got that much out of it. But . . . let’s not worry about it. I’m sure it won’t have any effect on any of us. Any other questions?”

“Where’s the washroom?” a small boy asked.

“I have a question,” Max said. “Has anybody here seen a computer with revolving eyes and a lever at its side that goes ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’?”

The director eyed him coldly.
“We
don’t have a computer like that,” he said.

“I didn’t say it was yours, I asked if anybody had seen it.”

“I think that is abominable manners, coming in here plugging our competitor’s computers,” the director said. “Get a tour of your own. Don’t come sneaking in here trying to steal
my
tour!”

“I don’t
want
your tour—” Max began.

“Oh-ho!” the director sneered. “
My
tour isn’t good enough for you, eh?” He addressed the crowd. “Did you hear that? He says you’re not good enough for him.”

There were indignant mutterings.

Max sagged. “I give up,” he said. “I promise I won’t try to steal your tour.”

“That’s better,” the director said victoriously. “But don’t think I’m not going to keep an eye on you. One false move, and—” He spoke to the group again. “Forward!”

They entered a gigantic area that was lined, row after row, with computers. The machines were happily humming away.

“None of these look like Fred,” Blossom said.

“You’re right,” Max said. “I guess we better drop the tour and—”

“Rorff!”

“That’s a point,” Max said.

“What say?”

“He reminded me that Fred disguised himself with a false beard when he tried to hide in the Village. He may be trying the same thing here.”

Blossom looked around. “Not a single beard in sight.”

“I meant he might be trying another trick. The only thing to do is check out each and every one of these computers. The one that says ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta’ is Fred.”

“Then I guess we better stick with the tour,” Blossom sighed.

The director halted the group at the first machine. “Now this computer,” he said, “is busily at work on a problem given it by one of our great universities. Hear the gears meshing? Grind, grind, grind! It’s sorting through all the possible answers to pick out the correct one.”

“What did the college ask it?” a voice inquired.

“Where, on campus, to put the new parking lot,” the director replied.

At that moment, Max sidled up to the machine, and, in a quiet voice, said, “Fred? Is that you, Fred?”

“You, there!” the director snapped. “What are you doing?”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Max said.

“Try me.”

“I was merely asking this computer if it was Fred,” Max replied. “There, see, I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

The director screeched at the top of his voice.
“Guards!”

Two uniformed men came rushing up.

“Him!” the director said, indicating Max.

“What did he do?” one of the guards asked.

The director put a hand to his brow. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

The guards grabbed Max. “That’s enough for us,” one of them said.

“Help! Fang!” Max called.

Fang covered his eyes with his paws!

“Just wait’ll the next time you come whining around for some liverwurst!” Max growled.

The guards dragged Max away. Blossom and Fang trailed after them.

“He’s innocent!” Blossom protested. “All he did was ask a computer if it was Fred!”

The guards stopped. They peered at Blossom.

“Better bring her along, too,” one of the guards said finally. “They’re probably working as a team!”

“Rorff!”

“You, too!” the guard said incredulously. “All right, the three of you, then!”

The guards took Fred, Blossom and Fang to a small room down the corridor. The room was furnished with hard-backed chairs, a desk, and a spotlight.

“If you’ll be seated . . .” one of the guards said politely.

Max and Blossom occupied chairs. Fang settled down on the floor.

“All right, Harry, bring on the rubber hose,” one of the guards said to the other.

“Where is it, Bert?” the other asked.

“You had it last,” Bert said. “Remember—that little old lady who snuck in and tried to get the computer to give her the winner of the Derby.”

“No, you had it after that,” Harry said. “That little old lady who tried to get the winner of the World Series from the computer—remember?”

“But, after I worked her over, I gave it to you,” Bert said. “I remember distinctly. I handed you the rubber hose, and I said, ‘Here’s the rubber hose, Bert.’ ”

“I’m not Bert, I’m Harry,” Harry said. “You’re Bert.”

Max broke in. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, could you get this over with? We’re in a bit of a rush.”

“Well, I don’t know about him,” Harry said peevishly, indicating Bert, “but I can’t do a thing without the rubber hose. He knows that, too. That’s why he hid it!”

“How would you like a rubber hose right square in the mush?” Bert said belligerently.

“If all you two are going to do is stand around arguing,” Max said, “we’re going to leave.”

Harry sighed. “All right, I’ll interrogate you. But it won’t be my best effort. I just don’t work well without a rubber hose.”

Bert spoke to Max. “The last time he used it,” he said, referring to Harry, “he dropped it on his toes. That’s how well he works with it.”

Harry pulled back a fist.

“Boys, boys, boys!” Max interceded. “If you can’t work together, we’re going to have to separate you! Now, settle down!”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, lowering his eyes sheepishly. “But he started it.”

“He
started it!” Bert shouted.

Harry cocked his fist again.

“One more outburst like that, and somebody’s going to sit in the corner!” Max warned.

Bert kicked the floor.

Harry muttered.

“Now then, let’s get on with it,” Max said. “Harry, you start off.”

“How come he’s always first?” Bert said crankily. “I’m never—”

“Bert!”

“Okay, okay!” He turned away. “Nobody ever lets me go first.”

Harry eyed Max menacingly. “Where do you think you get off going around asking computers if they’re Fred,” he said, beginning the interrogation. “Who do you think you are—anyway?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that that’s a ridiculous question,” Max replied.

Harry grinned. “Right there, that’s where I give you the old rubber hose,” he said. “Could you scream—just to get me in the mood?”

Max shrieked horrendously.

“That’ll teach you to act wise with the authorities,” Harry said grimly.

Behind him, Bert said, “My turn.”

Harry turned to him. “Your turn, Bert,” he said.

Bert faced Max. “This Fred you’re looking for, what does he look like?” he said.

“He has revolving eyes, a lever at his side, and goes ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’ ” Max replied.

Bert faced back to Harry. For a second, they stared at each other. Then they retired to a corner and spoke to each other in low tones.

“What now?” Blossom whispered to Max.

“Somehow, I think we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest,” Max said.

Harry and Bert came back. “On your feet,” Harry said.

“My friend here,” Max said, indicating Blossom, “would like to know what now?”

“Do you really think of me as your friend?” Blossom glowed. “How
good
a friend?”

“Stow that,” Max snarled.

“We’ve come to a contretemps—whatever that means,” Harry said to Max. “You mentioned a guy with revolving eyes and a lever at his side and goes Peep-a-dotta-you-know. And it just so happens that the new president of the company, just named to the post today, has a lot in common with that description. So Bert and me think that maybe this Fred might be one of the Big Boss’s relatives. We don’t want to take no chances. So we’re going to check it out. Then, boy, are you going to get it!”