Get Smart 5 - Missed It By That Much! (15 page)

“I hate to miss an important call, 99.”

“Max!”

“Oh. Sorry about that, 99.”

Max reached a hand into the pit. He helped 99 to safety, then he and 99 pulled Hassan from the hole.

“Max, the scent is still in the air,” 99 said. “If we hurry, we can track it to Dr. Livingstrom.”

Max plunged into the jungle.

99 and Hassan ran after him.

“Max, is it necessary to go this fast?” 99 said.

“It’s essential, 99. My peace of mind depends on it. I have to find out if it’s Dr. Livingstrom who’s been calling me and hanging up before I could answer.”

“Max . . .” 99 panted, racing to keep up, “. . . Dr. Livingstrom doesn’t even know you exist . . .”

“I know that, 99. But maybe he’s been calling someone else and getting a wrong number.”

B
Y THE
time they had reached the site of the revolutionaries’ camp, now deserted, Max had slowed down. They proceeded at a normal pace, following the scent, and soon came to the river. They crossed it at the shallowest point, the falls. There, they found a plaque that had been mounted on a tree. The plaque read:

On this site, a half-dozen members of the Peace Corps gave their time and energy—and no little amount of heart—to constructing a bridge that would span this mighty river. But it was busted down by a bunch of secret agents and some other guy in a burnoose who kept crossing it. You can’t expect a bridge to last if a lot of guys are going to be all the time walking around on it. So to heck with it. We’re going back to the Massachusetts College of Dentistry, where, when you build a bridge, you don’t get a lot of guys walking around on it.

Six Disgusted and Disillusioned
Guys Who Won’t Get Caught
Helping No Other Under-developed
Country that lets guys walk
around on Bridges, you can
bet your life, boy!

“Too bad,” Max said. “It was such a worthy cause.”

“But, Max, the project was so pointless,” 99 said. “There was no need for a bridge here.”

“Well, then, in a sense, I guess you could say that they succeeded,” Max said. “If there’s no need for a bridge, and they didn’t build one, then they accomplished something, at least. It’s just too bad that they went home thinking they were failures.”

“Max, they’re young. They’ll get over it.”

“I suppose so.”

Max, 99 and Hassan continued on their way. After a while they came to Paradise. It, too, was deserted—except for the host. The host was rising from the dust.

Max helped him to his feet.

“Where is everybody?” the host said groggily.

“They ran,” Max explained.

“Lucky them, they got out in time,” the host muttered. “My lightning bolt must have backfired.” He stumbled off into the clouds of dust.

“Max, shouldn’t we tell him that it was a stampede, not a lightning bolt, that did that to him?” 99 said.

“And destroy a beautiful myth, 99?”

“You’re right, as usual, Max.”

The three moved on, entering the jungle again. They found a trail and followed it.

“The odor is getting stronger, Max,” 99 said. “I’m sure we’re on the right track.”

“It might be the library,” Max said.

“The library? Max, what library smells like that?”

“No, 99, I’m not talking about the odor. I’m thinking about that call. It might have been the library calling me. I think I have a book that’s overdue.”

“Max, forget about that call. Keep your mind on your work.”

“Work . . . 99, do you suppose the employment office was calling me? Maybe they heard that Arnold is trying to get my job.”

“Max, please forget— Max! Look! Up ahead! Another native village!”

Max peered up the trail. “I doubt it, 99,” he said. “What we have here, I suspect, is another illusion. You’ll notice that the native village is deserted. And no native village is really a native village without natives.”

“Max, I think I can explain that,” 99 said. “See that one hut, the one where something like steam is coming up out of the opening in the roof? I think that steam is what is causing the terrible odor.”

“99, that doesn’t explain where the natives are.”

“The terrible odor has driven them away, Max.”

“Then why isn’t it driving us away?”

“Because, see, the breeze is blowing the steam in the other direction. We’re getting only a faint whiff of the terrible odor.”

Max looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, “99, I think I can explain this. Do you see that steam rising from that hut? It’s my guess that that steam is the cause of the terrible odor. And, furthermore, I think the odor has driven the natives from the village.”

“But why isn’t the odor driving us away, Max?”

“Beats me, 99. Just luck, I guess.”

“Max, do you think we’ll find Dr. Livingstrom in that hut?”

“99, you may find this hard to believe, but it’s my guess that we’ll find Dr. Livingstrom in that hut.”

“Of course, on the other hand, we might not,” 99 said. “We might find Whitestone posing as Dr. Livingstrom.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out what we’ll find out,” Max said. “Let’s go find out.”

They continued cautiously along the trail. Reaching the village, they walked warily toward the hut.

“Max, how will we know whether it’s Whitestone or Dr. Livingstrom?” 99 asked.

“99, there is one way to distinguish illusion from reality. I’ve been saving it in case of emergency.”

“What’s the way, Max?”

“It’s very simple. For example, when a magician tells you he’s going to pull a rabbit out of a hat, and tells you to keep your eye on his right hand, the thing to do is, instead, keep your eye on his left hand. Every time, you’ll catch him stuffing the rabbit into the hat from underneath—
with his left hand!”

“You mean all we have to do is keep our eyes on whoever-this-is’s left hand?”

“Right, 99.”

“Max, somehow, I don’t think that will work.”

Max halted. “I’ll prove it to you, 99.” He turned to Hassan. “Hassan, pretend that you’re going to pull a rabbit from a hat.”

“Okay, keep your eye on my right hand.”

Max, instead, stared, narrow-eyed, at Hassan’s left hand.

“Hocus-Pocus!” Hassan cried.

Max’s eyes opened wide. He peered puzzledly at the tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman who was standing before him. “In the first place,” he said, “you don’t look anything at all like a rabbit. And, in the second place, what did you do with Hassan?”

“Max!” 99 cried. “It’s Whitestone! He’s been with us all along! Hassan was only an illusion!”

“She’s right,” Whitestone said. “It was all illusion. I was never really short, squat and dark. I have been tall, white-haired and distinguished-looking all the while.”

“That certainly is a relief,” Max said.

“A relief, Max?”

“Yes. Now, we don’t have to worry about whoever-it-is in that hut being Whitestone. I think that it can be assumed without any doubt at all that whoever-it-is is Dr. Livingstrom.”

“A very clever deduction, 86,” Whitestone said. He whipped out a pistol and held it on Max and 99. “And Dr. Livingstrom is mine, all mine!” he cackled.

At that instant, a short, squat, dark, undistinguished-looking man stepped from the hut. “Did someone call me?” he said.

“No, Dr. Livingstrom, someone called me,” Max said. “But I couldn’t get to my shoe quick enough. It wasn’t you, by any chance, was it? Calling a friend and getting a wrong number, perhaps?”

Dr. Livingstrom stared at him blankly.

“Never mind him,” Whitestone said. “Just confirm your identity. You are Dr. Livingstrom, I presume.”

Dr. Livingstrom turned his blank stare on Whitestone. “Am I?” he replied. “If you say so, I suppose I am. I’m never sure. Like all scientists, I’m a bit absent-minded, you know.”

“Maybe this will give you a clue,” Max said. “ ‘Brassica Oleracia—212°.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Dr. Livingstrom suddenly brightened. “My heavens, yes!” he said. “I
am
Dr. Livingstrom!”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere,” Whitestone said. “Dr. Livingstrom, I know how busy you are. I don’t want to take up a lot of your valuable time. If you’ll just give me the formula for your gas, or whatever it is, I’ll do away with you and these other two and I’ll be on my way.”

“Don’t do it, Doctor!” Max said. “The key phrase is ‘do away with.’ By that, he means that after you give him the formula for the gas, or whatever it is, he’ll eliminate us.”

“Are you sure you’re not looking for some
other
Dr. Livingstrom?” Dr. Livingstrom said to Whitestone. “I don’t recall having a formula for a gas, or whatever it is.”

“Don’t pull that absent-minded business on me,” Whitestone warned sinisterly. “We traced the terrible odor to this village. And when we got here we found that the natives had taken a powder. Then we saw steam rising from the hole in the roof of that hut.” He turned the gun on Dr. Livingstrom. “Talk! What is it?”

Dr. Livingstrom turned his head and looked up toward the hole in the roof of the hut. “I don’t know why you need me to tell you,” he said. “You’re right—it’s steam.”

“Excuse me,” Max said to Whitestone. “Do you mind if I try?”

“Go ahead,” Whitestone replied. “If you get the secret from him, I’ll have a better reason for rubbing you out. I couldn’t let you live, could I, if you knew the secret. It’ll be better that way. I don’t cotton to senseless killing. Every time I kill somebody senselessly, I say to myself, ‘Whitestone, that was a dumb thing to do.’ I get a little tired hearing it.”

Max nodded understandingly, then addressed Dr. Livingstrom. “Maybe if I give you a little background on the case, you’ll see what we’re after,” he said. “A few months ago, the small English village in which you resided was pervaded by a terrible odor. When the wind shifted, and the odor was wafted away, a search was made of your laboratory. A notation was found. The notation read: Brassica Oleracia—212°. We assumed that the notation was the formula for the gas, or whatever it was, that created the terrible odor. Now, what Whitestone wants is the translation of the formula. In other words, in plain English, what does it mean?”

“I think it means you’ve come a long way for nothing,” Dr. Livingstrom replied. “Brassica Oleracia is the botanical name for cabbage.”

“Cabbage?” Max replied, perplexed.

“And 212° is the point at which water boils,” Dr. Livingstrom added. “Put them together and you have—”

“Boiled cabbage,” Max said sickly.

“Oh, Max!” 99 said. “Of course! I thought that terrible odor was familiar. It was the terrible odor of boiled cabbage!”

“It was the first step in an experiment,” Dr. Livingstrom explained. “I’m creating a new dish—Dog Rose Wrapped in Boiled Cabbage Leaves. That’s why I’m here in New Ghirzy—to gather petals from the rare Dog Rose.”

“It sounds tasty,” Max said.

“Oh, yes, the Dog Rose is delicious. It’s related to a vegetable that grows in America—the Collie Flower.”

“Well, Whitestone,” Max said, “much as I hate to admit it, this is one caper in which KAOS has emerged the victor. The formula is yours. Take it, and hurry back to KAOS in good health.”

“Hold it, 86!” Whitestone snapped. “I’ve still got the gun, don’t forget. You’re not going to shove that formula off onto me!”

“Whitestone, the fact that you still have the gun makes you the winner. You’ve overcome us. We’re helpless. And, by all the rules of fair play, that means that you get possession of the formula.”

“Max . . . I don’t understand,” 99 said. “Even though we’ve found out that the gas isn’t really a gas, but boiled cabbage, it’s still effective. It drove the natives from this village. So, why don’t we want the formula?”

“We do, 99. But Whitestone has bested us. So, it’s only right that he gets the formula.”

“Story-teller!” Whitestone snarled. “Admit the truth!”

Max sighed. “Oh, all right.” He turned back to 99. “You’re right,” he said. “The odor
is
effective. It would make a terrible weapon. But, 99, you’re forgetting the human element. Weapons don’t function alone, you know. Someone has to operate them. And, can you imagine what would happen if, for example, Control was planning to invade a KAOS installation, and the Chief said to us, ‘All right, secret agents, everybody grab a pot of boiling cabbage, and let’s go!’ ”

99 nodded. “I think I understand, Max.”

“Morale would crumble. There isn’t one secret agent I know who wouldn’t feel silly as all get-out attacking the enemy with a pot of boiling cabbage.”

“Difficult to control, too,” Whitestone said. “The wind would have to be just right.”

“And suppose, in the middle of the attack, the wind shifted,” Max said. “We’d put our own forces to rout.” He faced back to Whitestone. “What are you waiting for?” he said. “Take the formula and run, before we think of some clever means of overpowering you.”

“I’ll wait,” Whitestone said.

“Look, Whitestone, I don’t like to be hard-nosed about this,” Max said. “But right is right. You’re the victor, and the formula belongs to you.”

“Maybe we could make a deal,” Whitestone said. “You take the formula, and I’ll throw in a hat and a rabbit.”

“What do you take me for—a country bumpkin?”

“How about a hat and a rabbit and a chain-driven saxophone—the only one of its kind?”

“No, thanks. Face it, Whitestone—you’re stuck with that formula.”

“A hat and a rabbit and a chain-driven saxophone—the only one of its kind—and my collection of three-hundred odd baseball cards?”

Max frowned. “How odd are they?”

“I’ve got one with a picture of Benedict Arnold on it. And, as you well know, he never made the major league.”

“Well . . .”

“Max, no!” 99 said. “Don’t weaken!”

Max shook his head. “Sorry, Whitestone.”

Whitestone suddenly shoved the pistol into Max’s hand, and raised his own hands high above his head. “You win!” he shouted gleefully. “I give up! Don’t shoot!”

Max looked at the pistol in his hand. Then he turned to 99. “Now I know why they call them the Bad Guys,” he said. “That was as dirty a trick as I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Sticks and stones, but you-know-what,” Whitestone jeered.