Get Smart 5 - Missed It By That Much! (7 page)

“Talk, talk, talk,” Pierre complained. “I just wish that once I’d get a roast that would keep it’s mouth shut.” He turned to Max’s and 99’s Mend. “Okay, let’s put them in the pot.”

Their friend untied the ropes at their feet, then helped them up. When they were upright, he steered them out of the hut. A large iron pot had been placed in the center of the clearing. Natives were piling wood around it.

“Oh, Max!” 99 wailed. “That pot is for us.”

“Courage, 99. Maybe nobody will have a match.”

When they reached the pot they saw that it was full of water.

“Last one in has to hold the vegetables,” Pierre said.

“You mean you want us to get into that pot, clothes and all?” Max said.

“What else?” Pierre replied. “All the vitamins are in the clothes.”

“And suppose we refuse?” Max said.

Their friend picked up Max and popped him into the pot. And Pierre picked up 99 and put her in beside him.

“I guess that answers my question,” Max said.

Another native joined the party. He was carrying a suitcase, which he placed on the ground, then opened. The suitcase was filled with miniature apothecary jars that contained herbs and spices.

“Sit down in the pot,” Pierre commanded Max and 99. “You don’t want to come out underdone on your top end, do you?”

“I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you,” Max said.

Pierre pushed him down into the water. “What kind of a stew are you? Don’t you have any pride?” He reached down to the open suitcase and got a salt shaker and a pepper shaker, then salted and peppered Max and 99 thoroughly. After that, he shook some cloves out of a jar into his hand, and held out his hand to them. “Stuff these in your ears,” he said.

“Now, just a darn minute!” Max said testily. “I happen to know a little bit about cooking myself, and cloves in the ears just isn’t done!”

Pierre offered the cloves again. “How about between the toes?”

“Never!” Max said indignantly. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll—”

He was unable to complete the suggestion. The village was suddenly pervaded by a terrible odor. The natives grasped their throats, choking. Panic seized them; they scattered, running into the jungle.

“Max! It’s horrible!” 99 cried, her eyes watering.

“Quick, 99! Dive under the water! And hold your nose!”

Max and 99 ducked beneath the surface. They remained submerged until they could no longer hold their breath. Then, gasping for air, they raised their heads above the water.

“It’s wave naw, wine-wine,” Max said.

“I can’t understand you, Max,” 99 said. “You’re still holding your nose.”

“Oh. I said, it’s safe now, 99.”

“Max, what was that odor?” 99 said. “It was terrible!”

“Elementary, my dear 99,” Max replied. “That terrible odor that panicked the natives of this village was the same terrible odor that, a few weeks ago, panicked the natives of that small village in England. Do you realize what that means, 99? It means that Dr. Livingstrom is somewhere in the vicinity. It was an ill wind that carried that odor to us.”

“Max, it saved our lives. The natives all ran away.”

“Well, it was a nice ill wind.”

“Where is the odor now, Max?”

“Obviously, the wind has shifted. The odor has gone back to where it came from.”

“Oh, Max, if we only knew where!”

“We’ll find it, 99.”

“How, Max?”

“By using the oldest tracking method in the book, 99,” Max replied confidently. “We’ll just follow our noses.”

U
SING A
spear that one of the natives had left behind, Max and 99 cut the ropes that bound their hands. Then they ran from the village, wanting to get a good distance away before any of the inhabitants returned. Finally, they stopped again.

“Which way now, Max?” 99 said.

Max sniffed the air. “There’s still a slight scent of that terrible odor in the atmosphere,” he said. “It seems to be coming from over there . . . and, uh, over there . . . and over there . . . and over there.”

“Max, that’s all four directions. How can we go all four ways at once?”

“I suppose we could split up,” Max said.

“Two of us? Four ways?”

“Yes, I see what you mean. That will be difficult. This is one of those times, apparently, 99, when we’re unfortunate not to have split personalities.”

“Since we don’t, Max, what’s the solution?”

“We’ll just have to wait right here, 99, until one of those scents becomes stronger than the others. That will be the one to follow.”

“I guess you’re right,” 99 said. “But it seems like such a shame. We’re so close. Waiting is such a waste of time.”

“No, I don’t think it will be,” Max said. “We can use the time to deal with our other problem. Don’t forget, 99, Whitestone, the KAOS agent, is still on the loose. In fact, he’s probably hot on our trail. And before we can be successful at this mission, I think it will be necessary to put our adversary out of the game.”

“You’re probably right, Max.”

“Of course I’m right. Suppose we were closing in on Dr. Livingstrom and suddenly, out of nowhere, a parade appeared. You know I can’t resist a parade, 99. The blare of the horns! The beat of the drums! I’d have to stop. And, while I stood there cheering, Whitestone might make off with Dr. Livingstrom.”

“But, Max, you’d know it was an illusion. We’re out in the middle of the jungle. And this isn’t a holiday. There’d be no excuse for a parade.”

“99, people who march in parades don’t need an excuse.”

“I see what you mean, Max. You’re right, we better deal with Whitestone. But how? We haven’t even seen him yet.”

“We know that he’s following us, though,” Max pointed out. “So . . . we’ll set a trap for him.”

“He won’t be easy to snare, Max.”

“It may not be all that difficult,” Max said. “What’s the first rule when setting a trap for an intelligent animal like man?”

“Always punt on the fourth down?”

“No, 99. The rule is: Know your victim. And what is it that we know about Whitestone? We know that he’s an ex-vaudevillian. What does that suggest?”

“Offering him a booking on the Ed Sullivan show?”

“You’re on the right track—but you’re in the wrong jungle. What do you think would happen if we set up a spotlight here in this clearing? I’ll tell you what would happen. Whitestone would see it and he’d be unable to resist it. Ex-vaudevillians are the same about spotlights as I am about parades. He’d march into the spotlight and go into his act. And we’d have him!”

“I don’t know, Max . . .”

“Trust me, 99. I put in a little time on the stage myself, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that, Max. When?”

“In the third grade at Daniel Webster Elementary School. I was the hit of the class hi jinks. Offers poured in from all over the country. Offers from Hollywood. From Broadway. From off-Broadway.”

“Why didn’t you go, Max?”

“My mother wouldn’t let me. She thought it might be embarrassing. You see, I hadn’t quite licked toilet training yet.”

“Too bad, Max.”

“Yes, but that’s past history, 99. Let’s think about the present. Now, here’s my plan: We’ll dig a pit here in the center of the clearing, then we’ll cover it with branches and twigs. Above the pit, we’ll set up a spotlight, beamed directly at it. Whitestone will be lured into the spotlight, then drop into the pit. We’ll take him prisoner, then pick up Dr. Livingstrom’s trail again—free of the danger of being detoured by Whitestone.”

“It sounds perfect, Max! But how will we dig a pit? We don’t have a shovel.”

“Let’s check these capsules,” Max said, putting a hand into his pocket. “R & D probably sent along something that we can use in place of a shovel.” He handed 99 a fistful of capsules. “You check these, and I’ll check the others.”

“I have an exact-size replica of the Washington Monument here,” 99 said, reading a label.

“I suppose we
could
dig with that—it’s pointed at one end,” Max said. “But it might be a little hard to handle.”

“I also have the city of New York,” 99 said, reading the label on another capsule.

Max peered at her. “Really? It’s odd nobody’s missed it.”

“Well, it’s winter back in New York, Max. Everybody’s probably in Florida.”

“That explains it,” Max said. He read the label on one of the capsules he was holding. “ ‘One Shovel and One Spotlight for Trapping Ex-vaudevillians in the Jungle,’ ” he announced. “Good old R & D!”

Max and 99 set to work. 99 dug the pit. And Max mounted the spotlight in a tree above it. After they had covered the pit with vines and twigs, they hid in the underbrush. About an hour later, the sun went down. Max switched on the spotlight.

“It
is
tempting,” 99 said, impressed. “I almost feel like going out there and doing a little dance myself. I don’t see how an ex-vaudevillian like Whitestone could ever resist it.”

“Yes, it brings back memories,” Max said.

“Memories, Max?”

“Third grade at Daniel Webster Elementary School.”

“Oh . . . yes . . .”

“I recited a poem,” Max said, recalling. “In fact, it was a poem that I’d written myself. It had a lot of heart.”

“Do you remember it, Max?”

“Well . . . let’s see . . . It went:

By the shores of Lake Superior,

Where the night is dark and sceerior,

“Sceerior, Max?”

“Poems have to rhyme, you know, 99. If a poem doesn’t rhyme, it isn’t a poem.”

“Sorry, Max. Go on.”

Rising, Max placed a hand over his heart, indicating deep feeling, and continued:

I wandered, lonely as a clam,

Whistling ‘Dixie’ to Uncle Sam.

He paused and explained to 99. “A little patriotism never hurts,” he said. “And it’s always wise to play both sides of the fence.”

“I understand, Max. Don’t stop. It’s beautiful.”

Max stepped out into the clearing, and, facing 99, went on:

When suddenly there came a knocking,

As if someone loudly socking.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the spotlight, then took a step to the rear.

‘Who is there?’ I cried. ‘Hiawatha?’

But whoever it was, to answer didn’t botha.

Doing a shuffle-off-to-Buffalo, Max danced several steps backwards, nearing the spotlight.

Who was it rapping? Was it a ghost?

Could I sell you—

“Max!” 99 cried, leaping up.

Max was nowhere in sight.

99 ran to the edge of the pit. “Max—are you all right? Speak to me!”

“to the Saturday Evening Post,”
Max replied from deep in the pit.

“Max! Are you delirious?”

“No, 99. That’s the last line of the poem. The final stanza goes:

Who was it rapping? Was it a ghost?

Could I sell you a subscription to the

Saturday Evening Post?

“It rhymes, Max, but it doesn’t make much sense.”

“It did then, 99. When I was in third grade I was selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door. I was getting in a plug. That’s why I got all those offers from Hollywood and Broadway. I’d created a work of art with a sales message.”

“Max . . . give me your hand. I’ll help you out.”

When Max had been rescued from the pit, he and 99 covered it again with vines and twigs.

“Well, at least, we know it works,” 99 said.

“Yes, it’s perfect,” Max said. He frowned. “That’s what bothers me, 99. It’s too perfect.”

“I don’t understand, Max.”

“When Whitestone sees this spotlight, won’t he become suspicious? After all—a spotlight? In the middle of the jungle? Won’t he guess that, as an ex-vaudevillian, it was planted here especially for him?”

“Max, I think you’re right.”

“We’ll have to rig up a different kind of trap,” Max said. “Something that isn’t quite so obvious.”

“Do you have anything in mind, Max?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. The old vine-tied-to-the-tip-end-of-a-tall-supple-young-tree-and-the-other-end-with-a-loop-in-it-hidden-on-the-ground-and-covered-with-branches trick.”

“I think I’ve heard of it. But doesn’t it have a shorter name?”

“It’s also called The Number Twenty-Six, or The Upsa-Daisy.”

“Oh, yes, now I remember.”

“First,” Max said, gathering vines, “we’ll braid these into a long rope.”

When they had finished that, Max lassoed the tip of a tall, supple, young tree, and bent the tree until the tip touched the ground. Then he secured the tip to a stake he had driven into the earth.

“What now, Max?”

“Now, we make a loop in the other end of this rope,” Max explained. “And we place the loop on the trail and cover it with branches.”

“I see. And then Whitestone comes along and steps in the loop and trips the trap and the loop tightens around his ankle and the tree springs up and there he is, dangling from the tree.”

“By the rope.”

“Yes, by the rope.”

“Without the rope, he couldn’t dangle from the tree.”

“Yes, I understand, Max.”

“But you didn’t mention it. And, without the rope, he couldn’t dangle from the tree.”

“I’m sorry, Max. I should have mention—”

99 was interrupted by a ringing sound.

“I think that’s the doorbell,” Max said. “Will you get it, 99?”

“Max, it’s your shoe.”

“Oh . . . yes . . .”

Max removed his shoe.

Max:
86, here. Is that you, Chief?

Chief:
Yes, Max, it’s me. Why haven’t you called? I’ve been worried about you. Did you manage to get away from those elephants?

Max:
Of course, Chief.

Operator:
I knew it! Self! Self! Self! That’s all you ever think of, Max. All you had to do was get run down by one little elephant and Arnold’s career would have been assured. But no, you had to escape! Self! Self! Self!

Max:
Operator, I’m sorry. But I’ll make it up to Arnold. The next time I meet a rampaging elephant, I’ll throw myself in its path.

Operator:
When, Max? People are always making promises like that, but they never follow through. When?