Get Smart 5 - Missed It By That Much! (12 page)

“That doesn’t help much,” 99 said.

“Let me explain it another way, 99,” Max said. “If we go in the other direction, in the direction you want to go, we’ll be going
away
from Dr. Livingstrom—right? And the object of our mission, remember, is to find Dr. Livingstrom.”

“Max, how do you know we’ll be going away from him?”

“Because he’s in this direction.”

“How can you be so sure of that, Max?”

“99, it’s obvious. Just look at the sign.”

99 drooped. “All right, Max,” she said, resigned. “We’ll do it your way.”

With Max now in the lead they set out in the direction indicated by the sign. Soon they came to a second sign, which said:

Don’t you

“That’s interesting,” Max said. “I wonder what it means?”

“It’s a teaser, Max,” 99 explained. “It’s intended to lure you on to the next sign to see what it says.”

“That
is
interesting,” Max said. “Let’s go.”

“But, Max, now we know it’s a trap. Whitestone is doing this deliberately to lead us on.”

“I know, I know, 99. Hurry.”

After a while, they reached a third sign, which said:

think it’s

“Fascinating,” Max said. “Onward.”

And, moments later, they reached a fourth sign, which read:

silly to spread this message out over four signs when we could have put it on one and saved the cost of three signs, which, according to our bookkeeper, would have amounted to $12.68; a sum that, if put in the bank, and kept there for twenty-five years, earning five per cent interest, wouldn’t do us any good, anyway, because, by then, we would probably be too old to enjoy it.

“The tag line is a little disappointing,” Max said. “But I think the idea has a lot of merit. They probably
could
have got the whole message on one sign.”

“The reasoning is off, though,” Hassan said. “Nobody is ever too old to enjoy $12.68. For instance, $12.68 would make a down-payment on a chain-driven saxophone. What’s nicer for old folks than making music?”

“Max, what I don’t understand,” 99 said, “is why we’re not in a trap.”

“The trap is a few yards on, 99,” Max said. “See? Right over there,” he added, pointing.

99 looked and saw a spectacular sight. Rising out of a filmy cloud bank were the majestic white spires of a cluster of medieval castles. And then, listening, she heard the sounds of laughter and singing.

“Max! It’s Paradise!” 99 gasped.

“At least, that’s what Whitestone wants us to think,” Max said.

“Of course! It’s an illusion. It has to be an illusion. Paradise wouldn’t be stuck away out here in the middle of the jungle, would it?”

“Naturally not,” Max replied. “It would be somewhere on a main highway. Nobody wants to live in a place that’s more than an hour’s drive from town. But, this Paradise, illusion though it clearly is, does have one advantage. Somewhere within those walls, I think we’ll find Whitestone. And once we do that, and take him prisoner, completing our mission will be much easier.”

“I’m with you, Max,” 99 said.

“I’ll wait here,” Hassan said.

“No, you better come with us,” Max said to him. “We may need you to pull off another miracle.”

“They won’t let me in,” Hassan said. “I’m too flat.”

“Nonsense. There is no discrimination in Paradise, Hassan.”

The three followed the high wall that surrounded the illusion, and finally came to a gate. A tall, white-haired, distinguished old man, dressed in a flowing white robe, greeted them with outstretched arms and a gentle smile on his face.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” the old man said. “I am your host. Come in, come in.”

“Thank you,” Max said. “This is Paradise, isn’t it?”

“That’s the technical term,” their host replied. “We have our own word for it, though. We have named it after its founder—the Caliph of Phornia.”

“Max . . .” 99 whispered. “Have you noticed our host’s looks—tall, white-haired and distinguished-looking . . .”

“Of course, 99. Do you think I’m blind? Now, I’ll show you what I’m going to do about it.”

Max clipped the old man with a karate chop, dropping him to the ground.

“Why did you do that?” the old man asked puzzledly.

“Because you’re tall, white-haired and distinguished-looking,” Max replied. “That means that you’re Whitestone, the ex-vaudeville magician, now a KAOS agent.”

“You must be out of your head,” the host said, rising. “Everybody in my family is tall, white-haired and distinguished-looking. But I forgive you. There is no hate here—only love.”

“Gee, I’m sorry about that karate chop,” Max said contritely.

“It is forgotten,” the host smiled. “Now, let me show you our Paradise.”

Max, 99 and Hassan started to enter. But the host put out a hand, halting Hassan.

“Not you, fella,” he said. “You’re too flat.”

“You mean there’s discrimination even here?” Max said.

“What discrimination?” the host replied. “Your friend is welcome, too. But he’ll have to use the special entrance for flat people. It’s around in back.”

“But isn’t that discrimination, having a special entrance?” Max said.

“Not a bit,” the host replied. “It’s a simple matter of efficiency. See this entrance here—how wide it is? If a flat person passed through here, he wouldn’t use all the space. The space, in other words, would go to waste. So, we built a special, skinny entrance for flat people. That’s all—discrimination has nothing to do with it.”

“You can’t argue with the reasoning,” Max said to Hassan. “So maybe you better go around to the back.”

Hassan ambled off, following the wall.

“Where will we meet him?” Max said to the host.

“You won’t,” the host smiled. “The special entrance for flat people is closed.”

“Closed?”

“Yes. You see, it’s so skinny that not even a flat person could get through it. So, since it was never used, we decided to close it.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense,” Max said.

The host led them through the gate, into Paradise. The inhabitants, all dressed in flowing white robes, were singing and dancing in the streets.

“Is this all you people do here, just dance and sing?” Max asked.

“Yes. It’s what our founder, the Caliph, wanted. No toil. No violence. No hate. Only love. Eternal dancing and singing.”

“Constantly?”

“Of course not. We’re a modern society—we have the eight-hour day.”

“I see. What do you do then, after the eight hours?”

“Well, the singers and dancers switch to dancing and singing, and the dancers and singers switch to—”

“—singing and dancing,” Max nodded. Then, leaving the host’s side, he delivered a karate chop to the back of the neck of one of the singers, a tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking old man. The old man dropped to the ground.

“I suppose you had some reason for doing that,” the host smiled.

“This is the KAOS agent we came here to find,” Max explained. “I recognized him by his height, his white hair and his distinguished-looking appearance.”

“He’s my father,” the host said. “I told you, the whole family is tall, white-haired and distinguished-looking.”

Max bent down and helped the old gentleman to his feet. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“That’s all right,” the man replied. “It was kind of a nice change from all this singing and dancing. And I needed the rest, anyway.”

A crowd was gathering.

“How did you do that?” one of the other inhabitants said to Max. “I’ve never seen that done before.”

“That karate chop? It’s very simple. Here . . . I’ll show you.”

He hit the host’s father another blow, flattening him once more.

“Thank you,” the old gentleman smiled up at him.

“Let me help you up,” Max said.

“No, I think I’ll stay down here. When you’ve been singing and dancing as long as I have, it’s a great relief to be able to lie flat on your face.”

“Is that what you do all day in the place where you come from?” another inhabitant asked Max.

“No, no,” Max replied. “We save karate chopping for special occasions. Mostly, we work.”

The people in the crowd looked at each other puzzledly.

“What is work?” one asked.

“Well, it’s . . . uh, doing things,” Max replied. “There are many kinds of work. Brain surgery, for instance, is work. A brain surgeon is a doctor who opens up heads, and, assuming that he finds a brain, does . . . ah, brain surgery.”

“Is it difficult?” another inhabitant asked.

“As I understand it, the opening up is a snap,” Max replied. “Any baseball pitcher with a wild arm can open up a head. But after that it can get complicated. Where I come from, you very seldom meet a brain surgeon who isn’t, at the very least, a high school graduate.”

“It sounds like fun!” a female inhabitant giggled.

“All right, break it up!” the host said, making shooing motions at the crowd. “Back to your singing and dancing.”

“All singing and dancing and no work makes Jack a dull boy,” one of the inhabitants complained hostilely.

“All right, Jack can have the day off,” the host said. “But the rest of you—let’s hear those high notes, let’s hear the tap, tap, tap of those dancing feet!”

The crowd began breaking up. But the dancing and singing did not resume. And the inhabitants were muttering grumpily.

“Max, I’m afraid you made them dissatisfied,” 99 said.

“Oh, they’ll adjust,” the host said confidently. “We’ve had these flare-ups before. Once when a group of rock’n’rollers tried to get in here, our people all wanted to take up the guitar.”

“Tried to get in?” Max said.

“We judged them on the basis of their singing, and had to send them around to the special entrance,” the host explained. “They were flat.”

At that moment, another tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking man approached them. Instantly, Max dropped him with a karate chop.

The host helped the man to his feet. “I’m sorry, little cousin Lucille,” he said. “Our guest doesn’t seem to be able to understand about our family trait.”

“He doesn’t understand our way of life, either,” little cousin Lucille said. “There’s trouble. And he’s the cause of it.”

“What trouble?” the host inquired.

“Our people are forming protest groups,” Lucille answered. “One group is protesting against singing and dancing and the other group is protesting against the group that’s protesting.”

A large number of inhabitants suddenly appeared, shouting and shaking fists, and headed for the place where Max and 99 and the host and his cousin Lucille were standing. Many were carrying signs, with such slogans as:

SINGING AND DANCING
CAUSE PIMPLES!

THE FAMILY THAT PERFORMS BRAIN
SURGERY TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER!

UP WITH WORK!
DOWN WITH
‘DOWN BY THE OLD MILL STREAM’!

The inhabitants surrounded Max and 99 and the host and Lucille, shouting the slogans, and angrily shaking their fists at the host.

“Citizens! Citizens!” the host pleaded. “Quiet! Quiet, please!”

But the shouts became louder.

“Shut up!” the host raged. “Or I’ll hit you with a lightning bolt!”

There was sudden silence.

“Now, then,” the host smiled. “What seems to be the grievance?”

“We want work!” an inhabitant yelled.

Others took up the chant. “We want Work! We want Work! We want Work!”

The host shook his own fist. “You’re going to get it! Oh, such a lightning bolt!”

Silence again.

‘Think!” the host said, smiling once more. “Suppose I let you do a little work—making your own beds, say, taking out the garbage, mowing the grass. It wouldn’t be long before you’d tire of it. You’d be sneaking off, leaving your work, dancing and singing again. Take my advice—leave well enough alone.”

The inhabitants began shouting the slogans again.

“Brain surgery is dangerous!” the host raged at them. “You could cut a finger!”

“We want Work! We want Work! We want Work!” they chanted.

At that moment, the group of inhabitants who were protesting against the protesting came into view. They, too, were shouting and shaking their fists and carrying signs.

“Max, maybe we better leave,” 99 said. “I don’t think Whitestone is here, anyway.”

“We can’t go yet, 99. I’m sure he’s here somewhere. Maybe he’ll be with this new group of protesters.”

The anti-protest protesters were near enough now that their signs could be read:

WORK
CAUSES PIMPLES!

IF WORK IS WHAT YOU WANT,
WHY DON’T YOU GO BACK
WHERE YOU CAME FROM?

I DIDN’T BRING UP MY BOY
TO BE A BRAIN SURGEON!

The anti-protest protesters surrounded the protesters, still shouting and shaking their fists. But it was difficult to hear what they were saying over the shouts of the protesters. The protesters were now shouting loudly that the anti-protest protesters, by surrounding them, had violated their rights. And a group of protesters broke off from the main force, pushed its way through the line of anti-protest protesters, surrounded them, and formed a new protest group called the anti-anti-protest protesters.

“Oh, boy, are they asking for a lightning bolt!” the host groaned disgustedly.

99 tugged at Max’s sleeve. “Max . . . let’s go . . .” she urged.

“Wait a minute, 99. I think I see Whitestone. See? Over there at the edge of the crowd. The one holding the sign that says, ‘The Host is Always Right!’ ”

“Hands off,” the host warned. “That’s my sister Bertha.”

“Oh . . . sorry . . .”

“Max, please, let’s leave,” 99 begged.

“Maybe you’re right, 99. We’ll slip out the back way.”

But as Max and 99 started to leave, one of the anti-protest protesters shouted, “Stop them! We were all happy dancers and singers until they came here!”

“Who was a happy dancer and singer?” one of the protesters protested. “You know how I went home every night? Raw tonsils and bruised toes! Is that any way to live!”

The anti-protest protester dropped the protester with a karate chop.

“Why, you anti-protest protester you!” the protester screamed, leaping up. He dropped the anti-protest protester with a karate chop.