William Johnston - Missed It By That Much!

“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!’ ”