William Johnston - Get Smart Once Again!

“No-wait! Parachute! That gives me an idea!”

“Even if we had parachutes, what good would it do? We’re too close to the ground to jump.”

“A parachute can be used for other things besides jumping,” Max said. He began poking in his pockets. “Let’s see now, where did I put that parachute?”

“You’re mad!” Peaches sobbed.

Max extracted a ballpoint pen from an inside pocket. “Ah! Here it is!”

“That’s a parachute?”

“Yes. A parachute, and an acetylene torch, and a six-shot revolver, and a hair-dryer, and half of a set of chopsticks, and a miscellaneous. The only thing it won’t do is write.”

“But how will it help?”

“Just watch!”

Max punched the button at the top of the pen and a sledge hammer popped out the end. “That’s the miscellaneous,” he explained.

“You’re mad, and your pen is mad!”

Quickly, with one blow, Max smashed the rear window of the cab.

“That’s wonderful!” Peaches enthused.

“It could have been neater,” Max said.

“What now?”

Max retracted the sledge hammer, then pointed the pen out the opening. “Now-”

He punched the button again. This time a parachute popped from the pen. It opened, billowed, and then, acting as a brake, brought the cab to a halt.

“We’re saved!” Peaches cried joyfully.

“Yes,” Max said, less happily. “But every blessing has its drawbacks. Now, I have to re-pack that parachute.”

“But we’re alive, Max!”

“That’s fine for you. But have you ever tried to pack a parachute into a ballpoint pen?”

“Then leave it,” Peaches said disgustedly.

“Leave it?” Max was appalled. “That’s Government property. Every parachute I lose comes out of my salary.”

“But Max, we don’t have time to re-pack it. Noman might catch up with us. And, as you keep saying, the fate of the entire you-know-what hangs in the you-know-what.”

“I guess you’re right,” Max sighed. “I’ll have to leave the parachute. Even though it’ll mean that, to pay for it, I’ll have to skip lunches for a week.”

“What now, Max?” Peaches said.

“Onward and upward.”

“What does that mean?”

“Onward to the airport, and upward in a plane,” Max replied. “But first, I think I’d better report in to the Chief. He’ll be worried. You know how Chiefs are-they worry.”

Peaches looked at him warily. “This is where you contact the Chief on your shoe-right?”

“Right. But we can’t stay here by the river. Noman will probably come looking for us.” He pointed. “There’s a building over there. We’ll get inside, out of sight, then I’ll phone the Chief.”

“Oh, I see,” Peaches said, brightening. “That’s the Telephone Company.”

Max looked at the building again. “As a matter of fact, it is,” he said. “But, that’s all right-any building will do.”

“Any building with a phone, you mean.”

“No, I mean- Let’s not discuss it any more. The longer we stay here, the better chance Noman has of catching us.”

Max and Peaches left the river and walked to the Telephone Company building. Entering, they spotted a doorman.

Max walked up to him. “I’d like to make a private call,” he said. “Where would be a quiet place?”

The doorman pointed. “Public telephones, second door on the right, sir.”

“No, I don’t want a public telephone. This is a private call.”

“All private calls are made on public telephones, sir.”

“If you’ll think about it a second, you’ll see how ridiculous this is,” Max said. “What I want is a quiet little corner where I won’t be disturbed.”

“There are booths, sir.”

“All right,” Max said, “I suppose that will have to do.”

With Max leading the way, he and Peaches walked to the door that the doorman had pointed out. They entered a large room where a great number of operators were operating switchboards. Near the entrance were a great many booths.

“We’ll just duck into one of these,” Max said.

“I don’t think there’s room enough for both of us.”

“All right, we’ll leave the door open. I have trouble getting my shoe off in a closed telephone booth, anyway. You stand guard.”

Peaches nodded agreement.

Max stepped into the booth, then, bending over, removed his shoe.

“Mad!” Peaches groaned.

Max dialed, then held the shoe to his ear.

Operator: The number you have dialed is not a working number, sir.

Max: Of course it’s a working number. I dial it a dozen times a day.

Operator: What number did you dial, sir?

Max: I can’t tell you that, Operator. It’s top secret.

Operator: Are you the same kook who was trapped in a limousine in Greenwich Village a while back, sir?

Max: Operator-is that you? How’re things?

Operator: Oh, fine-in general. My Aunt Harriet isn’t doing too well these days, though. Her lumbago.

Max: That’s too bad. I have an Uncle Horace who suffers from the same thing. Has your Aunt Harriet tried milk baths? That seems to work for Uncle Horace.

Operator: She tried it. But she had to give it up. It was bad for her psychologically. She said, sitting there in a tub of milk, she felt like a giant Rice Krispie.

Max: That’s hard to believe.

Operator: Would you believe a shredded wheat biscuit?

Max: I’d be more likely to believe a Rice Krispie, frankly.

Operator: Every time she opened her mouth she said ‘snap, crackle, pop!’

Max: Operator, I’m trying to contact the Chief at Control. Would you put me through, please?

Operator: I can’t remember the number. Is it in the book?

Max: No, it’s an unlisted number.

Operator: Well, if it’s top secret and you can’t tell me, and it isn’t in the book, I don’t see how I can help you.

Max: How would this do? Suppose I write it down for you? Will you promise to destroy it as soon as you’ve read it?

Operator: Couldn’t I just show it to a few of the girls first? Only my best friends, of course. I don’t think any of them have ever seen a top secret unlisted number.

Max: All right. But only your trusted friends. Agreed?

Operator: Girl Scout’s honor.

Max stepped out of the booth and handed his shoe to Peaches. “Hold the phone for me a second, please,” he said.

“Mad!”

Max got a small notepad and a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He pressed the button on the top of the pen-and a small motor began to whir.

“Ooops! Wrong pen!”

“What was that sound?” Peaches asked curiously.

“That was the hair-dryer,” Max replied, putting the pen away and getting out another one.

This time he was successful. He wrote Control’s number on a slip of notepaper, then walked over to one of the operators and handed it to her. A moment later, he returned, retrieved the shoe from Peaches, and stepped back into the booth.

Chief: Max? Is that you?

Max: Reporting in, Chief. Peaches and I are on our way to the airport.

Chief: Where exactly are you, Max?

Max: In a telephone booth.

Chief: Max, you’ll never get to the airport in a telephone booth. Better try a cab.

Max: We tried that, Chief. But the driver turned out to be I. M. Noman. We very nearly lost our lives.

Chief: Well, I can understand why that would sour you on cabs, Max. But, even so, I don’t think you’ll ever make it to the airport in a telephone booth.

Max: No, Chief, you don’t understand. We intend to take a cab to the airport. I’m in the telephone booth only so I can report in to you.

Chief: Why didn’t you call me on your shoe, Max?

Max: I am calling you on my shoe.

Chief: In a telephone booth?

Max: Forget it, Chief. I just wanted to tell you that as soon as we get to the airport we’re going to take a plane to New York. Then to Moscow. And then to Peking. I want you to know where we’ll be.