William Johnston: Sorry, Chief…

“You-waiter!” a voice barked.

Max turned-and found himself facing a steward.

“What are you doing out here?” the steward said. “Get back to the dining room where you belong. Dinner is being served.”

“I just stepped out for a breath of fresh air,” Max said. “The odor of that food in the dining room was making me a little ill.”

“It makes us all a little sick,” the steward said. “But duty is duty. Back to the dining room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll go along with you, just to make sure you get there,” the steward said.

“That won’t be necessary, sir. I know the way.”

“That’s why I’m going with you,” the steward said. He looked about sheepishly. “You see,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’m lost. But if I can just make it back to the dining room, I’ll be all right. I know my way from there.”

“Yes, sir,” Max sighed. “Follow me.”

Max and the steward walked off down the deck.

“Fang, what’ll we do?” 99 wailed.

“Rorff!”

“Yes, I suppose we might as well,” 99 agreed. “That way, we’ll be near Max. And, we can have dinner, too.”

99 and Fang hurried off toward the dining room.

As Max entered the dining room a different voice called to him. Turning toward it, he found himself being addressed by a sportily-dressed man at a table. Across from the man was a woman, presumably his wife.

“Waiter,” the man said, “we ordered our chicken livers and fried rice an hour ago. It isn’t here yet. Where is it?”

“That’s a special order,” Max replied. “It takes time, you know, to prepare a delicacy like chicken livers and fried rice. First, of course, before you can fry the rice, you have to catch it. Ever tried chasing down a rice? On a ship? And, even after you catch it, there’s the chicken liver to contend with. A chicken doesn’t give up its liver willingly. You have to fight it for it.”

“Then we’ll change our order,” the man said. “Just bring us a couple hamburgers and chocolate malts.”

“With or without?” Max asked.

“With or without what?”

“That’s waiter talk,” Max explained. “It means do you want your hamburger with or without meat. And your malt-with or without malt.”

“With.”

“Roger,” Max replied. He winked. “More waiter talk,” he explained.

Max moved on, crossing the dining room, then entered the kitchen through the swinging doors. The cooks were at the stoves, and other waiters were bustling about, picking up orders.

“Two longhorns under the covers! Two moo-moos, dark brown!” Max called out.

A cook raised his eyes from his work and stared at him. “What?”

“That’s waiter talk,” Max explained. “It means two hamburgers and two malts.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” the cook grumbled. He set about preparing the order.

Max, meanwhile, began looking for a rear exit through which to escape.

“You!” the cook called. “Go get me another order! You think two longhorns under the covers and two moo-moos, dark brown will keep me busy all night?”

“Yes, sir,” Max said grudgingly. “More orders-coming up.”

Max left the kitchen and returned to the dining room. He stopped at the nearest table. “What’ll it be, folks?” he said.

“Max-it’s us,” the girl at the table said.

He stared at her. “99!”

“Rorff!”

“I don’t have to guess who you are,” Max said testily.

“And this,” 99 said, indicating the man at the table, “is Herbert Wai-pronounced ‘Y’. You remember Mr. Wai, don’t you, Max? He’s the tour director, escorting the scientists on the tour of European laboratories. Mr. Wai joined us at our table.”

“All the other tables were taken,” Wai explained.

“Well, in that case, I guess I’ll have to sit here, too,” Max said, pulling out a chair.

“Are you, uh, doing double duty?” Wai asked, as Max sat down. “That is, dining and waiting on tables, too?”

Max nodded. “It’s the only way you can get any service in here,” he said. He took out his order book. “As I said before, ‘What’ll it be, folks?’ ”

“I’ll have the Special,” Wai said.

“Me, too, Max,” 99 said.

“Rorff!”

“That makes it unanimous,” Max said. “I’ll have the Special, too.” He wrote up the order, tore the page from the book, and handed it to Wai. “Just take this to the kitchen and hand it to a cook,” he said. “He’ll put the order on a tray. Just bring the tray back here.”

“Why me?” Wai said puzzledly, accepting the order.

“There’s a waiter shortage,” Max explained. “We all have to pitch in and do our part.”

“Oh… well, in that case…”

Wai got up and headed for the kitchen.

“A little trick,” Max explained to 99 and Fang. “I had to get him out of the way so we could talk privately.”

“I understand, Max,” 99 said. “What is it you have to say?”

“I want you to stall your dinner,” Max said. “Do anything you can to keep from finishing. Because as soon as I get off duty here as a waiter I want to continue the search for the diabolical Dr. X. And I want you and Fang to be close at hand. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”

“We’ll be right here, Max.”

Max felt a finger tapping him on the shoulder. “Yes?” he said, turning and looking up. The man whose order he had taken earlier was standing by his chair.

“Where are my two hamburgers and two malts?” the man asked crossly.

Max turned away and looked at the table. “They’re certainly not here,” he said. “Try the kitchen.”

“Oh… all right.”

The man moved on.

“There’s one in every dining room,” Max muttered.

At that moment, Herbert Wai reappeared. He was carrying a tray. “All out of the Special,” he said. “But I did manage to get us some longhorns under cover and some moo-moos, dark brown.”

“What’s that?” 99 asked.

“Actually, it’s the same as the Special,” Wai replied. “Except without malt.”

He put the food on the table, then sat down. “The cook was asking about you,” he said to Max. “He has some orders he wants you to deliver, I believe.”

“First things first,” Max said. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

Wai turned to 99. “You’re not eating,” he said curiously.

“I’m waiting for my moo-moo to cool,” she smiled.

“And your longhorn under cover?”

“I’m waiting for it to cool, too.”

“Fact is,” Wai said, “it’s stone cold as it is. The order had been sitting around out there in the kitchen for hours, waiting for a waiter to deliver it.”

“Then she’s waiting for it to warm up,” Max said.

“Her moo-moo?”

“You noticed, of course, that she’s a rich eccentric,” Max said. “That’s one of her eccentricities-she likes hot malteds.”

Wai stared baffledly for a moment-at Max, then at 99, then at Fang. Then he shrugged and began to eat.

The man whose order Max had taken earlier reappeared. He picked up the tray that Herbert Wai had put aside. Then, on it, he put Max’s hamburger and malt and Fang’s hamburger and malt. Then, without a word, he marched off, headed for his own table.

Max glared at him as he moved away. “Yep,” he said disgustedly, “there’s one in every dining room-a sorehead.”

“Sorry about that,” Wai said sympathetically. “May I get you another order?”

Max shook his head. “No, thank you,” he replied. “That hamburger was stone cold, anyway.”

Wai touched his napkin to his lips. “Too bad,” he said. “It was tasty.”

“Oh, finished?” Max said.

“Yes. And I think I’d better be toddling on.”