William Johnston: Sorry, Chief…

“Well…”

Max turned the nozzle. And a thunderous stream of water gushed from the end.

“Max! Turn it off!” 99 shrieked.

“I can’t! It’s stuck!”

The stream of water sprayed the stateroom. It knocked pictures off the walls. Fang became drenched. Max became drenched. 99 tried to fight her way into the stateroom to help Max, and she became drenched.

Water began to rise in the stateroom. A stove floated out from under the bunk.

“Max!” 99 called. “Open the porthole!”

Max dropped the nozzle, waded to the porthole, and yanked it open.

The sea came rolling in!

“Max!” 99 screamed. “I forgot how far down we are! Close the porthole!”

Max threw his weight against the porthole cover, and finally got it closed, shutting off the rush of sea water.

A grayish ooze began bubbling up from under the bunk!

“Max! What is that!” 99 wailed.

“That,” Max said disgustedly, “is fourteen boxes of instant oatmeal!”

“Max! Do something!”

“Close the door!” Max called back.

“Max, no! You’ll drown in there!”

“Close the door!” Max commanded. “I want to get this nozzle into the bathroom and put it in the sink. But I can’t open the bathroom door unless you close the stateroom door.”

“Oh. All right, Max.”

99 tried to close the stateroom door. But she didn’t have much success.

“99-what’s the matter!”

“It’s the oatmeal, Max. The doorway is so full of oatmeal, I can’t get the door closed.”

“All right-belay that last order.” Max turned to Fang. “Fang, I’m going to open the porthole once more. When I do, you throw the nozzle out the opening. Ready?”

“Rorff!”

“Fang, I don’t think this is the time to worry about whether you should throw it underhanded or overhanded. Just throw!”

“Rorff!”

“All right, underhanded, if that’s your best throw. And, yes, I promise I’ll watch.”

Again, Max yanked the porthole open.

Fang gripped the nozzle firmly in his jaws, then, with considerable skill, pitched it out the opening-underhanded.

Once more, Max pressed his full weight against the porthole cover. The sea yielded, and the cover closed.

Max sat down on the edge of the bunk, exhausted.

“Rorff!”

“Yes, Fang,” he said wearily, “I do think you’re good enough for the New York Mets.”

“Max… are you all right?” 99 said worriedly from the doorway.

“All right? Yes, I’m all right. Considering that my shoes are full of instant oatmeal.”

“You better get someone to clean up this mess, Max.”

“Yes, sure. And how will I explain it?”

“Well… there’s the stove, and the pans, and the oatmeal. You could say you were having breakfast in bed and it got out of hand.”

“99, that’s preposterous.”

“I don’t know why. There’s the stove and the pans and the oatmeal.”

“Oh, that part of it makes sense enough,” Max said. “But, 99, it’s the middle of the afternoon. Who would believe that I would be having breakfast at that time of day?”

99 nodded sadly. “I guess we’ll have to clean it up ourselves.”

It took only a few hours to clear away the mess in Max’s stateroom. By then it was time for dinner, but still too early to go stateroom-searching.

“Shall we eat now, Max?” 99 said.

“Mess,” Max replied.

“Max, why do we have to miss dinner?”

“Not ‘miss’, ‘mess.’ That’s what meals are called on board ship.”

99 looked at him dubiously. “Mess?”

“Yes. Mess.”

“Max, why do they call it that?”

“Well… you just saw what my breakfast looked like. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Oh… yes.”

“Rorff!” Fang barked.

“Yes, that’s right,” Max agreed. “The Chief did say that he wanted us to keep in touch. I think I’d better put in a call to Control before we go to mess.”

Max sat down on the edge of the lower bunk and took off his communicating shoe. He dialed, then waited, listening to the tone.

Operator: What number were you calling, please?

Max (surprised): Operator, this is a direct line. You’re not supposed to be on it.

Operator: This is an overseas call, sir. All overseas calls are handled by we operators.

Max: I think that should be ‘us’ operators, operator.

Operator: Oh? Are you one of we?

Max: Us.

Operator: Is that you, Mabel? What happened to your voice?

Max: Operator, this is not Mabel. This is Max.

Operator: Oh… Maxine! Gee, honey, you sounded just like Mabel. Golly, dearie, no wonder I didn’t recognize your voice. I haven’t seen you in ages. Not since you told that Night Supervisor what she could do with her trunk line. Did she resent that, Maxine? Is that why I haven’t seen you around?

Max (testily): Operator, this is not Maxine. This is Max. M-a-x-Max. I am Maxwell Smart, Secret Agent 86, and I am trying to place a call to Control. Now, may I have your cooperation, please?

Operator: I’m sorry, sir. But, you know, you sure do sound like Mabel. Or Maxine, as the case may be. But, if you say you’re not… if you say you’re some kind of secret agent… I guess you have a right to that opinion. After all, it’s a free country, isn’t it, six? Now, what number do you want, sir?

Max: I can’t tell you that, operator. Control is a secret organization. Consequently, its number is classified information.

Operator: But can’t you even tell me, sir? I won’t tell anybody, honest.

Max: I’m afraid not, operator. That would be a violation of my oath. You’ll have to look it up yourself. It’s right there in the book.

Operator: Yes, sir. And what did you say the name was?

Max: Control. C-o-n-t-r-o-l.

(sound of Operator leafing through pages)

Operator: I have the page, sir. Now, what is the first name?

Max: There isn’t any first name, operator. It’s just plain old Control.

Operator (to herself): Gee… let’s see… here’s Frank Control… Algernon Control… Pest Control… oh, here’s a P. O. Control. Could that be it, sir?

Max: Yes, I suppose it is. P. O. Control. Plain Old Control. Let’s try that number, anyway.

Operator: Yes, sir. I’m ringing that number, sir.

(ringing sound)

Chief: Control. Chief speaking.

Max: Chief, this is Max. I’m calling from the “Queen Edward.” Just giving you a buzz to let you know that the mission is rolling right along on schedule.

Chief: Max, have you spotted the diabolical Dr. X yet?

Max: I’m almost positive we have, Chief. In our wanderings about the ship we’ve seen practically everybody on board. One of those persons must have been the diabolical Dr. X. Now, all we have to do is narrow it down to the one.

Chief: Well, I suppose that’s better than nothing. What else have you accomplished?

Max: For one thing, Chief, I think I’ve found a new pitcher for the New York Mets. That is, if they’re interested in an underhanded lefty. Oh, yes, and I’ve experience-tested a couple of those gadgets that R and D sent along. One thing, Chief: I think a warning should be attached to those boxes of instant oatmeal. It probably should say something like this: Do Not Open in Flooded Stateroom.

Chief: I’ll make a note of that, Max. R and D is very anxious to get your reaction to those new gadgets.

Max: I have one little disappointment for them, Chief. I won’t be bringing back that nozzle. I have an excellent reason for it. But it’s a long, wet story, so I won’t bore you with it.

Chief: They will be disappointed. That nozzle was one of their prize gadgets.

Max: Tell them I’m sorry about that, Chief.

Chief: What are your plans now, Max?