William Johnston - Get Smart!

“We will be drowned,” Boris said.

“Drowned? In a hole? What makes you think so?”

“My feet are wet.”

Max pointed the flashlight downward. He saw that his own feet were wet, too-as were Blossom’s and Fang’s. The hole was filling with water.

“Some butterhead left a faucet running somewhere,” Max grumbled.

Blossom panicked again. “Do something!”

“I wonder if this hole has a stopper,” Max said. “If we pull it..”

“Rorff!”

“Right again!” Max said. To the others he explained, “Actually, this flooding is our salvation. A flooded hole is one emergency for which I’m prepared. It slipped my mind for a second. This is the first time the situation has ever come up.”

“Then do something!” Blossom shrieked.

Max got out his cigarette lighter. “I just flick the top open-” he said.

A rubber life raft suddenly popped from the cigarette lighter and began inflating. The timing was fortunate, for by then the water had reached their waists.

The four climbed aboard the raft and began rising toward the top of the hole.

“That cigarette lighter-it’s wonderful!” Blossom said.

“It has its drawbacks,” Max said. “There are times when I forget that it’s a life raft and try to light somebody’s cigarette with it.”

When they reached the trap door, Max pushed it open. He and Boris helped Blossom out, then followed her. Fang was the last to exit. The slot machine players had disappeared.

“Now then,” Max said, “another hour or so and we’ll be on our way.”

“An hour?” Blossom said. “Why so long?”

“Ever try to put a life raft back into a cigarette lighter?”

“If you will excuse me,” Boris said, backing away, “I will look for my tour.”

“Sure… maybe we’ll see you around.”

Boris hurried away.

“How long is this going to take?” Blossom muttered as Max began trying to stuff the raft into the lighter.

“As I said, sometimes an hour or so. But, then, sometimes I get lucky.”

“Rorff!”

Max looked thoughtful for a second, then said, “That might help.”

“All right… what did he say?”

“He suggested that I try letting the air out of it.”

“Good heavens! Any idiot would know that!”

“Careful! Fang is very sensitive!”

Max released the air from the life raft, and, seconds later, had it replaced in the cigarette lighter. He patted Fang on the head. “Now I know why they call you man’s best friend,” he said.

“Now, can we go?” Blossom asked.

“Right. Clear sailing from here on out. We’ll pick up Fred’s trail, and, by nightfall, have him locked up and safe from himself. Forward!”

They returned to the main room of the Idyll Hour and made their way between the tables of beatniks toward the exit. But they had not gone far when Max suddenly pulled up.

“That beatnik-the one just mounting the stage to perform,” he said. “Isn’t there something strangely familiar about him?”

Blossom looked in the direction in which Max was pointing. She saw the small stage that was opposite the long counter of espresso machines. A robot-like beatnik, with a lever at his side, was about to recite. But “It couldn’t be him,” Blossom sighed. “He has a beard.”

“I wonder… a false beard, perhaps?”

“He looks taller than Fred.”

“A false beard sometimes makes a computer look taller.”

“Well…”

“On a hunch,” Max said, “let’s hang around for a second.” He glanced around. “There’s a table over there with only one person at it. Let’s join her.”

They went to the table. Seated at it was a gorgeous brunette. She was wearing a clinging, one-piece air raid warden’s suit, and looked a great deal like Noel, the girl guide, secretary to the ambassador from Fredonia, and hostess at the Idyll Hour.

“Howdy stranger,” Max said. “Mind if we join you?”

“Non.”

Max and Blossom seated themselves at the table. Fang collapsed on the floor at Max’s feet.

“Good boy,” Max said. “You listen for the phone.”

The beatnik on the stage raised his arm, dropped a nickel into his slot. “Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!” His eyes revolved. Lemons came up.

There was tremendous applause from the audience.

“Oh, the rare beauty of pure truth,” Noel breathed.

“But can he back it up with facts?” Max said caustically.

Blossom whispered to Max. “It is! It’s Fred!”

“I’m no longer so sure,” Max said. “Did you hear that garbage he just spouted? Fuzzy-minded rhetoric if I ever heard it!”

Now, the beatnik on stage spoke:

“Stale bread, unbuttered-Life!

Tapioca without the lumps,

A pad all full of bumps!

Air pollution, the cell door locked.

No escape; O, how Life is mocked.”

“There’s something very familiar about those lines,” Max whispered to Blossom.

The audience rose to its feet screaming approval. There were cries of “Yeah! Yeah!” and “You tell ’em!” and “Right down the old middle, Man!”

The beatnik on stage continued:

“Tenement, slum, no heat in the winter-Life!

Hunger, war, fighting in the streets,

The victims: The innocent and the beats!

Slaughter the birds for table.

I’d go somewhere’s else if I was able!”

The crowd went wild! Applause exploded in the room, shivering the walls. The beatniks leaped to their feet and stomped and screamed.

“Encore!” This from Noel.

“More… More… More!”

Max spoke to Blossom. “That beatnik is as phony as a three-dollar bill! I now suspect that he is really Fred!”

“Gee, he didn’t sound like Fred.”

“As a matter of fact, he sounded exactly like Fred. Who, unless I’m greatly mistaken, is really a square at heart. And, as soon as this noise dies down, I’ll prove it.” The applause heightened. The beatniks danced among and on the tables.

They chanted the words of the poem:

“Tapioca without the lumps!”

“Slaughter the birds for table!”

And occasionally mixed up the lines:

“A pad full of bread-unbuttered Life!”

The beatnik on the stage bowed modestly to the acclaim. And, in time, the audience settled down, exhausted.

At which time, Max arose.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!”

“Boooooo!”

“If you. will give me a moment of your time, I will reveal a hoax!” He pointed to the beatnik who had recited, and who was still on stage. “That fellow there is a fake! A charming fake, and a lovable fake-but a fake nonetheless!”

“Throw ’im out!” cried a voice.

Two beatniks grabbed Max by the arms.

“Hold!” Max bellowed, pulling loose. “Give me your ears! Give me your attentions! Let me prove it!”

Quiet settled over the room.

“Now then,” Max said. “I claim that this poet’s poem is a direct steal from another poet’s poem! I claim that this poet’s poem was actually written in the early 1920’s by another poet named Unknown-at least, that’s the way he signed it. Although, of course, that may have been a pseudonym.”

“Prove it! Where’s your proof!”

“Let’s compare,” Max said. “Take the first line of our friend here’s poem-‘Stale bread, unbuttered-Life!’ I suggest that that is a flagrant corruption of the line-‘Like a bread without the spreadin’, Like a puddin’ without the sauce.’ ”

“Booooooo! Throw ’im out!”

“Hear me out!” Max cried. “Listen! Listen! Here’s the first stanza of Unknown’s poem. Listen, and see what you think!”

Max recited:

“Like a bread without the spreadin’,