William Johnston - Get Smart!

“That’s reassuring,” Max said. “But-”

“Of course, if they take a dislike to you they can be nasty, I’ll admit that,” Mr. Wright went on. He glanced warily toward the computers, then whispered. “See that one over there? The one with the black patch over its left hiccometer?”

“Hiccometer?”

“Sometimes it hiccups,” Mr. Wright explained. “The hiccometer measures the hiccups per revolution. Anyway, last Thursday it stole my lunch.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Max said.

“Cross my heart. I put my lunch down for just a second, and the next thing I knew it was gone. It hates me.”

“It’s probably not you personally,” Max said. “It probably just has a bad disposition. Maybe something it ate. I’d suggest an Alka-Seltzer.”

“Oh, no, no, no, it hates me!” Mr. Wright insisted. “I don’t know why, but it does. It certainly isn’t because I’ve given it any reason to. I treat it like all the other computers.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Max suggested. “Perhaps it wants a little special attention. Try singing it a lullaby.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “Or patting it on the back the next time it has hiccups.”

Mr. Wright sighed sorrowfully. “Well, that’s my problem, not yours. You’re here to be tested, and I’m here to test you, so let’s be about it.”

“Tested?” Max said. “For what?”

“To determine what occupation you’re best suited for.”

“You mean you can test me and tell me what job I should have?” Max said. He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I already know what job I’m best suited for. And, at the moment, I’m on the trail of a computer. Actually, ‘robot’ describes him better, I suppose. He has revolving eyes and a lever at his side and goes: ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’ ”

“Oh, you are in trouble,” Mr. Wright said. “You’ll never find a job like that. In the first place, I don’t think any such robot exists. And in the second place, if it did, who would want to find it? Now then,” he said, smiling again, “if you’ll just answer a few questions for me, I’ll jot the answers down on this card, then we’ll turn it over to the computers.”

“If I do that for you, then will you do me a favor and discuss my robot with me?” Max said.

“Cross my heart. I might even sing you a lullaby.”

“Fire away,” Max said.

“Here’s the first question: If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, how many peepers… uh, peppers, that is… did he have to pay in income tax?”

“That would depend on how many dependents he had,” Max replied.

“Well, just for the sake of argument, let’s say he had a wife, three children, a cocker spaniel, and an old maid aunt who lived in the spare room.”

“Three peepers… uh, peppers,” Max said.

Mr. Wright punched a hole in the card he was holding. “Too bad,” he said. “But that was close, anyway.” He punched another hole. “I’ll give you that for good behavior,” he said.

“Just for curiosity’s sake, what is the right answer,” Max said.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Mr. Wright replied. “You see, these weren’t Peter’s peppers that Peter Piper picked. He was an employee of the Pickled Pepper Packer’s Association. I imagine the Association paid him something for picking the peppers, but I wouldn’t know what it might be. I don’t pry.”

“Next question,” Max said.

“Oh, that’s just a waste of time,” Mr. Wright said. “You wouldn’t know any of the answers, anyway. I’ll just punch your card full of holes and we’ll put it in the machine. That’s the fun part!”

“Anything to get this over with,” Max said wearily.

Mr. Wright took the card to the machine with the black patch over its hiccometer. “Now, for heaven’s sake, behave,” he said to the machine. “We have guests!”

The machine hiccuped.

Mr. Wright sighed, then fed the card into the slot. He punched a button. The machine whirred, hiccuped again, then disgorged the card.

“Here’s the answer,” Mr. Wright grinned, returning to where Max, Blossom and Fang were waiting. “It says-” His grin disappeared. Horror spread over his countenance.

“Yes…?” Max said, a little worriedly.

“It says you’re best suited to tend the computers that decide what occupation a man is best suited for!” He began to cry. “That’s my job!”

“Probably an error,” Max said.

“Error, my great grandmother!” Mr. Wright screamed. “It’s sheer nastiness! That machine did it on purpose! It hates me!”

“Rorff!”

“You’re right,” Max said. To Blossom, he said, “Let’s get out of here!”

As they departed, Mr. Wright snatched up his lunch pail and charged at the computer, revenge gleaming in his eye!

“I don’t think that’s the job that guy’s best suited for,” Max said, as they returned to the elevator.

“Or maybe it was the computer,” Blossom said. “Maybe it wasn’t suited for the job it was doing.”

The door of the elevator opened. They stepped aboard.

“Ten,” Max said to the operator.

“If you’re going on the tour, it’s already left,” the operator said.

Max looked at his watch. “We’re early,” he said. “It’s another five minutes until it will be an hour late in leaving.”

“I guess it’s early today,” the operator said. “But if you want to catch it, I can drop you at the ninth floor. That’s where it’ll be about now.”

“Nine,” Max said.

The car stopped. The operator opened the door. “Nine,” he announced.

Max, Blossom and Fang stepped out-and were nearly trampled by a thundering herd of tourists.

“That’s the tour,” the elevator operator informed them. The door closed.

Max and party joined the crowd.

The tour director, a bright-eyed young man, clearly-judging from his dress-a graduate of Brooks Brothers, was addressing his followers as he led them along the corridor.

“Just out of its teens,” he said, in a well-modulated voice, “the computer is beginning to affect the very fabric of society, kindling both wonder and widespread apprehension. Is the computer a friend or enemy of man? Will it cause hopeless unemployment by putting men out of work? Will it devalue the human brain, or happily free it from drudgery? Will it ever learn to think for itself? The answers will not be in for quite a while. But one thing is already clear. Swept forward by a great wave of technology, of which the computer is the ultimate expression, human society is headed for some deep-reaching changes.”

There was a scattering of applause.

The director smiled back at the tourists. “I read that in a magazine,” he said. “Memorized it word for word. Are there any questions?”

“What did it mean?” a middle-aged lady asked.

“Haven’t the faintest,” the director replied. “Something about a change-I got that much out of it. But… let’s not worry about it. I’m sure it won’t have any effect on any of us. Any other questions?”

“Where’s the washroom?” a small boy asked.

“I have a question,” Max said. “Has anybody here seen a computer with revolving eyes and a lever at its side that goes ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’?”

The director eyed him coldly. “We don’t have a computer like that,” he said.

“I didn’t say it was yours, I asked if anybody had seen it.”

“I think that is abominable manners, coming in here plugging our competitor’s computers,” the director said. “Get a tour of your own. Don’t come sneaking in here trying to steal my tour!”

“I don’t want your tour-” Max began.

“Oh-ho!” the director sneered. “ My tour isn’t good enough for you, eh?” He addressed the crowd. “Did you hear that? He says you’re not good enough for him.”