William Johnston: Get Smart!

The girl translated for the young men. “Probona slot machine, expresso ‘peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’ ”

The men stared open-mouthed at Max.

Embarrassed, Max hooked a thumb toward Blossom. “Don’t look at me-she’s the one who thought him up!”

Fang returned. He was no longer creeping. “Rorff!” he barked.

Max looked pained. To the receptionist, he said, “I’m very sorry.” He and Fang began backing toward the doorway, edging Blossom out with them. “Natural mistake,” Max apologized to the receptionist. “I heard you all speaking in a foreign language, so I naturally assumed that there was some sort of funny business going on. Again… sorry.” He closed the door behind him.

“What did Fang find?” Blossom said, when they were in the corridor again.

“Nothing,” Max sighed.

“Rorff!”

“Oh… yeah… a guy in the back room building bombs and painting ‘Yanks Unfair to Yogi Berra’ signs. But no Fred.”

Blossom sighed. “What now?”

“We still have a sheepdog up our sleeve,” Max said. “If Fred is in this building, Fang will find him. Look… do you have anything personal on you that belongs to Fred?”

Blossom opened her purse and pawed through it. “Here’s a transistor,” she said finally. “It was part of Fred’s calculating mechanism. But it blew when he tried to work out a problem in the New Math. I had to replace it.”

“Great,” Max said, taking the transistor. He held it out to Fang. “Sniff, boy!”

Fang sniffed. “Rorff!”

“He’s got the scent!” Max said. “Now, let’s go back to that board in the lobby that lists all the names of the nations and match up the scent with the country. That will give us the whereabouts of Fred!”

As they hurried toward the elevators, Blossom said, “That doesn’t really seem very logical to me.”

“Logic-schmogic!” Max retorted. “In this business, you have to use your brain.”

When they reached the lobby, they went directly to the roster of names.

Fang sniffed. “Rorff!”

“A-ha!” Max exulted. “Zambrosia, is it?” He turned smugly to Blossom. “And you said it wasn’t logical!”

“I still don’t see-”

“It just so happens,” Max said, “that in Greek mythology, ambrosia is the food of the gods. It’s supposed to ensure immortality. He who eats ambrosia never dies. Get it?”

Blossom shook her head.

“Then apparently you don’t remember that there is also an old saying that goes, ‘Never trust a Greek bearing gifts.’ Now… think about it… who else, bearing gifts, should never be trusted?”

Blossom thought. “Santa Claus?”

Max winced. “You’re not even trying. A FLAG agent, that’s who! Or, in other words, Zambrosia is a cover-up for a FLAG agent who is holding Fred captive. Now… see the logic?”

Again, Blossom shook her head.

Max threw up his hands in disgust. “Try to explain something to a flutter-headed dame!” He signalled to Fang. “Come on, boy! Grab your scent, and let’s get tracking!”

They dashed away, Fang with his nose to the ground, and Blossom hurried after them.

Fang led them to the elevators, then to a high floor. Getting off the elevator, they made their way along the corridor until they came to a door marked ZAMBROSIA.

“Is that a nose, or is that a nose!” Max crowed.

“I don’t think he followed a scent at all,” Blossom said.

“He got us here, didn’t he?”

“He probably read the directions off that board downstairs,” Blossom said.

Max eyed Fang sternly. “ ’Fess up, boy! Did you read those directions?”

Fang whined and hid his face.

Max looked at him scathingly. “I hope that’s the last time that ever happens. Remember this: Cheaters never win!”

“Rorff!”

“That’s a very poor philosophy for a secret agent!” Max snapped.

“What did he say?” Blossom asked.

“He said that cheaters win all the time-you just never hear about it.”

“There’s probably something to that. You know, once-”

“Never mind!” Max broke in. “I don’t want Fang to hear about it. He’s got enough wrong ideas in his head as it is.” He faced the door. “All right… this is it! Fred is in there somewhere! There’s no time for the amenities. We’ll charge in, overpower the guards, release Fred, then make a run for it! All set?”

“But-”

“Ready?”

“But-”

“Go!”

Max threw the door open wide and charged in. Fang went yelping down the corridor in the other direction, tail between his legs. Blossom just stared.

As in the previous office, there was a small desk and a female receptionist seated behind it. There were two other men present. They were seated also, reading, as if they were waiting for an audience with the person behind another door that was marked Private.

Max challenged the larger of the two young men. “On your feet!”

Puzzled, the man rose.

“Hold out your right hand!” Max ordered.

Still perplexed, the man obeyed.

Max grasped the hand, and, using a jujitsu hold, flung the man across the room. The man splattered against the wall, slid to the floor, and lay silent.

“One down!” Max chortled. To the other man, he said, “Next!”

The man made a break for the doorway.

Max tackled him, brought him down, then, rising, grasped him by the left arm, wrenched him to his feet, then, using another jujitsu hold, flattened him again on the floor. The man lay silent.

Max stepped up to the reception desk.

“Yes sir?” said the receptionist. “Something I can do for you?”

“I’d like to see the head man,” Max said crisply.

“Yes sir… if you’d like to wait. There are two ahead of you.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Max said. “I had that trick pulled on me in the summer of ’61. I called for an interview at the office of a FLAG agent who was smuggling orange ping-pong balls. His girl kept me waiting in the outer office for three hours-telling me the other guys were ahead of me. As it turned out, the other guys were store window manikins. And the orange ping-pong ball smuggler slipped out the rear exit.”

“I am sorry,” the girl said, “but the Ambassador is in conference.”

“Grilling Fred, eh?”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind announcing me,” Max said. “I’ll just break in.”

He went to the door marked Private, gave it a hefty kick, and it splintered open. There was a large, bearded man seated inside at a huge, ornate desk. He was munching a sandwich.

Max stiffened. “Oh, no!”

“Who are you!” the man bellowed.

“Just one thing,” Max said. “Is that, by any chance, a liverwurst sandwich?”

“Of course!” the man growled. “Liverwurst is my favorite!”

Max sighed. “It’s also Fang’s favorite,” he said. He smiled weakly. “Sorry,” he said to the Ambassador. “Wrong scent!”

Max backed out, turned, and, stepping over a body, left the office. In the corridor, he reported to Blossom. “A minor error,” he said. “It wasn’t Fred that Fang was sniffing, it was liverwurst.” He shrugged. “A natural mistake… it could happen to anybody.” He looked around. “Where is the noble beast?”

“I think ‘noble beast’ means a horse,” Blossom said.

“That’s right. When I catch him, I’m going to make horsemeat out of him.”

They went searching for Fang, and found him down the corridor, cowering in a broom closet.

As Max was castigating him, Blossom suddenly put a hand on his arm and said, “Shhhh! Listen!”

“What? What?”

“Listen!”

Max cupped a hand to his ear. Dimly, he heard, “Peep-a-doooo.. ”

“It’s Fred!” Blossom said.