Get Smart 8 - Max Smart Loses Control
MAX SMART
Loses
CONTROL
It all started when Max got out of bed, punched the Eat and Wear buttons on his bedside computer and received the following message:
YOU WILL LOOK SPIFFY TODAY IN YOUR GOLFING KNICKERS AND RED WHITE AND BLUE HORIZONTAL STRIPED PULLOVER. FOR BREAKFAST: RED JELLYBEANS. GREEN JELLYBEANS CAUSE ASTIGMATISM.
Max certainly didn’t want to have anything to do with such an outlandish Oriental religion as Astigmatism, so he stuffed his pockets with red jellybeans and headed for Control headquarters—and another dangerous assignment.
Control’s top agent is miffed when the Chief relegates him to the number two spot on this assignment—Hymie, Control’s robot-agent is put in charge of the search for the KAOS-naped computer Number One. Naturally, this only makes Max try harder. And the harder Max tries, the worse it gets, for himself, 99, Hymie, the Chief, the Operator, KAOS, Control, the Operator’s brother-in-law, innocent passers-by . . .
GET SMART
novels
by William Johnston
Get Smart!
Sorry Chief . . .
Get Smart Once Again!
Max Smart and the Perilous Pellets
Missed It By That Much!
And Loving it!
Max Smart - The Spy Who Went Out to the Cold
Max Smart Loses Control
Max Smart and the Ghastly Ghost Affair
© 1968 TALENT ASSOCIATES—PARAMOUNT LTD.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT
TO REPRODUCE IN WHOLE OR IN PART
IN ANY FORM
PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CANADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER
AC68-29985
A TEMPO BOOKS
Original
TEMPO BOOKS EDITION, 1968
FIRST PRINTING, July 1968
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
MAX SMART
Loses
CONTROL
1.
M
AX SMART
, Agent 86 for Control, was awakened that morning by the jangling of his telephone. Always alert, Max jumped out of bed instantly—and went to the door of his apartment.
“Yes . . . what is it?” Max muttered, looking out into the corridor. There was no one there. Yet, the bell was still ringing. Max’s eyes opened wide. “That’s a
very
good trick,” he said, impressed, addressing the empty corridor. “How do you do it?”
The only response was the continuing jangle of the bell.
“Oh . . .” Max said, addressing himself now, “maybe it’s the phone.”
He closed the door, returned to his bedroom, and began looking for his shoes, one of which served also as a telephone. He peeked under the bed, and found the first base mitt he had lost several weeks earlier (just before the big game between the Control Angels and the KAOS Devils), but not his shoes. Max retrieved the mitt, slipped it on, then pounded his fist into it a few times. “I sure wish I’d had you during the game,” he told the mitt. “The Chief made me play with what was available. Have you ever tried to catch a hot grounder with Agent 99’s handbag? I kept losing the ball in the change purse. Twice, trying for double plays, I threw half-dollars down to second. It was very embarrassing.”
The phone, meanwhile, continued to ring.
Max searched the closet for his shoes. They were not there. He looked in the bathroom. Still, no shoes. He stood for a moment, baffled, shaking his head, then wandered out into the living room to look for them. They were not under the couch, nor under any of the chairs or tables. Then, raising up from the search under an end table, he toppled the table over—and the ringing abruptly stopped.
Max pondered the situation. The apartment phone had been on the table and had been knocked to the floor. It was now lying at his feet, with the receiver off the cradle.
“Well . . . that solves the mystery,” Max said proudly to himself. “There are my shoes right there. They’ve been on my feet all the time. I must have been pret-ty tired when I went to bed last night.”
He removed his shoe phone and put it to his ear. “Agent 86 here,” he announced.
All he could hear was a dial tone.
Perplexed, Max slipped his shoe back onto his foot. “Maybe I’m still in bed, dreaming,” he suggested to himself, picking up the table he had accidentally knocked over. “That ringing certainly sounded real, though.” He lifted the apartment phone from the floor and started to place it back on the table. As he did, he heard a faint but familiar voice calling his name. It seemed, strangely, to be coming from the phone. Puzzled, Max spoke back to the instrument.
Max:
Chief? Is that you?
Chief
(excitedly): Max! Are you all right? Are you in trouble? The phone rang and rang, then the receiver was picked up, but I couldn’t get any response from you. What was happening?
Max:
Sorry about that, Chief. I was a little groggy. Do you know what time it is? It’s eight o’clock in the morning. Chief . . . am I getting overtime for taking this call before office hours?
Chief:
Max, that’s too preposterous to discuss—even if I had time to discuss it. But I don’t. I have an assignment for you, Max. I want you to get down here to headquarters just as quickly as possible.
Max:
I’m practically on my way, Chief. I’ll be— Oh, incidentally, Chief, I have some good news. I found my first base mitt.
Chief:
That’s fine, Max. At the moment, however, that doesn’t interest me a great deal.
Max:
I imagine Agent 99 will be pretty happy about it, though. If you see her, you can tell her it’s no longer necessary to keep rubbing her purse with saddle soap to keep it in condition.
Chief:
You can tell her yourself, Max. She’ll be on the assignment with you.
Max hung up, then returned to the bedroom. He took a shower, then, wrapped in a towel, approached the small machine on the table beside his bed. The machine was his personal computer. It advised him on what was best for him to wear and to eat and, at times, to think. The computer was a great convenience. Max no longer had to concern himself with small, everyday details. He could concentrate on the Big problems.
He punched the Eat and Wear buttons. The computer clattered, then produced a tape, which advised: YOU WILL LOOK SPIFFY TODAY IN YOUR GOLFING KNICKERS AND RED WHITE AND BLUE HORIZONTAL STRIPED PULLOVER. FOR BREAKFAST: RED JELLYBEANS. GREEN JELLYBEANS CAUSE ASTIGMATISM. ASTIGMATISM IS—
“I know what astigmatism is,” Max snapped, discarding the tape. “It so happens that I’m an expert on all kinds of Oriental religions.”
Max dressed as his personal computer had suggested, then filled his pockets with red jellybeans, left his apartment and drove to headquarters. When he reached the Chief’s office, he found Agent 99 and Hymie, Control’s almost-human robot, there, too.
“Well . . . my loyal assistants, eh?” Max said to 99 and Hymie. “I want you to know, first off, that it will be a pleasure to have you helping me on this case. You are both exceptionally able agents. I have always found you to be loyal, trustworthy, reverent, and so forth and so on, and generous with your purse in time of need.”
“Max—” the Chief began.
“I was just establishing my authority, Chief,” Max explained. “When I’m in charge of a case, I want those who are working under me to know it. That way, when I give an order, there’s no confusion or hesitation—they jump!”
“I understand, Max. But—” He interrupted himself, peering more closely at Max. “Golf knickers, Max?” he asked, puzzled.
“My computer’s idea,” Max explained. “When my computer gives an order—I jump!” He dug a hand into his pocket. “Want a jellybean, Chief? I brought a few more than I could eat. My eyes were bigger than my tummy, I guess.”
“Was that your computer’s idea, too, Max?” the Chief asked.
Max nodded. “My computer is always thinking about my health,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for my computer, I might have had my usual green jellybeans for breakfast. That could have been very embarrassing. I don’t even know any of the Astigmatists’ prayers. I often wonder, Chief: how did I function before I got my personal computer?”
“Frankly,” the Chief said, “I haven’t noticed any great change. But,” he went on, “we’re not here to discuss your relationship with your personal computer, Max. This assignment—”
Max had turned to 99. “How do you like my pullover,” he asked. “I hope it doesn’t make me look like too much of a flag-waver.”
“No, no, you look very nice in red, white and blue, Max.”
“It goes with your eyes,” Hymie said.
“Yes, I guess they are a little bloodshot this morning,” Max replied. “I was up too late last night.”
“Would I be out of line if I tried to fill you in on this assignment?” the Chief asked sourly.
Max looked thoughtful for a second, then replied, “I don’t see how that could be, Chief. After all, that’s why you called us in, isn’t it—to fill us in on the assignment?”
“Thank you,” the Chief sighed. “Now,” he said, “here’s the background. As you know, there’s a great interest in computers these days. It’s become almost a craze. It’s estimated that there are more personal computers in the country today than there are bathtubs. I—”
“I don’t know why that’s so surprising, Chief,” Max said. “I’ve been eating green jellybeans for breakfast for years and my bathtub has never said one word about it. It took my computer to warn me that I was in danger of being converted to Astigmatism.”
“Fine, Max. Now—”
“Max,” 99 said, “astigmatism means weak eyes.”
He stared at her, shocked. “Fantastic!” he said. “It’s almost unbelievable the things people will worship!”
“Max—”
“Go right ahead, Chief,” Max replied. “99 is sorry she interrupted you.”
“As I was saying,” the Chief went on, “people have come to depend on computers. Computers tell them what to eat, what to wear, when to water the house plants, when to carry an umbrella, when to take out the garbage, when to take the car in for a spring check-up . . . The services performed by computers are increasing every day.”