“Which reminds me of a funny story,” he said, breaking in. “A bunch of the other space scientists and I were sitting around the launch pad one day, discussing the moon and what sort of animal we ought to send on the first trip to that planet-It is a planet, isn’t it? Or is it an asteroid or something? Well, no matter. The point is, we were discussing the moon and animals. Well, one of the space scientists said, ‘You know, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the moon is really made of green cheese.’ That got quite a chuckle, of course. But then I topped it. I said, ‘Well, if it is, then there’s no question about what animal we should send to the moon. We ought to send a duck.’ ‘A duck?’ the other space scientists queried. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘a duck. That way, when the first man gets to the moon, he’ll have a quacker to go along with the green cheese.’ Well, you should have heard the howls!”
The two scientists stared at Max dumbly.
“Quackers and cheese,” Max said.
The two scientists looked at each other.
“A duck makes a quacking sound, you see,” Max explained. “Consequently, I referred to the duck as a ‘quacker’. If you think about it, it’s quite funny.”
One of the scientists groaned softly. The other one closed his eyes, as if wanting to be alone.
“The boys on the launching pad liked it,” Max muttered.
“I think we better mingle some more, Max,” 99 said.
“Yes…”
They moved on.
“We were wasting our time there, anyway,” Max said. “Both of those scientists were wearing beards.”
“Max… 99 said sympathetically, “… I thought that was a very funny story.”
“Thank you, 99.”
“There was just one thing, though. The part I didn’t understand was, why would anybody want to send a duck to the moon?”
“Well, you see-” He stopped and glared at her.
99 lowered her eyes. “Sorry about that, Max.”
Max cocked an ear toward a nearby conversation. “Ah… serious stuff, scientific talk,” he said. “This, we can get in on without fear of being rebuffed. Where we made our mistake before was in not remembering that, as a group, scientists have no sense of humor.”
Max ambled up to the trio of scientists on whom he had been eavesdropping.
“… centrifugal flow of ions,” the scientist on the left was saying.
“Exactly what I was saying the other day to the boys on the launching pad,” Max interjected.
The three turned to him.
“Oh, excuse me,” Max said. “I’m Max Smart, Space Scientist. And this is my assistant, 99. And my current experiment, Fang. I expect to send him to the moon any day now.”
“Rorff!” Fang barked.
“You’ll eat cheese and quackers and like it!” Max snapped.
“Ah… space science,” the scientist on the right said, “a fascinating subject.”
“Yes,” Max agreed. “And the most interesting thing is, there’s so much of it. Space, that is. It’s probably never occurred to you, but space, you know, is all around us. Most people don’t think much about that. They take it for granted. Space, that is. As a scientist, however, I appreciate that. Whenever I want to study a little space, all I have to do is open a window, and there it is. Space. That makes it quite convenient for me. I don’t have to send out for it, and wait for the delivery truck to arrive.”
“Yes, that’s an advantage we pathologists don’t have,” the scientist in the middle said.
Max nodded. “I have noticed an acute shortage of paths,” he said.
“No, no,” the scientist smiled. “A pathologist is a medical doctor who makes a study of cadavers.”
Max squinted at him. “Mushrooms?”
“Cadavers are dead bodies.”
“Oh. Yes, now that you mention it, I have noticed an acute shortage of dead bodies. But… things will pick up, I’m sure. One little epidemic, and your problem will be solved.”
The pathologist sighed. “It’s too much to hope for,” he said. “Doctors today have no regard for science. An epidemic starts, and, right away, they rush in and stop it.” He sighed again, more deeply. “It’s not like the old days.”
“For that matter, what is?” Max sympathized. “There’s the story of Wilbur and Orville Wright, you know, when they still had that bicycle shop, before they even thought about inventing the airplane. One day, one of their customers said to Orville, ‘Wilbur,’ he said, ‘one of these days, man is going to fly to the moon-what do you think of that?’ Well, Orville-or Wilbur, as the case may be-looked at the customer for a moment, then, very dramatically, he said, ‘Hand me that socket wrench, will you?’ ”
The scientists stared at Max dumbly.
“He was putting a wheel on a bicycle,” Max explained.
One of the scientists groaned softly. Another closed his eyes, as if he wanted to be alone. The third scientist left to freshen up his milk shake.
“After he put the wheel on, he attached a basket to the handlebars,” Max said. “Bicycles were used as beasts of burden in those days.”
“I think we better mingle some more, Max,” 99 said.
“Yes…”
3
As they moved away from the two scientists, 99 suddenly clutched Max’s arm. “Max! Look! Over there! Across the room! A clean-shaven scientist!”
But Max refused to look. “I’ve been rebuffed enough for one day,” he pouted. “No more scientists.”
“But, Max! Clean-shaven!”
Max ventured a peek. “Hmmmmm. You’re right, 99. And, he looks like a good-natured sort, too. Well, all right, we’ll approach him. But he better be in better humor than the other scientists we’ve tackled today. One more icy stare, and I’m going to my stateroom and hide my head and not come out until I get a written apology-in triplicate!”
“Max, don’t be so sensitive.”
“A secret agent has feelings, too, you know.”
“But you’re supposed to hide them, Max.”
“That’s what I intended to do-under a pillow, and not come out until I got a written apology-in triplicate.”
“Look, Max! The clean-shaven scientist! He’s laughing! You’ll like him!”
Max stared at her icily. “99, a secret agent can’t pick and choose. A secret agent has to go anywhere, and meet anybody, and like it. A secret agent can’t afford to have feelings.”
“All right, Max.”
Slowly, inconspicuously, Max, 99 and Fang made their way toward the clean-shaven scientist, who was in conversation with another of the bearded scientists.
When they neared them, the clean-shaven scientist extended a hand to Max, smiling jovially. “Hello there,” he said. “I saw you slowly making your way in this direction. I’m Herbert Wai-pronounced ‘Y’.”
“Mr. ‘Y’?” Max said, taken aback for a moment.
“Yes, ‘Y’-as in ‘Yellow young yoga in Yankeeland’.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “Or as in ‘X’?”
“I don’t follow you,” Mr. Wai replied.
“No, but ‘Y’ does follow ‘X’-which strikes me as being somewhat suspicious.”
“On the other hand,” Mr. Wai smiled, “ ‘X’ is also followed by ‘Z’.”
Max’s jaw fell. “Yes, I guess that clears you, all right,” he said. “Apparently, it’s all in the way you look at it. I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
