The steward rolled his eyes heavenward, then walked off.
“Max, we’re not accomplishing anything here,” 99 said. “Let’s see if the party has started yet.”
“Just what I was going to suggest,” Max replied.
They returned to the lounge. Approaching it, they heard sounds of laughter and happy-talk.
“The party has started, all right,” Max said. “It sounds as if we’re just in time-the last ones to arrive.”
“Max, since we don’t know what Dr. X looks like, what shall we look for?” 99 said.
“Well… we know that he has disguised himself. And, what is the first thing a man does when he wants to hide his true identity? He puts on a false beard.”
“I see. So we look for a scientist with a false beard.”
“You phrase that very well, 99.”
They reached the entrance to the lounge-and halted. The room was chock-a-block with happy, smiling scientists. They were toasting each other, babbling away in scientific jargon, laughing and joking-all in all, having a thoroughly enjoyable time of it.
“Max…” 99 said thinly.
“Yes?”
“Do you notice something?”
“Yes. It’s very odd, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” 99 agreed.
“This is undoubtedly the first time I’ve ever seen a man drinking a milk shake with an olive in it,” Max said.
“An olive? Where?”
“Over there-the fellow with the beard.”
“Oh… yes. But, Max, that wasn’t what I meant. What I meant was-they’re all wearing beards!”
Max glanced around. “99, I think you’re right.”
“What do you mean, you think I’m right. They’re all wearing beards!”
“Let me put that another way: 99, you’re right.”
99 sighed. “It isn’t much help, is it?”
“Well, it does make our project a little more difficult,” Max replied. “But not impossible. One of those beards is a false beard. What we have to do is find it.”
“How? Pull every beard in the room? And suppose the diabolical Dr. X isn’t wearing a false beard? If all these other scientists are wearing real beards, maybe he is, too.”
Max scowled. “99, I think this calls for a change in tactics. Let’s assume that the real Dr. X, being a scientist, does wear a beard. Now, if you were in his shoes, and wanted to disguise yourself, what would you do?”
“Go barefoot?”
“Let’s stick to beards. If you had a beard and wanted to disguise yourself, what would you do?”
“Oh, I see. I’d shave it off.”
“Exactly. So what we’re looking for is a clean-shaven scientist.”
99 looked around again. “I don’t see any clean-shaven scientists.”
“Mark my word, 99. The diabolical Dr. X is here, and he is clean-shaven. Now, all we have to do is find him. And, to do that, all we have to do is mingle. Sooner or later, we’ll come across a clean-shaven scientist.” He motioned to 99 and Fang. “Let’s mingle.”
“Rorff!” Fang barked.
“I know, I know,” Max said. “I’m as bored by these parties as you are. Just don’t join in the conversation if it pains you so much. No one will expect you to have opinions, anyway.”
Max, followed by 99 and Fang, sidled up to two scientists who were in jolly conversation.
“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.