Get Smart 7 - Max Smart - The Spy Who Went Out to the Cold by William Johnston

the Chief won’t send itself.”
    “With our luck, he’ll probably be away on vacation,” the second voice said.
    The bandits could be heard departing. Then the tomb became quiet.
    “Max . . .” 99 whimpered.
    “I know, 99, we’re in a very tough spot. I can’t see any possible way out of this. Unless, of course, the Chief has returned from vacation and he sends someone to rescue us when he gets that telegram. But how would our rescuer know where to look? The bandits probably won’t mention the location of their hideout in that telegram.”
    “The mission is a total failure, Max.”
    “I know. Von BOOM is probably wandering around out there in the desert again. If KAOS doesn’t find him first, he’ll undoubtedly die of thirst or hunger or exposure—or all three.”
    “I wonder what happened to him, Max?”
    “Didn’t I make that clear? He wandered off. Apparently, I said the wrong thing again.”
    “But, Max, he was there when we went to sleep.”
    “99, just forget it.”
    “But, Max, I don’t understand. How could you have said the wrong thing? You weren’t awake.”
    “99, please—it’s very embarrassing.”
    “Max . . . you mean . . .”
    “All right, now you know—I talk in my sleep, 99. I’ve been trying to cure myself of the habit for years. But nothing works.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I guess I’ll be cured of it now, though. I’ve never heard of a corpse talking in its sleep.”
    “That’s what I like about you, Max. You always see the bright side.”
    “Thank you, 99. I hope we both get sent to the same museum.”
    “Max—I think I heard something! The bandits must be coming back!”
    “That was quick. There must be a telegraph office right here in the tomb.”
    “Maybe they phoned it in.”
    “Oh. Yes, I suppose that could explain it.”
    A few seconds later, they heard voices—but not the voices of the bandits. The speakers had British accents.
    “Desmond, we’ve been in here before,” the first voice said. “I recognize the surroundings. There—those mummy cases—they’re all vacant, remember?”
    “I’d be the last chap in the world to dispute your word, Archie,” a second voice replied. “But the surroundings are totally unfamiliar to me. And how do you know that those cases are empty? They’re all closed.”
    “Shall I prove it to you, dear boy?”
    “I’d be much obliged, Archie.”
    The lid of Max’s mummy case was lifted. Max found himself peering up into the faces of two middle-aged men who were dressed in khaki and wearing pith helmets. One had a drooping handle-bar mustache: The other did not.
    “There you are, chap—vacant as dear old Mother Hubbard’s jam closet.”
    “Archie, old boy, I’d be the last person in the world to dispute your word,” Desmond responded. “But isn’t that foreign-looking blighter in there a mummy? He has all the characteristics. The tape, you know. And that unhealthy complexion. I do believe he’s crumbling to dust.”
    “For your information,” Max said, “I have a very healthy complexion. And I am not a mummy. At least, I hope I’m not. I was childless when I was put in here.”
    Archie and Desmond exchanged looks.
    “Fantastic,” Desmond said. “Perfect preservation. He must be thousands of years old, and yet he functions as well as the day he was placed in this case. Too bad we don’t savvy his tongue, eh, chap? What a story he must have to tell!”
    “You idiots!” Max raged. “I’m not a mummy. I’m Agent 86. I’m a Control agent. Now, get me out of here!”
    Again, Desmond and Archie exchanged looks.
    “What do you make of it?” Desmond asked.
    “Quite unbelievable, old boy. He claims to be a Control agent. Yet, Control is an American organization. And, thousands of years ago, America did not even exist.”
    “Do you suppose he’s putting us on, Archie?”
    “Wouldn’t be surprised, Des. He does have that foreign look, you know.”
    “Max! Convince them!” 99