Dell Publishing Company, New York. Issue No.1 June 1966 12cents
As Secret Agent 86 for Control, a top-secret government organization ( on our side), Max doesn’t go out of his way to look for trouble. It comes to him, and every case is a near disaster. Yet Max means business, and despite the bungling, ineptness and misapplied zeal with which he handles his death-defying assignments, he does manage to outsmart The Enemy.
It was a typical spring morning in New York City. The air was scented with carbon monoxide. A relative quiet hung over the metropolis, due to the fact that traffic was snarled in all directions. The only disturbing sounds were the popping of the buds and the gargling of the pigeons in Central Park.
Then, on Madison Avenue, the quiet was interrupted by the ringing of a telephone. The jangling came not from an office building or shop. It was somewhere on the street. Men and women hurrying to work glanced about curiously- but saw no telephone. Odd. But in New York City that made it commonplace. So, for the most part, the passersby ignored the phenomenon and hurried on.
The one person who could not disregard the ringing was Maxwell Smart- known to Control as Agent 86. Max was slight, tight-lipped, firm jawed, neatly-dressed young man. As the ringing continued, his expressionless eyes remained determinedly fixed on an imaginary point several yards to the front, as if he were trying to disassociate himself from the sound. Then finally he glared down at his right shoe and said testily, "All right, all right-I’m coming!" It was as if the telephone were hidden in his shoe.
In fact, it was. But Max needed privacy to answer it. Even in New York City, talking to your shoe on Madison Avenue is cause for attracting attention. And, being a secret agent, Max felt it a duty to keep his occupation a secret.
At the first phone booth he came to, Max stepped inside and pulled the door closed. He bent down, and with considerable difficulty, since the booth had not been built for the purpose of removing a shoe, he unlaced his right oxford, slipped it from his foot, then straightened and spoke into the sole, while listening at the heel.
Max: 86 here-that you, Chief?
Chief: What took you so long? I’ve been ringing you for a good ten minutes!
Max: Sorry, Chief. I was indisposed.
Chief: Oh…in the shower?
Max: No, taking a stroll…enjoying the carbon monoxide on Madison Avenue. It’s lovely at this time of year.
Chief: Max, I need you right away. There’s another crisis. How soon can you-
Max:(interrupting): Excuse me, Chief. Hang on a second.
Max turned toward the door of the booth, where, outside, a matronly middle-aged woman was rapping on the glass. He opened the door a crack and spoke to her.
"Sorry, Madam," he said, "this booth is in use."
"I have to make a call," the woman said irritably.
"This isn’t a dressing room, it’s a telephone booth. If you want to change your shoes, find a shoe store."
"Madam, I happen to be on the phone," Max said.
"You are not. The phone is on the hook."
Max glanced back over his shoulder. "Oh…that phone." Then, facing the woman again, he said, "It so happens, Madam, that I am talking through my shoe. Now…if you’ll excuse me…"
He pulled the door closed, and resumed his conversation with the Chief.
Taken directly from the first few pages of the long deleted Tempo paperback available for 60 cents in 1965.
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