Who's Got the Button?

"That must be opportunity," Mike said to Davy. "Why don't you get it? You have to get up to answer the door anyway."

"What'll I tell it?" Davy asked, rising. "I've never been face to face with opportunity before."

"Invite it in for breakfast," Micky suggested. "Find out first, though, if it likes bananas."

Davy went to the door and opened it. A Western Union messenger was standing outside.

"Telegram," the messenger said, offering Davy a yellow envelope.

"It does no good," Davy replied. "You can tell a gram, you can tell a gramps, you can tell a dad, you can tell a mum-- but they never listen. I just don't know what's to become of this older generation."

The messenger tried again. "I have a wire for the Monkees," he said.

"Is it signed 'opportunity'?" Davy inquired, accepting the envelope.

"I don't read 'em; I just deliver 'em," the messenger replied. He extended a hand. "How about a tip?"

"A tip, eh? All right, here's a tip: Never tie your shoelaces together before starting out on a long hike," Davy advised, closing the door.

Returning to the breakfast table, Davy waved the envelope. "Telegram," he announced to the other Monkees.

"Don't open it!" Peter cried, alarmed. "Telegrams always bring bad news!"

"Right," Mike agreed. "Napoleon, as I recall, got a telegram just before he was defeated at the battle of Waterloo."

"What did it say?" Micky asked curiosly.

"It said: 'Do not go to Waterloo today.'"

"What'll I do with the telegram?" Davy asked.

"Hold on to it until we're in desperate need of some bad news," Mike decided.

Davy stuffed the envelope into the sugar bowl.

The following day, Tuesday, as the Monkees were finishing breakfast, Micky grumbled, "Boy, what a dull day so far. I'd even welcome some bad news."

"We could read that telegram," Davy suggested.

"Too late," Peter said. "I had it on my cornflakes."

"Did you by any chance read it first?" Mike asked.

"Why would I read sugar?" Peter inquired. "But I can tell you how it tasted. It tasted like it said: URGENTLY REQUEST MONKEES PARTICIPATE IN CULTURAL TOUR BELLEVUE. ALL EXPENSES PAID. IMMEDIATE REPLY REQUESTED."

"That's terrible news!" Micky sobbed. "How did it happen? And-- even worse-- what does it mean?"

"How did it taste like it was signed?" Mike asked Peter.

"Like the Government," Peter replied.

"Hmmmm... apparently the Government wants us to perform at Bellevue," Mike mused. "Isn't that a hospital in New York?"

"What kind of a crack is that?" Micky asked belligerently. "Is the Government trying to say our music is sick?"

"I can explain that," Peter said. "The telegram had a P.S. It tasted like it said: BELLEVUE TINY EUROPEAN KINGDOM ABOUT THE SIZE POSTAGE STAMP."

"That clears it up," Mike said. "As I understand it, the Government wants us to tour the tiny European kingdom of Bellevue, playing and singing, and, by the force of our winning personalities, sell the Bellevuians on the American Way of Life. Right?"

"The part about winning personalities sounds right enough," Davy replied. "But the rest of it doesn't make any sense at all."

"The question is, shall we go?" Mike asked.

"First, we'd better check the schedule and see if we can fit it in," Peter pointed out. "Anybody seen the schedule?"

"The last I saw of it, it was in the sugar bowl," Mike said.

"We better make up a new one, then," Micky said. "Let's see... Wednesday is the day the landlord comes for the rent, so we'll be in hiding. Thursday is the day the sheriff comes to collect for the overdue library books, so we'll be in hiding. And Fri--"

"You know, Bellevue might be a nice place to go into hiding," Davy suggested.

"Then that settles it," Mike said. "We'll get off a telegram-- collect-- to the Government, telling them--"

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Is it Wednesday already?" Peter asked. "What happened to the rest of Tuesday?"

"That's not the landlord's knock," Davy said, heading toward the door. "He always uses both fists. That was a one-knuckle knock." He opened the door.

Crouching outside, glancing about furtively, was a small, thin, mysterious-looking stranger. He was dressed all in black: a black slouch hat pulled down over his eyes; a flowing black cape held up to cover the lower portion of his face; black silk suit; black tie; and black suede shoes.

"Is it Black Friday already?" Peter asked. "What happened to the rest of Tuesday?"

"Sh-sh-sh-sh!" the mysterious stranger warned, entering. "The walls have ears!"

He proceeded to the nearest chair, lifted the cushion, and looked under it. Satisfied, he checked the underside of the table and then inspected the lamp, peering under the shade.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" Micky asked. "Or just browsing?"

The mysterious stranger touched a finger to his lips. "A bug," he whispered.

"You're in the wrong room," Peter advised him. "Try the kitchen."

"He means he thinks there's a microphone planted in here," Mike explained.

Micky ran a finger through the dust on the table. "No problem," he said. "It'd never grow in this soil."

Having inspected the rest of the room thoroughly, the mysterious stranger ended the search. He smiled evilly. "All clear; we can talk now," he said. "Greetings, Monkees! I am from the Government. I am H.P.I.Smith-- your interpreter. I will accompany you on your tour of the postage stamp-sized european kingdom of Bellevue, where, by the force of your winning personalities, you will sell the Bellevuians on the american way of Life."

"H.P.I.?" Davy asked.

"Jose Pierre Ivan-- I speak Spanish, French, and Russian."

"Hold it," Mike said suspiciously. "How did you get here so fast? We haven't sent our telegram of acceptance yet."

"We're trying to cut down on expenses," Smith replied. "We wanted to avoid getting a collect telegram. And, besides, we were positive you wouldn't refuse. There was one aspect of the offer that we were certain would be irresistible."

"You mean the part about culture," Davy said.

"No, the part about all expenses paid."

"That did kind of get us right here," Micky admitted, indicating his heart.

"It sure is a great honor, being asked to represent the Government in a foreign country," Peter said to Smith.

Mike still seemed somewhat suspicious. "Aren't you dressed a little oddly for an interpreter?" he asked Smith.

"Don't forget-- I was a mysterious stranger before I was an intepreter," Smith replied cagily.

"Quick!" Mike challenged. "Say something in Bellevuian!"

"E Pluribus Unum," Smith snapped back.

Mike shrugged, convinced. "For a minute, there, I thought you were a phony," he said.

"Just a doggone second," Micky said. "That's English." He got a coin from his pocket. "Look-- it's right here on this American quarter."

Mike eyed Smith narrowly, his doubts revived. "Explain," he commanded.

"Elementary," Smith responded, smiling evilly once more. "English has become the official language in Bellevue. In the beginning they had no language at all-- only hand signals. But they found themselves continually coming in second best in international spelling bees. Because nobody had enough hands to spell antidisestablishmentarianism. So they adopted English as their language."

"Finally, something's beginning to make sense," Mike said.

"But doesn't it raise another question?" Micky said thoughtfully. "If the Bellevuians speak English-- and we speak English-- why do we need an interpreter?"

"Maybe they don't speak English so good like us do," Peter suggested.

Micky shook his head. "By the evil way this guy smiles," he said, indicating Smith, "my guess is there's another answer."

"Oh... all right," Smith said resignedly. "I suppose you'd find out sooner or later, anyway. I'm not an interpreter. I'm a spy. I'm taking you boys with me to Bellevue to help me carry out an espionage assignment."

The Monkees peered at him, dumbfounded.

"You seem surprised," Smith said. "I don't understand why. Why else would an interpreter be dressed in a black cape, black hat, black silk suit, black tie, and black suede shoes?"

"Don't forget that you were a mysterious stranger before you were an interpreter," Peter pointed out.

"What fooled me was the black tie," Micky said. "I thought you were just coming back from a formal party."

"Now that the secret is out-- how about it?" Smith asked.

"The answer is no," Mike informed him. "An unqualified, unconditional, absolute NO!"

"Good-- you're keeping an open mind," Smith said. "That will make it easier to con you into cooperating. Let me tell you about this mission. Do you remember World War Two?"

"Not personally; but I saw the movie," Micky replied. "The part I liked best was the end, where Irving, the Wonder Dog, wrapped it up single-handed. Or maybe it was single-pawed."

"That was World War One," Smith corrected him. "Pray let me continue my exposition. At the close of World War two, with the Axis defeated, the entire colony of German scientists who had specialized in developing terrible weapons were suddenly and cruelly thrown out of work. Well, they sat around in the parks for weeks, playing chess, solving cryptograms, idling aimlessly back and forth between their benches and the water fountain. They were, in short, rapidly losing incentive."

"If this is going to be a story with a sad ending, I don't want to hear it," Micky said.

"Hold on-- let me continue. It perks up. Anyway, it suddenly occured to a highly placed but unidentified official of one of the Big Powers that the scientists' inactivity constituted a terrible waste. He sounded the alarm. 'It's later than we think!' he said. 'Before we know it, we'll be right smack-dab in the dingdong middle of World War Three, and we'll be scrambling around like a bunch of kitty cats on a hot tin roof, looking for a bunch of terrible weapons. Let's get those boys back to the drawing boards!'"

"Great story!" Davy applauded.

"Tell the part about the water fountain again," Peter urged. "That was my favorite."

"I'm not finished," Smith said. "As it eventually worked out," he continued, "the Big Powers drew straws for the scientists. Each Power got an equal number. But at the end of the drawing there was one scientist left over. No one wanted him."

A large tear rolled down Micky's cheek. "You promised it wouldn't be sad," he sobbed.

"Don't worry," Mike soothed. "I've heard this story before. The ugly duckling grows up to be a beautiful swan."

Micky beamed.

"And gets locked up in a zoo," Davy added.

Micky broke into tears again.

"As a matter of fact, that's exactly the way it happens-- only without the zoo," Smith said.

Micky beamed again.

"The leftover scientist," Smith continued, "wasn't truly worthy of the name. He had never in his life invented a terrible weapon. The best he'd ever done was to invent a better mousetrap. He left it outside on the stoop one night, and it was trampled and broken when people started beating a path to his door. So, unwanted by the Big Powers, he was picked up cheap by the tiny kingdom of Bellevue."

"And that's when he grew up to be a beautiful swan?" Micky guessed hopefully.

"Close." Smith smiled evilly.

"A beautiful water fountain?" conjectured Peter.

"Well..."

"A beautiful water fountain in the shape of a beautiful swan?" Mike postulated.

Smith shook his head. "You'll never guess," he said. "The years passed. This honky German scientist sat tinkering away in his workshop-- supported by His Highness, the king of Bellevue-- coming up with one clunker after another. He invented the automobile, the airplane, the electric toothbrush--"

"Hey, that's pretty good going," Mike broke in. "Why do you call them clunkers?"

"That's another story," Smith replied. "The important thing is that finally this scientist hit the jackpot. He developed the most powerful weapon ever known to mankind."

"A beautiful water fountain in the shape of--" Peter began.

"I told you you'd never guess," Smith interrupted. "He invented-- a button!"

The Monkees stared at him, baffled.

"I don't get it," Peter said. "Where does the water come out?"

Micky looked down at the front of his shirt, panic in his eyes. "E-e-e-e!" he sceamed. "I'm crawling with powerful weapons!"

"I can see you need a little additional filling-in," Smith said. "This button is a very special button. If punched, it would detonate every atomic bomb in the world!"

"I see," Mike nodded. "The Big Power countries have the bombs, but little ol' Bellevue has the button." He frowned thoughtfully. "Couldn't that be dangerous?"

"Worse," Smith replied. "Life has always been dangerous. But, before, it's mostly been dangerous for the other guys. Now, it's dangerous for us." He grinned evilly. "Bellevue, the only country with no atomic bombs, is the only country that's safe," he said. "Amusing, isn't it?"

"That's going to depend a lot on how careful Bellevue is with that button," Mike answered. "Suppose the button was sewed onto somebody's hip pocket and then that somebody accidentally sat down?"

"Precisely," Smith said. "That is why the button must be destroyed."

"How would you go about a thing like that?" Davy inquired. "You couldn't just hit it with a hammer."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Smith replied. "First, we must get possession of the button."

"And that's why you want us to go to Bellevue with you?" Mike asked. "To go feeling around in the dark for that button?"

"What better cover for spies," Smith smirked evilly. "A band of innocent young troubadours and their innocent middle-aged interpreter... who would ever suspect?"

"I suppose it's our duty," Micky said gloomily.

"Now, wait a minute," Mike said. "Let's not jump to conclusions. How do we know what the Bellevuians intend to do with that button? For all we know, they may have nothing more serious in mind than printing 'Oh, You Kid!' on it and keeping it as a souvenir."

"Aha!" Smith giggled. "That is the 'other story' I mentionned. As the most powerful nation in the world, Bellevue is already plotting to flex her muscles!"

As one, the Monkees leaned forward expectantly. "Yes?" they said in unison.

"By the force of his winning personality-- and The Button--" Smith explained, "King Hiram of Bellevue intends to sell the Bellevuian Way of Life to the entire world!"

"And just suppose we don't care to buy!" Micky said pugnaciously.

"VROOOOOOM!" Smith replied.

"He's got a pretty good selling point there," Micky admitted.

"I repeat-- let's not be hasty," Mike cautioned. "What exactly is the Bellevuian Way of Life?" he asked Smith.

"It's what you might call The Good Old Days-- in a word, terrible," Smith replied. "To give you an idea, the major industry in Bellevue is buggy whips."

"That is terrible!" Davy winced. "Anybody who would strike a buggy is no fit person to force his way of life on the rest of the world."

"Just a second-- that doesn't make sense," Mike said to Smith. "Why buggy whips?"

"Because, to give you another example, the major means of transportation in Bellevue is the horse and buggy," Smith answered. "Allow me, pray, to list a few more such examples for you. The principal form of entertainment in Bellevue is the Sunday band concert in King Hiram Park. The main means of communication is the pony express. And the symbol the Bellevuians worship is the chicken."

"That other stuff is understandable enough," Micky said. "But... the chicken? Why would anybody worship a chicken?"

"Because in Bellevue the egg is money," Smith explained. "Whereas we buy and sell by the dollar, the Bellevuians buy and sell by the egg."

"Man, they must have some awful messy vending machines,' Davy said.

"They have no machines whatsoever," Smith said. "When Dr. Von Schnook, the German scientist, invented the automobile, the airplane, and the electric toothbrush, he very nearly got himself banished from the kingdom. They called him a troublemaker."

"Don't they even know about automobiles and airplanes and electric toothbrushes?" Mike asked.

"Oh, they know about them. But they refuse to accept them. The Bellevuians are dedicated to resisting progress to the very last man. They have an old saying in Bellevue that sums up their philosophy pretty neatly. It goes, 'If the chicken had intended man to have the machine, it would have given him a gas tank.'"

"Well, guys," Mike said to the other Monkees, "what do you think? Do we become spies?"

"I'm for it-- if we don't have to wear black capes," Davy said. "Something has to be done about those Bellevuians. I wouldn't care to spend every Sunday at a band concert."

"And I don't think I could ever bring myself to whip a buggy," Micky said.

"Frankly, I think we're worrying about nothing," Peter said. "I still don't think they'll ever get water out of that button."

"All for one, and one for all-- and that includes you," Mike said to Peter. He turned back to Smith. "We're with you," he said. "When do we leave?"

"Whenever you're ready." Smith grinned evilly. "I have a jet helicopter parked right outside. We'll parachute into Bellevue secretly."

"I thought this was supposed to be a cultural tour," Mike said. "Won't they be expecting us?"

"Of course," Smith replied. "I'm only a so-so spy. I never could keep a secret."

The Monkees collected their instruments and then, led by H.P.I.Smith, left their pad.

"This Dr. Von Schnook must be a big hero in Bellevue, the way he put the country on the map," Mike said to Smith.