by Steve Cole
They moved quickly, stuffing the guards in the storeroom and hiding behind the door as the sound got louder – lighter clips and clops mingling with the heavy stamp of metal hooves …
Pat had to stifle a gasp as T-117 the ter-moo-nator clanked past a storeroom door – with Professor McMoo firmly in his grip.
“We’re too late,” said Bo grimly. “The professor’s a prisoner!”
Professor McMoo was led by the ter-moo-nator through a maze of dark, winding tunnels. Suddenly, ahead of him, came the same deep and powerful roar that he and Pat had heard while talking to Bessium Barmus. It was coming from behind a metal door in the wall.
“What is that noise?” McMoo demanded. “You know, above ground, they think it’s a ghost.”
“That is good,” said T-117, shoving him towards the door. “Fear of ghosts keeps people away … so our secret underground workshop stays undiscovered.”
“Workshop?” McMoo frowned. The roar behind the door was getting louder, building to a steady, throaty growl. The ter-moo-nator pressed a button and the door slid up – to reveal a vast chamber filled with red light.
It was as hot as an oven, and the noise was deafening. McMoo stuck his hooves in his ears. In the middle of the chamber stood something very long and very large, covered by a black protective sheet. But McMoo’s attention was distracted by the goings-on in the rest of the room. Bulls in protective suits were smelting iron in one corner. Drums of oil were stacked in another. A sort of garage had been set up in the third corner, where bull mechanics were crowded around a large, metal framework. And in the fourth corner, buffalo scientists were sitting at a long workbench, tinkering with hi-tech electronics and machine parts. The bone-shaking noise was coming from a huge, incredible engine, hanging on heavy wires from the ceiling.
“Switch it off!” bellowed T-117. A buffalo rushed to obey and the sound slowly died.
“So that’s the so-called ‘ghost’s’ roar,” McMoo realized. “The roar of engines!”
“Correct,” said the ter-moo-nator, crossing to the workbench with its electronic bits and bobs. “It was the engine that caused the fire. Each time we try to fit it with a mega-thrust power booster, it goes wrong.”
“I recognize those parts,” murmured McMoo. He turned to T-117. “They’re the ones you stole from the Palace of Great Moos – bits from all the latest air-cars and travel-pods.”
The ter-moo-nator smiled. “How else can we make our engines the most powerful in history?”
McMoo looked at him worriedly. “But what are the engines for?”
T-117 strode over to the huge, dark shape in the middle of the chamber – and whipped away the covering sheet. McMoo stared in amazement. Beneath it stood a giant, chunky chariot made from gleaming metal. It had massive rubber wheels with metal spikes sticking out.
“The engines will power machines like this, Professor,” cried the ter-moo-nator triumphantly. “The F.B.I. Roman war-wagon – the super-charged chariot that will change the face of history!”
Chapter Eight
THE RO-MOO-N EMPIRE
“So this is why you robbed so many electrical shops in your own time,” McMoo realized. “To help you build this thing!”
“And to build all its weapons,” said T-117, picking up a remote control. He pressed a button and a metal nozzle rose up from the chariot’s roof. “This is a curdle cannon. It fires sour milk and runny cheese over a distance of half a mile – a mixture so smelly it leaves its victims helpless.”
McMoo gasped as the nozzle fired a jet of stinky slush and splatted a target on the wall. The air filled with a deadly reek and he held his nose with both hooves. “What a pong!”
The ter-moo-nator picked up a large yellow gun. “And this is the butter bazooka. Anyone hit by its giant butter-bullets will become super-slippery. They won’t be able to stand up without sliding about, and any weapons will slip from their grip …”
“But the people of ancient Rome aren’t ready for advanced technology like this,” McMoo protested. “If they have weapons like this in the first century, they won’t live long enough to reach the second!”
“These chariots are designed to be used only by bulls,” said T-117. “With Emperor Nero’s unwitting support, the F.B.I. has been building a legion of Roman battle-cattle. Only the toughest, meanest gladiators get through – the rest are thrown to the lions.”
McMoo scowled. “That’s cold blooded moo-der!”
The ter-moo-nator just smiled. “Most of our gladiators will go into battle on their hoofs. But the brightest ones join the Elite – where they are trained to pilot the war-wagons.” T-117’s eyes glowed brighter. “Think of it, Professor. With such a powerful army, all Rome’s enemies – from the forces of Egypt to the Barbarian hordes – will be buttered, battered and utterly defeated. The Roman Empire will grow and grow … and it will never fall!”
“But I don’t understand,” said McMoo. “Why are you fighting for Nero and his human empire?”
“We are not,” hissed T-117. “Nero is a zero. He truly believes we want to make him Emperor of the World.” The robo-bull laughed. “He has let us use the Circus Maximus and the cattle market to train gladiators and build our war-wagons. He has allowed us to build a fierce and fearsome F.B.I. army, right in the very heart of Rome.”
T-117’s smug voice rose higher and higher. “But before Nero can use the war-wagons against Rome’s enemies … we shall use them against him!”
“Aha,” said McMoo. “And once you’ve taken control of the largest empire in the world, you will conquer the rest of the planet.”
“Precisely,” snarled the ter-moo-nator. “Bulls will rule all! But first you must fix the fault with the engines so we can fit the mega-thrust power booster. With that, the war-wagons will be able to soar over any obstacles in their way. Nothing will stop them!”
“Ah, yes, well …” said McMoo shiftily, eyeing the buffalo scientists and their electronic bric-a-brac. “This is clearly a very clever bit of kit. It could take me weeks to understand it, months even …”
“Do not play for time, Professor,” T-117 warned him. “You will work with our buffalo scientists. I want the power-boosters ready for testing within twenty-four hours.” The ter-moo-nator’s eyes glowed bright and green. “Otherwise, your puny friend Pat will be thrown to the lions once more – and you with him!”
“That wicked, evil ter-moo-nator,” muttered Pat. At that very moment, he and Bo were hiding just outside the workshop doorway, straining to catch every word that was being said. “And the poor professor. If only I could let him know I’m safe!”
“If you did, you wouldn’t stay that way for long.” Bo sighed. “I knew those war-wagons spelled trouble. I’ve been test-driving them with the Elite around the Circus all afternoon. Once the professor adds a power booster to the engines, they’ll be unstoppable.”
“And the F.B.I. will take over the world,” said Pat miserably. “They will turn all cows into crazy warlike creatures … and the future will turn into dung. Oh, if only we could rescue the professor!”
“I doubt if even he can do much against that army of gladiators down at the cattle market,” said Bo sadly. “They’re a tough, mean bunch.”
“Hang on!” said Pat, peering past her down the passageway. “I think someone’s coming – hide!” He dragged Bo into a small alcove in the tunnel wall – and just in time. Moments later, Lanista the white water buffalo came marching up to the workshop in a purple-edged toga. His horns were so pointy and wide he had to turn sideways just to get through the doorway.
“Ter-moo-nator T-117, report!” he shouted.
Leaving McMoo hard at work with the scientists, T-117 clanked over. “Yes, Agent Lanista?”
“We must speed up our plans,” said the water buffalo. “Now we know the C.I.A. has broken through our time shields and sent agents here, we can’t delay. Soon they may arrive in force. We must take over Rome as soon as possible.” He looked over at McMoo. “Do you think the
professor can solve the mega-thrust problem?”
“Yes,” said the ter-moo-nator. “He will not let his friend come to harm. There is a ninety-nine per cent probability that the power booster will be working by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Then we should test it in action,” said Lanista. “Tell Nero to open the Circus Maximus for a special chariot race tomorrow night at eight o’clock. I shall make sure that everyone vital to the running of Rome comes to watch – and that they are sitting in a special location.” He smiled. “These worthy Romans will make fine targets for the war-wagons’ curdle cannons and butter bazookas – and then we shall give the emperor himself a good sloshing!”
Bo and Pat had to put a hoof over each other’s mouths to stifle their gasps.
“Excellent, Agent Lanista,” said T-117 with a mechanical laugh. “With Rome’s wisest leaders out of the way, its people will have no one to turn to. Our army of cruel gladiators will catch them and make them into slaves.”
Lanista nodded. “Slaves who will build us more and more war-wagons with working mega-thrust power boosters – craft with the ability to leap buildings and travel over any terrain …” He threw back his head and laughed. “The Roman Empire will soon become the Ro-MOO-n Empire!” he cried. “This will be a chariot race no one will ever forget!”
Chapter Nine
THE BEST LAID PLANS OF MOOS AND MEN
Pat and Bo held their breath as T-117 went back to guard Professor McMoo in the workshop, and as Lanista strode away back down the passage.
“Should I nip after old handlebar-horns and punch his lights out?” wondered Bo.
“That won’t change what they’re planning, will it?” Pat sighed. “The F.B.I. will still have their chariots and their evil army over at the cattle market.”
“Well, what do we do, smarty-pants?” Bo glared at him. “I’m the one who’s going to have to drive one of those dumb war-wagons tomorrow.”
“Actually, that gives me an idea,” said Pat. “I’d better get out of here and after Lanista.”
“How are you going to do that?” Bo folded her arms. “You’ve lost your ringblender, remember? Any guard who spots a wandering bullock will raise the alarm!”
“Aha,” said Pat, reaching into his toga pocket. “But I still have the ringblender I was going to give to you before T-117 cow-napped me!” He snapped it in place and sighed. “Of course, I’m not sure the pink polka dots are really my style, but it will do.”
“And what about me?” Bo complained.
“Whatever happens, Bo, you must stay undercover,” Pat told her. “Don’t be mouthy, don’t try to rescue the professor, and definitely don’t punch anyone.”
She grinned. “You’re asking a lot, Pat.”
“We’re going to need you behind the wheel of a war-wagon tomorrow,” said Pat. “OK?”
“All right, little bruv,” said Bo. “But whatever your idea is, I hope it works. Or else, all history … is history!”
Pat followed Lanista through the gloomy stone passages, as the water buffalo took a secret exit out of the Circus Maximus. He had slipped Bo’s ringblender through his nose, so to human eyes he would look like a young boy and not a desperate cow agent on the run. As it was, he managed to make it out into the warm evening without being spotted.
Lanista walked around the outside of the Circus until he saw Bessium Barmus. She was sitting beneath her arch counting coins and looking very sorry for herself. He marched up to her, and Pat listened in on their conversation from behind a pillar.
“Hey, ticket woman,” said the water buffalo. He was wearing a ringblender too, and in his purple-edged toga Bessium saw him as a fine nobleman. “I have been sent by Emperor Nero to bring you good news.”
“Oh yeah?” said Bessium grumpily. “Like what?”
“Tomorrow night, at eight o’clock, the emperor is holding the first of his all-new, super-snazzy, extra-whizzy chariot races. It’ll be the most talked about event of the century!”
“YESSSS!” Bessium jumped up in delight, her flab wobbling. “I can charge special prices! Three people get in for the price of five …” She was starting to dribble. “I’ll make a mint!”
“But,” Lanista added, “it’s vitally important you let some special people in entirely free.”
Bessium stopped dribbling. In fact, she looked like she’d just swallowed a maggot the size of a sock. “F-f-free?”
“Free,” Lanista insisted, and handed her a scroll. “Hurry around the city tonight and give a free ticket to everyone on this list. Make sure they arrive nice and early – and make very sure they are all sitting together on the seats beneath the emperor’s private box.”
“Why should I?” Bessium spat.
“Because if you don’t, Nero will throw you to the lions,” snarled Lanista, “and we’ll see how many tickets you’ll sell for that!” But then he smiled charmingly. “And because if you do, I will give you a hundred gold coins!”
“Gold coins? Gold?” Bessium looked like all her Christmases had come at once, along with several birthdays and one or two Easters. “It’s a deal!”
Hidden behind his pillar, Pat nodded grimly. “So that’s how the F.B.I. will get the leaders of Rome together for target practice,” he muttered. “By relying on Bessium’s greed for cash!”
Bessium had started doing a very strange version of the conga in and out of her archway. She reached out her arms for Lanista, who turned his back and started to walk away. “Just make sure you don’t mess up, woman,” he warned her. “You must get everybody on that list to that very spot in the Circus – or else you’ll be giving those lions indigestion for weeks!”
But Bessium hardly heard him. She was too busy dancing and jiggling all about. “I’m rich!” she yelled, closing her eyes and throwing Lanista’s scroll up in the air …
It fell right into Pat’s hooves!
“Eh?” Bessium opened her eyes again and looked all about her. “Where did that stupid scroll go?”
Frantically, Pat unrolled the scroll behind his pillar. He had a plan, but he knew he didn’t have long. Dipping a hoof in some soot on the ground from the fire that afternoon, he scrawled something at the bottom of Lanista’s list. Then he rolled it back up and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Aha – that’s where the stupid thing landed,” said Bessium, grabbing it and plodding away. “Suppose I’d better get going …”
“And so had I,” murmured Pat to himself, hurrying back down the street and turning right towards the Circus. “I must try to get a message to the professor, to tell him I’m OK …”
“But you’re not OK, are you, Pat Vine?” said a voice behind him. “In fact, you’re in big trouble!”
Pat whirled round to find Lanista had stepped out of hiding. His heart sank as he saw the water buffalo was pointing a small gun straight at him.
“I don’t know how you got away from the Circus,” Lanista went on, “but you won’t walk free again. I’m going to keep a watch on you myself – all night long. This time there will be no escape!”
Chapter Ten
RAISING THE ROOF (WITH A HOOF AND AN OOF)
In the F.B.I.’s secret workshop, Professor McMoo wiped the sweat from his forehead. The buffalo scientists lay asleep all around him. He had been working on the mega-thrust power boosters all night, all morning and most of the afternoon – without a single cup of tea!
But he’d been so worried about Pat and Bo he had hardly noticed. Pat was a prisoner, of course – but what on earth had happened to the boy’s sister?
The door slid open and T-117 came clanking in. “It is almost six o’clock,” he bellowed, jerking the scientists awake. “Have you fixed the power boosters yet, Professor?”
“Just about,” McMoo admitted, picking up the rocket-shaped booster. “It’s a simple case of reversing the oil-flux power-feed and changing the polarity of the ignition vectors. I don’t know why you didn’t think of it yourself!”
“Finish the work,” the ter-m
oo-nator commanded.
“No!” McMoo dropped the booster onto the workbench. “Not until I know that Pat is safe and well!”
“Funny you should say that …” Lanista the water buffalo walked in – holding Pat in a hooflock.
“Pat!” McMoo beamed.
“I’m sorry, Professor.” Pat sighed. “I got away, but they caught me again and locked me up.”
“I’m glad to see you,” McMoo told him. “Are you all right?”
Lanista scowled. “He won’t be for long unless the power boosters work!”
“Yes, well,” said McMoo. “I’ve just got a few more minor modifications to make.”
“Your time has run out,” hissed T-117.
“Fine,” said McMoo. “I’ll stop. Throw Pat and me to the lions, if you like. But if you do, you’ll never find out how I was going to boost the power in your power boosters by fifty per cent …”
T-117’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “Fifty per cent?”
“That would give the war-wagons the power to jump a small mountain!” cried Lanista. “All right. We’ve still got two hours before the show kicks off … Get on with it!”
“Yes, sir,” said McMoo with a tiny smile to himself. He had just had an idea …
Up above, in the arena of the Circus Maximus, Bo was practising driving her war-wagon around the track. The controls were quite simple, so that cattle could work them. You pulled or pushed on a big joystick to steer yourself about. One hoof worked the speed pedal, and one worked the brake. You worked the butter bazooka with your nose and the curdle cannon with your spare hooves.
She looked out of the plastic window and saw other gladiators trying to steer their own wagons. They were getting better and better at it. And they seemed to be getting better at firing the guns too. For now, all they were firing was water. But Bo knew that would soon change …
“Maybe I could attack the other war-wagons?” she murmured to herself. “Stop them before they open fire?” But no, there were twelve of the mega-chariots trundling around the track. She wouldn’t be able to stop them all …
