First Cows on the Mooon

by Steve Cole

  “I can see something,” said Pat, pointing to the ground. “More tiny specks of metal …” He touched them – then snatched his hoof away. “Weird. They feel hot.”

  “It’s a sunny day,” said Gertie.

  “I noticed some at the bottom of the service tower too,” Pat persisted.

  “Well …” Gertie nodded to the scientist. “He probably dropped them.”

  But the man shook his head. “Not me. Not much use for iron filings around here.”

  “Hey, what are these chalk marks on the outside of the spaceship?” Bo pointed to some neat little lines around the top and bottom of the craft.

  “It looks like someone’s been measuring it,” said Pat slowly. He turned back to the scientist. “Are you sure you haven’t seen anything suspicious?”

  The boffin shook his head.

  “Everything’s A-OK,” he repeated, and went back inside the cramped spaceship.

  “You think some intruder sneaked through security just to drop some iron filings and measure this here spaceship?” Gertie scoffed. “You’re plum crazy!”

  “Nah,” said Bo. “We hate plums.”

  “But we love clues.” Pat studied the oddly hot iron filings. “And if these are nothing to do with the scientists and there are more back down at ground level …”

  “They might just make a trail!” Bo grinned at her brother. “A trail leading someplace interesting. Let’s check it out!”

  Three miles away, McMoo was waiting in the Launch Control Centre for Blinkenshrink to produce his list of stolen components.

  In barely twelve hours, Apollo 10 would be launched from here, and the whole place was buzzing with activity. Scores of seats were laid out in rows next to consoles full of monitors, scopes and switches, all of them facing large windows that gave them a perfect view of the launch pad.

  “McMoo!” The director bustled up with a computer printout as big as a duvet. “Here you go – a complete list of everything that’s gone missing.”

  “Hmm!” McMoo surveyed the lengthy list. “Did you consider getting a different security chief – one who knows what ‘security’ actually means?”

  “I only promoted Barmer last week – after I’d sacked the previous three security chiefs for losing so much stuff.” Blinkenshrink sighed. “It doesn’t seem to matter who’s in charge. For crying out loud, we’ve got guards and workers all around the site, and yet the thieves seem to come and go as they please. I just hope they don’t steal anything else.”

  “Actually, I hope they do.” McMoo looked at him grimly. “If not, it means they already have everything they need – and their plans can go ahead!”

  Over by the rocket launch pad, Pat and Bo were hunting around for more of the mysterious iron filings, while Gertie Barmer watched impatiently.

  “There’s another few here,” Pat reported, plucking a piece from the concrete. “Not far from this hatch in the ground.”

  Bo lifted the metal hatch cover. Beyond lay a stainless-steel chute, leading down into darkness. “Wonder where that leads?”

  “It leads to a special room sixty metres underground,” said Gertie. “The launch crew shoot down there if they think the rocket’s about to blow up.” She nodded to two sentries standing guard close by. “But this whole area is watched all the time. Right, boys?”

  Both guards nodded. “Everything’s A-OK,” they said.

  “Right,” said Gertie. “So if you want to waste your time scrabbling on the ground, Lieutenants, go ahead. But me, I’ve got better things to do – like, go on my coffee break!” And with that, she wobbled away.

  Bo sighed. “That rotten old bat’s not very helpful, is she? I bet she’s working for the F.B.I.”

  “Maybe,” Pat agreed. “Though I’m starting to think that Dirty Gertie is right – this trail business is in our heads.”

  “Maybe she just wants us to think that,” said Bo. “I think we should ignore her and zip down that chute. We might find the F.B.I.’s secret lair!” She waved to the guards as she sat in the chute. “Is it OK to explore down here?”

  “A-OK, ma’am,” the guards called back. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Not very bothered, are they?” Pat remarked.

  “Don’t knock it!” With a grin, Bo launched herself headfirst down the steel tube. “Geroni-moooooo!”

  Heart pounding, Pat swung himself inside after her.

  “Whooaaa!” he cried, eyes wide as he whizzed down the dark tunnel … and then landed with a bump on a hard floor.

  “What took you so long?” Bo was already exploring their surroundings – a large square room full of funny couches. One doorway led to a small bathroom. Bo poked about in there while Pat investigated an equally tiny kitchen area.

  “Hey, look here on the floor,” he said “More of those filings!”

  Bo studied his find and then looked up. “I wonder …” She crossed to a tall cupboard – the only free-standing furniture in sight – and shunted it aside to reveal a large hole in the wall. “Aha! Unless they have really big mice around here, this must be a secret tunnel. Let’s explore!”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Pat frowned. “But if the F.B.I.’s agents have been coming and going through that steel chute on the surface, how come none of the guards outside have noticed?”

  “Who cares? We’ve noticed.” Bo ducked inside. “Hmm, I smell cowpats. We’re on the right track!”

  “I wish we knew what the F.B.I. is up to, here in 1969,” Pat murmured. “Why do they need the professor’s ZEN-generator?”

  Bo shrugged. “It makes special magic holes in the ground, doesn’t it? Maybe that’s what they used to build this tunnel.”

  “Could be,” Pat agreed. “I wonder where it leads?”

  “My luminous udder will light the way!” Bo moved cautiously into the gloom and Pat started after her. “No,” she told him. “You wait here in case anyone tries to sneak up behind us. If I find anything, I’ll come straight back.”

  Pat nodded, watching as Bo’s glowing udder bobbed away like a lantern. Further and further along the dark passage she went …

  Then, suddenly, he heard her startled voice. “You again!”

  Pat gasped. In the eerie glow of Bo’s udder he could see Dexter the calf standing on his back legs, blocking her way. And he wasn’t alone. Other calves were stepping out of the shadows to join him – proper tough-nuts. A shaggy heifer … a beige bison … a white water buffalo … There were maybe twelve of the young cattle in all.

  “Well, well,” Dexter snarled. “A nosy cow has found our hideout. Looks like we’ll have to teach her what happens when you stick your nose into F.B.I. business. Right, moon-calves?”

  The menacing gang closed in on Bo …

  Chapter Six

  POISON!

  Pat automatically started forward to help his sister. But without turning round, she raised a hoof to him, warning him to stay hidden. He hesitated – then shrank back into the shadows.

  As the mysterious moon-calves attacked, Bo spun round on one hoof – kicking Dexter, tail-whipping the bison and punching the heifer on the conk. All three were sent crashing against the tunnel walls. But then, to Pat’s horror, the water buffalo blasted Bo with a steaming stream of yellow gloop.

  A butter bazooka, he thought grimly. Again he started forward to help Bo – but she turned and fiercely shook her head. Wait! she mouthed – as a Jersey calf with a cream-cheese cannon joined the attack, slooshing her with a stinky tidal wave of sludge.

  Pat covered his eyes. Much as he hated it, he knew Bo was right – if he went to rescue her now without a plan, he’d soon be overcome too.

  “There,” said the heifer nastily. “That’s put her out of action for a while.”

  “Let’s tell our masters,” said Dexter, “so they can decide what to do with her before we go to the Foaming Sea.”

  As the crowd of cattle moved away, Pat tiptoed over to his poor brave sister. She lay sprawled in a huge sticky puddle of dairy
direness. But to his relief, her eyes were already flickering open. “Get after them, bruv,” she whispered. “Find out how many there are and where they’re hiding – then get out, quick as you can. Those moon-calves play for keeps.”

  Pat nodded and slipped out of his jacket. “I’ll take off this uniform and my ringblender – then I won’t stand out so much. But what about you? If the ter-moo-nators come to get you …”

  “I’ll go and get the professor and some guards,” Bo told him. “I’ll warn them that this barmy baby army is up to something in the Foaming Sea.”

  “Wherever that is,” muttered Pat, passing her his human clothes and his ringblender.

  “Go on, get going.” Bo gave him a quick hug. “And be careful!”

  “You too,” Pat told her. Then he crept stealthily away.

  Back at Launch Control, McMoo sat at a desk with a dozen pads of paper in front of him. While Blinkenshrink held meetings with his team of technicians and engineers – ensuring that all was ready for the Apollo 10 launch – the professor was scribbling wildly, drawing demented diagrams and complex equations with a thick black marker.

  “Come on,” he muttered to himself. “Work it out – what could those ter-moo-nators be trying to build?”

  He heard a heavy stomping noise and looked up to find Gertie Barmer waddling into the busy room. Smoky Joe, the hot papa, was behind her – but Pat and Bo were not.

  “Ah, Barmer.” Blinkenshrink broke off from his meeting. “Have you found our intruder?”

  “No, sir,” said Gertie grumpily. “But I’ve put more guards on the exits and entrances, and I’ve talked to every man on watch out there. No one’s seen a single suspicious thing.”

  “But, dang it all, they must have seen something!” cried the director. “Or did this intruder go floating over their heads?”

  “FLOATING!” boomed McMoo, jumping up. “Blinkenshrink, you’re brilliant. That’s it! I know what all these stolen parts and components could be used to make. Combine them with ‘extra nothingness’ from my ZEN-generator and you could make an anti-gravity device!”

  Gertie stared blankly. “A what?”

  “Gravity is a force,” McMoo explained. “It’s what keeps our feet on the ground. It’s what keeps the moon spinning around the earth, and the planets whizzing around the sun.”

  “And it’s the reason why our Saturn V rockets are so big,” added Blinkenshrink. “They have to be strong enough to beat the earth’s gravity in order to push our moonships into space.”

  Gertie grunted. “So what does an anti-gravity wotsit do?”

  “It makes something heavy weigh nothing at all,” said McMoo.

  “And it’s impossible,” said Blinkenshrink flatly. “It’s science fiction. McMoo, you’re talking bull.”

  “Oh, I know bull, believe me,” said the professor. “And I also know when I’m right. Which is most of the time, and especially now. So if you can’t do something helpful like believe me, get me a cup of tea.”

  “Me?” Blinkenshrink was turning red. “Me, the director of this space centre, get the tea?”

  “I’ve brought you a cup, Major-General McMoo,” said Smoky Joe, who had been hanging back in silence. “Here.”

  The director looked ready to explode. “Joe, you’re a firefighter! Since when do you make the tea?”

  “And how come you haven’t washed yet?” Gertie demanded. “You’ve still got poop on your head.”

  “Don’t mind them, Smoky, I’m glad you popped by.” The professor took the tea. “Cheers!” He swigged it down in a single gulp – and then clutched at his throat. “Aaargh!” Suddenly, his head started spinning. His tum felt full of nails.

  “What’s wrong?” snarled Barmer. “Did he make it too weak?”

  “I think … he made it with poison!” McMoo fell to his knees and went cross-eyed. “Deadly poison, by the taste of it. If I don’t get an antidote … I’m finished!”

  “Holy guacamole!” Blinkenshrink knelt down beside the wilting professor and stabbed a finger at Smoky Joe. “Barmer, arrest that man!”

  “Yes, sir.” Barmer grabbed Joe in a bear hug.

  “That’s fine,” Joe murmured, as if in a trance. “Everything’s A-OK.”

  “It is not,” the director groaned. “What’s the President going to say when he finds that his security inspector’s been poisoned at my space base – barely an hour before our moon mission is due to launch? Somebody call an ambulance!”

  “No,” said McMoo weakly. “I’m staying. Whoever did this wants me out of the way. But I must get the antidote. Or the an-tea-dote!” He struggled up. “Where’s the cafeteria?”

  “There’s one on the next floor down,” said Blinkenshrink.

  “Come with me – quick!” The professor lurched away. He almost tumbled down the stairs and nearly collapsed in the corridor, but with a supreme bullish effort he reached the canteen. “Right! You know how you can sometimes solve a problem with brute force?”

  Blinkenshrink nodded.

  “Well, I intend to solve this problem with brewed force – the power of tea, taken to the max!” McMoo grabbed a vast catering urn of hot steaming tea, sniffed it to make sure it was safe, then gulped down litre after litre. “More!” he whispered. “This is good strong stuff. It might just drive out the poison!”

  “This is crazy.” Blinkenshrink chucked a box of tea bags into another huge urn, then emptied a bottle of milk into it too. “Crazy!”

  “But tea-licious.” McMoo glugged down every last drop of the second batch of hot brown brew, then belched loudly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me …” He dashed out and vanished into the gents’ washrooms.

  Blinkenshrink winced to hear a noise like a hosepipe squirting enough water to fill a swimming pool – then the flush of a toilet.

  Finally, the professor emerged, looking a little brighter. “I think … my an-tea-dote worked!”

  “You could’ve died,” the director said grimly.

  “True,” said McMoo, “but still, all that tea – what a way to go!”

  “Well, I’m heading back upstairs.” Blinkenshrink rushed away. “For crying out loud, I’ve got a rocket launch to look after!”

  “And I’ve got Pat and Bo,” McMoo muttered. “Where are they?” Still feeling a little wobbly, he followed the director out. “Something must be about to happen – something that the F.B.I. don’t want me to see. But what?”

  Chapter Seven

  DEADLY DISCOVERIES

  In the mysterious tunnels beneath the moon mission’s launch pad, Pat could hear voices up ahead. He held his breath as he rounded the corner and found himself in a large cavern lit by lanterns. A low mooing murmur of voices sounded from inside.

  Quickly, Pat concealed himself among some strange quilted suits hanging from pegs on the wall so that he could peep out safely.

  With a shiver, he saw that T-207 and T-312 were standing in front of a ramshackle cylinder as big as a bus; it was made of mashed-up metal plates and countless spare parts. Inside, it was crammed with controls – including the yellow lever from the ZEN-generator. Dexter, the shaggy heifer, the beige bison, the water buffalo – and eight other moon-calves – were gathered around the gigantic tin can.

  “We got the milk-cow good, masters,” said Dexter.

  “She will make a useful slave,” grated T-312. “Fetch her.”

  The water buffalo bowed his outrageous horns and ran off. Pat hoped his sister was safely out of harm’s way by now.

  T-207 smiled. “Now that Dexter has brought us the final components, our anti-gravity device works perfectly.” He started to hang small silver rings at regular intervals around the outside of the canister. “We are ready to launch our mission to the Foaming Sea.”

  “Ringblenders …” Pat realized. Below them, he noticed that four large silver platters had also been attached to the bodywork, connected to each other by glowing wires. “And F.B.I. time transporters too. They can’t be there just for decoration. What’s
going on?”

  “Let us proceed,” said T-312. “By now, Professor Angus McMoo will be in no fit state to warn the humans of our activities.”

  Why not? thought Pat anxiously. Then he froze as T-207 seemed to point right at him.

  “Put on your spacesuits,” rasped the ter-moo-nator.

  “Uh-oh,” said Pat as the rabble of cattle trotted towards him. “They’ll find me for sure!”

  He broke cover to a chorus of surprised moos and sped back down the tunnel. But the Jersey calf was still armed, and she fired a salvo of stinking cream cheese. SPLATT! It struck Pat’s hind legs. With a cry of pain, he stumbled and fell. Then the beige bison charged, horns lowered and ready to gore – but Pat hurled himself aside just in time, and the bison crashed into the wall.

  The evil heifer was next into the attack. But she skidded in the puddle of steaming cheese and collapsed, tripping the bison, who was following just behind. Pat flipped himself back upright – just as T-207 fired a laser and blasted chunks out of the rocky tunnel roof. Stone splinters stung Pat’s hide, but he raced on through the choking dust – until, BANG! He collided with the returning water buffalo’s humungous horns. Head spinning like a butter churn, Pat crumpled to the ground.

  “Well done, Waldo,” buzzed T-207.

  Waldo the water buffalo looked pleased with himself. “I was just running back here to say – the milk-cow’s disappeared.”

  Dexter looked cross. “She got away?”

  “Ha!” said Pat weakly. “She’s tougher than you thought.”

  “It does not matter that she has gone,” said T-312, marching over. “This bullock will become our slave instead – and a useful hostage. Should any more C.I.A. agents try to stop us, he will suffer!”