First Cows on the Mooon

by Steve Cole

  “We’ve done enough ‘business’ in here,” said Bo, holding her nose. “Let’s get going!”

  Just seventy miles from the moon, McMoo put Apollo 10½ into lunar orbit. Then, he and Bo changed into thick, extra-padded spacesuits and special helmets for the final stage of their epic voyage. They crawled into the lunar taxi that would take them to the surface, and broke away from the mother ship. Carefully, using short bursts of jet power to control their flight, the lunar taxi descended towards the barren grey desert of the moon. Closer it came. Closer and closer, until at last …

  Touchdown!

  Bo felt a thrill of wonder as McMoo opened the door onto a whole new world. For billions of years the moon had shone in the sky, but the idea of reaching it had seemed an impossible dream – until now.

  “Well, we did it …” McMoo hesitated in the doorway. “I suppose I should say it’s a small step for a bull – but a giant leap for cowkind!”

  “You should,” Bo agreed, “if you want to send everyone to sleep. Me, I’m going to say – Wheeeeee!” She jumped down, falling surprisingly slowly in the moon’s low gravity. “We’re the first cows on the mooooooo-n!”

  But then she looked up into the black sky, where the earth hung among the stars like a bright blue eye, and gasped.

  A gigantic tin can was glinting in the starlight above – and heading straight for them!

  Pat’s stomach was performing backflips as the F.B.I. prepared for landing.

  The ter-moo-nators’ technology had performed perfectly so far. As Apollo 10 had neared the moon, a flick of a switch had reversed the capsule’s magnets and flipped it free. The human astronauts never noticed a thing; they flew around the moon and then headed back to earth, their mission a success but uneventful – or so they thought.

  But the F.B.I. mission was just getting started. All that remained for the ter-moo-nators to achieve was a lunar touchdown …

  But to Pat’s incredulous delight, it seemed he might have some hope of rescue after all. Another Apollo ship was already parked proudly in the moondust, and two spacesuited figures stood beside it.

  Pounding parsnips! Pat thought. I’d recognize those two anywhere, even in space helmets. It’s—

  “C.I.A. agents McMoo and Bo Vine sighted!” droned T-312.

  The rabble of moon-calves mooed and grunted in disgust and dismay.

  “Impossible!” rasped T-207, his horns quivering. “McMoo cannot have arrived before us.”

  “But he has!” cried Pat triumphantly. “The C.I.A. will always be one giant step ahead of you.”

  Dexter scowled at Pat. “Squash them, masters!”

  “Splatter them!” added Waldo the water buffalo. “Grind them into moondust!”

  “Preparing to land,” T-207 rumbled. “Right on top of the C.I.A. scum!”

  Chapter Ten

  BATTLE BY EARTHLIGHT

  “Take cover, Bo!” McMoo ordered as the capsule swooped down overhead. He knew that, on the moon, gravity was one-sixth that of earth’s – which meant that they could leap six times as far! With a massive bounce, he somersaulted through the air, and Bo tumbled after him – just as the F.B.I. capsule landed beside them in a spectacular cloud of dust.

  Bo landed on her back, scraping her suit on rough moon rock.

  “Careful!” McMoo commanded, landing on one hand and cartwheeling onto his back legs. “One tear in your astronaut gear and your air will escape – it’ll be game over!”

  “I’m all right,” Bo assured him. “But how are we going to stop the ter-moo-nators and their little helpmates when they outnumber us seven to one?”

  “You cannot stop us!” roared T-207, kicking open the door to the capsule and stamping outside. He was wearing a space helmet that barely contained his silver horns – as was T-312, looming just behind him, his laser weapon primed for firing.

  “You were fools to come here,” T-207 continued. “Now you will be ter-moo-nated.”

  A blast of green laser-light shot from T-312’s wrist. McMoo dived aside and the moon rock behind him exploded in a storm of fragments. Thinking fast, he caught a stone and hurled it at T-312, catching him right on the space helmet.

  The ter-moo-nator’s eyes glowed angry red. “You will surrender at once.”

  “No way, beef-cheeks!” Bo shouted, throwing another chunk of rock at T-207. “We’ll go on fighting till you give us back my brother!”

  “Here he is!” snarled Dexter, flinging the tied-up Pat out through the capsule’s door. Pat landed with a muffled crunch. “Surrender now – or we take off his space helmet.”

  “Yeah!” yelled the beige bison, following Dexter out. “Let’s see how long he lasts with no air!”

  The other young cattle filed out of the capsule. Waldo the water buffalo was carrying two sacks labelled GRAIN, while the heifer held a crate of drilling equipment. “Kill them all now,” she snarled. “We’ve got an underground base to build.”

  “No, wait!” McMoo held up his hooves. “We surrender. Just do us a favour before you squish us, will you? Tell us why Dexter is wearing a perfect replica of a Russian spacesuit!”

  Bo frowned and looked at Dexter more closely. Sure enough, his suit was slightly different, with red strips along the arms, and badges in funny writing.

  “Very well,” said T-207. “Because—”

  “Oh, and can you also tell us why you want to build an underground base just here?” McMoo added.

  T-207 tried again. “Sensors show this area is rich in certain minerals which—”

  “And what’s all this about starting a terrible war among the humans?” Bo asked.

  “Yes, how will you do that?” Pat demanded, straining against the ropes that bound him.

  “WE ARE TRYING TO TELL YOU,” boomed T-312. “When the first American humans land on the moon in two months’ time - on the twentieth of July 1969 – we will be here to greet them. We will wear ringblenders and dress as Russian astronauts.”

  Bo frowned. “You want the Americans to think that their biggest rivals got to the moon ahead of them?”

  “Yes,” said T-207. “And then the ‘Russians’ will ter-moo-nate the US astronauts!”

  “That’s horrible.” McMoo was appalled. “Why would you ever do such a thing?”

  “The moon landing will be shown on live TV all over the world,” said Dexter. “When our masters squish those astronauts, over five hundred million humans will be watching.”

  “There will be outrage,” hissed T-207. “Accusations. Denials. Threats. Counter threats.”

  “Finally,” gloated T-312, “fear and hate between the Americans and the Russians will lead to all-out war.”

  McMoo nodded grimly. “A nuclear war that will leave the earth a radioactive wasteland.”

  “You’re loonies!” Bo shouted. “You’ll be killing millions of cows as well as humans.”

  “And the earth will take ages to recover,” said Pat.

  “We won’t care,” sneered Dexter. “We’ll be safe up here on the moon.”

  “We’ve brought all the things we need to build an underground moon base,” bragged the heifer. “The rocks in the Foaming Sea are rich in iron; we’ll use it to build lots of super-weapons.”

  “And we’ll plant special twenty-sixth-century crops that grow anywhere.” Waldo waved his sack of grain. “Even in moon soil.”

  The beige bison nodded. “We’ll even recycle our wee and use it as water.”

  “Remind me never to come for tea,” said McMoo. “I suppose that by the time the radiation’s faded, you young cattle will have grown up.”

  “We’ll be in our prime,” said Dexter, flexing his muscles.

  “And the ter-moo-nators will build us a spaceship so we can travel back to earth,” said the heifer happily. “We’ll be the first of a new master race of cows!”

  “And any surviving humans will be ter-moo-nated.” T-207’s voice rose in pitch and power. “The age of the Clever Cow will begin in the 1970s – almost six hundr
ed years ahead of schedule. And the F.B.I. will rule victorious for all time!”

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” said Pat, still trying to free himself. “Why did you need to hitch a ride with Apollo 10? Surely you could’ve taken a spaceship from the future and brought it back through time.”

  T-207 scowled. “It is true that in our own time, a huge lunar base covers this part of the moon. Cow scientists work there side-by-side with the hated humans on a new space programme.”

  “But we could not have stolen their technology without alerting the entire C.I.A.,” said T-312. “They would have sent an army of agents to stop us. So instead we have been super-sneaky.”

  “That’s for sure,” agreed McMoo. “And you’ve beaten us completely. The C.I.A. will be furious.” He gave Pat a knowing look. “Perhaps we should be given the sack.”

  “Once we have changed history by starting this war, the C.I.A. will no longer exist,” hissed T-312. “Its founder, Madame Milkbelly, will never be born.”

  “That’s sack-rilege!” McMoo was now looking between Pat and Waldo. Pat got the feeling the professor was trying to tell him something. “I mean, it goes against the grain …”

  Pat gasped as he realized McMoo was trying to draw his attention to the water buffalo’s sacks of grain – and guessed the professor’s plan. He finally untied the ropes that held him and mouthed to Bo, Get ready.

  “I think they’re up to something,” said Dexter. “Let’s get rid of them now before they—”

  “SACK ATTACK!” yelled Pat, grabbing a rock and hurling it at one of the bulging bags. It tore a hole in the sack, and suddenly a storm of grain erupted from inside, swirling like smoke in the low gravity, blinding the moon-calves and their masters.

  At the same time, Bo did a handstand and booted T-207 with both hooves right in his space helmet. He flew backwards into the bison and Waldo, and accidentally tore the second bag of grain open too.

  As the seeds swarmed through the air like a smokescreen, Pat and McMoo charged T-312. The metal monster never saw them coming. Pat’s hooves whumped him in the guts and McMoo kicked his legs out from under him. T-312 was sent spiralling through space and crash-landed in a bowl-shaped dip in the ground.

  “From ter-moo-nator to ter-moo-crater,” cried McMoo, high-fiving Pat.

  “That joke was rubbish,” Bo complained, swinging Waldo round and round by his space helmet.

  “Let’s hear you do better.” Pat ducked as Dexter fired thick yellow spray from his bazooka. “Or do I mean butter?”

  “All right, try this gag for size,” said Bo, still wielding the water buffalo. “Why not visit my cattle-club – I think it’ll be a HIT!” She swung Waldo’s legs into the beige bison’s back, smashing him down into the dust. As the Jersey calf came at Bo with a cream-cheese cannon, she struck again with her living bat, dealing her attacker a bone-jarring blow.

  “Your club’s a knockout,” said Pat approvingly, belly-slapping Dexter against the side of the F.B.I. ship.

  “Don’t get cocky,” McMoo warned his friends, just as T-312 emerged from his crater – and fired his laser straight at Bo. KER-ZIZZZ! The energy bolt blasted a hole in her spacesuit’s backpack and sent her tumbling to her knees …

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘AIR-RAISING!

  “Noooooo!” Pat shouted, horrified.

  “Little Bo!”

  “I’ll deal with metal-mush – you check she’s all right.” McMoo leaped thirty metres through the air and brought his butt bumping down on T-312’s head, pounding him into the ground. “Well?”

  “The laser hit her air supply,” cried Pat. “All her oxygen is escaping.”

  “But these cow-creeps and bull-bullies won’t be escaping me!” Bo vowed, taking off like a jet plane and whizzing over the lunar surface. “Wa-hoooo!”

  “Bo!” Pat gasped. “You’re flying!”

  “It’s the air rushing out of her backpack,” McMoo realized. “It’s pushing her along like a rocket’s jets!”

  “Or like a guided moo-sile!” Bo dive-bombed the remaining cattle. “Ha!”

  “Their spacesuits, Bo!” yelled McMoo, suddenly inspired. “Make holes in their spacesuits!”

  Bo started tugging at the thick material of the moon-calves’ protective clothing. “That’s torn it!”

  Dexter squealed, dropping his bazooka. “There’s a hole in my spacesuit!”

  “Mine too!” sobbed the heifer. “We’ll freeze! We’ll suffocate!”

  “Help! Moomy!” A young Texas Longhorn bull tried to dodge the flying Bo, but she was too speedy, grabbing his oxygen tank and yanking it off.

  “Cheers, steak-chops!” she cried. “I’ll be needing to top up my air if I keep shooting about like this.”

  “Return to the capsule, children,” T-207 warbled. “There is air inside.”

  But Pat and the professor had already leaped forward to slam the capsule door shut, blocking the cattle’s escape – even as Bo attacked the others, snatching at their spacesuits before retreating out of reach.

  “Ha!” she cried. “Not so tough now, are you?”

  T-207 jumped up and made a grab for Bo – just as T-312 tried once more to fry her with his laser! The blast meant for Bo ended up scorching T-207’s left leg and knocking him into a boulder. He bounced off it and rebounded back into his fellow ter-moo-nator.

  “Help!” wailed Waldo, trying to hold a split in his suit together with both hooves. “Help us, somebody!”

  “Certainly!” McMoo jumped up and grabbed two of the plate-like portable time transporters jammed on the side of the capsule, twisting them free. “If you travel back to your own time, six hundred years from now, you’ll be safe – because this area will be covered by a C.I.A. moon base, right?”

  “That’s what the ter-moo-nator said,” Pat agreed, heaving with all his might on the third and fourth time transporters glued to the F.B.I. capsule on the opposite side. “There’ll be lots of lovely air to breathe. And hopefully lots of prison cells too.”

  “Mission abort!” mooed the moon-calves, scrambling onto the silver platters in threes. “Abort!”

  “Wait,” T-312 roared, his metal limbs still tangled with T-207’s. “You are taking all available time transporters … Your masters will be left marooned!”

  “Good!” mooed Dexter. “We wanted to be all-conquering cattle … but you’ve messed everything up!”

  Clouds of smoke as black as the skies above wafted up from the time transporters …

  Then the moon-calves were gone.

  “We did it!” cried Pat. “Twelve down – that’s evened the odds.”

  Bo landed beside him with a bump, and McMoo quickly replaced her emptying oxygen tank with the one she’d whipped off Waldo. The two ter-moo-nators, looking battered and bruised, were clambering up once again.

  “Now to finish off those robo-bull buttheads,” Bo growled.

  “Just as soon as I’ve got my ZEN-generator out of their ship.” McMoo opened the capsule door and ducked inside. “Bo, remember you said it would be good for clobbering people? I aim to put it to the test …”

  “Do not remove the generator,” T-312 commanded. “The systems are still live. There will be energy feedback into the local environment.”

  Bo frowned. “What’s he on about?”

  Suddenly, a huge, colourful explosion burst out of the bottom of the F.B.I. capsule. Pat and Bo were flung forward by invisible shockwaves as a huge split opened up in the moon’s surface, spitting geysers of rock and dust high into the air …

  “I’m guessing that’s what he’s on about,” cried Pat.

  “And I really should’ve listened!” McMoo tumbled out of the capsule with the yellow lever and its throbbing metal box. “Now runaway ZEN-energy is opening and closing magic holes in the moon’s crust …” The huge split in the seething lunar surface suddenly sealed over – before ripping itself apart all over again. “See what I mean?”

  “No!” yelled Pat. “My ey
es are closed!”

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” Bo clung onto Pat as the F.B.I. capsule fell onto its side, rocking in the shockwaves as ZEN energy sparked in all directions. “Quickly!”

  “Our capsule will fall into the extra nothingness,” groaned T-312.

  “We must stop it,” buzzed T-207.

  While Pat, Bo and McMoo bounded away towards Apollo 10½, the ter-moo-nators charged towards their stricken ship. The capsule was balanced perilously on the edge of the lunar chasm, and Pat watched as the robo-bulls hurled themselves through the open doors …

  Just as the biggest explosion of energy yet crackled out from inside! The black split in the rock beside it grew wider and darker still, spitting debris high into the sky – before swallowing the ter-moo-nators and their capsule completely. Pat watched in alarm as black nothingness devoured more and more of the surface, reaching out hungrily for the C.I.A. agents and their tiny borrowed spaceship …

  But at the last moment, like a great dark wave crashing back over the shore, the colossal crack sealed over completely – trapping the ter-moo-nators and their capsule deep beneath the moon’s surface.

  McMoo kissed the big yellow lever and wiped his brow. “There! The ZEN energy’s been exhausted.”

  “Leaving the ter-moo-nators trapped deep within the lunar rock,” said Pat.

  Bo beamed. “So now they can’t get out and squish the first men on the moon when Apollo 11 gets here in July!”