Cows In Action 9

by Steve Cole

  Suddenly, he heard a strange, muffled moaning sound coming from behind a heavy wooden door. “Mff-phhh-rrrph!” Nervously, he moved closer and turned the handle.

  The moaning grew more urgent.

  “Mrphhh-mmph!”

  Pat went inside. From the giant bloomers hanging by the window, he knew this must be Eliza’s room. Then he saw one of her oversized suitcases – the green one – on the narrow bed. It was rocking – and the moaning and groaning was coming from inside!

  Heart pounding, hooves trembling, Pat undid the clasps and the lid flew open . . . To reveal Eliza Barmer – trussed up and helpless inside her own trunk, gagged with a long woolly stocking!

  Pat quickly pulled away the gag. “Help me!” cried Eliza, her eyes wide and fearful.

  “Mrs Barmer!” Pat frowned. “Who tied you up and stuffed you in there?”

  “I did!” came a gruff voice from behind him.

  Pat whirled round – just in time to see the frying pan zooming towards his head. A split second later, it struck – and all he saw were stars, fading quickly into darkness . . .

  McMoo paced impatiently round a large pond while Sir Lawrence showed off his pomp lilies to Prince Albert and Dicky. There seemed nothing unusual about them – no tripwires to trigger traps, no poisonous thorns, no deadly squirters hidden inside the delicate white flowers . . .

  “Of course, these plants may well become extinct within years,” lectured Sir Lawrence. “They are extremely rare.”

  “And getting rarer, old chap,” said Dicky, peering at a large patch of dug-up earth beside the pond. “Didn’t you have another big clump of them growing just here?”

  “Gracious!” Sir Lawrence stared at the spot in alarm. “Someone’s pinched them!”

  Albert turned pale. “Do you think there are enough lilies left to make sure we are all protected?”

  But Sir Lawrence didn’t reply – turning from the pond he had noticed something else. “My beautiful lawn! The grass has been chewed and chomped.”

  Suddenly, a piercing shriek rang out in the peaceful garden.

  Dicky clutched his chest. “That sounds like Mrs Barmer! I thought she was resting.”

  “The shout came from behind those trees,” McMoo pointed. “Come on!” He led the charge of Victorian gentlemen (although in Dicky’s case it was more of a wobbly stagger) through to the other side of the little copse. But once there he skidded to a startled stop.

  There was Eliza Barmer, clinging on to both her overstuffed suitcases and wailing for help.

  “What’s wrong?” puffed Sir Lawrence. “Why all the shouting?”

  “And why bring your luggage out here?” Albert frowned.

  “You won’t believe what’s happened to me!” shrieked Eliza.

  “You might be right,” McMoo agreed, staring past her. “Because I certainly don’t believe that!”

  Dicky Hart appeared beside him, and yowled in fear. “It’s the Black Cow!”

  A large beast was wandering out of a nearby rhubarb patch. It looked like the Black Cow at first glance – it was black, for a start, and maybe twice the size of ordinary cattle. But this black cow seemed solid and real.

  “It is a ghost no longer!” Prince Albert gulped. “It is here in the fearsome flesh!”

  “Fearsome’s a bit too strong a word,” McMoo muttered. “It looks a bit lost.”

  “But what about the fountains and the pomp lilies?” cried Dicky as the black cow wandered out of sight behind some bushes. “The parchment said they would keep that ghostly brute away!”

  “It only said they would ward off the spirit of the cow,” Eliza reminded him.

  Albert nodded. “Perhaps that is why the ghost has turned itself into a thing of form and substance.”

  “We must go after it,” cried Sir Lawrence. “That big cow must be made to pay!”

  “I . . . I suppose it must.” Dicky gulped. “Oh, my poor ticker!”

  McMoo and the gentlemen set off in pursuit, Eliza wobbling along behind them with her suitcases. As they reached the bushes, they saw the black cow heading towards a large, ramshackle stable block, mooing as it went.

  “It’s been years since I kept horses there,” panted Sir Lawrence. “But if the walls are still solid, perhaps we can trap it inside?”

  “It’s making things easy for us,” McMoo noted as the Black Cow stalked into the stable block. “Something strange is going on here . . .”

  “Come on, fellows!” said Sir Lawrence, picking up a big stick. “We must attack the cow!”

  “Yes! I’ve run far enough.” Albert clapped Dicky on the back. “Come on, man, we’ll show that rotten Black Cow what British men are made of!”

  “But you’re German,” McMoo reminded him.

  “Don’t be cheeky,” Albert retorted.

  “Well, I’ll fight till I drop,” Dicky declared, loosening his sweaty collar. “Although actually, that might not be long in coming.”

  “No, wait, all of you!” McMoo protested, hurrying after the determined men. “Something sneaky is going on. Someone wants you to go rushing after that thing without thinking . . .”

  Sir Lawrence ignored him, lingering in the entrance to the stables with his allies. “The light is damnably dim in here.”

  “Not as dim as you lot!” cried Eliza Barmer – and with a thrust of her billowing belly she knocked Albert, Sir Lawrence, Dicky and McMoo sprawling to the dirty floor.

  The next moment, bright lights snapped on in the rafters – electric lights, McMoo realized. The large cow was revealed at the back of the stable, munching calmly on hay. Then a frightening figure stepped out from behind it.

  It was a ter-moo-nator, half-bull, half-machine – but like no ter-moo-nator McMoo had ever seen before. Iron-plates held together with rivets covered half its head and body. Its horns were like towering chimneys. Its chest was a barrel-shaped furnace, and its legs were like mighty pistons. Steam hissed from its metal snout.

  “I am T-1901,” said the ter-moo-nator, drawing a ray gun from a holster at its hip. “A master of illusion – and soon, master of the Victorian world!”

  Chapter Eight

  TWIN TROUBLES

  “Save the boastful bull for someone who believes it, T-1901,” said McMoo. “Whatever you’re planning, it will never succeed.”

  “You can’t stop me, Professor.” The ter-moo-nator smiled, seeing straight through the ringblender’s disguise. “Not while I hold your young friends Bo and Pat as my prisoners.”

  McMoo scowled. “Where are they?”

  “Unharmed for now, tied up in the room next door.” The ter-moo-nator stepped forward, a menacing smile on its lips. “They are far too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely, even though I do not need them – not in the way I need all of YOU . . .”

  “What is that thing?” whispered Dicky.

  Albert shrugged. “Where did it find that cow? And how does it know you, Professor?”

  “I’ve met the likes of him in, er, past investigations,” McMoo said carefully. “He’s an enemy not only of Great Britain, but of the world. As for where he found the cow, I have no idea.”

  T-1901 smiled. “You will understand all, soon enough.”

  “I’ve had enough.” Sir Lawrence raised a bony fist. “You, sir, are trespassing on my land. Be off with you!”

  “I think you mean beef off with me,” chuckled T-1901. “But you are the one who went away to stay at your club for a month – allowing me to set up a secret base in your grounds.”

  “With the help of Mrs Barmer, I presume,” said Albert, glaring at Eliza. “How could you repay your master’s kindness like this?”

  “Easy,” the big woman growled. “Because I’m not Eliza. I’m her twin sister – Fanny Barmer.” With that, she set down the green suitcase and opened the lid – revealing poor Eliza trussed up and helpless inside.

  “Twins!” squeaked Dicky. “Good lord, you’re identical!”

  “Except Eliza is a sick-making goodie-good
ie and I’m not,” Fanny snarled. “She would never agree to help a talking, part-metal bull carry out his evil plans in exchange for cash – unlike me!”

  “Of course,” McMoo realized. “When Seymour Bushes went to the outside toilet he shouted Eliza’s name because he thought you were her. You were hiding inside!”

  She nodded proudly. “I went there as soon as I’d sneaked in and slipped the moo-der card in his paper – after a scare like that, I knew he’d need the lav sooner rather than later!”

  “Mrrph-nnnnnn,” Eliza said, speaking forlornly through her gag.

  “But whatever did you do with poor Seymour?” demanded Dicky.

  Fanny grimaced. “I’ve been carrying him round with me ever since!” She opened the yellow case and Seymour Bushes came tumbling out, bound and gagged and apparently fast asleep.

  “You fiendish madam!” Sir Lawrence cried, checking his chum was OK.

  “The old boy fainted,” said Fanny. “I smuggled him out of the toilet while the ghost-cow distracted the professor. Then I hid in Eliza’s room until she came to pack, jumped her and took her place.”

  “Clever,” McMoo admitted. “Rotten and horrible, but clever. I thought that so-called ghost had transported Seymour away. But it was just special effects, wasn’t it? Some sort of laser projection . . .”

  T-1901 smiled and nodded. “Projected by a device hidden inside Eliza’s brooch.”

  Fanny glowered down at her sister. “I’ve had my eye on it for ages, ever since Sir Larry gave it to you.’

  “Curse you!” said Sir Lawrence. “You are both heartily wicked.”

  “True,” T-1901 agreed. “But you will admit, gentlemen, that the Black Cow was a most effective terror weapon. It scared you all into making foolish decisions, such as rushing back here. And you were the biggest fool of all, my dear Albert!” He turned to the prince. “You thought you were being so clever, defying the Black Cow’s calling card. But I was the clever one, hiding the fake parchment in your local book shop.”

  “And all the time the Black Cow was simply an illusion!” Albert groaned. “But why set it off on the train? We were already coming to Sir Lawrence’s house.”

  T-1901 frowned at Fanny. “Well, human?”

  She blushed. “Stupid thing went off in my hand as I was showing it to the queen! It’s not my fault I’ve got big fingers . . .”

  “Never mind all that!” Sir Lawrence looked nervously at the metal monster. “Tell me, bull. Our fellow botanists who fell foul of your phantasmagoria . . . are they still alive, like Seymour?”

  “They are my prisoners too,” T-1901 confirmed, “working on a special project. At first, I thought I would only need one or two top botanists. But progress has been slow.”

  “So you had to ‘moo-der’ more and more,” Pat realized.

  T-1901 nodded. “Now the entire club is here, the work will go much faster.”

  “We will never help you, sir!” squeaked Dicky.

  “Just what are you up to, anyway?” demanded McMoo.

  Wisps of steam escaped the ter-moo-nator’s chimney-like horns as he pressed a button on his chest. “Observe!”

  The back wall of the stable swung open on huge, invisible hinges – to reveal a strange and sinister hidden room that seemed to be part-laboratory, part-garden centre. In the glare of artificial sunlight, exhausted-looking men in crumpled clothes were slaving away over curious experiments. Bits of leaf, twig and root lay all about, with weird-looking plants trailing out of test tubes or blossoming in bubbling beakers.

  With a surge of relief, McMoo saw that Pat and Bo had not been harmed, although they were tied up tightly in a tangled heap around a thick wooden beam.

  “Professor!” Bo cried.

  “Help us, please!” begged Pat. “I’ve had Bo’s bum in my face for ages.”

  “There’s more at steak here than your face and Bo’s bottom,” said McMoo gravely.

  “My fellow members!” Sir Lawrence smiled and joined Seymour, Dicky and Albert as they rushed forward to greet their “moo-dered” friends. “You are alive!”

  But T-1901 raised his ray gun and snorted fire from his nostrils. “And now you will join them as part of my workforce.”

  McMoo frowned. “What are these poor slaves of yours doing, anyway?” He watched as the large black cow mooed and wandered inside, heading for a cosy pen in the far corner of this secret nerve centre. “And how does it tie in with that enormous animal?”

  Steam hissed from the robotic bull’s horns. “Call that enormous? No. It must be bigger. Larger. GREATER. And with the help of you and your friends, it soon will be – ready to fight in a titanic army of killer cows!”

  Chapter Nine

  THINKING BIG

  McMoo looked around the lab in horror. “You’ve been making your moo-der victims slave away here to help create that poor, oversized heifer?”

  “Yes.” T-1901 smiled. “These unfortunate fools have been creating a new type of cow-feed for me. A precise combination of plants that will cause any cow who eats it to swell to enormous size.”

  Sir Lawrence picked up some limp leaves and gasped in horror. “My prize pomp lilies are among them, I see!”

  “Yes,” T-1901 grated. “F.B.I. research indicated that pomp lilies had many unique properties. They are a vital ingredient of the cow-feed.”

  “And almost extinct even by 1851,” said McMoo. “Which is why you set up your lab here, I suppose – next to a good supply!”

  “And yet the correct combination of plants to achieve maximum cow growth has not been discovered.” T-1901 smiled. “You will collaborate with your fellow prisoners. You will work without rest to create the cow-feed I require. If you do not have it ready within thirty-six hours . . . I will ter-moo-nate Queen Victoria!”

  Eliza swooned, and Dicky clutched his chest so hard he almost fell over. Even the large cow looked mildly concerned.

  “But . . . you can’t!” Albert whined.

  “Yes, I can, my princely friend,” T-1901 assured him. “And now I have lured you all here, I shall go to see her right away.”

  Albert pushed out his chin defiantly. “She’ll run a mile as soon as she spots you!”

  The ter-moo-nator shook his head. “I told you I am a master of illusion. Behold . . .” He held up a golden nose ring, then slotted it into his snout. The air around him shimmered . . .

  And the next moment, he looked exactly like Prince Albert!

  “A ringblender with a built-in impersonation setting,” McMoo marvelled. “Brilliant!”

  “He still stinks of oil and bull-skin,” Bo shouted.

  “Your oh-so-British queen will be far too polite to comment.” T-1901 tossed his ray gun to Fanny. “Guard them until I return. Your twin sister will join me and resume her work in the house – but she too will die if you try to defy me.” He smiled at Sir Lawrence. “I will tell Victoria that urgent business has called you all back to London, but that you insisted we remained here where it was . . . ‘safe’.”

  “You diabolical demon!” cried Sir Lawrence.

  “Just get on with your work,” T-1901 snarled. “With your expertise and McMoo’s genius, the task should be simple. So be ready by the day after tomorrow. Or else!”

  The ter-moo-nator stalked away with Eliza struggling in his grip and the false wall swung down behind him.

  “Quick, Professor,” Bo hissed. “Now we can escape!”

  Fanny fired the ray gun – and a bolt of energy smashed into the timber beam beside Bo’s head.

  “Or possibly not,” Pat twittered.

  “You heard old bully-boy,” said Fanny, pointing the gun at Albert. “No tricks, and get working – all of you!”

  “With innocent lives in danger, it’s hopeless to resist, my friends,” said one of the ragged botanists. “Come, all of you. Let us show you where we’ve got up to . . .”

  The long hours passed for McMoo and his friends in a blur of chemicals and leaves, microscopes and stem-snippings, petals
and pollen. They worked till they were exhausted. Pat and Bo sat miserably, tied up so tight they could hardly move – and every time they did, even just to scratch an itch, Fanny fired a laser bolt in their direction.

  Pat sighed. “She’s a tough one. I don’t see any way out.”

  “She’ll get tired in the end,” Bo whispered. “And when she does . . .”

  “Don’t try anything,” Albert beseeched them. “That evil man-bull might hurt my little Vicki!” He checked his fob watch and turned to Sir Lawrence. “Twenty-four hours have gone already. We only have until tomorrow morning!”

  “Shut up!” hissed Fanny Barmer, an ear cocked to the far wall. “I hear something . . .” The posh tones of Queen Victoria carried to them faintly. “These grounds are so lovely to stroll in. Such a pity that Sir Lawrence and his friends had to leave so soon after arriving. What could their urgent business be?”

  “I really don’t know, my dear,” came the voice of T-1901 impersonating Albert. “But I trust they shall finish it soon and return.”

  The voices faded as the queen and her sinister companion walked on. Albert sighed, and the botanists hung their heads. The giant cow mooed.

  “We’d better keep at it,” the professor murmured.

  * * *

  The day turned to night as the hours went on crawling by. McMoo and the men worked flat out without food or sleep. Bo and Pat nibbled on scraps of grass and hay when no one was looking.

  “Just half an hour to go till morning,” Fanny yawned with a nasty smile. “Time’s running out. Looks like Great Britain’s going to need a new queen.”

  “Not so!” cried McMoo, leaping up from his microscope in a shower of peach blossom. “Dicky, that last cutting you added to the mixture might just be the one to do it.”

  Sir Lawrence stared at him, red-eyed and haggard. “Then let us test it, sir!”