Cows In Action 9

by Steve Cole

As McMoo carried a big sack of new improved big-cow cow-feed over to the ter-moo-nator’s giant pet, the other botanists held their breaths. One or two forgot to let their breath go again and quickly collapsed to the floor. But the others barely noticed – and even Fanny Barmer just stared, fascinated – as the cow began to eat . . . and eat . . .

  Pat and Bo looked nervously at the professor. The professor looked at Seymour. Seymour looked at Sir Lawrence. Sir Lawrence looked at Albert. Albert looked at Dicky. Dicky looked unwell.

  The big cow finished her meal and stuck out her tongue. Then she lay down heavily.

  Seymour Bushes buried his head in his hands. “It didn’t work!”

  With a sudden whirr, the stable wall slid upwards to reveal the ter-moo-nator, dressed in Albert’s pyjamas. “Well?” he demanded.

  “They’ve failed,” cried Fanny. “The cow’s no bigger.”

  T-1901’s face darkened. His chimney horns started pumping smoke and his borrowed pyjamas started to singe. “You dare to disappoint me?”

  “Wait!” Pat gasped. “Look – something’s happening!”

  The cow was beginning to shake. Her hide was glowing an eerie red. With a weird, gurgling moo, she raised her head – and went on raising it! Her neck stretched out like a giraffe’s – then the rest of her body began to catch up. She grew taller and taller, bigger and wider, crashing through the rotten ceiling, towering over all in the pale dawn light.

  “Behold,” whispered T-1901 in wonder. “The Ultra-Cow.”

  “Moo,” said the Ultra-Cow, looking confused.

  “There. You’ve got your giant heifer,” said McMoo grimly.

  Bo nodded. “But she’s not exactly savage and war-like, is she?”

  “Not yet. But observe.” T-1901 pulled a small device from inside his pyjamas. “This transmits a special signal on cow frequencies. To ordinary cattle it is simply a nuisance. But to the enormous ears of an Ultra-Cow . . .”

  He pressed a switch on the device.

  “I hear nothing,” said Sir Lawrence, and the other botanists agreed. But McMoo winced, Pat and Bo shook their heads – and the giant-sized Ultra-Cow started snarling and spitting and stamping her feet, mooing like a foghorn.

  “You see?” laughed T-1901. “It drives her wild . . .” He tossed the device to the floor in front of Dicky Hart. With a growl of outrage and a moo of cow-trage, the Ultra-Cow lifted her hoof over Dicky’s head, ready to bring it crashing down. The botanist screamed . . .

  But then McMoo dived forward head over heels, scooped up the device, and hurled it into the pen. The Ultra-Cow’s hoof stamped down on it, squashing it flat.

  At once, the giant animal was quiet and calm again.

  “Perfect,” hissed T-1901. “The Ultra-Cow will do anything to stop the signal. And I will place an identical device in Queen Victoria’s crown, ready for when she opens the Great Exhibition later today!”

  “The exhibition!” Albert spluttered. “I’d almost forgotten.”

  “So that’s your plan,” McMoo realized. “You’ll switch on your signalling device and the Ultra-Cow will hear it, freak out and go charging into London to stop it – destroying Crystal Palace, the queen, hundreds of inventions and thousands of visitors from all over the world!”

  “Correct,” agreed T-1901. “The first event in a cow destruction spree that will bring the world to its knees . . .”

  Pat looked anxiously at Bo. “Leaving it ripe for a takeover by the F.B.I.!”

  “I am grateful for your help, gentlemen,” T-1901 told McMoo and the botanists. “Thanks to you, the human race is doomed.” He began to laugh. “Let the Age of Evil Cows begin!”

  Chapter 10

  A CLASH OF GIANT UDDERS

  T-1901’s sinister laughter went on for several minutes. “I think I preferred the signal,” Pat muttered.

  Finally, the ter-moo-nator controlled himself. “I must leave you now. The Great Exhibition opens at three. My ‘wife’ and I must proceed from the Palace at noon. But while I am gone, you must create more of the cow-feed, so that I may create more Ultra-Cows. If you refuse, or try to escape, Fanny will ter-moo-nate you.”

  “Yes, an’ then I’ll zap you with this gun an’ all!” the big Barmer said fiercely.

  “What happens if your big cow gets restless before you’re ready?” McMoo enquired. “She’ll bring the whole place down.”

  “I have prepared a giant cow-leg manacle to hold her here.” T-1901 pulled a huge shackle and chain from under a bale of hay in the pen and clamped it around the ankle of the unprotesting cow. Then he turned to Fanny. “When she hears the signal and grows angry she will soon break free – but you will have time to reach safety.”

  “I’d better,” Fanny growled.

  “Now farewell, fools,” T-1901 clanked away. “I will return only once the centre of London has been udderly destroyed . . .”

  “Don’t rush back on our account,” McMoo called after him. There was no reply. A stunned hush settled over the stables.

  “What can we do now?” asked Pat quietly.

  “You can make more of that cow-feed stuff,” Fanny snapped. “All of you – get on with it!”

  More miserable hours passed, as McMoo and the botanists worked in stoic silence.

  But then, suddenly, Bo nudged her brother. “The thing about eating lots is that, sooner or later, it all has to come out . . .”

  Pat glanced at the Ultra-Cow. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be straining a bit. “Uh-oh! Things could get smelly.”

  Bo nodded. “And if I time things just right, they could get extra smelly for Barmer . . .”

  “Stop that yakking!” snapped Fanny. But just then, Seymour Bushes stifled a noisy sob. “It’s no use.” He sniffed loudly. “I can’t go on.”

  “Nor I,” said Dicky. “My heart is too heavy.” He held his stomach. “Look, it’s down here, I’m sure it is.”

  “Don’t be so wet!” Fanny turned from Bo and aimed the gun at the botanists instead. “The next person to sob gets a—”

  “Big surprise!” yelled Bo, hitching up her dress and squirting a jet of milk right into Fanny’s face!

  Albert blinked. “Where did that come from?”

  Bo quickly covered her udder. “Where did what come from?” she asked innocently.

  With a burbling cry, Fanny staggered back under the Ultra-Cow’s hind legs . . .

  Just in time to receive one of the biggest pats on the head in history.

  SQUELCH! An avalanche of steaming dung fell over Fanny, knocking the gun from her grip. She shrieked as the huge dollops pinned her to the ground, and a ragged cheer went up from the botanists.

  “Direct hit!” McMoo cried. He started to untie Pat and Bo, glancing up warily at the enormous beast. “Nice shooting, Bo,” he whispered.

  “We may have won a battle but the war is surely lost,” said Albert forlornly. “That beastly bull will be in London by now. We can’t stop him from sending his signal – and we certainly can’t stop the Ultra-Cow.”

  “But if we can perfect an antidote and turn her back to normal, she won’t be able to do any harm!” McMoo grinned. “And I dunno about you lot, but I’ve secretly been working on one all morning.”

  “Ingenious, my dear Professor,” said Sir Lawrence. “Have you succeeded?”

  “Not yet,” McMoo admitted. “I need a plant with a bit more pizzazz. Something rich in vitamin Z . . .”

  “Twenty-sixth-century clover!” Bo cried, pulling the wilted leaves from her pocket. “That’s full of the stuff!”

  “Genius!” McMoo declared, swiping the plant. “It might just work . . .”

  But suddenly, the Ultra-Cow flicked its ears and started to growl. McMoo and Bo gasped, and Pat found he could hear a distant buzzing in his brain. “T-1901’s signal!” he breathed. “It’s started transmitting!”

  “And my antidote’s not ready!” groaned McMoo. “We’ve got to calm down that cow.”

  Dicky looked around at his friends. “A
nyone know any cow lullabies?”

  “How about, ‘Please, Big Cow, Don’t Squash and Kill Us’?” suggested Seymour.

  “MOOOOO!” With an ear-splitting cry, the Ultra-Cow broke free of her shackles.

  “Someone’s got to stop that thing,” Bo declared. “And since the special feed was made for milk-cows, there’s only one chick qualified for the job.”

  “Bo, no,” McMoo warned her. “It’s too dangerous.”

  The Ultra-Cow raised her head and roared again. “So’s that thing!” said Bo. “Hey everyone – look over there!”

  She pointed across the stable, and while Albert and the botanists turned to see, she whipped out her ringblender, tore off her human clothes and guzzled down great gulpfuls of the freshly created cow-feed.

  “Where’d that heifer come from?” cried Sir Lawrence. “And where’s Miss Vine?”

  “She’ll be all right,” said McMoo, leaping clear of the Ultra-Cow’s giant hoof. “I hope!”

  “It’s working,” Bo mooed through a mouthful of feed. She could feel her whole body fizz with a billion bubbles. Her legs began to stretch, her head inflated like a balloon. Her udder swelled to resemble the world’s largest blancmange as she grew, and grew and grew . . . “Whoaaa, this is amazing!”

  Pat gulped, staring up at her in alarm. “Looks like my big sister just got bigger!”

  “Hello, down there!” Bo waved down at McMoo, Pat and the others. “Ouch.” She covered her ears. “That signal’s really annoying. It wouldn’t be so bad if it had a bit of a bass line, but . . .”

  “MOOO!” Enraged by the signal, the Ultra-Cow reared up and swatted Bo into the stable wall.

  “Ooh, my ticker!” groaned Dicky, as he and the other botanists ran for cover.

  “Don’t trash the lab, Bo!” McMoo yelled, working feverishly over a hot test tube. “Or I’ll never be able to finish the antidote.”

  Bo was too busy dodging another hoof to hear him. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she mooed at the Ultra-Cow. “Just calm down!”

  But the humongous heifer reared up and sprayed a giant jet of milk at Bo. Bo fought back with a blast of her own. A tidal wave of milk crashed down over the lab, half-drowning Albert, Pat and the botanists.

  McMoo wiped the milk from his eyes and glowered up at Bo. “You’re not making this very easy!”

  “Sorry, Prof,” Bo called, grabbing the Ultra-Cow in a neck lock. “Just get a shift on – I can’t hold her much longer!” The Ultra-Cow bucked and shook and kicked to be free, smashing down walls and snapping tables like twigs.

  “Pat, clear the area!” cried McMoo. Covered in milk and straw, Pat led Albert and the terrified botanists away from the ruined stable. Only the professor remained, standing in the shambles, emptying the test tube over the twenty-sixth-century clover. “And get Fanny out of here too. She may be a ratbag but we can’t let her be squashed.”

  Even as he spoke, the Ultra-Cow booted Fanny Barmer and sent her streaking through the air like a human dungball. “Whoops!” McMoo leaped aside as she whistled past and crashed into a cupboard.

  “The signal’s driven this cow gaga!” hollered Bo desperately. “I can’t stop her!”

  The Ultra-Cow finally broke free and bent down, ready to suck up McMoo into her giant, dribbling jaws . . .

  Chapter 11

  CHAOS AT COW-RYSTAL PALACE

  McMoo watched helplessly as the Ultra-Cow thrust its huge head towards him . . .

  But then a dark shadowy shape suddenly appeared out of nowhere in front of the giant beast’s face.

  “The Black Cow of Doom!” Pat cried.

  McMoo nodded. “Fanny must’ve set off the brooch when she hit the cupboard. Right now it could be just what we need!”

  The Ultra-Cow’s huge eyes followed the projection curiously as it danced and spun and spiralled. Her breathing grew deeper. She smiled sleepily.

  “It’s hypnotizing her!” Bo declared.

  “Keep watching a minute longer,” McMoo muttered, stirring in some fresh straw to his planty concoction. “Long enough for me to feed you . . . THIS!”

  He hurled the batch of cow-feed into the drooling dairy-beast’s mouth. Still entranced by the spinning spectre, the Ultra-Cow chewed automatically.

  Pat crossed his hooves. McMoo held his breath. Bo accidentally knocked down a tree with her tail.

  And then, with the sound of a deflating balloon, the Ultra-Cow started to shrink. Broken from her trance, she looked around in confusion as her body sagged and billowed, growing smaller ever faster. Finally, with a contented moo, she returned to normal size, and wandered off innocently to munch some grass.

  “You did it, Professor!” Pat cheered. “You made the antidote.”

  “Now give some to me,” called Bo. “That stupid signal is giving me earache!”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Bo,” McMoo told her. “Not just yet. Because if T-1901’s giant cow doesn’t show up to destroy the Crystal Palace, he might just decide to try it himself.”

  Pat frowned. “Of course! Disguised as Albert he could still ter-moo-nate Queen Victoria and the whole Royal Family – totally changing history!”

  Bo groaned so loudly that the only stable wall still standing fell apart – revealing Albert, Sir Lawrence and Dicky Hart creeping cautiously back towards the lab – with Eliza Barmer.

  “We did it, gents!” McMoo beamed. “And lady. Hello, Eliza, where’d you spring from?”

  “That brutish bull locked me up in a cupboard before he left with the queen, but I managed to break free,” said Eliza. “Gracious!” she declared when she saw – and smelled – the mess in the stable. “You’ve dealt with my evil twin!”

  Sir Lawrence looked up at Bo. “But while we’ve lost one Ultra-Cow, we’ve gained another . . .”

  “This one is far friendlier,” McMoo assured them. “She’ll follow that signal straight to the Crystal Palace and take all of us with her.”

  “But this new cow is a different colour,” Dicky pointed out. “The bull will know at once his plans have been thwarted, somehow.”

  “And he will harm my precious Vicki!” Albert cried.

  McMoo smiled. “Not if we’re very, very clever . . .”

  “Forget it!” Fanny Barmer jumped back to her feet in a shower of milk and cow muck and raised her dented ray gun. “I aim to collect my cash from that bull, and I know how to put things right. So – bye-bye, Professor . . .”

  And before anyone could react, she pointed the weapon at McMoo and opened fire . . .

  * * *

  In the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park – disguised as Prince Albert in splendid formal dress – T-1901 sat impatiently beside Queen Victoria. They had been given special thrones in the entrance hall, a man-made cavern of iron and glass. It was so vast that the enormous oak trees it housed barely brushed the ceiling.

  T-1901 surveyed the scene coldly. V.I.P.s and ambassadors from all over the world crowded the platform around them. The flags of all nations waved cheerily. Someone was belting out hymns on a huge organ, as a massive choir sung along. The music and voices joyfully rang out to the 600,000 people gathered in the park for the Great Exhibition’s grand opening. Soon, these patriotic fools will be squashed by my Ultra-Cow, he thought happily.

  Queen Victoria sniffed. “Have you been smoking, dearest?”

  T-1901 quickly waved away the wisps of steam coming from his chimney-like horns. “Certainly not, my sweet. It’s just your imagination . . .” He looked at the queen’s golden crown and chuckled. The transmitter hidden inside it had been sending out his signal of doom for over an hour. Any minute now . . .

  Suddenly, the ter-moo-nator grinned to hear a commotion from the crowd. Seconds later, screams and yells could be heard over the heavenly music.

  Queen Victoria shifted uncomfortably. “Probably just some poor people being silly. Ignore them.”

  But it was Victoria T-1901 chose to ignore. He jumped up in delight as a huge, dark shadow fell over the palace, blottin
g out the sunlight. The choir choked and gasped, the organist played all the wrong notes and the gathered crowds stared up in fear and bewilderment as a great black cow pressed its head against the glass roof, its slobbery breath clouding up the windows.

  T-1901 jumped to his feet and laughed. “Yes, my Cow of Doom!” he boomed, much to the puzzlement of a nearby ambassador. “Complete your work. Destroy the Crystal Palace! DESTROY EVERYTHING!”

  Chapter Twelve

  MOOOOOOOOOOL BRITANNIA!

  “Albert!” Victoria shrieked. “You must run, my darling – that cow must surely plan to moo-der you!”

  T-1901 said nothing. The giant cow had lowered her head to reveal the Barmer woman perched on its neck.

  The ray gun was jammed under one arm and she clutched a large suitcase in each hand. She jumped down, shattering a pane of glass and falling into the uppermost branches of a huge oak tree.

  “Fanny!” barked the ter-moo-nator. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “I’m sorry, sir!” the big woman called, sliding down the tree with her baggage as waves of anxious chatter swept through the glass-and-iron halls. “There’s been a snag in your plans. I had to talk to you at once!”

  Queen Victoria glowered at T-1901, still believing him to be Albert. “You seem very familiar with this woman!”

  T-1901 ignored her. “Speak, my servant.”

  “It’s all my dreadful sister’s fault,” Barmer panted, red-faced and sweating, knocking V.I.P.s aside with her heavy suitcases as she marched over to the ter-moo-nator. “You see, she tried to shoot Professor McMoo, but the gun barrel was so dented it blew up in her face – so, I came along instead. I’m actually Eliza Barmer . . .” She reached out and grabbed T-1901’s ringblender. “And you are a big ugly bull!”

  “How dare you be so rude to my husband, girl!” Victoria began. Then she shrieked as the illusion of Albert fizzled away and the clanking, fuming bull was revealed. Dukes and duchesses and lords and ladies scattered in alarm.