by Steve Cole
“Note how the Butter-Bot can also turn itself rock hard – like butter kept in the fridge – to squash enemy equipment,” said the smug ter-moo-nator.
The next moment, the monster’s huge eye narrowed and it stamped the field gun into pieces.
The Nazi onlookers clapped and cheered. Even Vogel shouted “Bravo!” although he was still too slippery to stand up again.
But McMoo and Pat both wore deep frowns on their faces.
“With a few hundred weapons like that, the Nazis could win the war,” McMoo murmured.
“But the F.B.I. will be using its fake Von Gonk to make weapons for Britain too,” Pat reminded him. “Whatever are those bolshy bulls up to?”
“McMoo! Pat!” Odette called urgently from the foot of the tree. “Come down here – quickly!”
Pat gulped. It sounded like something bad had happened. He and McMoo swiftly scrambled down the tree.
Only to find Ter-moo-nator T-23 waiting for them with a ray gun! He wore the fake uniform of a Nazi major-general and a ringblender through his nose . . . and Odette LaBarmer stood smiling beside him. The two C.I.A. agents stared in shock and disbelief.
“Bo and I were right from the start,” Pat wailed. “You’re as rotten as your relatives!”
“Churchill trusted you so I thought I could too . . .” McMoo shook his head. “How could I have been so wrong? I mean, me, wrong? That just doesn’t happen!”
“Enough.” Odette stuffed a bun into his mouth. “I told you they would be here, Major-General. Two British spies!”
“Oh, they are far more than simple spies,” hissed T-23, stepping towards them. “And soon they shall be dealt with for ever!”
Chapter Eight
THE F.B.I. MASTER PLAN
Back on the fishing boat, Bo was so exhausted that she finally fell asleep. But she woke up quickly when she heard a babble of angry cries in German. She blinked blearily, trying to work out why everyone was shouting and waving big meat cleavers in her direction.
Then she realized: she had dozed off lying on her back, revealing her udder to the world. An udder that was still painted with a Union Jack! The colours had run a bit after her struggle in the sea, but the pattern was still clearly visible.
“Flip,” said Bo as the angry fishermen drew closer. “That’ll teach me to use marker pens!” (But of course, to the fishermen, her words came out as “Mooo-ooo”.)
“Bad cow!” hissed a Nazi fisherman in a woolly hat and halting English. “You fall off British boat, yes? Well, that will make you taste all the better!”
Bo saw how hungry the fishermen looked, and remembered Professor McMoo telling her that food was in short supply during the war. No wonder they had rescued her – they were going to turn her into a dozen dinners!
Glancing round, Bo could see that land was in sight. They were nearing a harbour. “Time I was off!” she yelled – and she somersaulted backwards over the side of the ship and into the sea. A few squirts from her recovering udder had her racing through the shallow waves towards the shore.
But already people at the harbour were shaking their fists at her angrily, alerted by the fishermen. She wasn’t sure what they were saying but guessed it was something like, “Stop, enemy cow! Get in our stomachs!” And even as she splashed out of the sea and onto the sand, they were charging down to get her . . .
“I shall fight on the beaches!” cried Bo. She whacked one man with her hooves, and blasted another in the face with a sudden stream of milk. Both of them went down, stunned. But many others were coming to take their places. “Not fair,” she groaned. “How am I going to get out of this?”
Then Bo noticed something nearby in the harbour – and smiled. Perhaps there was an escape route after all . . .
Escape was high on Pat’s mind too. But as T-23 marched him and McMoo past Nazi guards into the secret farmhouse base, he couldn’t imagine how they would ever get out again. Pat looked up at the giant Butter-Bot as it shot blasts of yellow goo at the helicopter circling overhead, and shuddered at its sheer pasteurized power.
T-23 had sent Odette away almost at once. “You will wait at your bakery and lock up the real Sir Ivor and Von Gonk,” he’d said. “I will send guards to collect them later.”
“Yes, sir.” Odette had saluted and lumbered away.
“We really should have known.” Pat sighed. “Never trust a Barmer, no matter how nice she seems.”
T-23 marched them into a wooden outbuilding full of rusting farm machinery. “At last,” he growled. “I have captured our greatest enemies!”
“What are you up to here in 1940?” said McMoo coldly.
“Can’t you guess, my oh-so-clever professor?” sneered T-23. “The fake Von Gonk is another ter-moo-nator. Very soon now he shall demonstrate an identical Butter-Bot to the rulers of Britain. Like the Nazis, they will think it is the perfect weapon that can win them the war.”
McMoo frowned. “So each side will make hundreds of Butter-Bots – unaware that the other side are doing exactly the same.”
T-23 smiled. “And when the rulers of Britain and Germany come to inspect their finished army of Butter-Bots they will find they no longer work – because we will override the controls!” He produced something that looked like a yellow mobile phone. “This device will make the Butter-Bots turn on their creators – and squish them. Then we shall declare war on all humans, whichever side they are on! Without their leaders, the people will panic. They will be no match for the slippery might of our creamy-churned warriors!”
McMoo scowled. “And once you’ve conquered the British and the Nazis, you can build more Butter-Bots and attack their allies.”
“Precisely,” said T-23. “America . . . Russia . . . Italy . . . Japan . . . All shall fall before the power of the F.B.I.!”
“You’ll have to steal an awful lot of butter,” said Pat.
T-23 shook his metal head. “We shall force all 1940s cows to make vats of butter just for us – to aid our war effort.”
McMoo stared. “That’s horrible!”
“We shall teach all cows to hate and to fight,” said the ter-moo-nator. “We shall make cows strong – turn them into lethal moo-niacs who will conquer the world. World War Two shall become World War Moo. And you, McMoo, shall use your brainpower to help it happen . . . or die!”
Chapter Nine
FURY IN THE FARMYARD
Pat and McMoo looked at each other helplessly as T-23 rubbed his metal hooves together with glee. “I will give you a short while to decide, Professor,” the ter-moo-nator said. “I wish to watch the end of the Butter-Bot demonstration. But then I shall return . . .”
“Don’t hurry back,” called McMoo, as T-23 went out and locked the door behind him. Then the professor sighed. “Well, Pat, we’re in a pickle and a half this time.”
Pat nodded. “What we need right now is a miracle.”
Then, not quite on cue – about three and a half minutes later, in fact – he heard someone unlock the door. It swung open again . . . to reveal Odette LaBarmer!
“I said we needed a miracle, not a big fat traitor,” Pat grumbled. “What are you doing here? Come to gloat?”
“No,” she replied with a smile. “I have come to set you free!”
“Eh?” McMoo frowned. “Did I miss a bit?”
“You were the one who got us captured in the first place!” Pat protested.
“I am sorry about that.” Odette bowed her head. “That Nazi in the woods sneaked up on me. I had to convince him I was on his side or he would have arrested me – or worse! And that would leave Sir Ivor and Doctor Von Gonk helpless at my bakery.”
Pat raised his eyebrows. “So you only pretended to betray us?”
“Of course!” Odette declared. “It is our duty to destroy that buttery monster. Now, all three of us are inside the Nazis’ secret base – exactly where we need to be!”
“Odette, you sneaky thing!” McMoo grinned. “But how did you get past the guards on the gate?”
> She shrugged. “I gave them a drugged pie and snatched their keys when they fell asleep. Now, please, we must hurry!”
Odette led them outside. They could hear shouts and yells and machine guns firing.
“Sounds like the Butter-Bot is still being put through its paces,” said Pat.
They peeped round a haystack and found Colonel Vogel’s men finally getting up from their big sticky puddle. The field gun was just a mangled piece of metal, the tank was lying in pieces beneath the half-burned tree and the helicopter was covered in goo. The one-eyed Butter-Bot stared round as if seeking out fresh enemies, while the gathered Nazis clapped and cheered. T-23 and the fake Sir Ivor smiled knowingly at each other.
“We must get the override device that T-23 showed us,” McMoo murmured. “It’s our only way to get full control of that thing.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” said Odette. She hitched up one trouser leg to reveal a number of long sausage rolls tucked down her sock. “It is time to attack!”
With that, Odette hurled her sausage rolls with deadly accuracy. One of them caught the elderly general under the chin. He gasped and fell. As the nearest Nazis tried to help him up, more savoury missiles found their uniformed targets and knocked them to the ground.
“What is happening?” T-23 swung round and saw them – and his eyes glowed even greener with anger. “Intruder alert. Unleash the Butter-Bot!”
The fake Sir Ivor reached for his remote. “Oh no you don’t!” cried Pat, lowering his head to charge. CLANNG! Horns clashed against metal as Pat butted him in the bottom. Bright blue sparks burst from the fake scientist’s bum and he went crashing to the ground. At the same time McMoo galloped over quickly, shoved T-23 aside and stamped the remote control into the mud.
At once, the Butter-Bot jerked about, clutching its big, buttery head. T-23 pulled out his override device to get the weapon back under control. But Odette moved faster. She threw a doughnut with ninja-like skill and knocked the gadget from his grip. T-23 warbled with rage – but then the blundering Butter-Bot shut him up by stepping on him! McMoo grabbed the override and hit a red button, and the Butter-Bot squelched to a squidgy standstill.
Vogel pointed at Pat and McMoo. “It’s the Anti-Baking Brigade,” he shouted. “They’ve even got the baker on their side! Men, get them!”
Suddenly, two soldiers came charging at Pat from different directions. “Pulsating potatoes!” he cried in alarm. At the last moment he ducked down, and the Nazis collided with an OOOF!
Pulling a croissant from her shoe, Odette used it as a boomerang and knocked out another two soldiers with a single throw.
But that still left Vogel and six more fighting men. Professor McMoo stared at them . . .
And then he ran away!
“Professor!” Pat cried, shocked to his hooves. “Come back! You can’t leave us!”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m working out my speed and angle of approach, Pat!” said McMoo.
And Pat realized that the professor was running with his head twisted to one side – right at the burned, butter-drenched tree. THWACK! McMoo smashed the tree down – and the trunk was left speared on the end of his horns! He straightened his head so the trunk was horizontal. For a moment, he struggled to hold it up, like a weightlifter lifting a heavy barbell. Then, with a snort of effort, he charged back towards the startled Nazis.
THUNK!
“ARRGH!”
SPLASH!
McMoo smashed through Vogel and his soldiers and sent them flying into a big trough of sheep dip! They splashed around in a daze, while the crowd of Nazi bigwigs ran for their lives in a hail of Odette’s rock cakes.
Pat rushed over to tug the tree trunk from McMoo’s horns. “That was amazing!”
“Just a simple matter of applied force and speed equations – any mega-brilliant genius could have done the same!” said McMoo modestly. He pulled out the yellow override device. “Now, let’s get rid of this thing . . .”
He fiddled with the controls, and the Butter-Bot began to bubble and melt. Its single big eye flopped out of its unfeeling face and hit the ground with a splat. The rest of it soon followed as it dissolved into greasy gunge.
“There!” McMoo clapped happily. “Nothing left but a sticky puddle of microchips!”
“Er, that’s really cool, Professor,” said Pat nervously. “But now there’s nothing holding down T-23!”
Sure enough, the butter-drenched ter-moo-nator leader rose up from a small crater in the field. He was shaking with fury – and his ray gun was aimed right at them. “You shall pay for this!” he snarled.
“Pay for a lot of stolen butter?” McMoo snorted. “Not likely!”
T-23’s metal fingers tightened on the trigger . . .
Chapter Ten
TERROR IN THE SKY
Pat grabbed the professor’s hoof and closed his eyes as T-23 prepared to fire. Bye-bye, Bo, he thought, hoping his sister was still OK.
But suddenly, the sharp roar of an engine tore through the air. Pat’s eyes snapped open to see a funny-looking aeroplane zooming down from the sky. It seemed to have two enormous skis stuck underneath it – and it was heading straight for them! Or rather, straight for T-23 . . .
“Down, everyone!” boomed McMoo.
Pat, McMoo and Odette dived for cover. The ter-moo-nator leader turned in surprise – and one of the skis clonked him under the chin. He was sent flying through the air with an electronic squawk and smashed into the tree stump.
Pat blinked in amazement. “Where did that thing come from?”
“It’s an amphibious aircraft,” McMoo enthused. “Just look at it! It has wheels hidden in those floats underneath so it can land on the ground or on water.”
“Never mind the plane, boys,” said Odette, pointing in amazement as the aircraft landed bumpily in the field. “Look who’s driving – it’s a . . . cow!”
Pat’s eyes grew wide as he grinned in astounded delight. “Bo!”
Wearing flying goggles, a white scarf and a brown leather jacket, Bo was grinning and waving wildly.
“She must have lost her ringblender,” said McMoo. “But that’s easily fixed!” He ran over to where T-23 lay sprawled beneath the tree and plucked out the ring from the robo-bull’s metal nose. Then he quickly tossed it to Bo as she jumped out of the aeroplane.
Odette pointed in horror at T-23. “Great rolls of heaven!” she cried. “That major-general has turned into one of those metal bulls you spoke of! But how?”
“We’ll explain later,” Pat told her. “But look, at least that flying cow has gone – and Bo’s here in her place!”
“Little bruv! Prof!” Bo grabbed them both in her tightest hug. “I see you can’t get by without me – as usual!”
“But how did you get here?” asked McMoo happily.
“I was being chased by hundreds of hungry humans around the harbour,” she said. “Then I saw this plane floating in the water, so I borrowed it.”
“You mean you could actually fly it?” said Pat.
“It’s easy,” Bo declared. “I only knocked the roofs off a couple of houses on the way! I was looking for the bakery, and I accidentally flew over this field. Lucky for you that I did!”
McMoo nodded. “But why aren’t you in England? Did you run into trouble with that fake Von Gonk?”
“You bet I did – he chucked me overboard!” Bo frowned. “But how did you know he was a fake?”
“It’s a long story,” said Pat. And while Odette stood there, still scratching her head in amazement, he told it to Bo.
“Now we must fly to Britain at once and warn Churchill in person,” declared McMoo.
Odette frowned. “In a Nazi plane? The British will shoot us down!”
“We have to try,” said McMoo, holding up the yellow override device. “At least while we have this, we can take control of the British Butter-Bot before it can cause too much trouble!”
ZZAPP! Suddenly, McMoo gasped as the device was blasted from
his hoof and destroyed by a red ray of light.
Pat pointed. “It’s T-23!”
“You will never triumph, McMoo!” growled the ter-moo-nator leader, waving his gun.
Another bolt of deadly light whizzed past Pat’s head. He turned to find that the fake Sir Ivor had recovered – and was also pointing a gun at them.
“Run for the plane!” McMoo shouted.
They fled, dodging death rays every step of the way. “Without the override, how will we deal with the other Butter-Bot?” panted Pat.
“I’ll think of something,” said McMoo. “Odette, can you fly a helicopter?”
“I have a hunch I’m going to find out!” she replied, puffing for breath.
McMoo pointed to the buttery ’copter in the corner of the field. “Take that one and fly back to your bakery.”
“I shall try,” she declared bravely. “How hard can it be? I’ll just use my loaf!”
“Good luck,” said McMoo. “I’ll signal you once we’re in the air!”
They reached Bo’s borrowed plane. She scrambled into the pilot’s seat and McMoo and Pat piled in behind her. Both ter-moo-nators fired at Odette as she lumbered on towards the helicopter – but all they managed to hit was her baker’s hat.
“Get us up, Bo!” McMoo shouted.
“I’m on the case!” Bo replied. The plane took off jerkily, rocking as ray blasts slammed into its sides. But luckily it held together as they soared away noisily into the sky.
“Ya-hoooo!” whooped Pat.
A few moments later, Odette’s helicopter wobbled into view alongside them as they flew over the forest.
McMoo grabbed the pilot’s radio and spoke into it. “Good work, Odette. But our foes will soon follow us.”
Odette’s voice crackled back to him. “What can we do?”
“I have a plan,” said McMoo, smiling craftily. “But it all depends on you . . .”
Soon, Bo was flying the aircraft at 18,000 feet over the English Channel. McMoo sat beside her in the cockpit, with Pat just behind. It was small and cramped, a metal shell with more buttons and switches than the Time Shed. The rumble of the engine and the whoosh of the wind outside made it very noisy. But, with a thrill of nerves, Pat forgot all that as land came into sight.
