by Steve Cole
“It is. But we have no choice.” McMoo yanked down hard on the take-off lever. “To protect the future we must alter the past – or else the Fed-up Bull Institute will conquer the world!”
Chapter Three
JOURNEY TO THE SPACE CENTRE OF THE EARTH
As the Time Shed rocked and wobbled on the seas of Earth’s history, Pat and Bo sat miserably on a haystack. They watched the professor busily fiddling with his controls, trying to get an exact fix on the ter-moo-nator thieves.
“I’ve never seen him look so serious,” said Pat.
“He must have a lot on his mind,” replied Bo. “I forgot to put any milk and sugar in his tea. Or any hot water. Or any tea bags. And he still drank it without saying thank you.”
Pat frowned. “There wasn’t a whole lot to thank you for, was there?”
“At least the bucket was clean,” Bo protested.
“Found them!” cried McMoo suddenly. “The Kennedy Space Centre, Florida, USA, in the year 1969.” He turned to the special TV screen hanging down from the rafters. “Computer – tell us more …”
The computer calmly obeyed.
++ Kennedy Space Centre ++ Constructed in 1963 during the “space race” between America and Russia ++ A springboard for sending satellites and rockets into space ++ It covered an area of land 34 miles long and 6 miles wide ++ The Apollo moon missions – America’s £8,000 million spaceflight programme – were all launched from this “moonport” using vast Saturn V rockets and specially built launch pads ++ In July 1969 Apollo 11 took the first human beings to the moon and brought them safely back again – an incredible technological feat ++
“It’s the ter-moo-nators’ technological feet I’m worried about,” Bo declared.
“Then you should worry about them visiting a space centre. Those rusty robo-bulls attacked us in spaceships, remember?” Pat turned to McMoo. “What was that about a space race?”
“America and Russia were fierce enemies back then,” the professor explained. “Both countries built enough weapons to destroy the world, and came close to using them on several occasions.”
Bo sighed. “Humans are so stupid.”
“Each side wanted to prove they were strongest and smartest,” McMoo went on. “So the race to put men on the moon kicked off – and in the end, America won.” He paused, looking at the controls. “According to my time scanner, those ter-moo-nators have travelled back to May the eighteenth 1969, just a couple of months before the first moon landing.”
“I wonder what they’re up to,” said Pat. “What was that yellow lever and the box they took, Professor?”
“The ZEN-generator,” McMoo told him. “ZEN stands for Zone of Extra Nothingness.” He patted the horseshoe-shaped bank of controls. “It’s where this little beauty goes when I turn off the Time Shed.”
“I thought it just sank into the ground,” said Bo.
“And get all mucky?” McMoo looked appalled. “What kind of crazy genius inventor do you take me for? No, no, the ZEN-generator creates a zone of extra nothingness – a kind of magic hole – for the console to disappear into until I call it out again. Much tidier.” He frowned. “But in the hooves of the ter-moo-nators, that generator could be dangerous.”
Bo nodded. “They could clobber someone with it.”
“Or more likely use it to change history somehow,” said Pat.
“Whatever,” said Bo. “Look, Prof, if we’re going to this space base, we’ll need to fit in with the humans. You’d better bring out the ringblenders.”
“Good point.” McMoo quickly went over to a small cupboard and pulled out a silver ring for each of them. Pat took the clever C.I.A. gadget gratefully. When worn through the nose, ringblenders created an optical illusion that disguised cattle as people – so long as they wore the right clothes.
“What are we going to wear, then?” asked Bo. “Anything funky?”
McMoo was already rifling through his special costume cupboard. “There are two US air bases near the Kennedy Space Centre,” he said. “So let’s pretend to be a group of high-ranking officers come for a look-see …” He chucked over a couple of uniforms and pulled out a third for himself. “Computer – forge us some ID and a cover story, could you? Might come in handy …”
While the computer creaked and whirred and got busy printing, Pat struggled into his dark blue braided uniform. Then he pushed in his ringblender and checked his reflection in the Time Shed’s special mirror. It showed him as a handsome young officer.
Bo pushed him aside and surveyed her own uniformed appearance with less enthusiasm. “This look is rubbish. How about I tear some holes in it and set it off with a pink crocodile-skin apron?”
“I don’t think so,” said McMoo, pulling a peaked cap over his horns. His smart blazer bore strips of colourful squares to show off his high rank. “Now, then …” The shed suddenly rattled and clunked – a sound like a hundred milkcrates falling from a great height. “We’ve landed. Let’s get out there and start stopping those ter-moo-nators, shall we?”
Pat smiled bravely and nodded. But he knew that the professor’s cheeriness was only an act. With their home under attack in the future, and with no way to call on the C.I.A. for help, things had seldom seemed so desperate.
Bo threw open the doors. Outside, the day was warm and bright, and the sunlight glinted on dozens of fenced-off huts and workshops all across the sprawling space base. Towering in the distance was something that looked like a massive white missile attached to an even taller framework of red crisscrossed steel.
“Wow!” McMoo beamed and rubbed his hooves together. “A Saturn V rocket, just like the computer said. It’s twice as tall as Nelson’s Column and its engines burn fifteen tons of fuel every second – imagine that! And right at the top is a real Apollo spaceship. It’ll carry three brave astronauts all the way to the moon and back …”
Pat frowned. As was so often the way, the professor’s passion for the past was distracting him from his mission. “Er, where should we start looking for the ter-moo-nators?”
“How about the building over there that’s on fire?” asked Bo.
Pat and McMoo looked where she was pointing. Sure enough, smoke was starting to pour from the windows of one of the huts. Suddenly, a figure in a protective flameproof suit ran out from behind a bunker.
“Aha,” said McMoo. “It’s a hot papa!”
Bo frowned. “A what papa?”
“The firefighters on this base are called ‘hot papas’ because when rocket fuel catches fire, things get very hot indeed,” McMoo explained. “He’ll soon have this piffling blaze under control.”
“Or not,” said Pat. “Look, he’s run straight past!”
“Well, if he’s not going to bother putting out that fire – I will!” Bo rushed up to the smoking hut, hitched up her uniform and put out the flames with a long sloosh of milk from her luminous udder. “There – it takes a cow to do a man’s work.”
“I don’t think that was a man, Bo,” said McMoo grimly. “I saw horns poking through his flame-proof mask …”
Pat gulped. “It must be one of the ter-moo-nators!”
McMoo ran over to a fire alarm mounted on a nearby wall and whacked it. At once, a warning siren shrieked out across the space centre. “Come on – he went that-a-way. Let’s get after him!”
The valiant cattle raced across the grass towards a group of concrete storerooms. The door on one had been wrenched off its hinges. McMoo led the charge and pushed his way inside …
Where the suited figure stood on the other side of the room, sweeping electronic components off a shelf and stuffing them in his pockets. The twin points poking up through his headgear were plain to see.
McMoo cleared his throat noisily, and the intruder swung round. “You know, most staff members would get the sack for what you’re doing.”
“But don’t worry – you’re going to get the PUNCH!” Bo jumped onto a workbench and dived towards the startled thief. “Hey, hot papa – come to milky mama!�
�
SLAMMM! Bo pushed him into the shelves, which toppled and collapsed with a terrific crash. The figure gave a moo of alarm as its protective helmet fell away …
To reveal the big brown eyes of a frightened young calf!
Chapter Four
SECURITY SHOCKS
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Bo stared down at the calf in puzzlement. “I was expecting someone I could beat up – not a helpless little kid.”
“Kids grow up to be goats,” growled the calf, seeming suddenly less scared as his big eyes narrowed. “When I’m all grown I’ll be a FED-UP BULL!”
So saying, he whacked Bo in the face with a surprisingly strong front hoof. She went tumbling over the workbench and crashed into Pat and the professor. Then, mooing fiercely, the calf tipped the heavy table on top of all three of them and sprinted for the door.
“Come back here!” Bo yelled from under the tabletop. “Cheeky little Herbert.”
“The name’s Dexter!” called the calf as he escaped. “And don’t you forget it!”
Pat helped McMoo and Bo kick the workbench away. “I don’t get it,” he said, scrambling up. “Why would the F.B.I. use children as agents when they have ter-moo-nators?”
“Good question.” McMoo dusted himself down. “Let’s go and ask him!”
But by now their way was blocked. A huge and familiar woman had appeared in the doorway. She was panting like a dog and had a face like a dog’s bottom, and her lumpy, bumpy body was stuffed into the uniform of a security guard. “What the heck are you doing in here?” she bellowed in an American accent.
“Er …” Pat swallowed hard. “Is that who I think it is …?”
Bo nodded grimly. “We saw her face through the telescope, and it almost broke the glass. It’s Gertie, Bessie Barmer’s mum – but more than forty years younger!”
“C’mon, spill the beans …” Gertie trailed off as she took in the high-ranking uniforms and gave an uncertain salute. “Um, sirs?”
McMoo puffed himself up. “That’s better, Gertrude!”
“How did you know my name?” said Gertie.
“It’s our business to know things,” McMoo said sharply. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have an intruder to chase. You just missed him.”
“I didn’t see nobody,” Gertie growled.
Just then a large, worried-looking man in a dark suit burst into the room with a handful of sentries. “Miss Barmer? Why the alarms? Where’s the fire?”
“We raised the alarm when we saw the fire in one of the supply huts,” McMoo jumped in. “But don’t worry – Lieutenant Bo Vine here put out the blaze single-handedly.”
The big man frowned at Bo. “You did? Holy cow!”
“Holy’s probably going a bit far,” Bo said modestly, “but I am pretty impressive.”
“Well, so am I, sister,” the man replied. “I’m H. P. Blinkenshrink, director of this space centre.” He glared at McMoo and Pat. “I think I’d better see some identification.”
“Of course! I am Major-General Angus McMoo.” The professor flashed his phoney pass. “Bo you know, and this is Lieutenant Pat Vine.” He pulled a folded letter from his jacket pocket and passed it to Blinkenshrink. “We’ve been sent by the President to perform a spot security check.”
“But that doesn’t include Gertie’s spots,” Bo said firmly.
Gertie scowled and stepped forward, but Blinkenshrink stopped her with a warning hand. “Holy smoke. This letter is signed by the President of the USA himself!” He smiled meekly at McMoo. “No one warned me you were coming to the space centre.”
“Of course they didn’t!” McMoo winked at his friends and spoke in confidential tones. “The President had concerns about security here and sent us along. And already we’ve seen an intruder dressed as a hot papa stealing from your stores.”
“Hogwash!” snorted Gertie.
But suddenly, a young man dressed only in his boxer shorts staggered into the storeroom. Gertie, Blinkenshrink and the soldiers held their noses – the newcomer reeked of cow muck, and Pat noticed that his hair was thick with the stuff.
“Is this man a hot papa by any chance?” the professor enquired.
“He sure is, McMoo,” Blinkenshrink admitted. “This is one of our top firefighters, Smoky Joe Jones. What happened to you, son?”
“It’s obvious.” Bo crouched down and placed a comforting arm around him. “Somebody’s given you a pat on the head, right?”
“More like a wallop,” said Smoky. “I was just patrolling down by the fuel store when something hit me from behind. I woke up in an empty garage with my uniform gone.” He looked at the professor and frowned. “Did … Mr Blinkenshrink call you McMoo?”
“That’s right,” the professor agreed. “Major-General McMoo, as it happens.”
Smoky looked at Pat and Bo. “And these are your friends?” When McMoo nodded, he smiled broadly. “Perhaps I could get you all a cup of tea?”
Blinkenshrink frowned. “We don’t pay you to make tea, son!”
“It’s a lovely offer,” McMoo said quickly, “but while we stand here chewing the cud – er, chewing the fat, I mean – the thief is getting clean away.”
Pat grimaced at the muck on Smoky’s head. “Cleaner than his victim, for sure.”
“All right, Barmer, get on the case,” Blinkenshrink commanded. “Take your best guards and find that intruder.”
“I’m coming too,” cried Bo. “I owe him some lumps!”
“You’d better go with her, Pat,” said McMoo. “You’re good at finding things.”
Pat saluted smartly and followed Gertie, Bo and the soldiers out of the room.
Smoky Joe lingered, still staring at McMoo. “Please let me get you a cup of tea …”
“I told you already,” Blinkenshrink cried.
“You’re not the tea lady, for Pete’s sake! Get out of here and clean yourself up!”
McMoo watched the firefighter hurry away and turned to the troubled director. “I’m guessing this isn’t the first weird thing to happen around the space centre?”
“Lots of things have gone missing lately,” Blinkenshrink confessed. “Electrical components, wiring, bits of metal … Little things, mostly, but they’ve just vanished without trace.”
“Sounds to me like someone’s trying to build something,” McMoo reflected. “I wonder what … Surely with all the people working here and a security team on watch, a robber would be easy to catch?”
“No one’s seen anything suspicious, up till now.” Blinkenshrink scowled. “I bet it’s the Russians, trying to steal our secrets!”
“I don’t think it is,” said McMoo quickly.
“They’d stop at nothing to damage our space programme,” the director went on. “It’s bad news. Especially when we’re launching Apollo 10 this afternoon.”
“Of course!” McMoo beamed. “It’s a practice run, isn’t it – they’re going to test all the space gear on a flight around the moon, ahead of Apollo 11 landing there in July …” He cleared his throat, trying to contain his excitement. “Er, anyway. Could I see a complete list of all the stolen bits and pieces?”
“Yup. I’ve got computer records over at the Launch Control Centre,” said Blinkenshrink. “Why?”
“I’m hoping to work out what our mysterious thief wants to make,” said McMoo. “And then I’m hoping to stop him!”
Pat and Bo sat in the back of an army Jeep as Gertie Barmer steered them all round the mammoth space centre, searching for any signs of the intruder. Everywhere they went she questioned firefighters, security officers and puzzled scientists – but no one had seen a thing.
“I wonder why Dexter the calf stole a human uniform instead of wearing a ringblender …” Pat pondered.
“Perhaps he’s put one in by now,” said Bo. “That’s why these dumb humans can’t see him.”
Pat knew that only other cattle could see through a ringblender’s optical illusion. “But if he had one,” he argued, “why not wear it
in the first place?”
Gertie stopped the Jeep beside a sentry hut. “Well, we’ve looked everywhere, and there’s no sign of this intruder of yours. I bet he doesn’t even exist.”
“He attacked us!” Pat protested. “And look what happened to Smoky Joe.”
“Aww, he probably just got socked by a frozen buffalo poo that fell out of a passing jet full of farm animals, and accidentally lost his uniform,” said Gertie. “That’s the likeliest explanation.”
Bo shook her head. “There’s one place we haven’t looked yet.” She pointed to the giant rocket on the launch pad. “There!”
Gertie’s eyes bulged like a frog’s. “You think the intruder’s on board Apollo 10?”
Pat smiled grimly. “There’s only one way to find out!”
Chapter Five
THE MOO-NACE BENEATH
Grouchy Gertie drove Pat and Bo over to the launch pad, parking close to the Saturn V’s impressive service tower. She clambered inside the metal lift and Bo squeezed in beside her. But Pat hesitated. He’d noticed some tiny specks of metal on the ground.
“C’mon,” Gertie grumbled. “Let’s get this craziness over with.”
Pat got in the lift, which clanked and rattled as it slowly hauled them up to the command section of the moonship on top of the whopping rocket.
A wild-haired scientist in a white coat greeted them as the lift lurched to a stop. “Hello,” he said brightly.
Gertie grimaced in greeting. “Seen anything strange around here?”
“Why, no, ma’am,” the boffin replied, gesturing to the empty spacecraft. “Everything’s A-OK.”
Gertie looked triumphant. “See?”