Cows in Action 1

by Steve Cole

  Bo stood beside Shetland at the water trough. “So who is your leader?” she asked, sticking her gum behind her ear.

  “The wisest cow on Earth,” said Shetland.

  “My name is Madame Milkbelly the Third!”

  The prim voice echoed around the hall as the gold door slid open – to reveal a very big and very old cow. Her black and white coat was saggy and wrinkled, and her udder was the size of a small Labrador. She wore dark glasses and – rather surprisingly – a huge silver nose ring.

  The Prime Moo-vers all bowed down before her. McMoo and Pat quickly did the same. But Bo stayed standing and grinned at her.

  “All right, Madame Milky!” she said. “That’s a wicked nose ring! Where did you get it?”

  The Prime Moo-vers gasped at her cheekiness. But Madame Milkbelly only smiled.

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said. “It is very big, because I am very big. The one you will have to wear is much smaller.”

  Pat looked at McMoo. “But, Professor, I thought only bulls needed nose rings?”

  “You will all wear a special nose ring from now on,” said a hefty black bull with large curly horns, striding out on his back legs from behind Madame Milkbelly. He wore a dark suit and shades like the Prime Moo-vers, but with a bright blue sash around his waist. He scattered three spangly silver nose rings onto the marble floor.

  “Who are you?” wondered Pat.

  “The name’s Yak,” growled the tough-looking bull. “I work for Madame M. and the Moo-vers – and now you will be working for me. I’m Director of the C.I.A.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said McMoo, picking up one of the rings. “What do you call these then?”

  “Ringblenders,” said Yak. “Standard C.I.A. equipment. They allow you to blend in with human beings when you travel back through time, so you don’t stand out – so long as you are wearing the right clothes.”

  “Incredi-bull,” McMoo murmured, studying his ringblender closely.

  “They can also translate any language,” added Madame Milkbelly. “So human beings in all times and places will understand you when you talk.”

  “And we will be able to understand them too!” said Pat, boggling.

  “Never mind all this posh clever stuff,” said Bo, clipping the silver ring to her nose as she turned to Yak. “What I want to know is – where did you get that sash from?”

  “It’s a special sash that shows you are a C.I.A. agent,” he said. “You must wear one too.”

  Bo considered. “Could I maybe dye it pink and cut some holes in it?”

  Shetland, Holstein and Madame Milkbelly burst into scandalized moos.

  “No,” said Yak. He offered neatly folded sashes to Bo, Pat and Professor McMoo. “Well, put them on, troops,” he added. “It’s time for your first mission.”

  “But we haven’t had any training!” Pat protested.

  Shetland looked shifty. “Unfortunately, no other C.I.A. agents are available.”

  “That’s why we had to come and fetch you from your own time,” Holstein explained. “Normally we would stay here ruling. But Yak is very short-staffed.”

  “All gone off on holiday, have they?” asked McMoo.

  Yak shook his head. “They are all either squished, squashed or in hospital! Ter-moo-nators have super robotic strength and they fight well.”

  “Rubbish!” Bo snorted. “The one we met was pants! He couldn’t arm wrestle a limp thistle.”

  “You got lucky,” Yak told her grimly.

  “Even so, Yak,” put in Madame Milkbelly, “you must admit that our new special agents have one big advantage over the others.” She grinned at Bo. “They have been taught self-defence by the most wild and wilful cow I’ve ever met!”

  “Cheers, Madam M.!” Bo beamed. “Believe me, when you share a farm with Bessie Barmer, a ter-moo-nator is cuddly in comparison!”

  “Now, what is this mission, Yak?” asked McMoo.

  Yak turned to him. “Our spies have learned that the F.B.I. is holding a secret meeting in the city. They are getting ready to send another ter-moo-nator into the past – together with an unknown special agent.”

  “They must have found another weak point in time,” guessed Madame Milkbelly. “A moment in history where things could easily change, allowing the F.B.I. to take control …” She looked at Professor McMoo, Pat and Bo in turn. “Those burly beefheads must not succeed. So get moo-ving, cows – it’s time for action!”

  Chapter Six

  BULLS IN A CHINA SHOP!

  Pat’s heart beat faster as he followed Professor McMoo to the China Shop, a small store on a backstreet of the city – and the F.B.I.’s meeting place.

  “This is a brilliant laugh, isn’t it?” said Bo, trotting along happily beside him.

  Pat frowned at her. “You should be wearing your C.I.A. sash.”

  “Get real! Blue is so not my colour.” Instead, Bo had gone shopping for a shocking-pink crocodile-skin jacket and bright red boots. And she had dyed her udder purple.

  “I’ve never had an agent dress that way before,” grumbled Yak, who was marching along behind them.

  “Talk to the hoof, mister,” said Bo, blowing a bubble-gum bubble that popped in his face. “I’m doing you a favour by joining your silly C.I.A., curly-horns. So make like a fly and get off my back!”

  Yak stared at her, speechless.

  “Look on the bright side, Yak,” said Professor McMoo. “The F.B.I. agents will be so busy staring at her, they’ll be easier to catch!”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Yak, recovering himself. He called them to a halt at the bottom of the street. “Now, here’s the plan. You, Bo and Pat will go in the front way and drive out the F.B.I. agents. I will stay out here and arrest them when they run out.”

  “But there might be lots of F.B.I. agents,” said Pat.

  “There’s a lot of me too, boy!” Yak puffed out his enormous chest. “And since I haven’t got any more troops, I’ll just have to cope. Good luck, guys.”

  The three C.I.A. agents trotted towards the shop. Professor McMoo tried the front door – but it was locked.

  “How can we open it, Professor?” asked Bo.

  “I think I’d better use my head,” said McMoo. And then, lowering his horns, he went charging through the door – smashing it to matchwood!

  A large white bull was standing guard, and true to his organization he looked pretty fed-up. With a moo of angry surprise, he started to charge at McMoo. But thinking fast, Pat tripped him up and Little Bo socked him over the horns with a double-hoofed blow. The white bull staggered backwards into a big pile of crockery, smashing it to pieces. Then he turned and ran through a large black door.

  “Come on,” commanded McMoo. “After him!”

  The professor led the charge through the doorway into a large storeroom.

  “Wait!” called Bo. “I can hear something.”

  Pat paused. A loud whirring, buzzing noise was coming from somewhere overhead. “Either they have very, very large flies in this century …”

  “Or there’s a helicopter coming into land!” McMoo yelled, setting off at a gallop. He burst into a back room full of computers and flip charts and projector screens – and through a wide-open skylight above them, the C.I.A. agents could see a sleek helicopter rising up into the sky. Six huge bulls were dangling from a rope-ladder hanging beneath it. The big white one waved and jeered at them.

  “Curdled cud!” Pat exclaimed. “We were just too late!”

  ‘It seems the F.B.I. agents were ready for a quick getaway,” agreed McMoo.

  “And look, Professor!” Pat pointed to a faint cloud of black smoke in the corner of the room. “That’s like the smoke we saw in the Time Shed.”

  McMoo nodded gravely. “I think the F.B.I. have already sent their troublemaking ter-moo-nator and his special agent friend into the past.”

  “Pants!” Bo stamped her hoof. “We’ve messed up our first mission.”

  “It’s my fault real
ly.” They all whirled round – but it was only Yak. He looked very gloomy. “I didn’t think that group of bulls would have their own helicopter.”

  McMoo sighed. “Well, at least we forced them to clear out in a hurry. Perhaps they left a clue behind. Let’s see …”

  “Actually, Pat’s very good at finding things,” said Bo.

  “Yes, I’m sure he is, but we must start a careful search.” Professor McMoo concentrated. “Now, based on the size of the room, I think we should split into teams of two and each tackle an area of 1.3475 metres—”

  “What’s this, Professor?” said Pat, picking up a small electronic gadget from the floor by his hoof.

  McMoo blinked. “Good grief – it looks like a place-date data chip!”

  “The Fed-up Bulls must have dropped it during their getaway,” Yak realized.

  “But what does it do?” asked Pat.

  “It’s like a date-and-location setter for a time machine,” the professor explained. “Their silly silver platters are too small to have built-in controls, so it’s all done by remote. But if I can use this to set the controls of my time machine, we can follow that ter-moo-nator to wherever he’s going!”

  Bo laughed. “I told you Pat was good at finding things!”

  “Trouble, mostly,” said Pat with a grin.

  “Quick,” said McMoo. He rushed them both away, with Yak hot on his hooves. “To the Time Shed – fast!”

  It didn’t take the brilliant, brainy bull professor long to work out that the data chip was set for a landing in Hampton Court – an old palace near London – on 27 December 1539.

  “That’s where King Henry the Eighth often stayed!” McMoo realized, back inside the Time Shed.

  “Who?” said Bo blankly.

  McMoo sighed. “Computer – give us the Henry the Eighth file.”

  Writing appeared on the big screen hanging down from the shed’s rafters.

  *

  ++Henry VIII. Born 1491, died 1547. ++King of England. ++Second ruling monarch of the Tudor family. ++Most powerful and dangerous king who ever lived. ++Ruled for 38 years. ++Started off thin, ended up VERY FAT. ++Father of Edward VI, Bloody Mary and Queen Elizabeth I. ++Famous for marrying six wives – Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard and Catherine Parr.

  *

  “He sounds nice,” said Pat, without much enthusiasm.

  “He sounds busy!” Bo decided.

  “I’ll sort out some special Tudor costumes for you,” said Yak. “Then your ringblenders will allow you to walk among humans without them knowing you are cows.”

  “Will the ter-moo-nator have one too?” asked Bo.

  “Yes,” said Yak. “But don’t forget, ringblenders only work on human eyes. You will be able to see through the ter-moo-nator’s disguise – but he will be able to see through yours too.”

  “Can’t you come with us, Yak?” asked Pat nervously. “You’re used to tangling with ter-moo-nators.”

  “I wish I could,” he said. “But Madame Milkbelly needs me here in case of an F.B.I. attack in our own time.”

  “I reckon she just likes looking at you in that flashy sash,” said Bo, giving him a wink. “She fancies you, Yak!”

  Yak blushed and stomped off quickly to check on the Tudor outfits – which had just arrived by cow-scooter. Soon the C.I.A.’s best – and at the moment, only – agents were trying on the strange clothes.

  “Ouch!” said Pat, trying to fasten a frilly ruff around his neck. “This is itchy!”

  “And this gown will cover up my udder,” Bo complained, wriggling into her dress. “I only just dyed it!”

  “I think I look rather dashing!” said Professor McMoo, admiring his feathered hat and stripy stockings. “Now come on. There’s no time to lose – well, apart from the thousand-odd years between now and 1539.” He chuckled. “Tudor England, imagine that! I can’t wait. I really can’t wait!”

  Yak frowned. “This is not a tourist trip, Professor. It’s a vital mission.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Bo blew another big pink bubble. “You’re always yakking, Yak!”

  “When you’re in the past, it’s vital you don’t change a thing,” he went on, ignoring her. “Just stop whatever it is the ter-moo-nator is up to and get out of there fast.”

  “Not even a bit of sightseeing?” McMoo looked disappointed.

  Yak shook his head. “Not unless you want Madame Milkbelly coming down on you harder than a concrete cowpat.”

  McMoo winced. “That would hurt. OK. We’ll be careful.”

  “Excuse me, Yak,” said Pat. “What happens if a human from Tudor times wanders in and finds all this amazing technology? Couldn’t that change history too?”

  “I’ve already thought of that,” said the professor, looking quite pleased with himself. “I’ve made the controls security coded. If anyone so much as tries to flick a switch without permission, the systems will self-destruct.”

  “Nice work,” said Yak approvingly, strutting over to the shed doors. “Never forget, guys – the whole of history and the future safety of all cowkind is in your hooves.”

  The doors closed behind him.

  Pat sighed. “No pressure then!”

  “Don’t worry, bruv,” said Bo, more softly. “We’ll deal with that beef-brained bull-bot, no sweat.”

  “I hope so,” said McMoo, yanking down on the big red lever. Power surged through the shed as it began its familiar shaking. “Because whatever that ter-moo-nator is up to, we’re the only ones who can stop it!”

  Chapter Seven

  TUDOR CUD

  The Time Shed blazed back into existence in a cold, quiet courtyard. It was the middle of winter and very dark.

  “We’ve arrived,” said Professor McMoo, dancing around the shed like his hooves were stuffed with firecrackers. “At last, we’ve pitched up in the past! I’ve been dreaming of this for years. Tudor kings! Brave explorers! Unbelievably smelly toilets! All of that, out there waiting!”

  “The toilets can stay waiting,” said Bo, turning up her nose. “Ugh!”

  “If a ter-moo-nator comes after me I might need one in a hurry,” Pat confessed.

  “Go now before we leave,” Bo advised.

  “Just don’t splash the tea bags,” called McMoo.

  “We’d better stick those ringblender thingies on,” said Bo, clipping hers in place. She had “decorated” it with pink and green nail varnish but luckily it still worked.

  Pat finished his business and clipped his own ringblender into place. “Let’s see what we look like,” he said, crossing to a special mirror that Yak had given them. It showed the way they would appear to human eyes.

  “Wow,” said Bo, eyeing her reflection. She looked just like a Tudor lady! “Look at me – beef in a bodice! I make a pretty funky person, if I do say so myself.”

  Pat grinned at his handsome human reflection. “From bullock to baron, in the blink of an eye. And, Professor, look at you!”

  McMoo smiled. “From a no-bull bull to a nobleman!” The professor’s reflection was lordly as you like. The mirror showed a large, powerful-looking man with curly hair and a huge moustache. “Well, that’s quite enough gawping in the mirror.” He pulled on the CHURN-lever and all the fantastic technology vanished back into the walls and floor – if anyone forced their way inside they would see just a wooden building. “Let’s see what’s outside. Filth! Plague! No potatoes! Oooh, I do love history!”

  “I’ll love it better when that ter-moo-nator is history,” said Bo.

  “Er, Professor?” asked Pat nervously. “If this is the king’s palace, won’t people wonder what we’re doing here and, um, try to lock us up and kill us and things?”

  “Not if they don’t see us, Pat,” said McMoo with a reassuring smile. “We’ll stay out of sight as much as we can.”

  The three cows left the Time Shed and sneaked into the palace through a nearby gatehouse. They shuffled along gloomy passageways lit by flickering torc
hes. The chill of winter was in the stone, and they shivered as they clopped quietly up some steps towards the sound of chatter and laughter.

  “Someone’s having fun,” Pat whispered.

  Sneaking further along the corridor, they glimpsed several women folding sheets in a grand bedroom and gossiping.

  “Chambermaids,” whispered McMoo. “Let’s listen in on their chat.”

  “What a boring waste of time,” Bo complained.

  Pat looked at McMoo. “Shouldn’t we get on with finding the ter-moo-nator, Professor?”

  “A chambermaid’s job takes her all over the palace,” McMoo reminded them. “They may well have seen the ter-moo-nator—”

  “– and so they could give us a clue about where to find it.” Pat gazed in awe at McMoo. “You’re a genius, Professor!”

  “True,” agreed McMoo. With a wink, he led the two of them closer to the bedroom doorway.

  “Just think,” a lanky woman said as she plumped up a pillow. “The king’s new wife is coming here this very night!”

  “I hope she sticks around longer than the last one,” said a spotty girl beside her.

  “Of course,” McMoo whispered. “December 1539 – that means King Henry is getting ready to marry his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves. He ties the knot on 6 January 1540 …”

  “Oh, Molly, you are lucky being her lady-in-waiting,” the lanky woman went on. “They say she’s as lovely as a summer’s day …”

  “Yeah, a summer’s day when it’s raining poo-poos!” The voice was gruff, sour – and very familiar. “Pah! Still, better get ready to meet her, I suppose. The king should be greeting her in the main hall any time now …”

  Bo’s jaw dropped. “That sounds like—”

  “It can’t be,” squeaked Pat.

  “It is!” McMoo murmured.

  A large woman came thumping out of the room and wobbled off down the corridor with a sneer on her face. The cows ducked out of sight as she went past. She looked exactly like the dreaded Bessie Barmer!