by Steve Cole
Vogel dodged an especially crusty roll and turned to his men, who were already piling off the truck. “Stop these loonies!” he cried. “At once!”
“Come on, Pat – bun!” McMoo cried. “Er, I mean, run!”
And as Vogel and the soldiers came charging towards them, Pat sped away after the professor into the nearby woods.
In the moonlight it was hard to tell what was shadow and what was solid – until you ran into it. And Pat could hear the sound of Nazi boots crashing through the forest behind them. Twigs snapped underfoot with a sound like rifle shots. Then real rifle shots started up, twice as loud again. Bullets whizzed past Pat’s head as he and McMoo ran deeper and deeper into the woods.
“Professor, they’re catching us up,” Pat panted. “What are we going to do?”
“Pull out your ringblender!” said McMoo, ducking into a clearing as more bullets zinged through the darkness. “And hide those human clothes. Now!”
As Pat yanked the metal ring from his nose, he understood the professor’s plan. The Nazis were chasing after two crazy men – not a couple of stray bulls. So he put the ringblender in his pocket, wriggled out of his human clothes and chucked them into a bush. McMoo did the same, then the two of them stood behind a tree.
Most of the Nazis went crashing straight past. But Vogel’s limp had slowed him down, and he paused in the clearing with one of his men.
“We will catch them, sir,” said the soldier.
“You had better,” Vogel warned him. “Even as we speak, that British fool Sir Ivor Throbswitch is finishing his new weapon at the farmhouse for tomorrow’s demonstration. Many important observers are coming from Germany, and I do not want them pelted with bread by these anti-bakery buffoons!”
The soldier nodded quickly – then jumped as he spotted Pat and McMoo across the clearing. “Sir, look!”
“They are only wild bulls,” said Vogel with a thin smile. “Excuse me, my friends – have you seen two men running by?”
Pat chomped some grass, and McMoo mooed innocently.
“Ha – talking to cows! A good joke, no?” Vogel chuckled. “Let’s go . . .”
As Vogel and the soldier moved away, Pat and McMoo picked up their clothes.
“So, Sir Ivor’s weapon will be tested tomorrow,” said McMoo thoughtfully. “I wonder what it is?”
“Who knows?” said Pat. “I just hope Bo and Von Gonk get away OK.”
“Hooves crossed,” McMoo agreed. “Come on. Let’s try to find our way back to the bakery.”
“OK.” Pat nodded. “I hope we aren’t lost.”
“I’ve got a brilliant sense of direction!” McMoo protested, striding away. “Of course we aren’t lost. I never get lost!”
An hour later, McMoo was looking all around in bafflement. “You know what, Pat?” he said. “I think we’re lost!”
Pat sighed and shook his aching hooves. “Oh, well. At least we haven’t bumped into Colonel Vogel and his men again.”
“Hey, what’s that over there?” McMoo squinted into the distant shadows. “It looks like a little cottage or something.” He put his nose ring back into position. “Get your gear back on, Pat! We’ll ask for directions – and maybe a cup of tea!”
A few moments later, he was banging on the battered old door. No lights came on at the windows, and no one came to answer.
“It looks a bit old and grotty,” Pat murmured. “Perhaps no one lives here any more.”
McMoo winked at him. “In that case, let’s pop in and rest for a while.” He whacked the door above the lock extra hard, and it creaked open. “I’ll go first.”
He went inside, and Pat crept cautiously after him. The run-down old cottage had no electricity, so Pat found an oil lamp and some matches and McMoo lit it. Smoky, sputtering light filled the cottage’s little living room.
Pat gasped. Tied up in the corner were two old men in long white coats with even longer white hair. One was tall and one was short. They tried to speak, but gags were tied tightly around their mouths. McMoo quickly pulled the gags away. “Are you all right?”
“Who are you?” demanded the short man in a posh English voice.
“I’m Pat and this is Professor McMoo,” said Pat. “Who are you?”
“I am Sir Ivor Throbswitch,” said the short man.
“And I am Doctor Herbert Von Gonk,” said his taller companion in a German accent.
“The famous scientists?” McMoo stared at them. “No, you can’t be.”
“Of course you can’t,” Pat agreed. “Sir Ivor is preparing a weapon in a farmhouse and Doctor Von Gonk is in a crate on his way to England.”
“Poppycock!” said Sir Ivor. “We have both been tied up in this hut for days.”
“I only wish I was on my way to England,” said Von Gonk sadly. “Not all Germans believe the Nazis are right. I was captured while trying to escape!”
“And now someone who looks like you is escaping instead,” McMoo realized. “Odette is smuggling out an impostor – while a fake Sir Ivor works on a Nazi weapon!”
Pat gasped. “Then both the Nazis and the Resistance are being tricked!”
“Enough,” came a roaring mechanical voice from behind them. “You have learned too much.”
Pat and McMoo whirled round – to discover a large, sinister bull-like creature standing behind them. The creature wore sleek, shiny armour. Its horns were silver spikes. “T-23” was printed on its chest. Its baleful eyes glowed green – and the end of its nasty-looking gun was shining bright red.
“A t-t-t-ter-moo-nator!” stammered Pat.
“You have interfered with our plans for the last time, C.I.A. scum,” said Ter-moo-nator T-23, raising its ray gun. “For you, the war is over . . .”
Chapter Six
ENCOWNTER AT SEA
“Duck, Pat!” McMoo shouted. The two C.I.A. agents dived aside as the ter-moo-nator opened fire. ZZ-ZZAP! A blast of red light spat from the ray gun and shattered the window behind them.
Pat grabbed a small table from the floor beside him and hurled it at T-23. At the same moment, McMoo jumped up and kicked the gun from the ter-moo-nator’s hand. The weapon flew across the room – and conked Sir Ivor Throbswitch on the head. “Ow, that hurt,” the old man complained.
“Sorry!” said McMoo. But while the professor was distracted, the raging ter-moo-nator grabbed him by the throat with one huge hoof and slammed him against the wall. McMoo struggled to free himself, gasping for air . . .
ZZ-ZZAP!
Suddenly, T-23’s massive metal body glowed red. His grip on McMoo grew weaker and then he collapsed to the ground.
“Got you!” cried Pat. He had scooped up the fallen ray gun and now sat clutching it tightly. “A direct hit!”
“Well done, Pat,” croaked McMoo, and the young bull glowed with pride. “That ter-moo-nator was a real pain in the neck!”
“Yes, good shooting,” Sir Ivor added. “That rotten robot-bull thing has had us in his clutches for days.”
“And he’s got ever such cold hands,” added Von Gonk with a shudder. “Wherever did he come from?”
“He’s certainly not from around here,” said McMoo grimly. “What was he planning? Tell us all you know.”
“He said he’d been in France for weeks,” said Sir Ivor. “First he took over this abandoned cottage, and filled it with stacks and stacks of butter . . . then he and two more creatures like him turned an abandoned local farmhouse into a secret high-tech lab.”
“Butter . . .” Pat frowned. “Professor, didn’t Yak say the F.B.I. was stealing butter in its own time?”
McMoo nodded. “But what do those barking bulls need it for?”
“Shhh!” said Sir Ivor. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but someone’s coming!”
Sure enough, Pat could hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching . . .
“Professor, Pat!” Odette LaBarmer stood in the doorway. “I’m so glad you are all right. Vogel and his Nazis have given up their search fo
r you. I came looking as soon as it was safe.”
“I’m not sure ‘safe’ is the right word, Odette,” said McMoo. “But look who we’ve found – Sir Ivor Throbswitch and—”
“Doctor Von Gonk?” Odette’s face turned as white as a floury bap. “Impossible! I have just loaded you onto a lorry in a crate of pies!”
“I’m afraid you’ve sent a fake Von Gonk to England with Bo,” said McMoo. “The question is, what is he planning to do when he gets there?”
“This is terrible!” Odette wailed.
Pat watched her suspiciously. She looked really upset, but was she only acting? “Odette, can we get Bo and Von Gonk off that lorry?”
“I fear not.” Odette shook her head. “The port is not far from here. The crates will have been loaded onto a boat by now, ready to sneakily sail to England.”
“Then let’s get back to the bakery,” said McMoo. “Odette, you must have a secret transmitter – we can use it to warn Churchill about that impostor.”
“I did have one,” said Odette, looking flustered. “But when I tried to use it to tell Mr Churchill that Von Gonk was on his way, I found it smashed. The impostor must have done it!”
Pat swapped a look with McMoo. Was Odette telling the truth – or did she simply not want them to warn Churchill that a fake was on his way? “Oh, Bo,” he muttered miserably. “I do hope you’re all right!”
Many miles away, in the cargo hold of a ship in the English Channel, Little Bo was chomping on a pie crust and feeling very fed up. The space Odette had left for her in the crate was big enough for a slender young lady, not a cow – so she was super-squashed up and aching all over.
Dr Von Gonk had been safely packed away before she’d arrived, but she hoped he was OK too. Odette had loaded them onto the lorry the moment the Nazis had run off after Pat and the professor. “You’d better be all right, boys,” Bo breathed. “Or else!”
Suddenly, she heard the sound of wood splintering and a strange, clanking sound outside. It was coming closer . . . closer . . .
RRRIIIIPPP! The top was torn off her crate! She gasped to see two glowing green eyes glaring down at her.
There was a ter-moo-nator on board the ship!
“Blimey,” said Bo in alarm, “where did you spring from?”
The robo-bull smoothed out his white lab coat and smiled. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ter-moo-nator T-60.” He tapped the ringblender in his nose. “But the British will believe I am Doctor Von Gonk . . .”
“We’ll see about that.” Thinking fast, Bo pushed a pie into the ter-moo-nator’s ugly face. Then she kicked her way out of her crate – and whacked the metal monster in the shins while she was at it.
T-60 gave a metallic snort of anger and lunged for her. Bo tried to duck aside, but she was just too slow. A cast-iron hoof swatted her to the floor, and her ringblender bounced away into the shadows. She gasped as the ter-moo-nator picked her up and strode from the cargo hold.
“Put me down, you stupid slab of techno-beef!” It was dark and cold out on the deck. T-60 was heading for the side of the ship, and Bo struggled furiously as she realized what he was up to. “I said, put me down!”
“Certainly,” T-60 growled. And he threw her overboard with an almighty, freezing splash!
“No!” gasped Bo, struggling helplessly in the churning grey sea. The ter-moo-nator’s gloating eyes were like green lanterns, fading into the night as the ship left Bo far behind . . .
Chapter Seven
THE SLIPPERY HORROR
Trying to keep calm, Bo stared around in the moonlit gloom. There was nothing to see but sea! For how long could she keep afloat? Her clothes were weighing her down, so she kicked them off.
“I’ll just have to head back to shore,” she decided. So Bo took a deep breath and started squirting milk from her udder to propel herself backwards in the choppy water, like a cow-shaped motorboat zooming through the night.
Several minutes passed. Waves broke over her head. The icy wetness chilled her to the bone. And then Bo felt her milk beginning to run dry!
“Oh, no,” she groaned, and started doing the backstroke. She had to get to land!
Then, suddenly, with a thrill of hope, she saw the lights of another boat! Desperately she swam towards it, mooing like a foghorn to attract the sailors’ attention. Since she had lost her ringblender and clothes, they would see her as an ordinary cow lost at sea. Bo wasn’t sure many cows were lost at sea, but hopefully her novelty value would mean they would fish her out . . .
As she neared the boat, Bo saw fishermen on board – and a big Nazi symbol painted on the side. But she wasn’t about to refuse a lift from anyone right now. Mooing weakly and fluttering her eyelids, Bo was relieved when the men on board spotted her and lowered a big net into the water to haul her up.
“Ta, fellas!” she mooed. But as she sat shivering in the net, surrounded by staring sailors speaking a language she couldn’t understand, Bo knew her problems were far from over. How was she ever going to find Pat and the professor again?
The sun was still slowly rising as McMoo, Odette and Pat crept quietly through the French forest. They had left Sir Ivor Throbswitch and Dr Von Gonk safely at the bakery, and now they were heading for the farmhouse where the mysterious weapon would soon be tested.
“It is hard to believe this incredible story you have told me,” said Odette. “Metal bulls? Evil impostors? And yet I feel in my heart it is true . . .” She stopped them suddenly in their tracks. “The farmhouse is just the other side of these trees. But Colonel Vogel will have it well guarded.”
“I’ll check it out,” said Pat, climbing a tree for a better look. As he popped his head out through the leafy branches, he saw a bunch of old farm buildings at one end of a very large field. Standing at the other end were a Nazi tank, a field gun and a massive old-fashioned helicopter with two rotors. Pat recognized some of Vogel’s men standing to attention outside the entrance.
“That’s the place all right,” he said, dropping back down. “And a couple of high branches should give us a great view of the action!”
Odette nodded. “While you two watch, I shall stand guard down here and check that no one sneaks up on us.”
“Good thinking,” said McMoo. “Come on, Pat! Give me a bunk-up . . .”
The two C.I.A. agents clambered up the tree and settled themselves to watch. Before long they could hear cars arriving, and Nazi officers and observers started to file into the field.
Then a ter-moo-nator came into view. He was wearing a white lab coat over a three-piece suit, and carried a remote control in his hand.
“Odette!” hissed McMoo. “Pop up here for a moment.”
A few seconds later, the leaves rustled and parted as Odette appeared. Her eyes widened. “Pastry above! That fellow in the white coat looks exactly like Sir Ivor Throbswitch!”
“Thanks, you can go again now,” said McMoo, and Odette popped back down below.
“So while that ter-moo-nator’s wearing his ringblender, humans see him as Sir Ivor,” Pat muttered.
McMoo nodded. “That proves you were right, Pat. The F.B.I. is trying to trick both sides in this war.”
“But why?” whispered Pat.
“Perhaps we’ll soon find out,” said McMoo. “Looks like that ter-moo-faker is ready to start his demonstration.”
“Your attention please,” said the ter-moo-nator, standing in the middle of the field. “You have come here today to witness the weapon that will win you the war. Behold . . . the Butter-Bot!”
The assembled Nazis looked puzzled. “What is this Butter-Bot?” one elderly general asked.
“See for yourself!” said the ter-moo-nator. He fiddled with his remote control and, suddenly, a loud slurping noise started up from within the farmhouse. The next moment, a giant, greasy yellow monster came stamping out from inside. Its enormous arms and legs were smooth and slippery, and a single eye blazed red in its blank face.
Pat gasped. “So that’s where al
l the stolen butter’s been going. The F.B.I. has used it to build a secret weapon!”
“Of course!” McMoo groaned. “Butter is being rationed in this time, so they had to steal it from elsewhere.”
The old general didn’t look impressed. “This dairy concoction is supposed to win us the war? Absurd!”
The ter-moo-nator smiled. “The Butter-Bot is made of intelligent ‘battle-butter’, controlled by tiny computer chips. It is hundreds of years ahead of its time!”
“He’s right there,” muttered McMoo. “A weapon of the future, brought back to the past . . .”
“Butter cannot stand up to bullets and bombs,” the general insisted. “You were kidnapped to make weapons for us – not to waste good food!”
The fake Sir Ivor glared at him. “Observe what happens when the Butter-Bot tangles with a tank!”
He gave a signal, and the tank suddenly roared into life. Pat watched as it trundled towards the Butter-Bot. It fired an enormous explosive shell at the monster – SPLOTT! The butter sucked it up, then spat it back out at the tank. BOOMMMM! The tank went up in smoke, setting fire to a nearby tree.
Pat and McMoo swapped worried looks as the Nazi bigwigs gasped. “Amazing!” cried the general.
“The Butter-Bot can dowse flames with ease,” said the ter-moo-nator. “Observe!”
The Butter-Bot hurled a huge yellow gobbet at the blazing tree – and extinguished the fire in a single sticky moment.
“Ooooh!” said the audience.
“And now, the Butter-Bot will deal with a field gun,” the ter-moo-nator went on, flicking switches on his remote.
Colonel Vogel was manning the cannon-like field gun with two soldiers. They got ready to fire – but already the Butter-Bot was squelching towards them. Suddenly, it stretched out its arms into enormous snaking streams of butter and slooshed all the men away. They skidded about on the grass in buttery confusion.