Grumpily Greta made herself breakfast and grumpily she got dressed and grumpily she went out of the front door, scowling at the grey day and pulling her coat around her as the fog swam its damp tendrils down the street.
Grumpily she lifted her bike up from the front lawn and stared at the cat that sat on the top of her wheelie bin.
It was a right proper nuisance, that cat. It sang. At night. In fact, to call it singing was to be overly kind in judging the cat’s capabilities. It was more of a strangled yodel that sounded like someone was passing an electric current through a pile of Norwegian goatherds who’d just been passing round a helium balloon.
But the singing wasn’t even the worst thing about the cat. At least you knew that once the sun had gone down the yodel would soon be coming. It wasn’t a surprise, and it was the cat’s surprises that Greta hated most.
It had a habit of sneaking into her house and hiding dead mice in her knicker drawer.
When she wasn’t expecting it.
That was the thing she hated most.
But, as a proverb her aunt had invented said: Cats do as cats do and there’s nothing to do about cats doing what they do, so you’d best accept it and move on and try not to make eye contact and, to be honest, I prefer squirrels, Greta – much friendlier on the whole and also furry. It wasn’t a great proverb, and her aunt had got distracted halfway through making it, but luckily inventing proverbs was only a very small part of what Aunt Tabitha did, and most of the other parts tended to go much better.
Greta gave the cat a grumpy glower and pedalled off in the direction of elsewhere without once looking back.
As she cycled her grumpiness began to clear away.
* * *
Greta worked, in her spare time, as an unpaid volunteer junior reporter for The Local Newspaper,3 reporting personally to Wilf Inglebath, the editor. She was always looking for a Big Story that would make the front page, her name and people gasp. And today she thought she might have one.
She pedalled through the quiet streets of Upper Lowerbridge and out of town, towards the Hester Sometimes Conference Centre and Immobile Library. It was in the conference centre that Greta was due to meet her aunt, who was hosting and organising the Twelfth Annual Festival of New Stuff (TAFoNS, for short).
If a whole bunch of scientists presenting the New Stuff they had made and discovered, in a converted stately home just outside Upper Lowerbridge, wasn’t the sort of thing that would make a great story for The Local Newspaper, then Greta was a haddock. Which she wasn’t.4
As she turned the last corner and free-wheeled down the long, straight drive towards the Hester Sometimes Conference Centre and Immobile Library, the sun came out and the last tendrils of fog disappeared into wherever it was that fog went.5
Weeeee, thought Greta as the wind whippled her hair.
She skidded to a halt in front of the entrance and read half of the sign that was stuck to the automatic sliding glass doors.
She stood very still and waited for the doors to forget she was there and close themselves again, and then she read the rest of the sign.
The sign said: TWELFTH ANNUAL FESTIVAL OF NEW STUFF (TAFoNS, FOR SHORT) IS CANCELLED.
Oh, she thought.
Three further thoughts followed close on the heels of the Oh.
Firstly: I didn’t need to get up so early, after all.
Secondly: Well, that’s my Big Story up the spout.
And thirdly: I’d best go find Aunt Tabitha and see what’s what.
1This rather early age for independence was due to a legally binding spelling mistake (‘eighth’ where it should have said ‘eighteenth’) in her parents’ Last Will and Testament.
2Although the President of Britain, Aethelred Slightly, had been at school with Mr Borris many years before, Mr Borris tended to overestimate how memorable and, indeed, how likeable he’d been as a child.
3An award-winning newspaper, as it boasted on the front cover. It had won the Most Expensive Free Newspaper prize three years running, until one of the judges realised there was something wrong with their prize, and it wasn’t awarded last year.
4She even had the paperwork to prove it, were such a thing necessary.
5No one knew for sure where this was. The only expedition, led in 1978 by the great poet Albert Rhymeswell, never returned from wherever it was they went
CHAPTER TWO
Greta Zargo’s Back Garden, Upper Lowerbridge, England, Earth
LAST SATURDAY (JUST AFTER BREAKFAST)
SLOWLY THE GELATINOUS blob slumphed its way over the edge of the hole. Bits of mud and flecks of grit writhed on its surface, like currants swirling on top of a giant, transparent, jelly-ish cake.
The cat that Greta had glowered grumpily at a few minutes earlier was called Major Influence and he ate one in every four birds that landed in Greta’s garden, even though it wasn’t his garden. It only took him a moment to notice the wriggling, squirming shape that had emerged from the great hole and wonder whether it was something he could eat.
He sniffed it.
As he sniffed the gooey blob tapped him on the nose with a small, gooey, blobby protrusion.
It was how a gelatinous thing sniffed back.
Major Influence jumped at the cold, oozy, strange touch, but found that his jump didn’t take him nearly as far as his jump normally took him.
In fact, it hadn’t taken him anywhere.
The thing was still touching his nose. It was stuck there.
He flipped over and began kicking at the jelly-like blob with his back legs, hissing and clawing like a furious furry miniature lawnmower. But … it was no good.
Slowly, hair by hair, whisker by whisker, ear by ear, the oozing jelly blob surrounded the struggling cat until the poor thing was entirely inside it, floating helplessly.
And then the thing paused. It sat there, pulsating and throbbing and writhing, and it began to digest its first ever above-ground meal.
On the fence three sparrows and a blackbird watched with interest. They approved of the removal of Major Influence and they would have applauded if they had hands. But they didn’t. So they didn’t.
From out of the great dark hole at the bottom of Greta’s garden a second, slightly larger, slightly blobbier wobbling form began to emerge. It hauled itself over the muddy lip, out on to the dewy lawn, with a deep, slow slurphing-slumping sound.
About the Author and Illustrator
A.F. HARROLD is an English poet who writes and performs for adults and children. He spends his time showing off on stage, writing poems and books, and stroking his beard (it helps churn the ideas). He lives in Reading with a stand-up comedian and two cats. His favourite cake is Battenberg.
JOE TODD-STANTON lives in Bristol and likes to skate and play table tennis in his spare time. As a child he was addicted to comics and the Cartoon Network. If he could be any book character, he would be Winnie the Pooh as he seems to have it all figured out. Pooh’s very humble and never takes life too seriously. Joe’s favourite cake is cheesecake.
HAVE YOU READ ALL OF FIZZLEBERT STUMP’S ADVENTURES?
HAVE YOU READ FIZZLEBERT’S FIRST ADVENTURE?
Fizzlebert Stump lives in a travelling circus. He hangs around with acrobats, plays the fool with clowns, and puts his head in a lion’s mouth every night. But it can be a bit lonely being the only kid in the circus. So one day, Fizz decides to join a library – and that’s when it all goes terribly wrong …
HAVE YOU READ FIZZLEBERT’S SECOND ADVENTURE?
The bearded Barboozul family are the new stars of Fizzlebert Stump’s circus. Their act is full of magic, mystery, fun and fear. But then things start to go wrong. The lion loses his dentures. The clowns lose their noses. The Ringmaster loses his temper. And the circus is about to lose its licence. Is the bearded boy to blame?
HAVE YOU READ FIZZLEBERT’S THIRD ADVENTURE?
When Fish the sea lion goes missing, Fizzlebert tracks down the runaway beast to the Aquarium, with its piratical
owner Admiral Spratt-Haddock. But the Aquarium has problems of its own. Fish (not Fish the sea lion, fish. Keep up) are going missing, and the Admiral blames the circus. Can Fizzlebert solve the mystery?
HAVE YOU READ FIZZLEBERT’S FOURTH ADVENTURE?
It’s the great Circus of Circuses competition, and Fizzlebert Stump has no act. He’s no longer the Boy Who Puts His Head in the Lion’s Mouth – the lion retired. Can Fizz find a new act in time? Can the Bearded Boy find his long-lost parents? And can their new friend Alice, secret Strongwoman, find her rightful place in the circus?
HAVE YOU READ FIZZLEBERT’S FIFTH ADVENTURE
After being lost in the woods and mistaken for a very rude girl, Fizzlebert Stump suddenly finds himself at school. It’s certainly different to his usual life of training to be a strongman and playing football with a sea lion! But why won’t anyone believe Fizz belongs in the circus? Will he ever make it back? Or will he have to sit up straight and pay attention forever?
HAVE YOU READ FIZZLEBERT’S SIXTH ADVENTURE
Disaster has struck! The Ringmaster has sold the circus, and the new owner is forcing everyone to work at his supermarket. But Fizz and his friends are no good at stacking shelves or selling spuds, and, worst of all, their uniforms feature no sequins whatsoever … Can Fizz find a way to save the circus? Or will they have to put up with Mr Pinkbottle and his annoying clipboard forever?
Also by A.F. Harrold
In the Fizzlebert Stump series:
Fizzlebert Stump: The Boy Who Ran Away From the Circus
(and Joined the Library)
Fizzlebert Stump and the Bearded Boy
Fizzlebert Stump: The Boy Who Cried Fish
Fizzlebert Stump and the Girl Who Lifted Quite Heavy Things
Fizzlebert Stump: The Boy Who Did P.E. in his Pants
Fizzlebert Stump and the Great Supermarket Showdown
*
The Imaginary
*
The Song From Somewhere Else
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Oxford, New York, New Delhi and Sydney
First published in Great Britain in September 2017 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
This electronic edition published in September 2017 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
www.bloomsbury.com
BLOOMSBURY is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © A.F. Harrold 2017
Illustrations copyright © Joe Todd-Stanton 2017
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4088-6947-5 (PB)
ISBN 978-1-4088-6948-2 (eBook)
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Greta Zargo and the Death Robots from Outer Space Page 8