by Steve Cole
“I’m no moo-tant!” Bo yelled. “And you’re the one who’ll be corrected when I get free of these ropes!” Then she realized the creaking of oars had stopped. A moment later, the waters ahead began to seethe and churn, and the humungous oxtopus rose up from the deep, its black and white body aquiver, its thick tentacles stretching out around the ship. At the sight of Bo, its single bloodshot eye narrowed.
“Er . . . wotcher.” Bo gave the oxtopus her most appealing smile. “Nice to see you again. No hard feelings, eh?”
The oxtopus hissed and a yellow bubble blew slowly from its mouth, swelling to engulf her . . .
Chapter Seven
THE DEADLY DR GAUR
“MOOKOW’S LONGSHIP HAS stopped!” In the little boat, McMoo motioned to Gruntbag and Henmir to put down their oars.
“They must be ready to meet the oxtopus.” McMoo pointed to where the black and white beast bobbed in the foaming waters.
He watched, alarmed but fascinated, as Bo was engulfed in an enormous glistening bubble blown from the mouth of the oxtopus. Seconds later, the creature caught Alfred’s men in more of the sinister-looking bubbles. Then it dragged its prisoners underwater.
“It’ll drown them all,” Gruntbag gasped.
“I don’t think so.” McMoo watched as Mookow steered the ship away with his remaining bull-kings, heading eastward around the Wessex coast. “Those bubbles must hold in the air like some sort of underwater taxi, with the oxtopus as the driver. It probably takes its prisoners to someone hiding down there. And there’s only one way to find out who that someone is.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve got to go underwater.”
“You mean, let ourselves get attacked by that – that horrible thing?” Henmir stammered.
“I hope that’s what he means,” muttered Gruntbag. “Because here it comes now!”
McMoo’s eyes widened. With its first lot of victims now submerged, the many-tentacled monster seemed set on finding fresh targets. It pushed itself through the water towards them, and the little longship rocked so hard it nearly threw its crew overboard.
McMoo gasped as a tentacle wrapped around his waist and lifted him high into the air. He had to hold onto his spectacles to stop them falling into the sea. “Don’t struggle!” McMoo shouted as Henmir and Gruntbag were also grabbed by the gruesome creature. “Remember it just wants to take us down below.”
Then he could say no more as a big yellow bubble blew out of the oxtopus’s massive mouth and sucked him inside. The thick yellow bubble-skin contained him and the monster’s tentacle withdrew. He found himself being forced downward through the deep blue gloom, propelled by the tip of a tentacle towards an enormous white dome on the seabed, big enough to hold hundreds of bulls.
“That must be the F.B.I. base,” he murmured, “hidden away from prying eyes.”
Gruntbag and Henmir were both bobbing down beside him in their own bubbles. Then McMoo spotted three bizarre creatures emerging from a doorway in the dome. They looked like giant turtles, but their shells were patterned black and white with cow markings, like the oxtopus. Little horns grew on either side of their wrinkled heads. Warily McMoo watched as the cow-turtles swam up to the taxi-bubbles and pushed their three prisoners towards the entrance.
Inside the dome, bright lights shone to reveal a holding area. It was like a car park for longships! Four of the vessels were contained within enormous bubbles to keep them dry. The turtles pushed McMoo, Gruntbag and Henmir further inside, then closed the door. Moments later, large plug holes opened up in the floor and the seawater drained away. Finally, with a plethora of pops, all the bubbles burst, leaving only drops of yellow goo that were washed away with the last of the water.
“Fascinating!” cried McMoo. “This is a kind of airlock. It must fill up with water too so Mookow, the bull-kings and their boats can float back up to the surface in fresh bubbles.”
But Gruntbag and Henmir didn’t seem to hear him. They were too busy clutching each other tightly. “What place of evil enchantment is this?” Gruntbag whispered. “These walls are not made with wood or stone. And what are these lights that burn bright as suns?”
“I’d love to explain plastic and electricity to you, old fella,” McMoo began, “but I think a lecture on homes of the future will have to wait.” He pointed to a square panel in the wall that was sliding open. “We’ve got company.”
Two huge, muscular animals prowled into the room, shaking their shaggy manes and baring flesh-tearing teeth. Like the oxtopus and the turtles before them, they were coloured black and white, with curved horns rising up from either side of their heads.
“Lions!” Henmir squeaked. “Lions that look like cows!”
“What’s with the cow thing?” wailed Gruntbag.
“Black splodges are very stylish, but I think they look better on cattle.” McMoo flinched as the lions roared again.
“Though their jaws would look better off cattle!”
Suddenly a strange skunk-like creature scuttled out from between the lions. Its black and white markings had morphed into those of a cow too. But unlike the lions, a haze of gas was squirting from its bottom!
“Hold your breath!” McMoo shouted. But it was too late. Henmir and Gruntbag were already sinking to their knees, clutching at their throats, and McMoo’s head was beginning to spin like a top. As he fell to the floor, he heard the huge growling cow-lions pad closer . . . closer . . .
* * *
“Professor . . . Professor, wake up!”
McMoo stirred groggily in his sleep. Wasn’t that Little Bo? But she had been captured by the F.B.I., which had to mean . . .
“Yes, wake up, sleepy-head!” came a deep rasping voice. “I wish to question you.”
“That’s a coincidence. I want to question you too.” McMoo opened his eyes and found he was strapped to a stretcher in a cavernous white room that was part hi-tech laboratory, part operating theatre. Bright lights in the ceiling glared down, making trays of surgical tools gleam and glint. Bo, wrapped up in a blanket, was strapped to another stretcher close by. McMoo beamed as he saw her. “Bo, are you all right?”
“Not very,” she retorted. “I’ve been scrunched into sand, tied to a boat, attacked by a bubble-blowing mutant octopus, gassed by a mutant skunk, dragged through a maze of corridors by a mutant lion and almost bored to death by this F.B.I. chump!”
McMoo’s smile quickly faded as he took in the burly brown bull that stood beside her. “Who are you?”
“I am Taurus Gaur,” the bull announced.
“He’s the loony scientist Holstein told us was on the loose in the twenty-sixth century,” Bo put in. “No wonder poor Yakky-babes couldn’t find him. Gaur’s been here all along!”
“And keeping very busy,” Gaur agreed. Thick metal spectacles sat on top of his snout, magnifying his brown eyes. He was wearing a filthy lab coat and his hooves were stained yellow and green. “You are my helpless prisoner, Professor. You were a fool to enter my undersea domain!”
McMoo nodded ruefully. “I’ve never been able to resist a good undersea domain.”
“And yet you are not a fool,” Gaur went on, “because it was you who invented the flying machine this cow was wearing when she was captured, wasn’t it?” He held up the bent and battered set of mechanical wings. “I’m afraid these are useless to you now – they were damaged in the struggle and can no longer support your weight.” He threw the wings to the floor. “I have heard of you, McMoo.”
“And I think I’ve heard quite enough of you!” The professor blew out a big breath. “Where are Gruntbag and Henmir?”
“Those puny half-pint Vikings, you mean?” Gaur scoffed. “They are not fit to be turned into bull-kings like the other men Mookow dropped off here. I’ve left them with the cow-lions.”
McMoo yawned. “I suppose you’re going to threaten to hurt them unless I do as you say?”
“Have a care, Professor.” Gaur eyed him stonily. “You might be a genius in your own time, but I am the archi
tect of all cowkind’s destiny!”
“See?” Bo rolled her eyes at McMoo. “Ever since I woke up here he’s been spouting rubbish like that.”
Gaur put his hooves on his hips. “It is not rubbish. The work I am doing here will change the place of cows in the world for ever.” He gave a high-pitched titter. “Eventually it will change every animal on Earth. Even the human animal.”
“Into cows?” McMoo’s eyes narrowed. “The octopus, the lions, the turtles, the skunk . . . I assume the F.B.I. stole them from the zoos in the twenty-sixth century. But what have you done to them?”
“I’ve made them into moo-tants!” Again, Gaur chuckled. “It’s easy when you know the secret of moo-goo!”
“Who-goo?” Bo echoed blankly.
Gaur grabbed a test tube from the table behind him and waggled it in the C.I.A. agents’ faces. “Moo-goo! The chemical wonder substance I invented. Any animal who eats the stuff takes on the characteristics of a cow – or a bull, of course – and becomes my mindless servant.”
“So that’s how you trained the oxtopus and all those other poor animals to bring us here,” McMoo realized. “And why those kidnapped Vikings are working for you.”
“But why bother making them look like cows?” asked Bo.
“Because cows are BEST, silly!” Gaur cackled with delight and pressed a button on a control panel. A section of white wall slid upwards to reveal a glass inspection panel, allowing them to look into a room beyond, covered with vegetation.
McMoo felt a shiver from his nose to his tail at the sight of a horned pony, black and white like a cow, grazing on long grass beside a weird ape-creature with hooves. “What have you done?” “As well as the moo-tants you’ve already met, I’ve turned horses into cow-horses, a monkey into a moonkey, and . . .” Gaur sniggered as an ostrich-type bird waddled into sight, displaying its bright pink udder. “Yes – I have even made an emu into an e-moo. And that’s just for starters . . .”
“I suppose Mookow thought Bo was an escaped specimen,” said the professor coldly.
Gaur tutted. “Mookow is a mechanical mutton-head for thinking that anything can escape from my stronghold.”
Bo smiled sweetly. “Just give us time.”
“But time is exactly what you do not have,” Gaur gloated. “Now you have both blundered into my clutches, I intend to gain the professor’s help with a teeny tiny problem I have. You and the two half-pints will die if he refuses.”
“I knew it,” said McMoo. “Go on, then. What’s your beef? If you’ll pardon the expression.”
“The Vikings are slow to react to moo-goo. I can control human minds, but they are able to resist the full effect of the biological changes.” Gaur shook his head. “This simply will not do. I want them to grow bigger horns, and hooves as well. I want their cow-colours to be brighter. I want them to grow huge udders that blast milk in all directions . . .”
“You’re crazy!” cried McMoo. “Why do you want to change humans and animals at all?”
Gaur loomed over him. “At this point in history, the Vikings are at the height of their powers, the fiercest and most feared raiders and invaders anywhere in the world. All other humans fear them and respect them.”
“Except for King Alfred,” Bo reminded him.
“Precisely. In a matter of months, Alfred will defeat a massive Viking army at the Battle of Edington. The Danes’ reputation will be badly damaged.” An even loopier gleam had stolen into Gaur’s crossed eyes. “But if Alfred is turned into a bull-king he will fight for us instead of against us. He will help us capture the rulers of other countries . . .”
“Helped by your handy cloud of metal-eating rain,” McMoo concluded. “That dreadful drizzle will destroy the Anglo-Saxons’ weapons so they can’t fight back, and disintegrate their tools so they can’t fend for themselves.”
“Quite.” Gaur snorted. “The metal-mush cloud is Mookow’s contribution to this operation. It can be steered anywhere by remote control – that’s quite clever, I suppose . . .”
“Clever? It’s hideous!” McMoo snapped. “Without metal, humans won’t be able to develop their technology. History will be completely changed.”
“But metal from the future is not affected, as you have seen,” said Gaur. “Once humans realize that bull-kings alone wield metal weapons, that their former rulers now fight in the name of cattle, humans will come to fear and respect cows too. They will stop farming our kind.”
McMoo winced. “Meanwhile, you’re busy giving every animal a moo-goo makeover. It will seem as though cows have taken over the planet.”
“And so they will!” Gaur rubbed his stained hooves together with evil anticipation. “My moo-tants will replace all normal animals while the bull-kings conquer the world of humans. Then my F.B.I. masters will join me from the future and rule over everything – masters of an Earth where all life reflects their image. Human history will end in 878 AD – and the cow reign of terror will begin!”
“Professor, he’s bonkers!” Bo groaned. “What are we going to do?”
“You will obey me, of course.” Gaur pointed to a red cable snaking out from both stretchers to a kind of plug socket in the wall. “I have wired these trolleys to the power supply and can electrify them at any time I choose.”
McMoo sighed. “Aren’t you taking this mad scientist stuff a bit far?”
“Very funny, Professor.” Gaur guffawed and snorted. “But if you choose to defy me, you shall be barbecued where you lie!”
Chapter Eight
THE VALLEY OF FEAR
“WHOA!” PAT SLOWED his horse in a quiet grassy valley hemmed in by forest. He and Alfred had been riding at full gallop for what seemed like hours. Pat’s horse was gasping for breath; if he didn’t give it a rest it would surely collapse.
“Why have you stopped?” Alfred reined in his own horse and circled Pat impatiently. “We must find out if my stockade at Athelney is safe.”
“That cloud has been raining over Athelney, remember?” said Pat. “Your weapons might have melted away by now.”
Just then, a rustling and clattering from the trees nearby made Alfred hold his hand up for silence. Pat looked around for a hiding place, but it was too late. A ragged band of men charged out from the forest, clutching broken sticks and clearly terrified. When they saw Alfred, their eyes lit up and they fell to their knees before him.
“Sire!” panted one. “You must flee, there is danger! Strange Vikings on stranger steeds are fast approaching.”
“They must be trying to catch us in a pincer movement,” Pat realized.
“Did you come from Athelney?” Alfred demanded of his subjects. “The sticks you carry, were they once spears?”
“Truly you are the wisest of kings,” said one of the men, impressed. “A terrible rain fell – it stole our blades and spearheads. Then a Viking band with horned helmets attacked us.”
Alfred groaned. “How did they find my secret camp?”
It’ll be common knowledge in the future’s history books, thought Pat. The F.B.I. must’ve looked it up and told their bull-kings exactly where to go. “Sire,” he said, “is there anywhere else we can go to recover your forces and decide what to do next?”
Alfred shook his head. “Our best hope would be to hide in the forest, but how can we when—”
He broke off at the sound of heavy clattering from the trees. Suddenly four bull-kings burst from the undergrowth and fanned out, surrounding Alfred’s party. Pat gawked in amazement at the sight of their horses – patterned black and white, each boasted a pair of cow horns and a swollen udder!
“Surrender,” growled the biggest bull-king, driving his cow-horse faster. The other bull-kings followed suit, tightening their circle around Pat and the men so there was no way out. “Surrender to our power!”
Pat was so afraid he thought he might poo himself! Then he realized that might not be such a bad idea . . .
While Alfred and his men were busy looking for a gap in the circling h
orses, Pat bent over and popped out a cowpat. One of the mutant horses stepped in it and slipped with a horrified neigh! THUMP! It landed on its side and threw its rider through the air. BOINK! The horns growing through his helmet jabbed into the bottom of the horse in front of him, giving the animal such a shock it reared up and hurled its own rider backwards. With a yell, the bull-king collided with the one behind him and both fell in the remains of Pat’s whiffy parcel.
“The way out is clear!” cried Alfred triumphantly. “Flee quickly, my subjects. Pat and I shall lead our enemies away.”
Pat had already clambered onto his long-suffering stallion. He rode up to the remaining bull-king, who was looking around in puzzled alarm, and shoved him off his mount. Then Alfred steered his horse towards the oak trees on the far side of the valley, and Pat did the same.
But already, the bull-kings were picking themselves up and readying their horses to follow . . .
McMoo’s mind was racing. Gaur had unstrapped him, but poor Bo still lay helpless on the booby-trapped stretcher. With Bo’s life at stake, McMoo had had no choice but to do as the mad doctor demanded.
Gaur peered at McMoo through his extra-thick glasses. “The problem is, Professor, that something in the human body resists my moo-goo. The bull-kings who attacked you on the beach should have been much more cowish than they are.”
“Then I’d better get studying a pure human, hadn’t I?” suggested McMoo. “I suppose you’ve already fed moo-goo to those men Mookow brought you. What a good job you’ve still got Gruntbag and Henmir!”
Gaur stomped over to a control panel in one corner with a large red microphone and pressed a button. “Cow-lions, bring me that feeble pair you are guarding . . .”
“I’ll just give Bo’s ringblender back to her,” said McMoo airily. “Don’t want to confuse those Vikings before we experiment on them, eh?” He slid the silver ring back into his friend’s nose, then tried discreetly to unplug the booby-trap cable. ZAP! A blast of electric energy sent him crashing to the floor.