McMoo looked around the lab in horror. “You’ve been making your moo-der victims slave away here to help create that poor, oversized heifer?”
“Yes.” T-1901 smiled. “These unfortunate fools have been creating a new type of cow-feed for me. A precise combination of plants that will cause any cow who eats it to swell to enormous size.”
Sir Lawrence picked up some limp leaves and gasped in horror. “My prize pomp lilies are among them, I see!”
“Yes,” T-1901 grated. “F.B.I. research indicated that pomp lilies had many unique properties. They are a vital ingredient of the cow-feed.”
“And almost extinct even by 1851,” said McMoo. “Which is why you set up your lab here, I suppose – next to a good supply!”
“And yet the correct combination of plants to achieve maximum cow growth has not been discovered.” T-1901 smiled. “You will collaborate with your fellow prisoners. You will work without rest to create the cow-feed I require. If you do not have it ready within thirty-six hours . . . I will ter-moo-nate Queen Victoria!”
Eliza swooned, and Dicky clutched his chest so hard he almost fell over. Even the large cow looked mildly concerned.
“But . . . you can’t!” Albert whined.
“Yes, I can, my princely friend,” T-1901 assured him. “And now I have lured you all here, I shall go to see her right away.”
Albert pushed out his chin defiantly. “She’ll run a mile as soon as she spots you!”
The ter-moo-nator shook his head. “I told you I am a master of illusion. Behold . . .” He held up a golden nose ring, then slotted it into his snout. The air around him shimmered . . .
And the next moment, he looked exactly like Prince Albert!
“A ringblender with a built-in impersonation setting,” McMoo marvelled. “Brilliant!”
“He still stinks of oil and bull-skin,” Bo shouted.
“Your oh-so-British queen will be far too polite to comment.” T-1901 tossed his ray gun to Fanny. “Guard them until I return. Your twin sister will join me and resume her work in the house – but she too will die if you try to defy me.” He smiled at Sir Lawrence. “I will tell Victoria that urgent business has called you all back to London, but that you insisted we remained here where it was . . . ‘safe’.”
“You diabolical demon!” cried Sir Lawrence.
“Just get on with your work,” T-1901 snarled. “With your expertise and McMoo’s genius, the task should be simple. So be ready by the day after tomorrow. Or else!”
The ter-moo-nator stalked away with Eliza struggling in his grip and the false wall swung down behind him.
“Quick, Professor,” Bo hissed. “Now we can escape!”
Fanny fired the ray gun – and a bolt of energy smashed into the timber beam beside Bo’s head.
“Or possibly not,” Pat twittered.
“You heard old bully-boy,” said Fanny, pointing the gun at Albert. “No tricks, and get working – all of you!”
“With innocent lives in danger, it’s hopeless to resist, my friends,” said one of the ragged botanists. “Come, all of you. Let us show you where we’ve got up to . . .”
The long hours passed for McMoo and his friends in a blur of chemicals and leaves, microscopes and stem-snippings, petals and pollen. They worked till they were exhausted. Pat and Bo sat miserably, tied up so tight they could hardly move – and every time they did, even just to scratch an itch, Fanny fired a laser bolt in their direction.
Pat sighed. “She’s a tough one. I don’t see any way out.”
“She’ll get tired in the end,” Bo whispered. “And when she does . . .”
“Don’t try anything,” Albert beseeched them. “That evil man-bull might hurt my little Vicki!” He checked his fob watch and turned to Sir Lawrence. “Twenty-four hours have gone already. We only have until tomorrow morning!”
“Shut up!” hissed Fanny Barmer, an ear cocked to the far wall. “I hear something . . .” The posh tones of Queen Victoria carried to them faintly. “These grounds are so lovely to stroll in. Such a pity that Sir Lawrence and his friends had to leave so soon after arriving. What could their urgent business be?”
“I really don’t know, my dear,” came the voice of T-1901 impersonating Albert. “But I trust they shall finish it soon and return.”
The voices faded as the queen and her sinister companion walked on. Albert sighed, and the botanists hung their heads. The giant cow mooed.
“We’d better keep at it,” the professor murmured.
* * *
The day turned to night as the hours went on crawling by. McMoo and the men worked flat out without food or sleep. Bo and Pat nibbled on scraps of grass and hay when no one was looking.
“Just half an hour to go till morning,” Fanny yawned with a nasty smile. “Time’s running out. Looks like Great Britain’s going to need a new queen.”
“Not so!” cried McMoo, leaping up from his microscope in a shower of peach blossom. “Dicky, that last cutting you added to the mixture might just be the one to do it.”
Sir Lawrence stared at him, red-eyed and haggard. “Then let us test it, sir!”
As McMoo carried a big sack of new improved big-cow cow-feed over to the ter-moo-nator’s giant pet, the other botanists held their breaths. One or two forgot to let their breath go again and quickly collapsed to the floor. But the others barely noticed – and even Fanny Barmer just stared, fascinated – as the cow began to eat . . . and eat . . .
Pat and Bo looked nervously at the professor. The professor looked at Seymour. Seymour looked at Sir Lawrence. Sir Lawrence looked at Albert. Albert looked at Dicky. Dicky looked unwell.
The big cow finished her meal and stuck out her tongue. Then she lay down heavily.
Seymour Bushes buried his head in his hands. “It didn’t work!”
With a sudden whirr, the stable wall slid upwards to reveal the ter-moo-nator, dressed in Albert’s pyjamas. “Well?” he demanded.
“They’ve failed,” cried Fanny. “The cow’s no bigger.”
T-1901’s face darkened. His chimney horns started pumping smoke and his borrowed pyjamas started to singe. “You dare to disappoint me?”
“Wait!” Pat gasped. “Look – something’s happening!”
The cow was beginning to shake. Her hide was glowing an eerie red. With a weird, gurgling moo, she raised her head – and went on raising it! Her neck stretched out like a giraffe’s – then the rest of her body began to catch up. She grew taller and taller, bigger and wider, crashing through the rotten ceiling, towering over all in the pale dawn light.
“Behold,” whispered T-1901 in wonder. “The Ultra-Cow.”
“Moo,” said the Ultra-Cow, looking confused.
“There. You’ve got your giant heifer,” said McMoo grimly.
Bo nodded. “But she’s not exactly savage and war-like, is she?”
“Not yet. But observe.” T-1901 pulled a small device from inside his pyjamas. “This transmits a special signal on cow frequencies. To ordinary cattle it is simply a nuisance. But to the enormous ears of an Ultra-Cow . . .”
He pressed a switch on the device.
“I hear nothing,” said Sir Lawrence, and the other botanists agreed. But McMoo winced, Pat and Bo shook their heads – and the giant-sized Ultra-Cow started snarling and spitting and stamping her feet, mooing like a foghorn.
“You see?” laughed T-1901. “It drives her wild . . .” He tossed the device to the floor in front of Dicky Hart. With a growl of outrage and a moo of cow-trage, the Ultra-Cow lifted her hoof over Dicky’s head, ready to bring it crashing down. The botanist screamed . . .
But then McMoo dived forward head over heels, scooped up the device, and hurled it into the pen. The Ultra-Cow’s hoof stamped down on it, squashing it flat.
At once, the giant animal was quiet and calm again.
“Perfect,” hissed T-1901. “The Ultra-Cow will do anything to stop the signal. And I will place an identical device in Queen Victoria’s crown, ready for when she opens the Great Exhibition later today!”
“The exhibition!” Albert spluttered. “I’d almost forgotten.”
“So that’s your plan,” McMoo realized. “You’ll switch on your signalling device and the Ultra-Cow will hear it, freak out and go charging into London to stop it – destroying Crystal Palace, the queen, hundreds of inventions and thousands of visitors from all over the world!”
“Correct,” agreed T-1901. “The first event in a cow destruction spree that will bring the world to its knees . . .”
Pat looked anxiously at Bo. “Leaving it ripe for a takeover by the F.B.I.!”
“I am grateful for your help, gentlemen,” T-1901 told McMoo and the botanists. “Thanks to you, the human race is doomed.” He began to laugh. “Let the Age of Evil Cows begin!”