T-1901’s sinister laughter went on for several minutes. “I think I preferred the signal,” Pat muttered.
Finally, the ter-moo-nator controlled himself. “I must leave you now. The Great Exhibition opens at three. My ‘wife’ and I must proceed from the Palace at noon. But while I am gone, you must create more of the cow-feed, so that I may create more Ultra-Cows. If you refuse, or try to escape, Fanny will ter-moo-nate you.”
“Yes, an’ then I’ll zap you with this gun an’ all!” the big Barmer said fiercely.
“What happens if your big cow gets restless before you’re ready?” McMoo enquired. “She’ll bring the whole place down.”
“I have prepared a giant cow-leg manacle to hold her here.” T-1901 pulled a huge shackle and chain from under a bale of hay in the pen and clamped it around the ankle of the unprotesting cow. Then he turned to Fanny. “When she hears the signal and grows angry she will soon break free – but you will have time to reach safety.”
“I’d better,” Fanny growled.
“Now farewell, fools,” T-1901 clanked away. “I will return only once the centre of London has been udderly destroyed . . .”
“Don’t rush back on our account,” McMoo called after him. There was no reply. A stunned hush settled over the stables.
“What can we do now?” asked Pat quietly.
“You can make more of that cow-feed stuff,” Fanny snapped. “All of you – get on with it!”
More miserable hours passed, as McMoo and the botanists worked in stoic silence.
But then, suddenly, Bo nudged her brother. “The thing about eating lots is that, sooner or later, it all has to come out . . .”
Pat glanced at the Ultra-Cow. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be straining a bit. “Uh-oh! Things could get smelly.”
Bo nodded. “And if I time things just right, they could get extra smelly for Barmer . . .”
“Stop that yakking!” snapped Fanny. But just then, Seymour Bushes stifled a noisy sob. “It’s no use.” He sniffed loudly. “I can’t go on.”
“Nor I,” said Dicky. “My heart is too heavy.” He held his stomach. “Look, it’s down here, I’m sure it is.”
“Don’t be so wet!” Fanny turned from Bo and aimed the gun at the botanists instead. “The next person to sob gets a—”
“Big surprise!” yelled Bo, hitching up her dress and squirting a jet of milk right into Fanny’s face!
Albert blinked. “Where did that come from?”
Bo quickly covered her udder. “Where did what come from?” she asked innocently.
With a burbling cry, Fanny staggered back under the Ultra-Cow’s hind legs . . .
Just in time to receive one of the biggest pats on the head in history.
SQUELCH! An avalanche of steaming dung fell over Fanny, knocking the gun from her grip. She shrieked as the huge dollops pinned her to the ground, and a ragged cheer went up from the botanists.
“Direct hit!” McMoo cried. He started to untie Pat and Bo, glancing up warily at the enormous beast. “Nice shooting, Bo,” he whispered.
“We may have won a battle but the war is surely lost,” said Albert forlornly. “That beastly bull will be in London by now. We can’t stop him from sending his signal – and we certainly can’t stop the Ultra-Cow.”
“But if we can perfect an antidote and turn her back to normal, she won’t be able to do any harm!” McMoo grinned. “And I dunno about you lot, but I’ve secretly been working on one all morning.”
“Ingenious, my dear Professor,” said Sir Lawrence. “Have you succeeded?”
“Not yet,” McMoo admitted. “I need a plant with a bit more pizzazz. Something rich in vitamin Z . . .”
“Twenty-sixth-century clover!” Bo cried, pulling the wilted leaves from her pocket. “That’s full of the stuff!”
“Genius!” McMoo declared, swiping the plant. “It might just work . . .”
But suddenly, the Ultra-Cow flicked its ears and started to growl. McMoo and Bo gasped, and Pat found he could hear a distant buzzing in his brain. “T-1901’s signal!” he breathed. “It’s started transmitting!”
“And my antidote’s not ready!” groaned McMoo. “We’ve got to calm down that cow.”
Dicky looked around at his friends. “Anyone know any cow lullabies?”
“How about, ‘Please, Big Cow, Don’t Squash and Kill Us’?” suggested Seymour.
“MOOOOO!” With an ear-splitting cry, the Ultra-Cow broke free of her shackles.
“Someone’s got to stop that thing,” Bo declared. “And since the special feed was made for milk-cows, there’s only one chick qualified for the job.”
“Bo, no,” McMoo warned her. “It’s too dangerous.”
The Ultra-Cow raised her head and roared again. “So’s that thing!” said Bo. “Hey everyone – look over there!”
She pointed across the stable, and while Albert and the botanists turned to see, she whipped out her ringblender, tore off her human clothes and guzzled down great gulpfuls of the freshly created cow-feed.
“Where’d that heifer come from?” cried Sir Lawrence. “And where’s Miss Vine?”
“She’ll be all right,” said McMoo, leaping clear of the Ultra-Cow’s giant hoof. “I hope!”
“It’s working,” Bo mooed through a mouthful of feed. She could feel her whole body fizz with a billion bubbles. Her legs began to stretch, her head inflated like a balloon. Her udder swelled to resemble the world’s largest blancmange as she grew, and grew and grew . . . “Whoaaa, this is amazing!”
Pat gulped, staring up at her in alarm. “Looks like my big sister just got bigger!”
“Hello, down there!” Bo waved down at McMoo, Pat and the others. “Ouch.” She covered her ears. “That signal’s really annoying. It wouldn’t be so bad if it had a bit of a bass line, but . . .”
“MOOO!” Enraged by the signal, the Ultra-Cow reared up and swatted Bo into the stable wall.
“Ooh, my ticker!” groaned Dicky, as he and the other botanists ran for cover.
“Don’t trash the lab, Bo!” McMoo yelled, working feverishly over a hot test tube. “Or I’ll never be able to finish the antidote.”
Bo was too busy dodging another hoof to hear him. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she mooed at the Ultra-Cow. “Just calm down!”
But the humongous heifer reared up and sprayed a giant jet of milk at Bo. Bo fought back with a blast of her own. A tidal wave of milk crashed down over the lab, half-drowning Albert, Pat and the botanists.
McMoo wiped the milk from his eyes and glowered up at Bo. “You’re not making this very easy!”
“Sorry, Prof,” Bo called, grabbing the Ultra-Cow in a neck lock. “Just get a shift on – I can’t hold her much longer!” The Ultra-Cow bucked and shook and kicked to be free, smashing down walls and snapping tables like twigs.
“Pat, clear the area!” cried McMoo. Covered in milk and straw, Pat led Albert and the terrified botanists away from the ruined stable. Only the professor remained, standing in the shambles, emptying the test tube over the twenty-sixth-century clover. “And get Fanny out of here too. She may be a ratbag but we can’t let her be squashed.”
Even as he spoke, the Ultra-Cow booted Fanny Barmer and sent her streaking through the air like a human dungball. “Whoops!” McMoo leaped aside as she whistled past and crashed into a cupboard.
“The signal’s driven this cow gaga!” hollered Bo desperately. “I can’t stop her!”
The Ultra-Cow finally broke free and bent down, ready to suck up McMoo into her giant, dribbling jaws . . .
