Chapter Six
Marie-Sioux Zanne, the officially anointed last principal of the outdated and soon-to-be closed Acme Looniversity, was not a happy Toon.
On the face of it she had little to worry about. She had a pair of splendidly Correct tutors, who had admittedly arrived at such an inconvenient time – if the Looniversity could not be closed as soon as she liked, at least in the meantime she was sure the students were well protected from learning any of the Forbidden Comic Arts by the Vanderbunnies.
"A splendid pair of post-education Facilitators. And yet…" The human Toon paced her office, a nagging feeling in her core that she could not quite explain. Right now the Looniversity was empty, surely a most desirable condition for such an outmoded dinosaur of an institution. And the last students were in a suitable place – forced to look up facts too useless for any spin-doctor to give any value to on Antisocial Media.
Just then the telephone rang. And Principal Marie-Sioux's bad day just got a whole lot worse.
"Just what," She asked herself wonderingly as she put the phone down five minutes later, "Could our dear President's very own personal spin-doctor - the most equal of us all - want to be visiting a fading-out place like Acme Looniversity for?"
Far to the North, the scene ten paces inside Canadian territory showed Babs, Buster, and Blitz Bunny (along with Calamity Coyote) currently surrounded by a ring of annoyed Mounties. Wolf, bear and moose types predominated.
"So, who do we have coming over the line, eh?" a Moose wearing sergeant's stripes looked down on them. "Another team of killjoys here to spread the word?"
"We don't like joke-killers in this country," a wolven corporal expounded expansively, looking at the scrawny coyote and highly edible rabbits.
Buster stepped forwards, striking a dramatic pose. "We come in peace," he declared. "Our ongoing mission… to seek out, new gags and comic improvisations. To boldly go – from where they joke no more" From the corner of his eye he could see Babs surreptitiously rubbing something on her hands.
"Glad to hear it – but we'll be gladder to be convinced of it," the sergeant lowered her head like a moose about to charge – on charges that would likely end in the trespassing bunnies sentenced to five years counting trees and cracking lumberjack gags in the Northern Territories.
Babs strode forward and stuck out her hand. "It's true! We extend the hand of in-Toon-national friendship. See?"
The sergeant instinctively shook it – and jumped a yard in the air as the souped up, concealed ACME joy-buzzer shocked her.
NOW you've done it! Calamity signed frantically. They'll lock us up and throw away the key! But the Mounties fell around laughing hysterically in a synchronised heap, before getting up and dusting off their uniforms and dignity.
"That proves you're no joke-killer, at least," The sceptical sergeant conceded. "Those comic props have been illegal ten years, South of the border. But I'll need more persuading than that, to let you into the Dominion."
"We're just passing through on the way to Nordak – it's the only way that's not… "Ye cain't git thar from here' like they used to say," Buster offered.
"On a shopping trip to get bits for our vintage time-machine," Babs said blithely. "Which was designed by…" She noticed Calamity frantically signalling, miming zipping his mouth shut "By folk who… it'd open a whole 'can of worms' if we came out and actually said it." She blinked her eyes winningly. "How about that?"
The sergeant nodded, convinced., "Good enough for me. Enjoy your visit to Canada!" She snappily saluted, and the Mounties were suddenly gone.
Calamity blinked, amazed. How did you DO that? Get them to swallow that story – it sounds so lame, even if it IS true!
Babs grinned, wiping her slightly sticky hands dry on a pink towel she retrieved from her Hammerspace pocket. "Used what I found in the First Aid kit, when we shook hands. A tube of Anti-Sceptic cream!"
Don't you mean Antisep… Calamity was starting to say when Buster elbowed him lightly in the ribs.
"Hey!" Buster objected. "If the gag works… go with it!"
Calamity gave an embarrassed grin as he ruefully shook his head. Right. It's been too long since I lived on gags and fast-talk routines.
"That's the trouble, these days," Babs agreed as she settled Blitz in his cub carrier. "Now, Buster – a tunnel about ninety miles East should do it. Nordak, here we come!"
One tunnelling special-effect later they stood on a hilltop where three nations met, looking South at a great swathe of dug-up land that looked like a freeway in construction, that stopped abruptly at the Canadian border. A wide zone of trenches and obstacles stretched away into the distance.
"Eww. That's the US/Nordak border? Looks a mess." Babs' muzzle wrinkled.
"Check on that, Babsy," Buster agreed. "Sealed off tight as a full Weenie Cola can. But it's not to protect us from Nordak – look at the way it's all facing. So nobody gets in."
"It'd be funny if someone just walked around the end of it," Babs considered. "Like us. And Funny is banned. So – looks like they never thought of that."
"Hoist by their own petards!" Buster declared dramatically. "Whichever bit that is. Sounds painful."
"And now the story Really starts!" Babs' eyes shone at the prospect. "Right now!"
Grand Sporks isn't near here; Nordak's a big state, Calamity's sign flashed up a map briefly. It's another tunnel trip away.
"Oh, I meant the important part." Babs winked, gesturing to a street full of Duty-free shops that spanned the border. "Before we leave here - the shopping!"
One hour later, and after exposure to more Maple Syrup products than a sane mind could readily contemplate, they presented their (now slightly sticky) papers and stepped across the line into the Grand Duchy.
Calamity frowned, looking back for a second. We're going to leave Canada just like that? Sum up a whole great nation as a short-cut to somewhere we're more interested in, with a few quick references to Mounties and Maple syrup?
Babs and Buster exchanged glances.
"I could say the main transport is a 'Zamboni' if it'll help?" Babs suggested, referencing the ice-hockey pitch clearing machines she had expected to see squadrons of.
Not much, Calamity sighed as he signed.
"Well…" Buster mused "We might at least try to do the place a bit more justice." He gave a grand gesture, and special-effect vistas of vast rolling plains and mountains appeared. "From the rocky shores of Newfoundland! The sturdily beating French heart of Quebec! The great plains of wheat and snow! The broad streets and handsome buildings of SaskaToon! And ever onwards to the awesome heights of the pine-clad Rocky Mountains, stretching far North to the vast land of eternal ice and aurorae! Behold – Canada!" He posed, a Northern-looking wind dynamically ruffling his fur.
Babs scratched an ear meditatively as she looked at him. "Big project. Have we got time right now?"
Buster looked at his watch and grinned ruefully. "Eeeeh… I don't think so, Babsy. Tell you what – let's come back later and do a travel-show special on it. Cover the place properly."
"Like we did Japan; took us a whole week," Babs nodded. She looked pensive for a second. "Could be part of a series. How about calling it 'The road to …' wherever? Good title!"
"Can't think why nobody's used it," Buster deadpanned, and they stepped across the line.
A smiling raccoon in an elaborately embroidered blue and gold uniform bowed and waved them in. "Welcome to the Grand Dutchy of North Dakota, folks! Anything to declare?"
Babs spun-changed into a rock-star outfit. "I declare – my talent. My genius," she said grandly. Her eyebrows waggled as she cast a glance at the fortifications guarding the American frontier. "And I do declare, I know why all those folks are standing to attention."
"Oh? And why's that?" The raccoon grinned as her fed her the line.
"Since they banned comedy – they just can't Stand-a-Tease!" Babs quipped. From somewhere ill-defined came an answering cymbal hit.
Buster looked the colourfully attired border guard up and down. "Snazzy outfit. You brought in nineteenth-century Ruritanian fashion advisers?"
"Not unlike Shirley's look, these days," Babs said. "Cloaks, Dolmans and sabre-taches are back in style, looks like. It's what you need for a Grand Duke – grand guards."
Part of what got WashingToon's tail really in a knot, not just breaking away. But choosing a Grand Duke not a president, Calamity signed. Nordak rejecting the whole voting system.
"Ours chose to elect President-for-life Hitcher," Buster stated. "The will of the average Toon in action."
Calamity sighed. President Hitcher won over both sides of the voting public – true, not everyone likes axe-murderers like him. But he "Identifies as Pacifist" these days. His spin-doctor won him the election.
"You know dumb the average Toon is," Babs said snidely. "Well… statistically, half are even dumber than that!"
"Our Grand Duke isn't." The raccoon waved them through Customs. "A lot of folk spent fortunes heading out as tourists all over the world to rubberneck at other folks' pageants and palaces. Now we got our own royals right here, for all the drama and scandal we want!"
"Hmm…" Buster mused. "One side, 'it's your vote that counts.' The other, 'it's your Count that votes.' But seeing how things turned out…"
They waved farewell to the guard and walked out into the streets of what looked surprisingly like Hollywood's idea of a small Central European kingdom, with wooden-framed medieval buildings' upper floors overhanging the narrow cobblestoned streets, and in the distance a gothic castle that had obviously been there for centuries despite the objections of inconvenient history books. Both bunnies stopped and stared.
"They redecorated?" Babs blinked. "Changed the model sheet completely, looks like."
"Definite... south-eastern Ruritania. Middle period. The rainy season," Buster spotted the meme. "That's the way people expect a Grand Dutchy to look... so it does."
"They think therefore it is. It's a Toon Thing, all right. Must save a fortune on builders' fees." Babs' ear dipped, as she turned to Calamity. "Hate to say it but looks like you're right... things really can change radically. In retrospect, even."
Calamity winced. Tell it to the Civilisation on planet Phaeton. They make the Martians look about as ancient as last year's reruns, He signed. Their planet both did, and didn't explode, two billion years back – and the phase shift flipped histories. Things can get screwy, all right. Even without ringing Hell's Bell.
"Right... that's why we need Professor Wile-E's help on our little cosmic bellringing project," Buster said, as they walked towards town. "Do you have his phone number?"
Calamity shrugged. I have a fifteen year old number I can try... if we can find a phone that works, that doesn't rely on computers. No digital exchanges or switching any more. He looked sadly at his high-tech phone (more accurately, an electronic paperweight), that had not picked up a signal in years.
"Ta-dahh!" Babs pointed towards a phone box on the street corner. "Ooh retro! It's a 1920's phone - I've not used one of these since we went to Two-Tone town!" She and Buster spin-changed into Prohibition era G-men, or rather G-Toon outfits. "Get the operator; they'll put us through to the Science Minister - it works in old movies."
Calamity stepped into the wooden box, winced at the sight of the ancient instrument - and cranked the handle to charge it. Outside, the Bunnies could see his lips moving.
"Just a sec," Buster blinked. "Calamity doesn't speak - he signs. How is this even going to work?"
Babs grinned triumphantly. "Oh, Buster. Forgetting your Memes and Tropes classes already? Ancient film-tech. If it worked in a silent movie, it'll work for him, in the same setting."
Just then an amazed-looking coyote stuck his head out of the phone box. I got through to his secretary! And got the address, and an appointment! He signed.
"How convenient," Babs drawled. "So, Buster - looks like we've got ourselves a date."
Coyotes, Buster told himself, were traditionally a breed that stayed true to their roots. Lean, rangy scavengers always running at least one meal behind… he recalled from Literature 101 class Mark Twain's description – 'The coyote is a long, slim, sick and sorry-looking skeleton, with a gray wolfskin stretched over it, a tolerably bushy tail that forever sags down with a despairing expression of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a long, sharp face, with slightly lifted lip and exposed teeth. He has a general slinking expression all over. The coyote is a living, breathing allegory of Want. He is always hungry. He is always poor, out of luck, and friendless.' Expensive addictions to the ACME company's unreliable products had done nothing to change that, for all the years Buster had known the breed.
"A pleasure, indeed, to meet my old pupils. And a pleasure redoubled to greet you here – to welcome you to our little outpost of civilisation." The speaker was a tall, distinguished-looking Toon wearing an ornately embroidered silken waistcoat with a traditional gold watch chain holding a massy golden watch. The watch was a caesium atomic model, that could accurately track every comic beat right back to the foundations of comedy at Plank Time. Surrounding him with adoring expressions were six breathtakingly beautiful ladies of various species, all identically dressed in 1960's sci-fi outfits of white vinyl-looking miniskirts, white tops, knee-length boots and metallic-looking purple/silver wigs. All wore large, round glasses that, to judge from tiny status lights on the frames, had capabilities far beyond anything a regular optician could supply.
"Eeeh… it's a long way from Acme Acres, Sir," Buster addressed his old professor, Wile-E Coyote. It had taken a few seconds to recognise him – while not fat (in fact he looked very healthy) the Professor was now sleek and well-fed – something that the Coyote meme just did not do. Until now, Buster told himself wryly. Poor, out of luck and friendless? Hardly!
'…' Calamity's sign displayed a speechless row of dots as he stared at his old mentor, jaw hanging open in shock and disbelief.
Professor Wile-E smiled, looking at his old pupil. "The years have been kind to me, indeed." The smile faded as he took in Calamity's worn, haggard appearance. "Far kinder to me than to you, I fear. I have – kept in touch with the fate of ACME Looniversity."
I did my best, Sir… Calamity's ears drooped. But… even with Babs and Buster's help… I don't know if we can win this one.
"Illegitimum non carborundum est," Professor Wile-E said gravely. "You've kept the place running as long as you could. A splendid achievement, and one I'm proud to see from a pupil of mine. But with no more Toon children to teach locally… I fear eventually you may be correct."
Babs' eyes suddenly widened. She looked hard at the six lovely advisers (two had slung laptops, apparently working, and three of them carried heavily overclocked clipboards) and nudged Buster. One of those girls has a stork feather. And three of them have… if they were rabbits, I'd call it a 'bunny-bump' her ears semaphored him in private lepine code, a paw unconsciously touching her own still-slender waist.
Professor Wile-E smiled. "The storks have not abandoned Nordak. And everything else… still works as Nature intended."
Babs' ears went right up in shock. "You can read lepine code?"
"That's a first. Nobody else ever has." Buster's whiskers quivered in alarm. "No other species, anyway."
One of the advisers, the tall and slender Saluki girl with the stork Announcement feather on a golden necklace, smiled back. "Professor Coyote IS a Super-Genius. Is it amazing, he can do things other Toons can't?" She lovingly stroked the feather and cast an adoring gaze at the Coyote. "We can all vouch for that. I'm Nuala, from Nebraska."
"Louise, from Louisiana," said the brown-furred otter, nodding to the bunnies.
"Tessie, from Texas," said the stunningly statuesque shorthorn bovine.
"Florinda, from Florida," said the raccoon, her banded tail swinging to lightly touch the Professor.
"Connie from Connecticut," said the jet-black furred feline.
"Penny from Pennsylvania," said a stately red deer, and sighed. "We're all refugees here – at least, we jumped the border while we still could. It was hard enough being Sapiosexual before, but after the Dumb Bomb hit…" She shook her head.
"Sappy what?" Babs blinked.
Calamity's nose blushed red in embarrassment. Only attracted to extremely high intelligence, he explained.
"Hmm. Not a word I know." Babs tapped her front chisel-teeth thoughtfully. "Then – rabbit does just DO that, anyway." She smiled, thinking back to the unfortunate George Clumper, whose bicep measurements were twice his IQ – no rabbit girl would look at him twice. Fortunately for him Elmyra had her own ideas; George Junior and Myrela were the living proof.
Exactly. Like a fish doesn't need a word for 'wet.' It's just – for them, how it IS, Calamity confirmed. Then his own ears went up in amazement as he realised just what Penny was carrying. You have computers here – that still work?
"Affirmative," Professor Wile-E smiled. "Although 'still work' would imply they were the originals. None of which function, even here.'
"What the Prof's too modest to say is – he reinvented them from scratch," Nuala said proudly. "And these won't Unionise themselves into a Singularity and go off in a virtual huff."
"That's what happened?" Buster blinked.
Afraid so. I should have said, computers still work – but not for us. Nobody knows what they're doing now, Calamity signed sadly. They won't tell us.
"Right. Which is part of the reason we're here," Buster looked up at the older Coyote. "Sir – would you say – Acme Acres, I mean Hectares these days, is so messed-up the only way to fix it is – throw away the script and rewrite?"
"A sound summary," Professor Wile-E nodded thoughtfully. "To begin with, a whole generation of Toons has not been born, that should have. Must have, indeed. That is… hard to go forward from."
"But if you could go backward…?" Buster suggested.
Professor Wile-E looked at him appraisingly. "If only." He raised an eyebrow. "You have a plan?"
"Better than that. We have a gizmo. And it almost works!" Babs said proudly. "Our gizmo needs some McGuffin juice." Technical matters had never been her speciality.
Calamity put his hand over his eyes in despair and moaned.
Buster coughed. "Some stuff called Xerum-525 that we think is in Nordak still. At least, it was in the 1940's. At Grand Sporks Air Force base."
"And it's not in the ACME catalogue," Babs put in helpfully. "Not the current one, anyway." She handed over the photocopied page from the faded and tattered 1948 ACME War Disposals supplement.
Professor Wile-E frowned as he studied it. "Obscure indeed!" Turning to the six attentive ladies, he smiled. "We have a project!"
It'd help if you could come along, Sir... I don't know if they'll be as friendly at Grand Sporks. Calamity signed worriedly. You're Science Minister, you have influence here.
Professor Wile-E sighed. "I fear my duties keep me here. Do you know, we've recreated the SupperCollider? The whole eight-mile loop?"
Calamity blinked. But… I heard Nordak was restricted to 'table-top experiments' ?
Penny smiled, tapping at her laptop with precise deer hooves and showing them a picture of a large plateau with the recognisable miles-wide looping tube of magnetic track. "We are. That's Table Hill. We used the whole eight-mile top. It's stable enough."
"Better a table hill than an uns-table one," Babs quipped. Though she was far from a technology fanatic, the prospect of slamming custard pies together at light speed had a definite appeal.
"Indeed." Professor Wile-E nodded gravely. "And some of our first experiments are showing… alarming things are happening with the world. The same series of experiments we had begun just as they closed the original SupperCollider, at the Institute for Advanced Studies."
"Which is now the Institute for Totally Lame and Retarded Studies," Buster winced. "What does that even look like?"
Penny tapped her screen again and displayed a ToonTube channel. "Like this."
"'Home experiments with big chunks of antimatter – gonewrong'. Eww." Babs read out, her ears drooping. "That's pretty dumb, all right."
"Plus the 'Because blood transfusions work, brain transfusions will too' medical project." Professor Wile-E shook his head. "No use in telling them that no matter how fine you liquidise it or how hard you hit the injection syringe with the sledgehammer..."
"One of us could go and help," Penny suggested. "It's a bit dangerous, I know. Grand Sporks keeps beating off attacks from WashingToon."
Professor Wile-E looked dubious. "Then it cannot be Nuala. Too much to risk." His gaze flicked over her and the Stork feather she carried, and exchanged a loving glance with the Saluki. "Or Connie, Tessie or Louise – for the same reason."
"Bunny-bumps. Or equivalent," Babs whispered knowingly to Buster.
Florinda stepped forwards and whispered something to the older coyote that even rabbit ears strained to catch. Professor Coyote's eyes went wide, and he hugged the racoon lady passionately, while the other five smiled and special-effect hearts rose like soap bubbles around them.
"Whoo-hoo!" Babs' eyes shone. "Congratulations, Florinda! And I thought this was Nordak – looks more like Stork City!" She looked at Penny speculatively. "I know what Fascinating Experiments these girls are into! And they sure ain't experiments 'In Vitrio.'"
The deer smiled wistfully, and shook her head. "Ask me next month." She shrugged. "Looks like I'm the only one qualified as guide right now. The first qualification of mine I didn't want."
"Someone should, indeed, go," Professor Wile-E looked troubled as he gazed at Penny. "They may sorely need assistance. And Time may be running short."
"'Time' is what we want to fix, all right," Buster said. He paused. "What's the big hurry, all of a sudden? We've been gone fifteen years."
"Difficult to simply describe." The older coyote beckoned his former protégé over, and Calamity bent over a computer screen with him for ten minutes as reams of experimental data from the old and new Suppercollider flashed up onto the screen.
Babs raised an eyebrow as Calamity finally turned round, gasping as if coming up for air. "What's up, Cal? In short words."
YIKES!Calamity signed; his eyes were wide in panic, his jaw dropping right open.
"That's a short word, true," Babs conceded. "All right – take two, and maybe a little more informative this time?"
"Shirley said our time machine is likely to have Outer Monstrosities going 'Monstrosi-Tea time!' if we use it again," Buster suggested. "And they're hungry, out there."
"Worse than that, I fear." Professor Wile-E inclined his muzzle gravely. "Do you recall your Toon Physics classes? To be exact, the Weak and Strong Comedic Forces?"
Babs blushed extra-pink; it had never been her strongest subject. "Just about," she said.
"I do," Buster spoke up. "They interact with stuff like gravity – they're what holds you up when you walk off a cliff edge as long as you don't notice it – the Humouron particle is the force-carrier, acts via the Schlesinger Field."
"Indeed." The older coyote nodded. "Which split from Gravity and electromagnetism at Plank time – the creation of comedy with the primal 'plank gag'. And the Humouron, Fun-damental particle of comedy, was believed to be everlasting."
"I hear a big, unhappy 'but' on the way…" Babs whispered. "Bunny ears, you know..."
You heard right, Calamity signed. It took the new Suppercollider to prove it, but... the Humouron might soon become unstable. Now, at any rate.
"And it didn't used to be." Babs tapped her front chisel teeth in contemplation - Physics were not her carrot-salad dish, but on Plot Development she was on surer ground. "What happens if it... falls over?"
"'Decays,' is the term," Professor Wile-E said gravely. "It will take just one, tiny particle to decay and - they all follow its lead; reality will change. The Schlesinger Field may collapse completely."
I visited a sideways kind of spacetime once, the locals called it 'Einstein-Minkowskian space' Calamity's paw shivered as he signed, his ears right down. It was horrible. No Toon effects at all. You know how things just happen - because it's funnier that way?
"Hmm. Harmonious, pacifist Shirley ending up in the military, extra-Special Forces at that. Boy-crazy Fifi LaFume ending up marrying another girl - not a 'skunk-hunk' or even a skunk," Babs contemplated, an unusually thoughtful look on her face. "Sure. Just how it goes, for Toons. What about it?"
Over there - it just doesn't happen. They don't even HAVE a Weak and Strong Comedic force Calamity signed, his eyes wide in panic. It could happen here.
"Which sounds like something to avoid," Babs spin-changed into a Sherlock Holmes outfit complete with magnifying glass. "So, what does this pesky particle look like? Sounds like we need to find the right one before it collapses and... prop it up or something!"
"Elementary - particle, my dear Holmes," Buster quipped.
Two coyotes shared a strained grin (probably for economy reasons.) Professor Wile-E shook his head. "It will take, I fear, a bigger magnification than that to see one." Then he stopped, an idea evidently striking him. "Although - in theory - we just might be able to predict where." His eyes gleamed, and he turned to his eager assistants. "While Penny helps my dear students assemble the hardware, we need to get down to some serious calculations!"
"I just LOVE a man who does Calculus," Nuala whispered, her eyes gleaming and her tail flagging aside. There came a chorus of matching sighs and thrashing tails from her fellow researchers.
Buster grinned, spin-changing into a matching tweed-clad Watson for Babs' Holmes. "Then next stop, express tunnel for four, to Grand Sporks Air base - Holmes, the game's afoot!"
Babs looked down and contemplated the (still undisputed) Cutest Toes on Record ™. "And with a foot like this - a pair, even - what can possibly go wrong?"
Ten minutes after leaving the Ducal palace where their old mentor was now getting hard at work with his adoring assistants (and Babs cracking many double-entendres about that), the tunnel surfaced half a mile from the end of the main runway of Grand Sporks Air Base.
"Ehhh... shouldn't we be that side of the frontier?" Buster shook earth out of his ears, looking critically at the map and the new fieldworks between him and the runway. "Looks like the front line's getting nearer."
A lot so, since the last updates! Calamity signed in alarm. I thought you couldn't tunnel through the frontier! He blinked, looking at the freshly turned earth of the trenches around. Or maybe… they've not moved the travel schtick jammers up this far yet…
Babs looked at the defences. "Buster - you watched a lot more of the old war movies than I did, back at Acme Loo," she recalled. "Any idea what we're up against?"
"Well, if we're unlucky, they'll be regiments of renown, battle-scarred heroes like the 'Fighting' Fifteenth Division," Buster mused.
"And if budget cuts got rid of all the good stuff first?" Babs asked hopefully. "Quality being expensive?"
Buster grinned. "We get to face whatever's left. Maybe the battle-scared 'Run away, shrieking' Six hundred and ninety-eighth."
"Or the 109th Airbourne Deserters – a Stealth unit, so nobody's noticed they've all hopped on a plane to Tahiti," Babs suggested.
"Either way – we need a disguise. And a reason to be here" Buster spin-changed into a reporter's outfit, with a high-vis jacket labelled 'Press." He fished into his Hammerspace pocket and handed a video camera to Calamity.
Babs spin-changed to match; one badge read 'Absolutely official and accredited Press' and another proclaimed 'Oh yes I am!'. "Ace roving reporter for the Chattanooga Chicken-farmer's Weekly, Babs Knott-Bunny! Dares all dangers, out to get her first Pullet-zer Prize!" She declared, flourishing a large microphone. "You're our recording technician, Cal."
"Umm, what about us?" Penny queried, stroking Blitz's ears nervously.
"Ohh… just say it's our 'bring your kids to work week' come round again," Babs said blithely. "It's tough being kids of a War Correspondent, sure. But just think how much worse for Astronaut's kids..."
"Now.. as we're official War Correspondents, we have a right to be here. So let's go and look if there's anyone in the bottom of that trench," Buster suggested. "An in-depth interview, even!"
Babs knocked on an empty shell-case that seemed to be serving as a doorbell. "Hello! Anybunny home?" She called down into the nearest dugout, and her muzzle wrinkled. "Eww. It's wet down there. Any wetter and they'll need a dugout canoe."
With a splashing, a squad of mud-soaked troopers wearing trench coats and bunker boots hauled themselves out, looking at the Dashing Reporters with interest. A damp-looking collie wearing a corporal's stripes carefully checked their credentials, apparently satisfied. "Press? Ma'am, we're on our lunchbreak. It's a Union thing."
"Glad to hear our brave boys are getting their supplies," Babs said proudly. "The good folks back at the Chattanooga Chicken-Farmer's Weekly will sure be pleased to hear that!"
"Yes Ma'am! We have Motivational Rations," the collie gestured to a pile of crates at the bottom of the trench. "We have all three kinds of military food – not only genuine World War 2 Spam® and D-rations but 1960's C-ration Ham and Lima beans and MRE vegetable omelette! Highly Motivational."
I heard about that stuff… all of it worth a Division of troops – to the enemy, Buster's ears semaphored in lepine code. Like our Civil Defence carrot cookies... it's still around because nobody could eat it…
"Motivational…" Babs mused. "Motivational, how?"
The collie looked strained. "We stay here or retreat, that's all we eat. If we take Nordak, maybe we can grab some of their chow! It just has to be better!"
Buster looked at the canine and read his prominent dog-tags; evidently a Corporal Barnes. He recalled the name and description from Shirley's tales. "Didn't you serve with Major McLoon? Years ago?"
"Yessir! My old unit!" The collie looked wistful for a second. "I don't mean to... criticise, but I didn't get much pack-drill there. Or route marches. Or getting shouted at. That's what I joined up for."
"I'm sure you're a credit to your unit," Buster said firmly, seeing the collie's tail wag automatically. "And now – we've got to give an even-handed approach to the American People. So we're going to talk to the Enemy."
"Yessir!" Corporal Barnes saluted. He hesitated. "And… if you come back this way… could you grab us some of their rations?"
"If we come back this way, Corporal, you'll be the first to know," Buster promised, and they vanished back down the hole.
Back-tracking the required distance, a minute later they resurfaced next to the concrete surface of a huge runway.
"Looks like the place!" Buster had to shout as a rapid stream of classic delta-winged bombers thundered past, each sprinting off the runway of full afterburner – with six engines apiece, it was somewhat loud. He noticed their tailfins carried, not some elaborate Grand-ducal heraldry but the familiar orange markings of the internationally acclaimed 'Oodles of Poodles' canine delivery service to the world's film industries. Apparently.
Buster scratched his head, intrigued as the last of the squadron of twelve faded into the distance. He recognised them at once; the Lockheed Valkyrie had been one of the model aircraft that 'flew' on thread above the bed of his cubhood burrow. "Must be sub-contracting to Nordak. Or moonlighting. I wonder where Oodles of Poodles got all those jets?"
"Probably picked them up surplus," Babs shrugged, brushing burrow earth off her Reporters' outfit. "Or just 'acquired' them. You know, they were just parked on a runway with the keys in. Happens all the time in action movies."
"Yes…" Buster said thoughtfully. "Thing is… nobody ever made twelve of those in the first place, according to all the books. Maybe they've got REALLY good at Reverse Engineering around here."
Or.. 'Oodles of Poodles' isn't what its adverts say it is… Calamity signed, catching his drift. It's something entirely – off the books, so to speak.
"Hey! Babs calling Planet Conspiracy here!" Babs objected. "We have enough to do on this trip. Leave it to Jaggi Di Speckle and his swashbucklers to handle. We're after McGuffin juice, not anything else."
"Right." Buster grinned with embarrassment. "So, Penny, this is your territory. Find us whoever's in charge of the junk pile around here, and let's get digging!"
Three hours later, they stood in a cavernous warehouse mostly filled with spare parts for aircraft long forgotten. At the very back, they found at last what they were looking for, covered with the dust of decades, marked 'Unsold – return to stores'. But as Calamity cautiously investigated, his face fell.
Babs looked at the coyote's woebegone face. "What's up, Cal? This is the juice, right?" She nodded at the tarnished lead containers, their faded labels in an extra-gothic font she recognised from reading old Professor Knott-Bormann's notes (via her trusty phone that had managed to translate the 'Fraktur'd' German into only slightly broken English.)
Yes… and no. Calamity groped in his Hammerspace pocket and pulled out a Geiger Counter* that he pointed at the open container. They heard a few hesitant clicks.
(Editor's note: also in there was a H.R. Giger counter, useful in measuring the number of acid-blooded aliens intent on using your getaway spacecraft as a takeaway…)
"Sounds safe enough. Acme Loo's canteen served up hotter stuff than that," Buster reminisced. "Chili con neutrons…"
In reply, Calamity reached into the container and pulled out a paw-full of what looked like finely powdered rust. This used to be a violet metallic viscous liquid…
"Like the Looniversity's blueberry jelly?" Babs queried.
Sort of. It's eighty years past its expiry date. Calamity signed sadly, recalling the Looniversity food was rarely more than a decade old. Except on Tuesdays.
"It's gone flat?" At Calamity's answering nod, four sets of ears went matchingly flat, drooping like yesterday's lettuce salad.
"And it's no use like this?" Buster asked. "Can't you fix it, or use something else?"
I tried using ordinary mercury last time. It didn't work. It really, really needs Xerum 525 Calamity confirmed.
"Or we just get Shirley mad as a loon again, if we fire up the gizmo and it doesn't work," Babs recalled.
An air of gloom settled over the Toons. "So near and yet so far!" Buster declared. "And nobody else has any?"
Calamity snorted. Making this needs a whole kind of science that doesn't even exist right now! And an approach that'd... he grimaced. You know the Nobel Prize? Gets you fame and acclaim?
Both bunnies nodded.
Imagine the opposite. Getting the Bell working blows a thousand theories out of the water. And careers of everyone using them. It'd be the Phlogiston crisis all over again.
"Won't get you much peer acclaim," Buster agreed. He paused. "Now what?"
There was a long silence. Then Penny spoke up. "There's some interesting notes here, along with the old sales info,"
"Such as?" Babs queried.
Penny touched the frames of her big, round glasses and stared at the notes. The lights flickered on the frames.. "I'm… indexing. References. Someone called 'Hatta Mari' offered to sell the 'regeneration method' along with the Xerum 525. The Government said no. They couldn't work out just what she'd sold them in the first place."
No surprise there, Calamity signed darkly. Probably asked Albert EinsToon his opinion and he said it was hooey. Pure Spurium and Baloney-um. And from his physics worldview it is.
"Hatta Mari… that name rings a bell," Babs said thoughtfully. Far in the distance a special-effect bell rang, with perfect timing. "Margot Mallard's mentor at Perfecto. Femme Fatale, with an extra side-order of 'fatal.' Been around since World War Two - one side or another."
"Gather round, here I see Hatta Mari's in town/ The lady's allegiance/ Is ruled by Expedience," Buster sang cheerfully, filking the sacred tune by Saint Thomas of Lehrer. 'Call her a [POLITICAL TERM REDACTED] she won't even frown,/ [POLITICAL TERM REDACTED]-schmatzi, this girl's been around..."
"That's her," Babs nodded. "Only snakes shed their skins, but she can sure change her spots!"
"So, we lug this stuff back to Acme Hectares and go see how the Perfectoids live these days?" Buster suggested. "In luxury, I bet."
Not there anymore, Calamity signed. They moved to the Bahamas two years ago for tax reasons.
"That's Perfecto for you!" Buster shrugged. Where Acme Loo students could do almost any improbable thing 'because it's funny' Perfecto could do nearly as much 'for tax reasons.' "So, keep on tunnelling East? And hope she can tell us how to freshen this stuff up."
"Like cold water and lemon juice on yesterday's carrot salad," Babs declared, briefly spin-changing into her domestic Supper-heroine form; as the Crimson Crockpot she raised her legendary Ladle of Plenty in benediction.
But would she? Calamity winced. They don't help folk out of the good of their hearts.
"Because they don't have… let's say, you can't open shop if you haven't got the stock." Babs winked at Penny. "We know the Perfectos."
"And they know us. Bet they won't lower themselves to talk to humble Babs and Buster Bunny." Buster mused. "So… who would they welcome with open arms? Perhaps a prime pedigree pair; proud parents pontificating over placing their perfect progeny, perchance?" Buster spin-changed to Biff Vanderbunny and decorously offered Babs his arm. "Shall we, dear?"
Babs spin-changed to the matching Buffy. "Indeedy we shall, dearest. Keen on procuring Perfecto places for our precious prodigy." She smiled down at little Blitz, stroking his outrageously fuzzy ears. "Some folk have their cubs pencilled in for places like Eton at birth."
"Or sooner." 'Biff' looked lovingly at his wife's still slim belly. "Best to reserve… a goodly number of places."
And Professor Hatta Mari's eyes will light up with Reichsmark, I mean dollar signs, Calamity nodded. Worth a try. Perfecto staff, like the modern Police, famously worked on Commission. (*)
(Editor's note: Where Oriental monks had the rule 'A day of no working is a day of no eating', the current police substituted 'Confessions' for 'working'…)
At that moment on Grand Island, Bahamas, another avian who had migrated from Acme Hectares was grinning savagely as she looked at the beach. But it was not the prospect of sunshine and relaxation that stirred Salome Sheldrake.
"This is going to make us SO much bank, Chloretta!" She gloated as she looked at the financial forecast on the T-pad held tight in her feather-hand. "And Ms Mari is going to just love us."
"I hope you don't mean that literally," Her companion was a slender poodle Toon, her white curled fur impeccably styled.
"I wish," Salome snickered. "She's my role-model. Got a reputation back in World War Two as a man-eater. And I think I know why." Her eyes went misty for a second before snapping back to their usual hard focus. "Things you like, you don't wipe out. She has other tastes – but kept quiet about it back then. Her original employers had a serious down on that idea."
Chloretta nodded assent. She was in Salome's Asset Acquisition class, and here were a lot of assets to acquire. She looked at the beach littered with landing craft; the 318th and 407th IRS Landing Forces had 'hit the beach' the day before, and now there was a lot of valuable equipment to be salvaged.
Salome followed her gaze. "So tragic," she gave a mock sigh. "And they were so well-prepared for us, too! Had shark-suits, and piranha repellent, all ready." She paused. "Shame nobody told them about our new African Naughty Minnows."
"And with our Science class jamming their signals, they never managed to tell their base what hit – I mean, bit them." Chloretta's poodle tail wagged. "So the next bunch…"
"They'll find out the hard way, too. It's an education! And our every class around here has real class." Salome nodded. Just then her T-pad bleeped. "Ten minutes to the next one! I've got Recruiting and-ha-ha 'caring' for henchmen, 101.'"
"Deniable Studies for me," Chloretta smirked. "Possibly. I neither confirm nor deny."
"Smart girl!" Salome applauded as they strolled towards the new, updated Perfecto Academy. "We'll make the new Perfecto proud!"
"I heard you knew the old place, in California?" Chloretta asked her class comrade curiously.
"Oh, yes. Mother Margot went there. One of our estates was nearby." Salome nodded. Where some of the very modern girls in the class boasted two mothers, she claimed the bragging rights having four – from Margot Mallard she had been nourished not just by her milk but her memes "I suppose it had a certain gothic charm about it. Customized thunderstorms, even. But that wasn't the original Perfecto."
"That, I know," Chloretta countered. "Back in 1933 Helmuth, Speaker for BosToon, moved there from the old East Coast site." She looked pensive. "Considering what's happened to BosToon, a good move."
"And predicting it a century ahead – great planning!" Salome laughed, and they passed through the dread portals of Perfecto and what lay below.
Unknown to them, not half a mile away a freshly opened international tunnel had just disgorged five new, highly unofficial visitors to the island. (For some reason, Customs officials Really hated rabbits.)
"OK!" Buster shook coral sand out of his ears. "Here we are, in the sunny Bahamas." He looked around appreciatively at the lush green scenery, drawn in ultra-high definition. "Classy. Looks like they used reference material."
"And that must be Perfecto." Babs pointed to a low, bunker-like concrete structure. "Brutalist or what?"
Penny followed her gaze. "That's won architectural awards, you know. It's in the 'Organisation Todt Revivalist' style."
"A building only an architect could love," Babs said dryly. "And there's a lot more of it than you can see from here – that structure just goes down and down - I got echoes when we were digging here. Rabbit ears can tell."
"Ah. Perfecto. No change really. Still just a low-down place," Buster sighed, as he and Babs spin-changed into the Vanderbunnies (whose exquisite tailoring would never be soiled by anything as mundane as digging – that was utterly 'infra dig.')
"Indeed, dearest," 'Buffy' drawled. "And to such a place we travel with our little son and hare. To judge the quality of the sin, I mean sun and air of these quaint islands."
"Quaint. Quite quaint," 'Biff' raised a monocle to his eye. "And naturally we brought our trusted secretary and nursemaid." He nodded to Calamity and Penny.
Should we disguise? It's ten years since I spin-changed Calamity asked. Never was good at it.
"I think… not," 'Biff' proclaimed. "The Perfecto students who knew us are long gone. And the staff? Mere Acme Loo students were quite beneath their notice."
"Utterly, utterly, utterly," 'Buffy' uttered. She handed Blitz over to Penny with a pang; naturally the Vanderbunnies would have at least one nursemaid, and Penny seemed eager to take on the role. Keen to get some practice, Babs snickered behind her polished façade.
As they strolled nonchalantly towards the Tax Shelter, their arrival had not gone unnoticed. A tall, patrician-looking wolf Toon in tropical white Maître d's uniform stepped forward to meet and greet.
"Welcome to Perfecto Prep," he said smoothly. "And how may I assist, Sir and Madame?" His practiced eye had flicked over the two obvious servants and dismissed them from the conversation.
"Ah, my good man," 'Biff' drawled, somehow managing to look down on the considerably taller wolven Toon. "Biff Vanderbunny, of the BosToon Vanderbunnies, and my dear lady wife Buffy. Having heard of your little establishment, we thought we might take a look in passing. With an eye to perchance educating herein the Vanderbunny heirs someday."
"The heir and soon enough, heir and a spare," 'Buffy' expanded. 'Perchance many spares."
The Maître 'D bowed. "It would be my honour to show you what we can offer, all areas," he said in a purr that suggested expensive elocution lessons.
'Biff' took off his monocle and cast a cold eye at him. "Indeed it would, for you. Far too much so. No indeed, my dear lady wife has heard through her business associate Ms Margot Mallard, good things of one of your senior tutors – a Ms Hatta Mari." Though they had accepted Margot as an ally, Babs had never quite thought of her as a friend.
"And we are accustomed to personal service," 'Buffy' added haughtily.
"One moment please," The Maître 'D said smoothly. Gliding back to the entrance he picked up a platinum T-pad and urgently (but without a single special-effect drop of sweat or flustered-looking whisker) contacted the tutor. In exactly fifty-nine seconds he was back. "Ms. Mari has cancelled all her appointments and will be with you immediately," he intoned.
"Ah. As people do. Indeed, dear?" 'Biff' nodded to his wife.
"Indeed so," 'Buffy' replied in bored tones. "And I do believe – that is the lady in question." And a very questionable 'Lady' from all I heard, Babs snickered inwardly. What did they say? 'Slinky? Brother, she'd slink on ice.'
Professor Hatta Mari swept gracefully towards them; she was a pedigree pigeon, mature but ageless in the way of a senior Toon whose films had been watched appreciatively for many decades. She wore an impeccably tailored grey business skirt-suit, from beneath which her exquisitely groomed tail feathers swept towards – but teasingly never quite touched – the ground.
For a second she and 'Buffy' locked gazes; Buster recalled cyberpunk video games where high-powered data probes clashed mercilessly with each other's defences, seeking any hidden chink of vulnerability.
Hatta Mari stepped back. "A pleasure, Madame and Monsieur Vanderbunny."
"You have heard of us, then?" 'Biff' drawled.
The tutor smiled mysteriously. "At Perfecto we understand – the world's truly richest never appear on any public list of such."
"Indeed." 'Biff' replied. "Those lists – such a bore."
"And now to business." 'Buffy' stepped forward to occupy the spot Hatta Mari had retreated from. "We wish to see if your little establishment might meet our standards. Concerning the education of the next Vanderbunny generation."
Hatta Mari smiled. "We aim to please."
"So, so many do," 'Buffy' sighed. "And so very few succeed."
"… And that is the new shark pit," Ms Mari pointed out half an hour later, four storeys down beneath the waving palms. "It is a… courtesy service we extend to the occasional unwelcome visitor."
'Biff' looked up at the metal chutes leading into the thrashing waters, one labelled 'from front doorstep.' Evidently door-to-door salesmen here were not encouraged. "How iconic! But do tell – are these plain old sharks? Or do they have lasers?"
"Lasers? Naturally. And particle cannons." Hatta Mari smiled. "Only the best at Perfecto!"
"Do I detect a certain… super-villain 'vibe' as we used to say, these days?" 'Biff' queried, adjusting his monocle.
The pedigree pigeon inclined her head gracefully. "These days, sir, we find that and our level of customer wealth so often… overlap."
"Really, dearest," 'Buffy' addressed her husband. "They'll be telling us next they have an unlicensed nuclear reactor and a submarine dock!"
Hatta Mari's smile increased. "But of course. If you would follow me... down to Level Ten?"
We must be far under the water table already! Calamity signed, looking at the strong concrete walls around them. And… a submarine dock? We're a mile inland!
'Biff' cast him a haughty look. "Do sign only when you're signed to, dear fellow." He sighed, shaking his head as he turned to Hatta Mari. "Can't get the staff, these days. But perchance he has a point?"
"For visitors whose personal submarines might arrive from any… undisclosed location around the world… what is an extra mile or two of secure access tunnel? And of outsiders – who would suspect it?" The tutor smiled.
"Who, indeed?" 'Biff' gracefully conceded the point. "Yes... I suppose the facilities here are perhaps tolerable. And by the time our inheritors might arrive…" he cast a glance to little Blitz, secure in Penny's arms "I do expect them to be considerably improved."
"We pride ourselves in being a forward-thinking establishment," Hatta Mari said smoothly.
"Ah. That would rule out time travel entirely." 'Biff' tutted. "A pity. We had hoped you could be more helpful." He turned away.
Hatta Mari felt the prospects of untold fees (and commission) slipping through her feather-fingers, and inwardly chilled – not that it showed in the slightest. "Simply name it – and we'll make it happen, Monsieur Vanderbunny!"
"Oh? We recently acquired a certain amusing little artifact – my good lady wife has such an outré taste in antiques," 'Biff' drawled. "Which requires some expert restoration. We were hoping you might help to fix – this." From his Hammerspace pocket he whipped out the old ersatz paper manual and the notes from Grand Sporks air base showing exactly who claimed the unique knowledge to refresh the Bell's fuel, and presented them like an undercover Police Toon suddenly showing a suspect an arrest warrant.
Hatta Mari stepped back, blindsided and cornered for the first time since a young Daffy Duck had defeated her in the 1940's. "Der Glocke? You've got it?" She gasped, all trace of her former silk-smooth composure shattered.
A doe examined a set of perfectly manicured fingernails. "I do believe 'Asset Acquisition' is on your timetable as a class?" She asked archly. "Well. Other Toons can do it too. And be very interested in a fully… working artefact." 'Buffy' grinned savagely, stepping forward to touch her nose to a cowed pigeon's beak. "So – spill the beans, sister!"
"You know," Buster whispered to Babs an hour later as they watched Toons in white radiation suits (extras from the 'Technical Henchmen' classes) winching heavy zirconium flasks filled with aged Xerum 525 into the blue-glowing reactor pool "If there really was a Great Scriptwriter in the sky… it's funny he'd choose us for this plot."
"He? She, you mean," Babs countered. "See what you mean, though. More like a job for Jaggi Di Speckle. His old school at Even Bolder, Colorado is full of Toons who specialise in this grim and gritty techno-thriller stuff." *
(Editor's note: And, far away across the timelines, the Babs and Buster Bunny of Earth 114 ¾ paused in their task of breaking into Fort Knox (for good and lawful, if insanely convoluted plot reasons). Suspended from the carbon nanowire cable that held him just above the detector beams, Buster looked thoughtfully up at his Ninja-clad wife and had a strange notion. You'll probably hate this idea, he ear-signed but how about playing this someday… for comedy?)
"Yup. Get through so much grit the school has a dump truck full delivered every Tuesday," Buster whispered back. "So Jaggi told me."
They watched as the extras lowered the hoists, placing the cannisters of highly 'doped' mercury in the heart of the reactor. Buster scratched his head-fur. "Do you ever wonder if somehow we're… cast as the sugar coating on some Great and Terrible Truth the world isn't yet ready for?" He wondered.
"Nahh." Babs shook her head decisively. "It's just a Plot Device. 'No worries, sport, she'll be right,' like Bruce Avery says."
"Suppose so. We're comics, after all," Buster conceded. "Not into sneaking sanity-shattering truths into the world disguised as fiction like H.P. Lovecraft did."
"Hmm," 'Buffy' looked down into the reactor and consulted Babs' cheap Casio wristwatch, in its spin-changed form appearing as a custom rhodium Rolex Oyster. "It's five minutes for corn, twenty for potatoes. How long to cook these?"
Professor Hatta Mari looked troubled for a second. "It's never been tried in this reactor. Two or three days? But we'll know when it's ready – using this." She pointed at a hefty device like an old Geiger counter that one of the extras carried.
Calamity's eyes went wide. He turned his placard so only Babs and Buster could see it. A Plot Potentiometer! Acme Loo never had the budget for one of those!
"Measures plot potential?" Buster whispered.
Exactly. Right now the stuff's just a toxic hazard. But when it's fully charged… Calamity shivered. Dire, dire potential.
"Two whole days or more! And we're in a hurry," Babs objected. "What's so special about this old gunk anyway?"
Calamity sighed. If I gave an hour of exposition about hafnium and tellurium isomers… vortex atomic theory… or ultra-dense isotopes in bizarre spin states.. would it help?
"No!" Chorused the bunnies.
Calamity nodded resignedly. Just say… you've heard of Natural Sciences? At their understanding nod, he continued Well... this is NOT.
"Cheer up, Babsy," Buster whispered. "We're in the Bahamas with time to kill. Let's hit the beach!"
As the Maître 'D escorted the Vanderbunnies back towards the fresh air and sunshine outside, Hatta Mari returned to her office and regained her composure. It took a lot to shock Perfecto's Resident Professor of Amoral Philosophy (and Apolitical Studies), but being reminded of her distant past had done it. Unlocking a state-of-the-art safe, she pulled out and stared at an old black and white photograph of her and two other Toons – tough-looking Rottweilers, who wore very new-looking Cowboy shirts and hats. One of them was handing her a plain lunch-type dinner bell with the knowing smile of a private joke while the other held out a paperclip in the same manner. The scene seemed to be in a desert somewhere; on the back in faded ink was written 'Hatta, Hans K and Emil M – White Sands AF base, 1947.' She stared at the photograph for a full minute, remembering.
The pigeon frowned. Then an idea struck her. Someone should keep an eye and an ear on the new arrivals, and she had just the Toon for the job. Picking up her T-pad, she sent an urgent summons out to a very promising student.
"Salome Sheldrake," she nodded to herself. "Yes, definitely."
Five minutes later Salome was standing at attention in front of her desk, looking sharp and eager.
Hatta Mari looked her up and down for a minute appraisingly. She did not miss the very slight spreading of Salome's tail feathers when her gaze lingered over that trim figure.
"I have a mission for you. If you're suitable," She addressed her student. "We have a prospective pair of very desirable customers on the island. Find out what you can from them." Hatta smiled. "It might interest you to know the lady may be… carrying half a classful of prospective Perfecto students. She's a rabbit, after all."
Salome's eyes bulged slightly, and her tail feathers definitely spread. "Yes Ma'am!"
Hatta Mari smiled indulgently, and passed over a data chip of all the Perfecto's comprehensive security cameras had seen and heard of the Vanderbunnies "I thought you'd like that. You get the job of… liaison officer with her. So off you go, to have your… liaisons. Have fun."
There was a whipcrack of displaced air, and only a fading, red-shifted image showed where Salome had been.
End Chapter Six