Howard Moon: Secret Agent

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This is on a need-to-know basis.
Move over, Bond. The name’s Moon, Howard Moon.
And that is all you need to know…

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Chapter Seven

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Chapter Seven

The wind was swaying the palm trees and his hammock kept rhythm—except that he was too high up to be in a palm tree. No, he was high in the rigging of a three-decker in the Caribbean, swaying side to side at the mast-head as he scanned the horizon, his dark-haired cabin-boy calling to him from the deck below. His naked, dark-haired cabin-boy—they weren’t usually naked, were they? Even in the nineteenth century? His naked, dark-haired cabin-boy called sweetly:

“Captain, captain…”

“Wake up, you knob-head, we’re gonna die!”

Moon shook his head and the last of the Caribbean vanished. He was still swaying though, except now he was in mid-air, suspended from a hook, thirty feet above a time-bomb. And Vince Noir’s enormous face was pressed right against his own.

“Howard, you berk! This is no time to be unconscious! Wake up and help!”

Moon pulled his head back and tried to focus. Noir was now straining up to try to reach at the bonds that held them. He was jerking his body in an attempt to get a finger-hold on the webbing around the hook.

“Vince! Vince! What are you doing?”

Noir kept jerking.

“Trying to get off this thing, of course! What’s it look like?”

Moon looked down and then up at the webbing again.

“But if we get off the hook, we’ll land right on top of the bomb!”

Noir stopped jerking, and followed Moon’s gaze.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“You’ve got to think, Vince! We need to weigh up the possibilities! The main thing is to plan ahead!”

“Bollocks! Win or lose, the main thing is having a go. At least I’m doing something…” he jerked again. “Anyway, right now, it ain’t gonna shift, whatever!”

He relaxed with a huff and hung stretched out, panting. Moon looked at their bonds. He had obviously been tied up with the same plastic webbing as Noir and his hands looped over the same hook. The position of their arms meant that their bodies pressed together along their entire length, chest to chest, groin to groin, give or take a slight difference in arm length. He was aware of Noir’s toes brushing his ankles. Noir had his chin resting in the hollow of Moon’s neck. His exhaled breath tickled Moon’s skin, and he felt the other man’s smile in the same way. Noir pulled his head back, a rueful grin on his face.

“You know, Howard, if it weren’t for the bomb and everything, this would be quite a pervy situation.”

“Yes, Vince,” retorted Moon testily, literally staring down his nose at him, “but there is the bomb and everything. Where’s Sable?”

“Oh, they all went ages ago. About an hour…”

“An hour? An hour? Then the bomb’s about to go off!”

“Wha’? Oh, well, maybe not an hour then. It’s just felt like ages, what with you being out for the count and my arms hurting.”

Moon struggled to see his watch. One twenty-five. Okay, still thirty-five minutes to go, thank the patron saints of bebop….

He looked at the pulley again, and then further along the cable, to where it led above the first mixing vat.

“Can we make this thing move?”

“What?”

“Can it move? Is it a free-running pulley or is there an automatic braking system?”

“Just what I was wondering myself, Howard…”

Moon ignored the sarcasm.

“Look, if we manage to get off the hook here, we can only fall onto the bomb, or onto the concrete…”

“Or I could fall on you, and you could cushion my fall…”

“True, Vince, but we couldn’t guarantee that outcome, could we?”

“Good point, Howard. So what’s the option?”

Moon jerked his head.

“See that vat? If we can get the pulley over there…”

“Oh, right, and fall on some nice spiky metal instead? I’ll go with the fifty per cent chance of dying on concrete, thanks!”

“Not if we’re lucky—remember, they’ve just been making flapjacks.”

“And?”

“Look, just trust me. Swing with me…”

“Howard, all in good time. Ours is a new relationship…”

“Agent Noir! Concentrate!”

Noir looked sheepish.

“Okay, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to swing, forward and back. See if this thing will edge along the cable.”

Noir looked up through his lashes.

“I love it when you’re all dominant, Agent Moon…”

And so they set up a rhythm, hardly shifting at first. Moon arched his back and bumped Noir with his chest, and Noir did the same in return, if anything with an exaggerated grind. Without thinking about it, each hooked a leg around the other’s thigh, pulling him close.

The power in the action built up. Suddenly the pulley lurched and shifted a fraction.

“Yeah! Yeah! That’s it!” howled Moon in triumph. “Harder, Vince! More!”

Noir was too engrossed in the task to come back with a risque retort. He arched his back and pressed hard into Moon, his face serious. The pulley shifted again, and then began to move in earnest.

By now their motion was describing a reasonably impressive arc. Moon felt the air rushing past his ears, Noir’s body warm and supple against his, his chin hooked at Moon’s neck just as Moon’s pressed into Noir’s throat. There was something about this that was so very… very… Noir was right, though pervy wasn’t the word that Moon would have chosen.

He felt Noir’s head pull back. There was a wild exhilaration in his eyes, and something like confusion.

“I dunno about you, Howard,” he panted, “but if we don’t move soon, there’s gonna be an entirely unexpected outcome to this…”

“More, Vince, more! Harder! C’mon, push! Push!”

“Shaddup, Howard! What you playin’ at?”

“Yes! Yes!” howled Moon. “It’s OK, you can stop!”

Noir, his face red for all sorts of reasons, looked over his shoulder to see the huge mixing vat looming under his feet. Their aerial swinging slowed in a few moments, during which time Noir’s eyes never strayed from their gaze down into the cavernous interior of the vat. To Moon’s intense relief, he saw there what he had been hoping for; the vat was about half-full of mixture. It looked like…

“Porridge. Is that porridge?” Noir’s voice had a dangerous inflection to it.

“It’s flapjack dough. Oats and sugar and syrup and flour. Hopefully a fair amount. So when we get off this hook, it’ll break our fall…”

“You have to be joking?” Noir’s look was glittering.

“See? Planning ahead works. This is our best bet, Vince. A fighting chance…”

Noir rode straight over that.

“Not only,” he continued, his voice low and threatening, “is this jacket Dior Homme and a delicate wool-silk mix, but…” his voice started to rise in pitch “…you’re asking me to take a dive into…” he paused for maximum effect and pointed with his chin “… carbohydrate of plague proportions?”

Moon looked pityingly at him.

“Oh, shut up, you Fashion Division ponce! We may never get off the hook anyway!”

Noir sniffed derisively.

“You mean, you haven’t got a plan, Howard?”

“Oh, I’ve got one, it just may not work…”

“Howard, on your current record, that’s not much encouragement.”

“Oi! We’re only in this mess because of you!”

“I beg your pardon! I didn’t leave my gun on the floor, did I?”

“That’s because you didn’t bring one. You didn’t even bring your lipgloss!“

They glared at each other. Moon took a deep breath.

“Vince, we haven’t got much time. I need you to do something.”

Noir narrowed his eyes.

“You’re pretty supple, aren’t you?”

“I am a dancer, as well as a Secret Agent, you know.”

“Quite. Do you think you could manage to… undo my belt?”

“What with? My toes?”

“I was thinking, your mouth?”

“Howard, you’ve flipped…”

“No, listen to me. Inside my belt, next to the buckle, there’s a pouch containing some capsule explosives.”

“Sodium flashes?”

“Magnesium mini-flares, in fact, but same principle. If you can get one out, we can try to get it into the pulley mechanism—blow it up.”

“Blow our hands up, you mean!”

“Not if I put it in high enough.”

Noir considered.

“Okay. You need to walk up me.”

“Pardon?”

“Walk up me. With your legs either side, so your waist gets close to my face.”

They both took a grip again on the webbing to lift themselves and Moon pushed his hips away from Noir and clasped the other lightly around the thighs with his calves. Laboriously he shuffled his legs upwards, leaning his torso back as far as possible.

“Okay, okay!” yelped Noir excitedly, staring in fascination at the lap thus presented to him.

“Which side of the belt?”

Moon gestured with a shrug of his head.

“Okay, here goes…”

Noir pulled himself higher on the hook and leant forward, his upper body curling. His face was in Moon’s groin.

“Careful, Vince. Whatever you do, don’t bite the capsule, or damage it in any way. Or drop it. Or swallow it. Or…”

Noir looked up sharply.

“Okay, okay, in your own time, Vince.”

He felt the pressure of Noir’s face against his regulation neoprene trousers and his belly beneath; he felt the warmth of his breath, the movement of his mouth. He felt…

“For god’s sake, Vince! Hurry up!”

There was a muttered “fuck off” from somewhere on the region of his genitals.

Moon tried to concentrate on the moves Noir needed to make—the technical moves. That’s what he needed to think about; not the sensation, but what Noir was doing. First he needed to nuzzle up against the webbing belt to turn it slightly and reveal the slit. The slit in the material. Yes, he could feel that happening. Then his teeth—no—tongue would probably be the best way of extracting the capsule. Yes, he needed to move his tongue over the… slit… and inside the pouch, manoeuvre a capsule to the front and put it between his lips—or teeth?—no, lips would be better; softer, more delicate, more…

There was a lot of hot breath being exhaled in that area now, surely far more than was strictly necessary? He could feel something lightly stroking against his waist, so warm it was almost damp, moist, and… then a sudden pressure as Noir’s face pitched in further, and all at once the warmth was gone and Noir’s head was up again, and a capsule was between his lips.

“Mmmph.”

Moon whooped with relief.

“Well done, Vince!”

“Mmmph, mmmph?”

“Okay—you need to get it into my hands—or yours.”

“Mmmph.”

He saw Noir take a further grip on the webbing bonds and haul himself up. Moon let go with his legs so as not to impede his progress. But the level of exertion was too much for the exhausted man. He slumped back again and the capsule wobbled dangerously in his mouth.

“Okay, Vince, okay! Keep calm! You’ve done enough, little man.”

Noir looked up in surprise.

“Time for me to step up to the plate.”

Their faces were back on a near level. Moon was focused on the golden capsule. He saw Noir’s lips draw back in a kind of smile, and flicked his eyes up to see Noir looking at him with real intensity. They held the gaze for a moment, and then without any prompt from Moon, their faces touched, noses brushed, and their lips met. Moon felt the cool pressure of the capsule, a complete contrast to the heat of Noir’s lips around it. He opened his mouth a little and felt the capsule being pushed in, followed by a sweet touch of Noir’s tongue. Moon closed his lips instantly.

“Okay?” asked Noir anxiously.

“Mmmph.”

Moon grasped the webbing again and tried to pull himself upwards. It was agony. He could get a good part of the way but his fingers were still far from reach.

“Howard! Push against me!”

He looked down. Noir had braced himself on the webbing and had brought his knees up at right angles to his hips.

“Like a step!”

Moon took another grip on the webbing and pushed his feet against Noir’s thighs. The resistance this offered was just enough to get him that extra few inches higher, and with a grunt of both pain and triumph he crushed his mouth against his battered, numb fingers tangled up in the webbing bonds; the capsule was there.

He didn’t pause to regroup. He pushed once more against the man beneath him, ignoring his strangled cry of pain, and got just enough leverage to raise his wrists and allow his fingers to reach the pulley mechanism. There was no time for subtleties. He rammed the capsule in and then let go, dropping as far as his bonds would allow him to keep his hands away from the magnesium explosion.

There was a searing pain in his arms as they took his weight again, and he heard Noir cry out piteously, but the sudden flare of the capsule brought an immediate relief; their arms dropped away from the hook, released from the damaged pulley. And they dropped away from the hook as well.

It was not a long drop, a potentially fatal falls go, but long enough for suitably unprofessional howls of shock and panic from both of them. For a split second Moon thought “Oh Christ, we’ve missed the vat…” but that very thought came to an abrupt end as he made one of the most extraordinary emergency landings of his life. The sensation was mind-blowing—it was like falling into an enormous feather quilt which cushioned you perfectly, but then instead of supporting you, started to consume you. It was an aspect of falling into flapjack dough that he had failed to take account of in his plan.

“S’like quicksand!” shouted Noir, stating the obvious “Fuck, I’m gonna die in oatmeal! In neutral colour! Help me, Howard!”

Moon kicked out, thrashing with his bound hands. The webbing bonds fractured and parted, and his arms were free. Apparently something similar had happened to Noir’s hands as well, as he could see them flailing independently just above the surface of the mixture. Only his hands….

Instinctively Moon dived, only to be met by a wall of porridge. He dragged himself up again, spluttering, and instead grabbed a waving hand, whilst he himself caught hold of one of the pipes that ran down the inner wall of the vat. He hauled himself to the side and started pulling on the hand. The man was a dead weight in the oatmeal, but with a supreme effort Moon managed to get hold of his coat collar and drag his head to the surface. Noir emerged unrecognisable, only blue eyes and a spluttering mouth evidence that there was a man beneath the cake mix. Moon couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. He pulled Noir close to him and helped hook one of his oatmeal-coated arms onto the pipe for support.

“Howard… Howard…” wheezed the cookie-dough monster.

“What is it, Vince?”

“You tell anyone about this later,” hissed Noir, “and you’re a dead man!”

It took a superhuman effort from Moon to haul himself free of the dough. It seemed to be dragging him back and down with every movement he made. He found some hand-holds on the pipes and eventually toe-holds as well. The noise he made as he squelched to the surface was probably primaeval, if dinosaurs frequently waded through porridge.

He looked back at Noir. He could see the man was exhausted, just able to hold onto the pipe. He bent down and tugged at Noir’s jacket collar.

“Get this off, Vince, it’s weighing you down!”

“Howard, do you realise…? Oh, what the hell…” Noir shrugged off the jacket. He took Moon’s proffered hand and clung gratefully and helplessly as Moon dragged him higher above the surface. He got another arm hooked around the pipe, and then started to use his feet. After what seemed a lifetime, they hung on the lip of the vat, breathless, huge globs of oatmeal dropping off their heads and torsos to land with splat on the floor below.

“How much longer?” wheezed Noir.

Moon swiped his watch free of oatmeal and stared at the dial.

“It’s one forty-six.”

“Oh, fuck…”

Moon sprang into action.

“C’mon! C’mon! We can do it!” He swung his legs over the side of the vat and hung full length from his fingertips. Then he let go, and smashed onto the thin metal of the conveyer belt beneath. From there it was simple to swing his legs over the side and land on the concrete floor. He looked up at Noir’s dubious face, surrounded by an oatmeal wig, hanging over the side of the vat.

“C’mon, it’s okay, the conveyer belt’s not that hard.” Moon shook himself like a dog to rid himself of yet more ingredients—half-drying flapjack flew all around—and dashed over to the black cube of explosives. The counter read 12.13, and the seconds ticked away as he stared at it, nonplussed. He heard a crash and a muffled yell behind him as Noir made it to the conveyer belt.

“Can you defuse it?” came Noir’s voice, after a moment, a bit strained and hesitant.

“I haven’t a clue. It’s got booby-traps and tremblers coming out of its arse. There’s no time to work it out. Are you any good at that? Oh no, don’t tell me, that was optional…”

Pause.

“Howard, I’m in a bit of a pickle…”

Moon spun round. Noir was part on, part off the conveyer belt. And part in it.

“What the hell have you done?” He rushed over; Noir’s face was ashen.

“Foot went right through,” he said dully, pointing downwards without looking.

Moon got Noir’s weight back on the conveyer belt and inspected the damage. As he landed, Noir had managed to put one foot directly on the junction between the metal conveyer belt and its frame. His leg was now sandwiched between two pieces of metal, the thin sheet of the belt now bent and pressing dangerously against his calf. Moon could see that if Noir tried to pull it out on his own, the metal sheet would spring backwards and cut right through his leg.

Moon reached over and pushed at the belt.

“Ow, fuck, ow,” muttered Noir.

However flimsy it had felt when he landed on it, the conveyer belt was far from delicate. It refused to give against his pressure. He looked wildly back at the bomb and then at Noir. The other was biting his lip. He saw the glance.

“Howard, you’ve no time…” His voice was shaking slightly.

Moon grabbed his hands and placed them on the belt.

“Push on that! Hard!” Then he raced back down the factory floor, looking for something, anything, that he could use as a lever. The red light of the timer flickered in the corner of his eye.

10.14

“Don’t be an arse, Howard, there’s no time for this!”

In theory, he was right of course, thought Moon. There were ten minutes, and Moon should be giving priority to getting out of the factory and raising the alarm. But ten minutes were ten minutes…..

In a far corner he found a collection of long metal rods, presumably for use inside the vats. He pulled one out but it was too long to be of use. He threw it aside and as he did so, noticed a broom nearby. With a whoop he grabbed it and hared back to the conveyer belt.

Noir’s jaw was set.

“Just bugger off, Moon. I’ll sort this. I don’t need your help.”

“Stop talking bollocks.” Moon pushed the broom-handle down next to Noir’s leg and started to apply pressure. The wood cracked ominously, but he thought he could feel the metal give a little….

Noir tried to shoulder him aside.

“Let me do that, you pillock! You get clear. Go back to Shoreditch and open up my comms. The panel’s under the TV. You’ll get straight through to my boss…”

Moon tried to wrench the broom-handle back again, but Noir was vicious with his elbows. He backed off, his eyes flicking anxiously to the bomb and to the factory doors, and then back to Noir, struggling with the broom-handle.

“Well, if you’re sure…”

Noir looked up, his face blank.

“Piss off, Moon. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

What Moon could see was that he had no chance on his own. His foot was bent at an angle under the twisted belt. He couldn’t align his body properly to exert enough pressure on the broom-handle. And even if he could, the conveyer belt was far too heavy for one man.

Moon placed his hands on the broom-handle, next to Noir’s.

“C’mon, heave,” he said levelly.

They heaved. And heaved. The belt started to twist the other way; Moon could see it pressing into the flesh of Noir’s leg.

“Can you move your foot? Is anything broken?”

“Dunno, don’t think so,” grunted Noir. “Boot’s stuck.”

The lightbulb flashed for Moon. Relaxing his grip on the broom—he could feel the metal press eagerly back again—he reached his arm down through the gap next to Noir’s leg.

“Howard, what the fuck…?”

“Shut up.” Moon’s scrabbling fingers found what he was looking for—the zip on the side on the boot. He pushed it down and forced his fingers inside. He heard Noir’s sharp hiss of breath.

“Hurting?”

“Peachy, thanks.”

“Keep pulling on that stick.”

“One track mind with you, Moon…”

Moon cradled the heel in his palm and gently, gently, worked the boot back and forth. He felt it suddenly slip away, and Noir’s foot was free. He pulled back sharply and grabbed hold of the broom-handle again.

“Now, heave! And try to move your foot!”

The metal creaked and folded backwards. Noir shuffled his arse on the conveyer belt and toppled backwards as his leg slipped free. Just as it did so, the broom-handle snapped in two and the conveyer belt hammered back into its frame like the jaws of a mantrap.

Noir and Moon looked at it. And then they looked at each other. Moon held out his hand.

“C’mon. Six twenty-three.”

Noir pulled himself up, took a step and collapsed with an oath.

“Vince?”

“S’nothin’… s’nothin…” Noir hoisted himself up again. “Ankle. Think I twisted it.”

Moon sprinted to the loading bay and launched himself at the first door he saw—locked. He tried the next, and the next.

“Sweet Nina Simone! They locked up after themselves?”

Noir came shuffling up behind him.

“Magnesium mini-flare?”

Moon felt in his belt. One left. He was about to pull it out when he stopped dead and looked at Noir again.

“Whassamatter?”

“The front gate will be locked too. We’d have to climb that wall. You can’t do it with that ankle.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Howard…”

“Shut up and let me think. Where’s your personal glider”

“Ripped to buggery and stuck on the roof. They’re single use only, those things…”

“Damn.” He desperately racked his memory of the plans. There was something, something that stuck in his mind….

“Come with me!”

“Oi! You’re going back towards the bomb!“

Moon found it in the middle of the factory floor—a large double-doored metal hatch. He hauled desperately on the inset handles. To his relief, they opened smoothly.

“What in Jagger’s name is this?”

“It’s an old factory—used to be a brewery. Got a Victorian cellar and drainage system.”

“You mean a sewer.”

“Something like that… come on!”

Noir allowed himself to be manhandled through the trapdoor.

“Howard, you do realise that in about three minutes this particular spot is going to be an inferno?”

Moon grinned.

“What did you say, Vince? Win or lose, what matters is having a go?” Noir’s opened his mouth to protest about context when he saw with consternation Moon’s hand disappear once more below the waistband of his trousers. He swiftly extracted it, holding a metal disc which he slapped onto Noir’s forehead. It immediately sent out a bright blue stream of light.

“Emergency flashlight and integrated supermarket trolley coin,” beamed Moon, and pushed Noir downwards.

Down, down, slithering along wet steps and platforms, and then nothing but a large brick-lined pipe about the height of a man, a ledge on either side, and about two foot of water in the base.

Two minutes, maybe? Or less?

“Fine, sturdy Victorian plumbing, Vince! It’s withstood German bombs!”

Noir lurched into him.

“Don’t suppose there’s a speedboat, is there? I’m sure I read a case file once…”

“That was a movie, Vince. ‘From Russia with Love’.”

“Ooh, you’re such a romantic, Agent Moon…”

Moon grabbed Noir and pushed him in front.

“Now run! Come on, run!”

And they did. Part on the ledges, part in the water, the blue light bravely bouncing off the slimy, damp walls. Moon could sense the ground dropping away and wondered if this was the drain heading towards the Thames to dump its effluent in true Victorian style. Then he thought that might be his last thought, and what an odd last thought to have. And then he thought that obviously this was now his last thought, so that one didn’t count, and then he thought…

“When,” huffed Noir, “is that soddin’ bomb gonna blow?”

Ah yes, that.

The force of the explosion picked them both off the tunnel floor and slammed them onto the roof and sides, and then back together into the water, Noir landing on Moon as was only right. Their first reaction, apart from holding onto each other tightly, was to be dead. It seemed the obvious thing to do. Their brains were numb, their ears buzzing, lungs drawing insufficient, ragged breaths. But after some seconds they realised a wall of fire or a million tons of masonry were not going to hit them, at least not yet. The ground above them seemed to be rumbling with secondary explosions and aftershocks, but down in the Victorian depths the water once more lapped quietly at the sides of the tunnel. Moon pushed Noir vertical and hauled himself out of the water. In the mad blue light from Vince’s head they regarded each other in disbelief. Moon felt an overwhelming urge to crush the smaller man in a life-affirming hug, but rejected the thought as unprofessional. Instead he caught hold of Noir’s hand and pointed him down the tunnel.

“Come on—almost there!”

To be honest, Moon had absolutely no idea where ‘there’ was. The rest of the journey was painful and laborious but mercifully short. Part of the tunnel twisted away sharply whilst another branch led to a shaft upwards, and an old iron ladder. Wordlessly they started to climb. Moon had counted fifty difficult rungs by the time Noir suddenly shouted:

“A door! A trapdoor-manhole-thingy!”

Moon eased alongside him on the ladder. It was a heavy iron cover, unused for years. It wasn’t going to move easily—the combined force of their shoulders and hands got nowhere. Maybe it was locked….

Moon reached into his belt and took out the last magnesium capsule. There were signs of a hinge on one side of the door. He slapped the capsule in place and ducked down, intent for some reason on shielding Noir from the bright light, acrid smell and chunks of concrete and soil that pattered around them. When that subsided, Moon pushed at the damaged metal and it swung upwards.

The air was fresh and the night sky full of an orange, firey glow and a cacophony of helicopters, police cars and fire engines. He hauled himself out of the trapdoor and sprawled exhausted over what was the grass and concrete of a patch of waste ground. The view in front of him was astounding. Maybe half a mile away, the whole factory was ablaze and parts still seemed to be exploding even now. Huge numbers of emergency vehicles were already in place, and distant loudspeakers were bleating at the public to “keep clear” and “prepare to be evacuated”. Sable had been right; Wandsworth had never seen the like. Not since the Blitz, anyway.

“Oi…” said a voice.

“Oh, sorry, Vince.” Moon leaned over and took hold of two arms stuck helpfully upwards, hauling his colleague clear. Out on the grass, Noir, too, sat amazed by the sight.

“Bloody hell…”

Moon took his bearings.

“See that line of buildings over there? That’s where the car is. Fingers crossed, that’ll get us back to Shoreditch.”

He helped Noir up and without thinking about it, looped Noir’s arm over his shoulder. They limped across the waste ground together, eyes fixed on the spectacle of destruction.

Suddenly, Moon became aware of one sound overpowering all others. He looked up. A small helicopter hung a couple of hundred feet above—then its lights began to rake across the open ground in front of them. It started to descend. He ducked down behind some scrub, dragging Noir with him.

The helicopter lurched and landed; the noise of its rotors died and a portly figure hopped out of the cockpit, not twenty yards in front of them. Moon almost leapt up again, but Noir pulled him back down.

“No! We can’t be sure we can trust him!”

Special Agent Bobby Fossil stood by his helichopper and gazed at the burning factory with wide eyes and open mouth. Then he began to speak.

“Moon? Moon? This is the rendezvous, right? Moon! No, Mommy, tell me it ain’t so! I’m only a coupla minutes late! No! No! It can’t happen like this! No! Moon! My friend, my mentor, my guide, my father! Moon! Moon!“

He fell to his knees, raising his arms high in supplication.

“No, sweet lord, no! Don’t let this happen! Oh, Moon, what’ll I do without you?”

He brought both hands back to his chest, beating at it dramatically.

“No! NO! I can’t bear it…”

He stopped short, prodding a shirt pocket. They saw him unbutton it and reach in for the contents.

“Oh,” he said to himself, delighted, “candy bar!”

He ripped off the top of the wrapper and chomped down a third, climbing back into the cockpit. Moon and Noir waited until the noise of his rotors had faded into the distance before they rose to their feet again and limped off to retrieve their transport.