“Bluff it out,” said Jack. “This is a police car. I’m a policeman. We’ll get in there somehow.”

“Seems reasonable,” said Dorothy. “Let’s just hope that there’s no real policemen around.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely out here,” said Jack.

“Out where?” asked Police Chief Samuel J. Maggott, shouting somewhat into the mouthpiece of his telephone. Sam was considerably bandaged, but back behind his desk. “Speak up, boy, I can hardly hear you, what?”

Words came to him through the earpiece.

“You’re saying what? You saw the midday newscast? The wanted maniac, Jack? That’s right. Dressed as a police officer, at your lounge? Left without paying for his chicken-fish lunch? Drove over your mechanic? How many times? That many, eh? And he’s gone on to where? I see.”

Samuel J. Maggott replaced the receiver.

And then picked it up again.

“Get me Special Ops,” he told the telephonist. “Get me Special Ops, get me a chopper and put out an all-points bulletin.”

“You look put out,” said the Eddie in the chair. “In fact you look all in. You look as wretched as a weevil with the wobbles.”

“What are you?” asked Eddie Bear. “You’re not me. What are you?”

“I’m the you of this world,” said the other Eddie.

“No you’re not,” said the Real McCoy. “Toys don’t live in this world.” Eddie Bear paused. “Or do they?”

The other Jack loomed over Eddie. “Would you like me to knock him about a bit, boss?” he asked.

“That won’t be necessary. Eddie and I are going to get along just fine, aren’t we, Eddie? We are going to be as cosy as two little peas in a little green pod.”

Eddie looked down at his grubby old self.

“Yes, you’re right,” said the other Eddie. “You really are in disgusting condition. You’re as foul as a fetid fur-ball. We’ll have to get you all cleaned up. Jack, take Eddie to the cleaning facility, see that he gets all cleaned up.”

“Can I hold his head under the water? Or use the high-pressure hose?” asked the other Jack.

“No, Jack, I want Eddie in tip-top condition. He’s very precious, is Eddie. After all, he’ll soon be the last of his kind.”

“What?” asked Eddie. “What do you mean?”

“Hurry,” said his other self. “The countdown has already begun.”

The other Jack picked Eddie up and hurled him out into the corridor.

The other other Jack, the real Jack that was, drew the police car to a halt before a little guard post. A little guard issued from this post and made his way to the car.

Jack wound down the window.

The guard wore a rather stylish golden uniform with a Golden Chicken logo picked out in red upon the right sleeve. He took off his golden cap and mopped at his brow with an oversized red gingham handkerchief.

“Good day, officer,” he said. “It’s a hot’n, ain’t it?”

“Very hot,” said Jack. “Would you open the gates, please?”

“Have to ask the nature of your visit, officer.”

“Official business,” said Jack. “I’d like to say more, but you know how it is.”

“Not precisely,” said the guard. “Could you be a little more explicit?”

“Well, I could,” said Jack, “but frankly I just don’t have the time. Would you mind dealing with this, Dorothy?”

“Not at all.” Dorothy left the police car. Walked around to the guard’s side. Dealt the guard a brutal blow to the skull and returned to the passenger seat.

“Thank you,” said Jack. “Would you mind opening the gates now?”

“Why don’t you just smash through them with the car?” asked Dorothy. “It’s so much more exciting, isn’t it!”

“This is an exciting machine,” said the other Jack.

He and Eddie now stood in another room. One of an industrial nature. There were conveyor belts in this room and big, ugly-looking machines into which they ran in and out again.

“Prototype, this,” said the other Jack. “Chicken cleanser. Chickens go in this end,” and he pointed, “through the cleansing machine, out again, along that belt there, then through the drier, then out of that, then through the de-featherer, then out again. Just like that.” And he ambled over to a big control panel, threw a couple of switches and pressed a few buttons. Great churnings of machinery occurred and conveyor belts began to judder into life. “Never went into mass production though, this model. The chickens kept getting all caught up inside. Came out in shreds, some of them. Didn’t half squawk, I can tell you.”

“Now just you see here,” said Eddie. “I don’t think that I –”

But Eddie was hauled once more from the floor.

And Jack in the car gave another terrible shudder.

“Through the gates it is, then,” said he, and he put his foot down hard.

“And put your foot down hard,” said Samuel J. Maggott to the pilot of the helicopter that now stood upon the rooftop of Police Headquarters, slicing the sunlit sky with its blades.

Horrible slicing, mashing sounds came from the chicken cleanser. And terrible cries from Eddie Bear.

And then he was on the conveyor belt again.

And into the drying machine.

And great puffs of steam and smoke belched from this machine.

And further cries came from Eddie.

Cries of vast despair.

And the other Jack clapped his hands together.

And Eddie cried some more.

And the stolen police car smashed through the gates and Jack did further shudderings.

Ahead lay a long, low concrete bunker kind of jobbie. Jack swerved the police car to a halt before it.

“Looks rather formidable,” he said to Dorothy. “I can only see one door, and it appears to be of sturdy metal. Should I try to smash the car through it, do you think?”

“No,” said Dorothy. “Best not. We might well need to make a speedy getaway in this car. I’d use this, if I were you,” and she handed Jack a plastic doodad.

Jack examined same and said, “What is it?”

“Security pass key card,” said Dorothy. “I took it from the guard.”

Jack smiled warmly at Dorothy. “Come on then,” he said.

“Come on then,” said the other Jack. “Up and at it, Mister Bear. Oh dear.”

Eddie Bear looked somewhat out of sorts. He was certainly a clean bear now. Very clean. And dry, too. And sweetly smelling, although he wasn’t personally aware of this. But there was something not quite right about Eddie. His head seemed very big and his body very small. And his arms were all sort of flapping sleeves, whereas his legs were thickly packed stumps.

And as for his ears.

“What have you done to me?” he asked, in a very strange voice.

“Your stuffing seems to have become somewhat redistributed,” said the other Jack. “But no matter. I’ll soon beat you back into the correct shape.”

And outside Jack gave another very large shudder.

And now up in the sky in the police helicopter, Samuel J. Maggott remembered that he had this pathological fear of flying, which his therapist had assured him stemmed back to a freak pogo-stick/ low-bridge accident Sam had suffered as a child.

“Fly lower,” Sam told the pilot.

“Really?” said the pilot. “Can I?”

“Of course you can – why not?”

“Because it’s not allowed,” said the pilot. “We’re not allowed to fly at less than two hundred feet, unless we’re landing or taking off, of course.”

“Why?” asked Sam.

“Helicopters have a tendency to crash into power lines if they fly low,” said the pilot.

“Fly low,” said Sam. “And look out for power lines.”

“Can I fly above all the police cars and the military vehicles that are now speeding along Route Sixty-Six?” asked the pilot.