Free Evil Machines by Terry Jones

Frank?’
    Frank looked around at the other abandoned vehicles. Most of them were drowsing in the afternoon sunshine. But one or two were playing poker with a rusting BSA motorbike, who seemed to be winning.
    ‘Look at them!’ said the Black Maria. ‘They’re a bad lot – most of them – they don’t give a fig about speeding, and they’ll park just anywhere. What’s more they’re rude to me, just because I worked for the police.’
    ‘What’s all this gossiping?’ yelled the Ford Prefect, suddenly waking up. ‘Stop talking to the prisoners, you cop crate!’
    ‘See?’ whispered the Black Maria.
    ‘Shut up!’ snapped the Ford Prefect.
    They all sat there in silence for a time, until eventually the Ford Prefect fell back to sleep again.
    Then the Black Maria whispered, ‘So, Frank? Are you game?’
    Frank looked through the little window in the door. The Ford Prefect, that was supposed to be guarding them, appeared to be fast asleep. The card-players were absorbed in their game, and the other vehicles seemed to be snoozing.
    ‘I’ll go for it!’ whispered Frank.
    So the Black Maria released the door catch, and Frank slipped out.
    The Ford Prefect gave a rattle in its sleep, and Frank shrank back behind the Black Maria. But then all was still.
    Frank ran quickly towards an old Standard Vanguard that was snoring and muttering in its dream. He crouched behind it for a few moments, and took stock of the situation.
    To get to the oak tree, he would have to climb over a heap of rusting cars – all of them makes or models that have long since ceased to exist: a Sunbeam Talbot, an Austin Ascot, a Singer, an Alvis, a Buick Roadmaster and many more. It would be tough to climb through them without waking any of them.
    But suddenly a cheer went up from the card-players: one of the cars had just pulled a fast one on the motorbike. Every car that was still awake moved a little closer to watch the game. Frank took his chance. He jumped across the Sunbeam Talbot’s rear bumper and hid behind the bonnet of the Austin Ascot.
    ‘What’s that?’ muttered the old Ascot, drifting into semi-consciousness.
    ‘There! There! old girl,’ said Frank, patting its nose gently. ‘Nothing to worry about . . . lovely day at the races . . . ‘
    ‘Ah! The races!’ sighed the old car and drifted back into
    pleasant dreams of former times.
    Frank nipped round behind the Singer 10, and then had to climb across the low bonnet of an AC Ace with wide mudguards. The Ace spluttered awake. It had been a fast car in its day, and one of which its owner had been extremely proud. But life in the fast lane had caught up with it and it now was very confused.
    ‘Just giving you a shine, sir,’ said Frank.
    ‘Ah! Thank you, my boy . . . need to look my best . . .’ it muttered. ‘And check the tyre pressures while you’re at it, would you?’
    ‘Of course, sir,’ said Frank. He didn’t like to point out that it only had two wheels and no tyres at all.
    All Frank had to do now was get past the Alvis and the Buick, and then sprint for the tree.
    The Alvis had been woken by the Ace’s booming voice. ‘Wassat?’ it muttered, and shifted its gear stick irritably and nudged the Buick.
    ‘Don’t you touch me!’ snapped the Buick. ‘You useless heap of bent tin!’
    ‘I am not a heap of tin, Old Boy, and I am only slightly bent at the mudguards,’ replied the Alvis.
    ‘You’re so stuck up!’ said the Buick. ‘I hate this country!’
    ‘I suppose you’d rather be back in Minnesota?’ drawled the Alvis.
    ‘I don’t come from Minnesota! I come from Flint, Michigan!’
    ‘I expect it’s just as ghastly,’ replied the Alvis.
    Meanwhile Frank had dashed across to the oak tree and hidden himself in the hollow at the base.
    So far so good.
    Now he had to climb up to the fork in the tree and grab the red metal can without being seen !
    ***
    Back on the Wild Moor, the two policemen were still chasing the Rev. McPherson’s car,