Free A Toaster on Mars by Darrell Pitt Page A

oil to them, struggled to move one—and abruptly broke the universe.
    Or so it seemed to Milton at the time.
    A fuzzy hole appeared on the countertop. Perkins opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word both he and his counter started to bleed into the hole. Milton leapt back in horror.
    Sprot!
    The hole shrank. Milton Xanthrob stared open-mouthed into the diminishing gap. It was like looking into a tunnel. Beyond it was a tube of inky blackness ending in a smaller circle of light.
    Peering at that faraway glow, Milton thought he could see patches of green vegetation and the distant counter. Behind it, Perkins was yelling. Milton made out the words ‘dinosaur’ and ‘tyrannosaurus’ before the hole disappeared.
    The shop, smelling of ozone, was otherwise unchanged, barring the missing owner and counter. Milton stood there, alone and afraid, expecting to be arrested at any moment. He had, after all, been partially responsible for the disappearance of Bruce Perkins.
    But nothing happened. The police did not appear. Nobody dragged Milton away to jail. Finally, he sat down on Mr Perkins’ chair until his legs stopped shaking.
    An hour later a customer walked in, picked out an old vase and insisted on giving money to Milton. After some hesitation, he accepted the cash and the customer walked away a happy man.
    It took him a few days, but Milton discovered both he and Perkins had a lot in common: they both loved antiques and had no family. By the end of the week Milton had purchased a new counter and hung a sign in the window for anyone who happened to be passing.
    Under New Management.
    That was twenty years ago. He still had in his possession an article he’d found in a magazine called Strange But True . In it was a story about a fossilised human skull wearing a pair of glasses that had been found in Arizona. Readers were invited to write in with theories regarding the bizarre discovery.
    Milton, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, did not contribute.
    The people who walked into Milton’s shop on this particular day were an odd trio. The man, wearing an old trench coat, was so dishevelled Milton assumed hewas a hobo. The robot woman was stunning, and could have passed for human except for the gold skin. The other woman was also good-looking, but her face had creased into a worried frown. They all wore backpacks.
    After spending some time perusing the shop, they finally approached the counter. The hobo cleared his throat. ‘We’d like to dig a hole through the back of your shop,’ he said. ‘Not a big hole. Just large enough for us to fit through.’
    Milton Xanthrob stared at him.
    ‘My ex-husband phrased that rather badly,’ the woman said, clearly embarrassed. ‘We’d like to give you some money to leave the shop for the day.’
    ‘Think of it as a holiday,’ the robot added.
    ‘Yes, that’s it,’ the ex-wife said. ‘A holiday. Somewhere you haven’t been before.’
    ‘We’ll look after your shop while you’re away,’ the hobo said.
    Silence.
    ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with Mr Perkins?’ Milton asked.
    The strangers exchanged glances.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Never mind,’ Milton said. ‘Uh, where do you suggest I go?’
    ‘Oh, anywhere,’ the man said airily. ‘The moon is rather pleasant this time of year.’
    Zeeb says:
    Blake Carter may be a very good detective, but this is one of the most stupid things you will read in this book. Despite all the facilities that now exist there, including the new Lunar Disney resort, the moon is not a pleasant place to visit. A trip there makes watching Cybardian paint dry look like an action sport—and Cybardian paint takes over a century to dry.
    The moon is dull. Dull, dull, dull. Truly it is one of the dullest places in the whole galaxy. Venus is far more pleasant, and you can get a package deal if you go mid-season.
    ‘Or Mars,’ the robot suggested. ‘Mars is nice.’
    ‘Here’s some money.’ The ex-wife