It was Tuesday, and the Rude Mechanicals were about to plunge the Universe into mortal peril.
In other words, it was Tuesday.
The adventure had started out promisingly. “Look at this,” the Six Million Dollar Mannequin had said as their ship, the I Contain Mechanicals, shot past the Cloverleaf Quasar. “A request for services. Strength required – on a galactic scale.”
The boys at NASA found a spacecraft of unknown origin buried in the Antarctic ice. The ship had no pilot. NASA smuggled it to an Air Force base in New Mexico.
General Rochester Grope eyed the silver craft. Like Christmas came early, he thought. The craft had room for a single occupant. There was a bubble over the part you could sit in. General Grope inquired as to who might have built the curious conveyance.
“An extraterrestrial race, presumably,” said Leslie R. Trute, the NASA representative. “We can’t begin to fathom the technology behind it.”
“Can it be used as a weapon?” the general wanted to know.
The Rude Mechanicals flew from one end of the universe to the other, helping others where they could, generally with the best intentions and the worst results.
On this occasion, the Six Million Dollar Mannequin flew their ship, the I Contain Mechanicals, backwards into three black holes before he realized he had his map upside-down. The Mechanicals were hopelessly lost. They settled on a world called Mundux to get their bearings.
Mundux was a tiny world. You could walk around it in ten steps. The Emperor of the Munds greeted the Mechanicals.