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The year is 2276, you're an Old West bandit on Mars, and you're on the run from space sheriffs. You take a bullet near the edge of town and drag yourself, dripping blood, into a space saloon to hide. The bartender, a grizzled cut-eye, takes one look at you and pulls you into a back room.

He props you up against a circulator and goes back into the saloon without a word. When he comes back, he's dragging along a miserable old vaper. "Earn your keep, Doc," he says, shoving him towards you. The Bartender gives you one last look as he leaves the room. Doc pulls out a small leather case.

He opens the case to reveal an assortment of clamps, screws, and sockets. "All right you best stay quiet, boy." Doc pulls your hand away from your sopping wound. "Real mess," he mutters. He pulls out a selection of rods and joints and threads them together. "What is that," you gasp in pain.

"It's a medical kit," he says. You recoil: "don't look like no medical kit I ever seen." Doc doesn't even look back up. "It's a medical kit for robots, you damned fool. Or ain't you know?"