Few texts in science fiction have such mysterious pasts as Milk Planet. An unpublishable, incomplete masterpiece, its author and the approximate year of writing remain unknown to this day.
Theories abound, readers…
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Lucas Lactusen rampaxxed the florg.
His vehicle dashed with rain, he rallied on into the night. The road, barely visible through the layer of translucent white that built up on his windshield, appeared now here, now there. Now left, now right, Lactusen pitched as best he could to follow the snaking concrete.
He switched on the vehiCall and punched in an ident. The rain pounded relentless.
“Michael, it’s Professor Lactusen. Please, please call me as soon as you get this. This is big – really big.”
Lights swung past and he swerved to miss.
“I’ve stumbled onto something. Something incredible. I –”
Lactusen fell silent, peering forward. He dulled the motor to a purr, slowing in advance of the obstacle ahead. Slowing in advance of the impossible.
There, in his headlamps, oblivious to the storm – there, in the middle of the road, a cow.
Coming to a stop, the Professor kicked open the door and pulled his jacket over his head. Ducking out, he ran through the storm to the impossible creature.
He needed to see it; needed to see it close up. He needed to see that it was real.
Lactusen was soaked, the malt smell of the rain permeating down to his skin. The animal turned its head slowly, stupidly.
“Hey there,” he said. “Hey there, beautiful. Where did you come from?”
This was ridiculous, Lactusen thought. It had to be a fake – a hologram, a clone – or he had to be hallucinating, dead. Because no-one on the planet had seen a cow for a hundred years.
And then came the screech. Lactusen turned, spotting the lights blearily through the rain. Lights, from another vehicle. Lights facing straight at him.
The vehicle shot forward; milk seared upward in arcs from either side, like great white wings.
And the cow moved its head slowly, stupidly.
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