We're Off to Mars!

The strange little robot machine would create anything Joe Linger wanted. The catch was, that he was being told what to create—and didn't know it!
Joe Linger raised up on one elbow and stared at the door, frowning. Who is it? he called out.
A muffled voice answered from beyond the cracked, peeling wood. Package for Mr. Joseph Linger!
Just a minute! Joe laid his magazine aside, rolled to the edge of the bed, and pulled on his trousers. Rising, he poked his feet into frayed slippers and, walking to the door, swung it open.
Sign here, please! A little, old man stood in the doorway. He held a large square package under one arm and extended the other, holding out a clipboard and pencil to Joe. He had a thatch of white hair and a red, wrinkled face with blue eyes and a scowl. He wore a loose, blue uniform with a cloth badge on his shallow chest, reading: Time Deliveries, Inc.
Joe took the clipboard and pencil, scrawled his name and frowned with sudden surprise.
The name on the clipboard list above his was: Pontius Pilate, Rome, 12 A.D.
And when he looked up at the scowling little man who was now holding the package out to him and extending a hand to receive back his clipboard and pencil, Joe saw that he was holding the package out with two right arms and reaching for the clipboard with two left arms!
Joe fell back a step. Who in blazes are you?
Time Deliveries, Incorporated, the little man chanted. We guarantee deliveries to anyone, anywhere, any time. Here's your package, Mr. Linger.
B-but, Joe stammered, where'd you come from?
The little man lifted his lower left hand and fingered his pointed chin. A gleam entered his blue eyes. Originally, I came from Ursula Major, he said. That's 3428 A.D., by the present calendar. Now, do you accept this package or—