The Callisto-bound _Leo_ needed
a cook. What it got was a piping-voiced
Jonah who jinxed it straight into Chaos.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
We picked up our new cook on Phobos. Not Phoebus or Phoebe; I mean
Phobos, Mars' inner moon. Our regular victual mangler came down with
acute indigestion--tasted some of his own cooking, no doubt--when we
were just one blast of a jet-tube out of Sand City spaceport. But since
we were rocketing under sealed orders, we couldn't turn back.
So we laid the _Leo_ down on Phobos' tiny cradle-field and bundled
our ailing grub-hurler off to a hospital, and the skipper said to me,
"Mister Dugan," he said, "go out and find us a cook!"
"Aye, sir!" I said, and went.
Only it wasn't that easy. In those days, Phobos had only a handful
of settlers, and most of them had good-paying jobs. Besides, we were
at war with the Outer Planets, and no man in his right senses wanted
to sign for a single-trip jump on a rickety old patrolship bound for
nobody-knew-where. And, of course, cooks are dime-a-dozen when you
don't need one, but when you've got to locate one in a hurry they're as
difficult to find as petticoats in a nudist camp.
I tried the restaurants and the employment agencies, but it was no
dice. I tried the hotels and the tourist homes and even one or two
of the cleaner-looking joy-joints. Again I drew a blank. So, getting
desperate, I audioed a plaintive appeal to the wealthy Phobosian
colonists, asking that one of the more patriotic sons-of-riches donate
a chef's services to the good old I.P.S., but my only response was a
loud silence.
So I went back to the ship. I said, "Sorry, sir. We're up against it. I
can't seem to find a cook on the whole darned satellite."
The skipper scowled at me from under a corduroy brow and fumed, "But
we've got to have a cook, Dugan! We can't go on without one!"
"In a pinch," I told him, "_I_ might be able to boil a few pies, or
scramble us a steak or something, Skipper."
"Thanks, Dugan, but that won't do. On this trip the men must be fed
regularly and well. Makeshift meals are O.Q. on an ordinary run, but
when you're running the blockade--"
He stopped abruptly. But too late; I had caught his slip of the tongue.
I stared at him. I said, "The blockade, sir? Then you've read our
orders?"
The Old Man nodded soberly.
"Yes. You might as well know, Lieutenant. Everyone will be told as soon
as the _Leo_ lifts gravs again. My orders were to be opened four hours
after leaving Sand City. I read them a few minutes ago.
"We are to attempt to run the Outer Planets Alliance blockade at any
spot which reconnaisance determines as favorable. Our objective is
Jupiter's fourth satellite, Callisto. The Solar Federation Intelligence
Department has learned of a loyalist uprising on that moon. It is
reported that Callisto is weary of the war, with a little prompting
will secede from the Alliance and return to the Federation.
"If this is true, it means we have at last found the foothold we have
been seeking; a salient within easy striking distance of Jupiter,
capital of the Alliance government. Our task is to verify the rumor
and, if it be true, make a treaty with the Callistans."
I said, "Sweet howling stars--some assignment, sir! A chance to end
this terrible war ... form a permanent union of the entire Solar
family ... bring about a new age of prosperity and happiness."
"If," Cap O'Hara reminded me, "we succeed. But it's a tough job. We
can't expect to win through the enemy cordon unless our men are in top
physical condition. And that means a sound, regular diet. So we must
find a cook, or--"
"The search," interrupted an oddly high-pitched, but not unpleasant
voice, "is over. Where's the galley?"
* * * * *
I whirled, and so did the Old Man. Facing us was an outlandish little
figure; a slim, trim, natty little Earthman not more than five-foot-two
in height; a smooth-cheeked young fellow swaddled in a spaceman's
uniform at least three sizes too large. Into the holster of his harness
was thrust a Haemholtz ray-pistol big enough to burn an army, and in
his right hand he brandished a huge, gleaming carving-knife. He frowned
at us impatiently.
"Well," he repeated impatiently, "where is it?"
The Old Man stared.
"W-who," he demanded dazedly, "might you be?"
"I might be," retorted the little stranger, "lots of people. But I came
here to be your new cook."