"Never mind what I said! Do what I say! I think I've got the
solution. Mr. Biggs, that cranium of yours appears to be stuffed with
miscellaneous lore. Do you by any chance happen to know anything about
the art of cooking?"
"Who?" said Biggs. "Me? Why, no, Captain. But I don't imagine it would
be very difficult. After all, it is based on elementary chemical
processes. By exposing certain organic substances to the action of
hydrogen dioxide, under suitable thermostatic conditions--"
Cap Hanson's jaw dropped open. He goggled at me. "Wh-what's he sayin',
Sparks?"
"He means," I translated, "that cooking is easy. All you need is water,
heat and victuals."
"Oh!" The skipper grinned ghoulishly. "In that case, our problem's
solved. Mr. Biggs, you've just earned a new private office an' a new
unyform. You'll find both of 'em below decks, third door on your right."
It was Biggs' turn to look shocked. His protuberant larynx performed a
reverse Immelmann. "H-huh? But I'm not a cook, Captain. I'm your First
Mate!"
"You _was_ my First Mate," corrected the Old Man coolly, "until just
now. The IPS codebook says, 'It is the Captain's privilege to draft any
member of crew or command for any duty in times of emergency.' This
is an emergency. An' besides, you just got done sayin' that cookin'
is simply a matter of exposin' certain hoochamacallits to the action
of thingamajigs. So--" He brushed his hairy paws with a gesture of
finality, "That's that! To the galley, Mr. Slops!"
* * * * *
And he was right. That was that. But the funny part of it was that,
forced to a showdown, Lancelot Biggs came through!
The first meal out, which was lunch served at noon Earthtime, I
went down to the dining hall thinking anything might happen and
expecting the worst. I got the shock of my life, and shocks are a not
inconsiderable part of the life of a spacelugger radioman.
Mr. Lancelot Slops had pulled a banquet out of the hat! We had fried
chicken with cream gravy, hot biscuits, candied yams, a side dish of
stewed _clab_, Creole style, raisin pie, and the best damn coffee ever
served on the wallowing old _Saturn_.
What the other men of the crew thought, I have no idea. They didn't
say. Every man-jack of 'em was so busy shoveling grub into his puss
that the conversation was dead as a Martian herring. But after I'd
bulged my belt to the last notch with fried pullet, I waddled into the
galley and confronted Mr. Biggs.
"Biggs," I said accusingly, "you've been holding out on us! Why didn't
you tell us before you could cook a meal like that?"