Downstairs, in the Space Bar, Johnny Damokles sweated over some unsavory concoction, and swore in six planetary languages, plus old Greek and a frenzied form of English. His apron strings hung loose, three knives and a toasting fork peeked out of his pockets.
"What's cookin'?" hailed Timmy.
The little Greek turned around. "West'in on'let," he blurted. "An' this dam' blast Callisto garlic ... she are not fit for cooking dog meat!"
"A clear and sensible opinion," said Tim, "neatly expressed." He leaned over the counter, tilted Johnny's frying pan to the floor, grabbed the Greek's apron and whipped it loose. "Come on, chum," he said. "You've just resigned."
Johnny looked sadly at the mess on the floor. "What's a matter of you, dam' idiot? Who are resigned?"
"You did, Johnny. You're going out into space with me as cook ... and I need somebody to prepare rat poison for my pilot." He stopped, and watched Damokles' chin drop. "Come on," he repeated, "we're going places."
"Crazies places?"
"Nope! Space."
Johnny Damokles' face lighted up with something of the glow his ancestors must have shown at Thermopylae and Salamis. "No kid? You take me? Oh, Meester Timmy Gordon ... you is a dam sweet feller." His cap went sailing skyward. His apron followed suit, and he grabbed a twisted necktie from beneath the counter. "Hey, boy!" he shouted to an open-mouthed waiter. "I is resigned. Tell her to the boss. Goom bye!"