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."
O'Hara said, "The new—What's your name, mister?"