"I'll swear it," I told him, "on a pile of logbooks. That smell came from—Hey! What else beside the galley lies beneath my room and the control turret?"
"I'm a cook," said Slops, still stirring the tapioca, "not a blueprint. Don't ask me."
"Shut up!" snapped Captain Hanson. "He ain't askin' you. Let's see, Sparks. There's the storage closet ... the reservoir ... the refrigeration tanks, and the—" His eyes widened suddenly; fearfully. "Sparks!" he husked.
"Yes?"
"The vegetable hold!"
Man, that was it! The minute he said it, I knew. The vegetable hold—and Biggs in charge!
We hightailed it for the nearest ramp. The minute we turned down the corridor the smell got worse. Hanson blasted down the aisle like a rogue asteroid, with me trailing along behind. We hit the door; rammed it open—
Biggs was in there. The darned fool was standing in there dressed in a bulger, calmly spraying the bins of mekel-root and clab with a hose!
He turned as we entered and his eyes lighted behind the quartzite. His audiophone clacked pleasantly.