"Disarm them," he designated us negligently. "And when the cargo has been transferred, have our men come in to dine. We will dine aboard the Saturn."
You Earthlubbers will think this part strange, maybe? That we showed no more resistance than this to Hake's invasion? Well, I don't blame you. I've read Martian Tales and Spaceways Weekly, too. The writers for those mags would like you to believe that every freighter captain is a horny-fisted John Paul Jones. But think it over! The Saturn was a lumbering old cow compared to Hake's streamliner. Hanson had adopted the only sane policy. To placate the pirate, be nice to him, hope we could stall off his scuttling plans until the S.S.C.B. cruiser reached us.
So for more than two hours, unarmed and disconsolate, we of the Saturn sat around and diddled our fingers while Hake's men, using our engine crew, the wipers and blasters, for porters, transferred the more valuable parts of our cargo to their ship. They didn't take the bulk stuff. Just small necessities that could be fenced from a hideout on one of the rogue asteroids.
Meanwhile, Runt Hake had made at least one special trip. Down to the galley. He took Todd and Cap and me along so he could keep an eye on us. Down there we found Lancelot Biggs, quietly reading.
Hake said in that soft purr of his, "You—you're the cook on this ship?"
Biggs answered, "Mmm-hmm."
"You will address me," suggested the little outlaw, "as 'Sir.' Very well, Slops. I want you to prepare a meal for us. A good meal. Fresh meats and vegetables. You have no idea—" He drawled this last to Hanson. "How one wearies of canned concentrates."
Hanson just glowered. But Biggs looked confused. He said, "I—I'll have to get produce from the storage bins if you want a big meal. This galley's small—" He looked about him helplessly.
Hake nodded. "That is granted. But, mind you, attempt no medieval—ah—toxicological exploits. I remember the chef of the Spica tried something of the sort. Poor lad! He screamed horribly ... I shall never forget it."