"Wait a minute!" yelped Cap Hanson. "Where do you think you're goin', Mr. Biggs?"
Biggs gulped, "Why—why you told me to—"
"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!"