"Shut up!" howled Cap Hanson. He wasn't in a mood to take advice from anybody, and especially Lancelot Biggs. Perhaps that was because our recent "transmuting trip," in the course of which we had attempted to turn lead jars to platinum by exposure to cosmic radiation, had failed. The Corporation had carpeted Cap for that, and Cap was sore at Biggs because the whole thing had been Biggs' idea in the beginning. "I'll murder the guy who even mentions that--that stuff!" Mr. Biggs said aggrievedly, "I was only trying to be helpful." "You're as much help," the skipper told him caustically, "as fins on a dicky-bird's chest. Now, git out of here! G'wan! Git!" Our lanky first mate turned and started to leave the turret. And then, suddenly-- "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!" * * * * * And he was right. That was that. But the funny part of it was that, forced to a showdown, Lancelot Biggs came through! The first meal out, which was lunch served at noon Earthtime, I went down to the dining hall thinking anything might happen and expecting the worst. I got the shock of my life, and shocks are a not inconsiderable part of the life of a spacelugger radioman.