"Didja hear, Bob? We're getting a mess steward!"

 

I sighed. "I heard, Pico."

 

He looked at me sideways. "What's wrong with a steward, man? Fresh coffee, hot food, someone to do the dishes..."

 

"Just set in my ways, I guess. We've got a good crew; same run together for three years with no trouble—"

 

"No trouble?! You crazy, man? What about when the drive broke, and—"

 

"No trouble between us, I mean. We get along. I don't want to risk that over coffee."

 

"Risk?! Dude - what could go wrong?"

 

* * *

 

To begin with, nothing. The new guy was a Haitian named Steve. He hummed to himself, wore a big cheerful grin, and was built like a Freightliner. The first morning out from Luna we were greeted with fresh Danish and some of the finest coffee I've ever tasted. I never did learn his secret, but I know there were egg shells in the filter.

 

Lunch was excellent; dinner was positively amazing. That night, the mid-rats — cold cuts and bread — were augmented by fresh chocolate chip cookies. By general acclamation Steve became Cookie; he accepted it as his due.

 

Each leg of the Mars run takes from ten days to three weeks, depending. This was one of the longer legs, and it was heaven. But then we reached Elevator Station, and disaster struck.

 

I was checking manifests when I noticed one of the cargo containers was two hundred kilos heavy. I popped the lid, and there was Cookie in a custom space suit, all set to jump ship. Turned out he had a high-paying job lined up on the surface, but because of his weight the Colonist Board wouldn't let him emigrate. Now, I don't owe the Board a damn thing, but I've got my paycheck to consider, so I dragged him up to see the captain.

 

* * *

 

If the trip out had been heaven, going back was hell. Cookie was not happy with me at all. Everyone caught a piece of it, but I got special treatment; my food was over-salted and my coffee tasted like battery acid. To this day I don't know how he managed it; one morning Pico got a cup from the urn and it was fine, and then I got mine and brother, paint thinner would have been an improvement. Got so bad that, by week two, I was living off mid-rats and tea.

 

Then Cookie tried to leave at Luna Three, figuring to try again from another ship. I'd have been just as happy, but the captain stopped him. "You're under contract for a standard year," he said. "Until then you're my responsibility."

 

I saw it coming and laid in a case of food bars and a coffee maker. Everyone else suffered. Pico showed me a breakfast that mystified us both: hard yolks swimming in raw whites, bacon striped alternating raw with blackened char, and as for the toast—!! I took pity and passed him a food bar, then brought the whole nasty mess with me to see the captain.

 

Cap just sighed. "Not much I can do, Bob," he said. "There's nothing in the regs about him cooking well; if he shows up for shifts, he's done his job. Best I can manage is a lecture, and Cookie just lets it roll off him, apologizes oh-so-sincerely, and grins at me."

 

I headed down to talk it over with Frenchie, our chief engineer, who's got a well-earned reputation as a prankster. On the way, I ran across his two mates, who had pulled Cookie into a side passage and were expressing their displeasure. I separated them before any bones got broken and then retreated to my cabin to think.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon I caught up with Cookie going into the starboard head. "Those engineers meant business," I told him. "Next time they'll make sure I can't interfere. Any chance you'd be willing to ease up a little?"

 

Cookie just grinned, black eye and all. "Dunno what you're talking about, Cargomaster. We was just talking."

 

"Fair enough."

 

The hatch got almost closed behind him but stopped with a loud sizzle. Smoke rose from the wall panel. We both tried jiggling it, but it was stuck solid. "Hang on; I'll go get Frenchie," I said.

 

When he's stressed, our engineer reverts to incomprehensible Québécois. "Complètement coincée," he explained, then something about a "pootandi torsh." With that he stumped off, muttering.

 

"Did you catch any of that?" I asked through the hatch.

 

"He's going to get a cutting torch."

 

Cookie was in no mood for company, so I went to see about dinner. That night, my chili got rave reviews.

 

* * *

 

Afterward, the captain and I moseyed back. Frenchy had cut the access panel off and was glowering at scorched circuits; Cap sent him to grab a bite. Then he tapped on the hatch.

 

"You okay in there?"

 

Silence.

 

"You could be here a while. I need Frenchy in Engineering, and for some reason his mates won't work on this. Is there anything I can tell them to encourage them to help out?"

 

That earned him a stream of profanity. He shrugged and left.

 

Around midnight I took pity on Cookie, wrapped a couple of sandwiches, flattened them with a rolling pin, and slid them through the crack at the bottom of the hatch. Then we talked some.

 

We finally got the hatch fixed the next day (after lunch), and things returned to normal. That last night before Mars, he pulled out all the stops and served a creole feast to remember.

 

* * *

 

The next evening, as we were headed back out to the jump point, the captain came down to see me.

 

"Cookie's gone," he said. "Nobody's seen him since Mars. Any idea where he went?"

 

"Didn't see a thing," I said.

 

"Musta jumped ship. Too bad; damn fine cook."

 

I nodded. "When he wants to be."