I WHIRLED, AND SO DID the Old Man. Facing us was an outlandish little figure; a slim, trim, natty little Earthman not more than five-foot-two in height; a smooth-cheeked young fellow swaddled in a spaceman’s uniform at least three sizes too large. Into the holster of his harness was thrust a Haemholtz ray-pistol big enough to burn an army, and in his right hand he brandished a huge, gleaming carving-knife. He frowned at us impatiently.
“Well,” he repeated impatiently, “where is it?”
The Old Man stared.
“W-who,” he demanded dazedly, “might you be?”
“I might be,” retorted the little stranger, “lots of people. But I came here to be your new cook.”
O’Hara said, “The new—What’s your name, mister?”
“Andy,” replied the newcomer. “Andy Laney.”
The Old Man’s lip curled speculatively. “Well,
