The door opened, and Muldoon came out wearing an officer's uniform with the same rank insignia as Weiser's. Rod goggled; the jacket was cut loose, but not loosely enough. Neither were the trousers. Also, the net was gone, and her hair floated in a cloud around her face.

She smiled at his surprise. "Well, thank you. Don't think it's a habit, though—we only dress up for dinner on this ship."

Rod glanced down at his own clothes, and his greasy hands.

"Don't worry, you're excepted until you're issued your uniform. You can wash up on the way." Muldoon set her cap on and tucked the strap under her chin. "Come on, meet your mates."

"Mates" had an unpleasant sound, suddenly. "Doesn't somebody have to stand watch?"

"The computer will, bucko. You wouldn't know what to look for yet, anyway." She turned away, and Rod couldn't help but follow—in uniform, her glide was even more a magnet.

As he passed Fess, the robot murmured, "Remember, Rod—swabbies should be seen, and not heard."

"Oh, don't worry, I won't make you ashamed of me," Rod grumbled. Just the same, he found himself making a mental note not to talk.

Apparently, he was the only one who didn't. Now he knew why they called it a "mess." He did think of adding his two cents' worth now and then, but every time he opened his mouth, Weiser caught his eye and, for some reason, Rod found himself shutting up.

They were gathered around the table. Rod started to sit, but a tall man with captain's bars cleared his throat, and Rod realized that the others were still standing. He pulled himself back up, surprised that he wasn't going to have to act proletarian to fit in, then remembered to salute. The captain returned it, then looked around at the others. "I hope you're all making our new crewman feel welcome." It was a remark certain to make Rod uncomfortable.

"Oh, yes, Captain! I've given him the full tour of the engine room, and checked his background." Muldoon was standing straight, shoulders back, eyes bright (maybe a little feverish), smiling. She seemed more reticent, somehow; the brassy lady projected shyness.

"Good, good. Well, let's see he meets everyone else, then. I'm Captain Donough." He was broad-shouldered, lean, handsome, and well-groomed. "The gentleman on my right is First Officer Jonas Whelk."

The first officer smiled and returned Rod's salute. He was skinny, balding, and sharp-featured.

"And I believe you've met Mr. Weiser, our second officer."

Rod saluted. Weiser returned it, narrow-eyed.

"Ah, you might ask to be excused, Albie," Donough murmured, and gave him the eye while he ran a finger over his own cheek.

Weiser's face darkened, but he muttered, "Asking the Captain's pardon."

"Of course."

Weiser left.

Rod wondered what all that had been about—but Donough was going on. "And this is Third Officer Noah McCracken."

Rod saluted. "A pleasure, sir."

McCracken returned it. His profile showed what free-fall could do for the figure—he was round as a ball from hip to shoulder, with another globe on top. No sagging; he was a perfect sphere. Rod wondered if he dared leave the ship on anything larger than Luna.

Weiser rejoined them, looking sullen but clean-shaven. Rod's eyes widened; then he remembered his manners and looked away, just before Weiser gave him a murderous glare.

"Gentlemen and lady," the captain said, "this is Spaceman Rodney d'Armand."

Weiser's eye lit with a wicked gleam, hearing Rod's full name. But the young man didn't care; just hearing the title from the captain's lips made his heart sing. He was a spaceman!

"However, as the junior member," Donough went on, "it falls to you to serve at table. Everyone else, please be seated."

Rod thought of mentioning something about his job description, then remembered how far it was to the nearest spaceport. Besides, Weiser had caught his eye again. And Muldoon was sitting down. Rod moved to hold her chair, but McCracken beat him to it. Not that it made any real difference—the seats were securely tracked, anyway. The other crewmen slid forward to lock themselves in place, and Donough said, "Stand by the autochef, Mr. d'Armand."

Rod looked around, identified the food synthesizer, and pushed himself over to it. He found himself really respecting Donough; any man who could keep his crew dressing for dinner, and even making some attempt at good manners, was pretty good. He was also pretty smart—it was a prime ingredient in maintaining morale.

It sure seemed to work on Muldoon.

"We'll begin with minestrone—key in I-C, please. And a plain salad, B-V. Dressings?"

"French," said Whelk.

"Russian," Weiser answered.

"Clavian," McCracken stated.

"None," Muldoon said.

"And I'll have Roquefort. Now, let's see the day's menu." He picked it up, pretending not to have it memorized. The others followed suit, except McCracken. Donough caught his eye, and the Third picked up the printout with a sigh.

The 'chef rang; Rod pulled cups out and started setting them in front of people.

"Thank you, Mr. d'Armand. Be seated, please."

Rod went to his chair, then stopped. He looked up and found the captain's eye on him, amused. "You might want to punch up one for yourself."

"Yes, sir!" Rod went back for another minestrone, brought it to his chair, and sat.

Donough picked up his cup, sipped through the spout, and set it down as he said. "I thought we did rather well at Maxima."

"Yes, sir," Whelk agreed. "Made a nice profit on the textiles from Terra."

"And the wines." McCracken smiled. "I never cease to be amazed that people will pay so much for fermented grape juice, when any decent autochef can synthesize it just as well."

"It's the status," Weiser grunted.

"And the link to the homeworld." Donough held his cup up, gazing off into space. "I remember when I was midshipman, on the Mars run…"

Whelk coughed politely into his fist and said, "Standing orders, sir."

Donough looked up, startled, then smiled with self-deprecation. "Yes, I have told that one a few times before, haven't I? Thank you, Mr. Whelk."

Muldoon glared daggers at Whelk, who carefully avoided her glance.

The captain pushed his almost-empty soup cup away, and everyone followed suit. Rod immediately rose and circled the table, clearing the cups, then went to the autochef and started serving again. The salads were just as easy as the soup had been, but he did have to try to remember which dressing went with whom. He didn't have much trouble with Muldoon, strangely.

Donough speared a tomato through the clinging film and lifted it through the surface tension as he said, "We should do well on Ceres. Not with the components from Maxima, of course."

"No, sir," Whelk agreed. "Coals to Newcastle, and all that."

"Very. But the people on Ganymede will pay through the nose for them, and Ceres should be a good market for the second-grade textiles." He looked up at a sudden thought. "We don't have any furs left, do we?"

"Two, I'm afraid, sir," Whelk answered. "The demand on Maxima wasn't quite what we thought it would be."

"Mm." Donough went after a cucumber slice. "Well, we certainly won't be able to unload them on Ceres."

Rod could scarcely believe his ears. All his life, "Ceres" had been synonymous with luxury and decadence—but here these men were saying that nobody on the big rock could afford anything nearly as good as the Maximans could!

And they couldn't be wrong. This was their living—and they were still alive.

When the salad dishes were cleared away, Donough said, "I think I'll have the ragout tonight—that's J-O. And I'll have a burgundy with it—A-A."

Rod pressed the pressure pads with the labels named, and waited. The others ordered, and he entered their dishes, then almost immediately started removing and serving. For a moment, he was tempted to mention that he had a robot who was really very good at this sort of thing, but he noticed Weiser's eye on him and changed his mind.