Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
Leo needed a cook. What it got was a piping-voiced Jonah who jinxed it straight into Chaos. We picked up our new cook on Phobos. Not Phoebus or Phoebe "Mister Dugan," he said, "go out and find us a cook!" "Aye, sir!" I said, and went. Only it wasn't that easy. In those days, Phobos had only a handful at war with the Outer Planets, and no man in his right senses wanted to sign for a single-trip jump on a rickety old patrolship bound for nobody-knew-where. And, of course, cooks are dime-a-dozen when you don't need one, but when you've got to locate one in a hurry they're as desperate, I audioed a plaintive appeal to the wealthy Phobosian colonists, asking that one of the more patriotic sons-of-riches donate a chef's services to the good old I.P.S., but my only response was a loud silence. can't seem to find a cook on the whole darned satellite." The skipper scowled at me from under a corduroy brow and fumed, "But we've got to have a cook, Dugan! We can't go on without one!" "In a pinch," I told him, " I might be able to boil a few pies, or can't expect to win through the enemy cordon unless our men are in top physical condition. And that means a sound, regular diet. So we must find a cook, or—" "The search," interrupted an oddly high-pitched, but not unpleasant "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." The Old Man's lip curled speculatively. "Well, Andy Laney," he said, "you don't look like much of a cook to the skipper was still struggling for words: "You," I said to the little fellow, "are a cook?" "One of the best!" he claimed complacently. cook—" Slops! "Now, listen!" I said bluntly. "You volunteered for the job. Now you've got to take what comes with it: orders! From now on, suppose you take care of the cooking and let the rest of us worry about the ship—Captain Slops!" the grim set of his jaw and the purposeful way he spat on his callused paws were mutely eloquent. Slops. He was busy preparing midday mess, it seems, because scarcely "Soup's on! Come and get it!" Which we did. And whatever failings "Captain Slops" might have, he had not exaggerated when he called himself one of the best cooks in space. That meal, children, was a meal! When it comes to victuals I can destroy better than describe, but there was stuff and things and such-like, all smothered in gravy and so on, and huge quantities of this and that and the other thing, all of them unbelievably dee-luscious! Beyond a doubt it was the finest feast we of the Leo had enjoyed in the table, he patted the pleasant bulge due south of his belt buckle. He rang the bell that summoned Slops from the galley, and the little "Was everything all right, sir?" he asked. "Not only all right, Slops," wheezed Captain O'Hara, "but perfect! Accept my congratulations on a superb meal, my boy. Did you find everything O.Q. in the galley?" "Captain Slops" blushed like a stereo-struck school-gal, and fidgeted "So? Well, speak up, son, what is it? I'll get it fixed for you right away." The Old Man smiled archly. "Must have everything shipshape for a tip-top chef, what?" The young hash-slinger still hesitated bashfully. "But it's such a "Oh, I realize we don't have the regular equipment," said Slops shyly, of firing charges, re-radiation, or other hazards accruent to heavy ordnance.'" Our little chef's face fell. "Now, that's too bad," he said discouragedly. "I was planning a special banquet for tomorrow, with roast marsh-duck and all the fixings, pinberry pie—but, oh, well!—if I have no incinerator—" The skipper's eyes bulged, and he drooled like a pup at a barbeque. if there was marsh-duck topped with a dessert of Martian pinberry pie. He said: "We-e-ell, now, Mr. Dugan, let's not be too technical. After all, that the fixings, Slops?" glint in our little chef's eyes it might have been gratitude, or, on the other hand, it might have been self-satisfaction. Whatever it was it passed quickly, and Captain Slops' soft voice was smooth as silk when he said: "Yes, Captain, all the fixings. I'll start cooking the meal as soon as the new incinerator is installed." "Yes, sir," said Slops meekly. "I'll be careful how I use it, sir." Captain Slops said, "Er—excuse me, Lieutenant, but I have to get this "If you don't mind, Mr. Dugan," interrupted the cook loudly, "I'm awfully busy. I don't have any time for—" hear the wallop at the end of my tale he fled from the galley, very pink and flustered. So there was one for the log-book! Not only did our emergency chef lack That period of jetting was a mingled joy and pain in the britches. Captain Slops was responsible for both. For one thing, as I've hinted before, he was a bit of a panty-waist. But it was Slops' general attitude that isolated him from the command and crew. In addition to being a most awful prude, he was a kill-joy. When just for a lark we begged him to boil us a pot of spaghetti, so we could pour a cold worm's nest into Rick Bramble's bed, he shuddered and refused. "Yeah!" snorted Johnny Wainwright disdainfully, "And ugh! too. Come on, Joe, let's get out of here before we give Slops bad dreams and goose-flesh!" Nor was hypersensitiveness Slops' worst failing. If he was squeamish about off-color jokes and such stuff, he had no compunctions whatsoever title I had tagged him with: "Captain Slops." "O.Q., Slops," the skipper would nod agreeably, with his mouth full Cap O'Hara, and Slops was playing another variation on the old familiar theme. "I glanced at the chart this morning, sir," he began as he minced in with a platterful of golden flapjacks and an ewer of Vermont maple afraid this is our last chance to change course—" "And for that," chuckled the Old Man, "Hooray! Pass them pancakes, son. Maybe now you'll stop shooting off about how we ought to of gone by way "Keep your pants on, Slops!" "Eh?" The chef looked startled. "Beg pardon, sir?" "But—but if there should be more than one, sir?" "Don't be ridiculous, my boy. Why should there be?" "Well, for one thing," wrangled our pint-sized cook, "because rich The skipper choked, spluttered, and disgorged a bite of half-masticated pancake. "Why—why, because—" said Slops. "Because—" plaintive little shriek from somebody ... maybe from Slops himself.... It was then that Andy Laney, who had lingered in the galley doorway like a frozen figuring, broke into babbling incredulous speech.

<question>:
Why was the cook called Captain Slops?

<options>:
A because he used to be a captain
B because he was raised in the Belt
C because he liked to tell people what to do
D because he made delicious meals

<answer>:

C