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

<passage>:
needed a cook. What it got was a piping-voiced Jonah who jinxed it straight into Chaos. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from We picked up our new cook on Phobos. Not Phoebus or Phoebe I mean Phobos, Mars' inner moon. Our regular victual mangler came down with our ailing grub-hurler off to a hospital, and the skipper said to me, "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. So I went back to the ship. I said, "Sorry, sir. We're up against it. I 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 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 voice, "is over. Where's the galley?" "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." "you don't look like much of a cook to hastily. I said, "Excuse me, sir, shall I handle this?" Then, because 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—" The skipper's color subsided. So did he, grumbling. "Well, perhaps outrage. "Get below instantly, or by the lavendar lakes of Luna I'll—" "If I were you," interrupted our diminutive new chef thoughtfully, "I'd I sprang to attention and saluted smartly. "Aye, sir?" "Take this—this culinary tactician out of my sight before I forget I'm an officer and a gentleman. And tell him that when I want advice I'll come down to the galley for it!" "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!" complement was as thrilled as a sub-deb at an Academy hop. John Wainwright, our First Officer, licked his chops like a fox in a hen-house and said, "The blockade! Oboyoboy! Maybe we'll tangle with one of the Alliance ships, hey?" And one of the black-gang blasters, a taciturn chap, said nothing—but the grim set of his jaw and the purposeful way he spat on his callused paws were mutely eloquent. "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 He rang the bell that summoned Slops from the galley, and the little fellow came bustling in apprehensively. "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 from one foot to another. "Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you very much. Yes, the galley was in fine tip-top chef, what?" The young hash-slinger still hesitated bashfully. "But it's such a 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. the fixings, Slops?" Maybe I was mistaken, but for a moment I suspected I caught a queer glint in our little chef's eyes when he said: "Yes, Captain, all the fixings. I'll start cooking the meal as soon as the new incinerator is installed." So that was that. During the night watch two men of the crew lugged by accident, into the men's shower room and met up with a brawny young prospector—" Captain Slops said, "Er—excuse me, Lieutenant, but I have to get this old maid got flustered and said, 'Oh, I'm sorry! I must be in the wrong compartment—'" "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 began. 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. It wasn't so much the squeaky voice or the effeminate gestures he cut boy soprano, and the meanest pirate who ever highjacked a freighter was "Runt" Hake—who wore diamond ear-rings and gold fingernail polish! 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 before had enraged the Old Man. By sheer perseverance he earned the title I had tagged him with: "Captain Slops." I was willing to give him another title, too—Captain Chaos. God knows he created enough of it! extreme danger of encountering enemy ships?" "Keep your pants on, Slops!" "Eh?" The chef looked startled. "Beg pardon, sir?" "I said keep your pants on. Sure, I know. And I've took precautions. "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—" "Don't give me lady-logic, you dope!" roared the Old Man, an enraged lion now, his breakfast completely forgotten. "Give me a sensible

<question>:
What is the most likely explanation for the cook's demeanor and behavior?

<options>:
A The cook was female
B The cook was young
C The cook was an alien
D The cook was a saboteur

<answer>:

B