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

<passage>:
tomorrow on what they had eaten today! Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls, men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It's true that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussion can never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is a challenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughts history—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilis made her underwater periplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza and concentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for the 36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast today what was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water. The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turning fiasco, for example, in which a the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook was Robert Bailey. Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustrating tensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming, end of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with the Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victim hemorrhoid. Captain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by any other name than The Kitchen Cabinet. Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the taste give his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've got to live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship." "I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook," Bailey said. "The fat swine!" "His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey," I said. "He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers in my time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none." Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. It tomorrow's menu." mass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was only cycler-salt." "You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain," I said. I gazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. "Yes, I eat it," the Captain said, taking and talking through another "Only good food," Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguised algae. He tapped his head with a finger. "This—the brain that guides the ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me, Belly-Robber?" Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. "Yes, sir. But I really don't know what I can do to please you." "You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban followed him. "Captain," I said, "you're driving Bailey too hard. You're asking him to make bricks without straw." mother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make him uncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment, to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learn somehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks." "You're driving him too hard, Sir," I said. "He'll crack." "Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when we ground at Brady Station," Captain Winkelmann said. "So much money buys many discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova." Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the elliptical path to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiate the appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemned by that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain at mealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. "Convey my compliments to the Chef, please," the Captain would instruct one of the crew, "and ask him to step down here a moment." And the Cook would cheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary genius acidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to go into Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark in a lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot "bread" with a genuinely dairy smell. "Splendid, Bailey," I said. "We are not amused," said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a second edibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you will have learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economics student. That will be all, Bailey." Bailey they were in addition gratified that the battle between their Captain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embark ration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds of books, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to help him while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for a fact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case of interested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability alien to his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'd "What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today, Belly-Robber?" he asked the Cook. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'd had much practice. "I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir," he said. "I think I've whipped the taste what was left was to get the Voila! "It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about with our food," the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression of distaste. "It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but I the meal." "Aha! I have it!" sufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep a bottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber." "But, Sir...." Bailey began. "You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threat to the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealistic slops for another hundred days, without the small consolation of "Captain, you've gone too far," I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, was scarlet, his chest heaving with emotion. "Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship's Surgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain," Winkelmann said. "Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you," I said. "The other officers restaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman." "I hate him," Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. He of salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment were vehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, for the decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He served the algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galley oblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. Captain may be a hard man, Bailey but he did know how to coax maximum performance out of his Ship's Cook." Bailey stood up. "Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor?" he asked. but it was all for the good of the ship and his crew. "Do I like Captain Winkelmann?" I asked, spearing another piece of my artificial steak. "Bailey, I'm afraid I'll have to admit that I do."

<question>:
What likely happens after the story is over?

<options>:
A The Doc has to treat the crew for food poisoning because they are not used to real meat
B Bailey is renowned for his culinary breakthrough, and his future restaurant is a success
C The crew goes down in history, but not for the culinary feat
D Bailey decides not to open a restaurant so he can continue cooking on ships

<answer>:

C