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

<passage>:
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! The Pequod's crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men won their war on canned pork and beans. The The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decent food. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezings from aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to the groundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. the stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequent bite he ate to a superior grade of sake . And for a third footnote to the ancient observation, "God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks," Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the Charles Partlow It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, "Bailey, other name than The Kitchen Cabinet. Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the taste and thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink, textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted the slabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat. For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste of the carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not. you are feeding me." Captain Winkelmann blotted his chin with his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up the ladder from the dining-cubby. "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 was green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. "This is what I have to work with," he said. He tossed the stuff back into from Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cook waved my gift aside. "Not now, Doc," he said. "I'm thinking about tomorrow's menu." The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon the next day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressed with something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves of burnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can only imploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The big man's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed. "Belly-Robber," Winkelmann said, "I had almost rather you served me this pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions and cycler-salt." "You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain," I said. I bite. "But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms and grasshoppers, to stay alive." "Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me?" Bailey pleaded. "Only good food," Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguised Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. "Yes, sir. But I really or weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that will keep my belly content and my brain alive." "Yes, sir," Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the British mother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make him 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 grew more silent as we threaded our way along the elliptical 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 turkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacy genuinely dairy smell. "Splendid, Bailey," I said. Bailey 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 spices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice, and a dozen others. on the mysterious box as he sat to eat. "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 he said. "I think I've whipped the taste what was left was to get the "Remarkable, Bailey," I said. kind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of a more reasonable man. "But it still needs something ... something," Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella. "This, Belly-Robber!" Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table and ripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewed the cap. "Ketchup," he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey's masterpiece. "The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks." Lifting a hunk of the "steak," streaming ketchup, to his mouth, "That's better," Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He said meditatively, "Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I have Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered him to my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on my bunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metal bulkhead. "You'll have that drink now," I said. "No, dammit!" he shouted. therapy, Bailey," I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throat tank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-out "Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey," I said. "You've worked your off. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed. For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable in horribleness, a pottage or boiled Chlorella vulgaris that looked and tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey, red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann as though daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of the Bailey nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Sir," he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses were theory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captain had pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, I thought. 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 I smiled and took another bite. "You may not realize it, Bailey He persuaded his men by foul means, true but it was all for the good spearing another piece of my artificial steak. "Bailey, I'm afraid I'll Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto my

<question>:
How did Bailey achieve the meal that tasted like barbeque?

<options>:
A He added the Captain's entrails
B He allowed the chlorella to ferment longer
C He used actual pork products
D He added his own refuse

<answer>:

A