"Shit balls!" Jordy slaps the assignment schedule on the wall in the tiny canteen office. "I'm in the scullery this week!"

"If you got a problem," says Barney, the head cook, "you need to take it up with Mr. Stephens." He leans back in his office chair and looks at the menu for the next shift. "Pasta again! How is everybody on this space station so thin?"

"It's all the walking." Tessa is pulling on a hairnet over her wavy blond head. "Everything is so far apart you burn it off just getting around. My bunk room is four miles away."

"I forgot where my bunk room is," Jordy says. "I've been sneaking into the pilot's berthing five levels up."

Barney stands up and ties his smock around his large belly. "Let's get to work. I got a shit ton of pasta to boil."


Jordy enters the scullery and pushes the power buttons. It is a small rectangular space with industrial stainless steel decor. Valves clunk open and steam hisses inside the large square sterilizer. On it's left is a sink with a pull down sprayer, and on it's right is long steel counter. Next to the sink is a stack of plastic dish racks that are slid through the sterilizer to steam clean dishes and cutlery. He puts on his dish washing apron and round hat. "Somebody shoot me now."

"It's not that bad." Jordy turns around as Mr. Stevens enters the small room. "I started by washing dishes at a vegan cafeteria."

"What's a vegan?"

"They don't exist anymore." Mr. Stevens taps his knuckles on the sterilizer. "How is all the equipment working?" He grabs the nozzle sprays it into the sink. "I heard some complaints."

"Complaints? About the dirty dishes?" Jordy shrugs. "I haven't heard anything."

"Not dirty dishes." A metallic breathing sound approaches the room. "Our guest arrives."

Darth Vader enters the room, his large frame filling the space, and he puts his hands on this hips. "We meet again, Mr. Stevens. You were wise to agree to this meeting."

"I'll do anything to get you off my back. Here comes the boss."

Governor Tarkin comes in and stands between the two. "Good day Vader, and Mr. Stevens." He looks around. "Here I am, and why the hell am I here?"

"To correct a problem of great importance that threatens the success of the Empire."

"In a dish washing room? Goodbye." Tarkin turns around and walks to the door, but his path is blocked by three flag officers. "What are you doing here?"

"Vader summoned us," says a thin Admiral with gray hair. Two portly Generals nod in accordance.

Tarkin sighs and spins around. "What is going on?"

Vader points his fingers at the officers. "Being three of the engineers who designed the Death Star, you should be correcting the mistakes you have made. Complete control of the galaxy can not be achieved if the slightest faults are ignored!" The officers look at each other, confused.

"What are you talking about?"Tarkin asks.

Vader picks up a food tray. "The trays are wet!" The officers laugh. "Do not laugh! I will kill you with this tray, and you will laugh no more!" The officers try to stop.

Tarkin shakes his head. "We know the trays are wet. That is why they get dried with a towel!"

"Trays delivered wet to the serving line is an oversight in planning that will be noticed by the Emperor when he visits this battle station."

"When is the Emperor visiting? I heard nothing of this."

"Oh, one day I'm sure he'll pop in to, you know, check things out. And if he wants a soup, maybe a pasta Fagioli, he's going to pick up a tray, and it will be fucking wet!" Vader waves the tray viciously.

"The Emperor has his own cook and would eat in my stateroom."

"But you don't eat in your stateroom?"

"Because I hide from you. You keep interrupting me with shit like this."

"I do not compromise on competency. That is how I became a Lord of the Six."

"Don't you mean Sith?" Mr. Stevens asks.

"Yes. What did I say?"

"You said Six. Do you think it's Six, and not Sith?"

"No. Fuck you. I know it is Sixth, I mean Sith." Vader shakes his fist. "It's a stupid word!"

"Say, Vader." Tarkin taps his chin. "Can you use the Force to dry the trays? You would be a hero and we can get back to work."

"No! I only use the Force to hunt our enemies and destroy them! The Force has no time to dry trays!" Vader examines the tray in his hand. "Fuck it, I can use the Force. How many trays are on the Death Star?"

"About two hundred thousand," says Mr. Stevens.

"Fucking hell."

The Admiral steps forward. "Please excuse my interruption, but I actually agree with Lord Vader. This problem should be corrected."

"Really?" Vader raises his clenched hand. "Admiral, you are an soldier of exceptional leadership and I shall see that you are rewarded with the highest accommodations."

"No, you won't. This is about fucking food trays." Tarkin looks to the Admiral. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, first I would like to see how the trays are currently washed and dried."

"Horribly."

"Vader, be quiet." Tarkin turns to Mr. Stevens. "A demonstration, please." Mr. Stevens nods to Jordy.

Jordy squeezes by the occupants of the scullery and exits. He returns with a bus bin full of dirty dishes and few trays and puts it on the steel counter next to the rinse sink. He removes a tray, rinses it free of crumbs and spilled coffee, and places it in a large plastic rack. He adds a few plates and forks. The rack is slid into the open hatch of the sterilizer. When Jordy pushes the hatch close, steam is heard blasting the rack and contents. He opens the opposite hatch and pulls out the tray and pushes it to the end of the counter.

"That's it?" asks the Admiral.

"Yeah," Jordy says. "The dishes dry in a minute and we put them on the dish carts. I just carry out the trays and drop them in the hole."

The Admiral picks up the tray and looks at it. "It's already cold." He picks up a plate. "The plates stay hot and the water evaporates completely. The tray does not retain heat."

A General takes the tray. "It's plastic, and the plates are ceramic. The plate's dense mass stores more heat and keeps the water hot, but the tray is quickly cooled by the evaporating water, thus cooling the remaining water and stopping the evaporation."

"We need to specify a different tray material that stores heat?" the other General asks. "We would have to determine the minimum thickness to stay hot long enough to dry before cooling."

"I'm not going to spend money replacing two hundred thousand trays," says Tarkin. "Think of something else."

"What about a fan that blows hot, dry air?" The Admiral holds his hands over the dish rack. "It could mount right here, and be activated when there are trays below it."

"That's a good idea." A General rubs his chin. "We would have to redesign the dish rack to keep the trays far enough apart for airflow."

"I'm not buying new dish racks, either!" Tarkin ponders for a moment. "How many fans would we need?"

"Seven hundred," says Mr. Stevens.

"Let's do that." Tarkin looks to Vader. "Does that satisfy you?"

"Whether I am satisfied or not is not the issue." Vader shakes his fist. "This is about having the dedication to our cause to ensure every function of this battle station is...where are you going?"

"I'm hungry, so I'm going to have lunch." Tarkin is walking to the door but stops and looks at Mr. Stevens. "Any pasta dishes today?"

"Today's special is Spaghetti Alla Carbonara. With peas."

"Right! Lunch is on me!" Governor Tarkin rubs his hands together and leads the flag officers out of the scullery.

Vader waves his finger at Mr. Stevens. "You have not seen the last of me."

"No shit." Mr. Stevens does a comical salute. "See you around." Darth Vader walks away with his cape flowing. Mr. Stevens sighs and follows him out.

Roy comes in with a bus bin of dirty plates. "What was happening in here?"

"I was interviewing clowns for a traveling circus." Jordy grabs a plate and sprays it. "They all passed."