"And now it's time to introduce our celebrity judge: acclaimed mystery novelist and star of the weekly television series, "Not Another Murder?!", Mother Earth's very own Aunt Jezebel, Mrs. J. C. Thatcher!"

 

This proved to be a motherly woman in spectacles, blinking in the sudden light and smiling at the audience. She waved at the crowd with her right hand. Clutched in her left was an oversized handbag, from which her knitting protruded. She wore a shawl over a threadbare cotton dress; on her feet were a pair of ancient carpet slippers.

 

"And here are our competing celebrity chefs: On the right, from Camelopardus Three, the Giraffoid star of "Cooking With Bobby", Kyzar Mune!" A spotted creature with a very long neck emerged and took a bow.

 

"From the isle of Manhattan, the eight-armed augmented wonder, Hans Bremmer!" This proved to be a stocky human with, yes, count them, eight arms. Some hands were waving, some clasped in thanks, and two were clapping.

 

"And, finally, personal chef to presidents, Cordiceps Cephalo!" Out came a squidlike creature incongruously dressed in a chef's white coat and toque. The end of one of its tentacles was bound up in an oozing bandage.

 

"The theme of tonight's first competition is "A Bit Of Home", where each chef has showcased the finest recipes from their own homeworlds, using ingredients suitable to the human palate. Our first presenter is Kyzar Mune."

 

The giraffoid stepped forward, placing a platter of gently steaming greenery before Mrs. Thatcher. "This is a fernndo salad, prepared according to the traditional methods of my people."

 

"Yes. Well," began Mrs. Thatcher, "it does seem to be prepared perfectly. However, I feel compelled to point out that, strictly speaking, it's against the contest rules for any competitor to eat their own dish. You are an ruminant, Mr. Mune? Yes, I rather thought you might be. I'm a good sport and all, but I draw the line at eating another animal's pre-chewed cud."

 

Murmurs of shock came from the audience, and the giraffoid retired in some embarrassment.

 

"Well. Our next offering is plank steak with oven-roasted corn, by Hans Brenner."

 

This was presented with some obvious nervousness on the part of the chef, but the food was accepted and pronounced delicious. The corn was especially praised; it had been left in the husk and roasted until it blackened.

 

"Although," mentioned Mrs. Thatcher, "the food was the star here, not you, since you did nothing to prepare it whatsoever except place it in a very hot oven. Still, sometimes the mark of an artist is knowing when to do nothing, and that you did admirably."

 

Mr. Brenner retired, sweating profusely, glad to have escaped with so little criticism.

 

"Cordiceps Cephalo, presenting squid collops in oyster sauce." The creature mumbled something in its own tongue, and the host obligingly translated, "He says he put a lot of himself into the dish."

 

Mrs. Thatcher took up her fork and knife, then paused, glancing significantly at the chef's bandaged appendage. "I'm sure you did. Cordiceps, you say? Coincidentally the name of the so-called zombie fungus that takes over its insect hosts. Now, really; has anyone ever fallen for this?"

 

She speared one slice of tentacle and laid it on the table. Then she rummaged through her purse, eventually withdrawing a lemon, which she sliced and squeezed over the collop. As the acidic juice penetrated, dozens of tiny worms emerged, writhing in agony. So too did the chef, who collapsed on the floor in obvious pain.

 

"Psychic parasites work both ways. So that's how you planned to win -- the same way you've dominated planetary leaders over the years, to serve your own ends. It's because I suspected you that I finagled my way onto the show in the first place!" The old lady glared severely over the tops of her spectacles.

 

Policemen emerged from the wings, and in desperation the enranged cephalopod charged at Mrs. Thatcher's table. Calmly, she pulled out the lemon again and squeezed it over the entire dish; the chef collapsed again and was hauled away thrashing.

 

"Served him right," said Mrs. Thatcher.