Lux just fixes them both with the steely-eyed stare only combat veterans can really develop, a stare many people tended to shy away from.  "Yer both missin' the point," she says.  "The way things work on a boat is this: if the cook needs to replace half the foodstuffs on board, you ain't got the right to request that the crew contribute.  You want more stuff, you talk to the cap'n and get<em>him </em>to fork over the cred to replace it, since that's his responsibility an' all.  You don't go suggestin' to the crew that if they want to eat anythin' but paste, they best hand over enough credit to feed a family for a month."<br/><br/>"An' you can look down your pert little nose at me all you like for speakin' up," she says to the Companion, "but there's a chain of command on every vessel.  It's the chain you get beaten with until ya know who has the right of command.<em>Dong ma</em>?"<br/><br/>Without waiting for a response from either of them, she turns and rummages through one of the open crates, coming out with a bottle of good Whitewall whiskey, then disappears up the steps into the heart of the ship.