You’ll fit right in

The Berkman was a Class Three cruiser, and they needed a new research analyst.
“What happened to the last one?” I asked.
“That’s what our next mission is,” said the captain.
I bought life insurance for the wife and signed on for the mission.
As the ship scanned black holes and missing-matter, I looked through the Berkman’s logs and the researcher’s notes, but as far as I could tell, the crew had killed and eaten him.
There’s a knock on my door.
“You’re needed in the galley,” says the captain.
I suppose this is the end.
Enjoy the cash, dear.