first they all watched intently. When he had reached the fifth cake,however, a hand went up in the audience. "Madam Chairman!"
"Please, ladies, let us not interrupt the judging."
"But I don't think the judging is right. Mr. Ronar tastes hardly morethan a crumb of each!"
"A minimum of three crumbs," Ronar corrected her. "One from the body ofthe cake, one from the icing, and an additional crumb from each fillingbetween layers."
"But you can't judge a cake that way! You have to eat it, take a wholemouthful--"
"Please, madam, permit me to explain. A crumb is all I need. I cananalyze the contents of the cake sufficiently well from that. Let metake for instance Cake Number 4, made from an excellent recipe, wellbaked. Martian granis flour, goover eggs, tingan-flavored salt, a traceof Venusian orange spice, synthetic shortening of the best quality. Theicing is excellent, made with rare dipentose sugars which give it adelightful flavor. Unfortunately, however, the cake will not win firstprize."
An anguished cry rose from the audience. "Why?"
"Through no fault of your own, dear lady. The purberries used in makingthe filling were not freshly picked. They have the characteristic flavorof refrigeration."
"The manager of the store swore to me that they were fresh! Oh, I'llkill him, I'll murder him--"
She broke down in a flood of tears.
* * * * *
Ronar said to the lady who had protested, "I trust, madam, that you willnow have slightly greater confidence in my judgment."
She blushed and subsided.
Ronar went on with the testing. Ninety per cent of the cakes he was ableto discard at once, from some fault in the raw materials used or in themethod of baking. Eleven cakes survived the first elimination contest.
He went over them again, more slowly this time. When he had completedthe second round of tests, only three were left. Number 17 belonged toMrs. Cabanis. Number 43 had been made by the man who argued with hiswife. Number 64 was the product of the young bride, whom he had stillnot seen.
Ronar paused. "My sense of taste is somewhat fatigued. I shall have toask for a short recess before proceeding further."
There was a sigh from the audience. The tension was not released, it wasmerely relaxed for a short interval.
Ronar said to the chairman, "I should like a few moments of fresh air.That will restore me. Do you mind?"
"Of course not, Mr. Ronar."
He went outside. Seen through the thin layer of air which surrounded thegroup of buildings, and the plastic bubble which kept the air fromescaping into space, the stars were brilliant and peaceful. The Sun, faraway, was like a father star who was too kind to obliterate hischildren. Strange, he thought, to recall that this was his nativesatellite. A few years ago it had been a different world. As forhimself, he could live just as well outside the bubble as in it, as wellin rarefied air as in dense. Suppose he were to tear a hole in theplastic--
Forbidden thoughts. He checked himself, and concentrated on the threecakes and the three contestants.
"You aren't supposed to let personal feelings interfere. You aren't evensupposed to know who baked those cakes. But you know, all right. And youcan't keep personal feelings from influencing your judgment.
"Any one of the cakes is good enough to win. Choose whichever youplease, and no one will have a right to criticize. To which are yougoing to award the prize?
"Number 17? Mrs. Cabanis is, as one of the other women has so aptlytermed her, a bitch on wheels. If she wins, she'll be insufferable. Andshe'll probably make her husband suffer. Not that he doesn't deserve it.Still, he thought he was doing me a favor. Will I be doing him a favorif I have his wife win?
"Number 64, now, is insufferable in her own right. That lovingconversation with her husband would probably disgust even human ears. Onthe other hand, there is this to be said for her winning, it will makethe other women furious. To think that a young snip, just married,without real experience in home-making, should walk away with a prize ofthis kind!
"Ah, but if the idea is to burn them up, why not give the prize toNumber 43? They'd be ready to drop dead with chagrin. To think that amere man should beat them at their own specialty! They'd never be ableto hold their heads up again. The man wouldn't feel too happy about it,either. Yes, if it's a matter of getting back at these humans for thethings they've done to me, if it's a question of showing them what Ireally think of them, Number 43 should get it.
"On the other hand, I'm supposed to be a model of fairness. That's why Igot the job in the first place. Remember, Ronar? Come on, let's go inand try tasting them again. Eat a mouthful of each cake, much as youhate the stuff. Choose the best on its merits."
* * * * *
They were babbling when he walked in, but the babbling stopped quickly.The chairman said, "Are we ready, Mr. Ronar?"
"All ready."
The three cakes were placed before him. Slowly he took a mouthful ofNumber 17. Slowly he chewed it and swallowed it. Number 43 followed,then Number 64.
After the third mouthful, he stood lost in thought. One was practicallyas good as another. He could still choose which he pleased.
The assemblage had quieted down. Only the people most concernedwhispered nervously.
Mrs. Cabanis, to her psychologist husband: "If I don't win, it'll beyour fault. I'll pay you back for this."
The good doctor's fault? Yes, you could figure it that way if you wantedto. If not for Dr. Cabanis, Ronar wouldn't be the judge. If Ronarweren't the judge, Mrs. C. would win, she thought. Hence it was all herhusband's fault. Q.E.D.
The male baker to his wife: "If he gives the prize to me, I'll brainhim. I should never have entered this."
"It's too late to worry now."
"I could yell 'Fire'," he whispered hopefully. "I could create a panicthat would empty the hall. And then I'd destroy my cake."
"Don't be foolish. And stop whispering."
The young post-honeymooning husband: "You're going to win, dear; I canfeel it in my bones."
"Oh, Greg, please don't try to fool me. I've resigned myself to losing."
"You won't lose."
"I'm afraid. Put your arm around me, Greg. Hold me tight. Will you stilllove me if I lose?"
"Mmmm." He kissed her shoulder. "You know, I didn't fall in love withyou for your cooking, sweetheart. You don't have to bake any cakes forme. You're good enough to eat yourself."
"He's right," thought Ronar, as he stared at her. "The man's right. Notin the way he means, but he's right." And suddenly, for one second ofdecision, Ronar's entire past seemed to flash through his mind.
The young bride never knew why she won first prize.
The Model of a Judge Page 3