"That would have been silly. All my friends know that I can't bake. And
it would look so strange if I won."
"It'll look stranger if I win. I can imagine what the boys in the shop
will say."
"Oh, the boys in the shop are stupid. What's so unmanly in being able to
cook and bake?"
"I'm not anxious for the news to get around."
"Some of the best chefs have been men."
"I'm not a chef."
"Stop worrying." There was exasperation in the force of her whisper.
"You won't win anyway."
"I don't know. Sheila--"
"What?"
"If I win, will you explain to everybody how manly I really am? Will you
be my character witness?"
She repressed a giggle.
"If you won't help me, I'll have to go around giving proof myself."
"Shh, someone will hear you."
Senator Whitten went on and on.
* * * * *
Ronar thought back to the time when he had wandered over the surface of
this, his native satellite. He no longer had the old desires, the old
appetites. Only the faintest of ghosts still persisted, ghosts with no
power to do harm. But he could remember the old feeling of pleasure, the
delight of sinking his teeth into an animal he had brought down himself,
the savage joy of gulping the tasty flesh. He didn't eat raw meat any
more; he didn't eat meat at all. He had been conditioned against it. He
was now half vegetarian, half synthetarian. His meals were nourishing,
healthful, and a part of his life he would rather not think about.
He took no real pleasure in the tasting of the cakes and other
delicacies that born human beings favored. His sense of taste had
remained keen only to the advantage of others. To himself it was a
tantalizing mockery.
Senator Whitten's voice came to a sudden stop. There was applause. The
Senator sat down; the chairman stood up. The time for the judging had
arrived.
They set out the cakes--more than a hundred of them, topped by icings of
all colors and all flavors. The chairman introduced Ronar and lauded
both his impartiality and the keenness of his sense of taste.
They had a judging card ready. Slowly, Ronar began to go down the line.
They might just as well have signed each cake with its maker's name. As
he lifted a portion of each to his mouth, he could hear the quick intake
of breath from the woman who had baked it, could catch the whispered
warning from her companion. There were few secrets they could keep from
him.
At 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 more
than a crumb of each!"
"A minimum of three crumbs," Ronar corrected her. "One from the body of
the cake, one from the icing, and an additional crumb from each filling
between layers."
"But you can't judge a cake that way! You have to eat it, take a whole
mouthful--"
"Please, madam, permit me to explain. A crumb is all I need. I can
analyze the contents of the cake sufficiently well from that. Let me
take for instance Cake Number 4, made from an excellent recipe, well
baked. Martian granis flour, goover eggs, tingan-flavored salt, a trace
of Venusian orange spice, synthetic shortening of the best quality. The
icing is excellent, made with rare dipentose sugars which give it a
delightful flavor. Unfortunately, however, the cake will not win first
prize."