"Through no fault of your own, dear lady. The purberries used in making
the filling were not freshly picked. They have the characteristic flavor
of refrigeration."
"The manager of the store swore to me that they were fresh! Oh, I'll
kill 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 will
now 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 able
to discard at once, from some fault in the raw materials used or in the
method of baking. Eleven cakes survived the first elimination contest.
He went over them again, more slowly this time. When he had completed
the second round of tests, only three were left. Number 17 belonged to
Mrs. Cabanis. Number 43 had been made by the man who argued with his
wife. Number 64 was the product of the young bride, whom he had still
not seen.
Ronar paused. "My sense of taste is somewhat fatigued. I shall have to
ask for a short recess before proceeding further."
There was a sigh from the audience. The tension was not released, it was
merely 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 the
group of buildings, and the plastic bubble which kept the air from
escaping into space, the stars were brilliant and peaceful. The Sun, far
away, was like a father star who was too kind to obliterate his
children. Strange, he thought, to recall that this was his native
satellite. A few years ago it had been a different world. As for
himself, he could live just as well outside the bubble as in it, as well
in rarefied air as in dense. Suppose he were to tear a hole in the
plastic--
Forbidden thoughts. He checked himself, and concentrated on the three
cakes and the three contestants.
"You aren't supposed to let personal feelings interfere. You aren't even
supposed to know who baked those cakes. But you know, all right. And you
can't keep personal feelings from influencing your judgment.
"Any one of the cakes is good enough to win. Choose whichever you
please, and no one will have a right to criticize. To which are you
going to award the prize?
"Number 17? Mrs. Cabanis is, as one of the other women has so aptly
termed her, a bitch on wheels. If she wins, she'll be insufferable. And
she'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 favor
if I have his wife win?
"Number 64, now, is insufferable in her own right. That loving
conversation with her husband would probably disgust even human ears. On
the other hand, there is this to be said for her winning, it will make
the other women furious. To think that a young snip, just married,
without real experience in home-making, should walk away with a prize of
this kind!
"Ah, but if the idea is to burn them up, why not give the prize to
Number 43? They'd be ready to drop dead with chagrin. To think that a
mere man should beat them at their own specialty! They'd never be able
to 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 the
things they've done to me, if it's a question of showing them what I
really think of them, Number 43 should get it.
"On the other hand, I'm supposed to be a model of fairness. That's why I
got the job in the first place. Remember, Ronar? Come on, let's go in
and try tasting them again. Eat a mouthful of each cake, much as you
hate 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 of
Number 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 practically
as good as another. He could still choose which he pleased.
The assemblage had quieted down. Only the people most concerned
whispered nervously.
Mrs. Cabanis, to her psychologist husband: "If I don't win, it'll be
your fault. I'll pay you back for this."
The good doctor's fault? Yes, you could figure it that way if you wanted
to. If not for Dr. Cabanis, Ronar wouldn't be the judge. If Ronar
weren't the judge, Mrs. C. would win, she thought. Hence it was all her
husband's fault. Q.E.D.
The male baker to his wife: "If he gives the prize to me, I'll brain
him. I should never have entered this."
"It's too late to worry now."
"I could yell 'Fire'," he whispered hopefully. "I could create a panic
that 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 can
feel 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 still
love me if I lose?"
"Mmmm." He kissed her shoulder. "You know, I didn't fall in love with
you for your cooking, sweetheart. You don't have to bake any cakes for
me. You're good enough to eat yourself."
"He's right," thought Ronar, as he stared at her. "The man's right. Not
in the way he means, but he's right." And suddenly, for one second of
decision, Ronar's entire past seemed to flash through his mind.
The young bride never knew why she won first prize.