"Morrison, William - The Model of a Judge v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morrison William)

"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."
"Shhh, 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."
An anguished cry rose from the audience. "Why?"
'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 percent 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 had 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 these 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 homemaking, 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 hack at these humans for the things they've clone 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 1 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.