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                         THE MODEL OF A JUDGE

                         By WILLIAM MORRISON

                       Illustrated by BURCHARD

[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction
October 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


[Sidenote: _Should a former outlaw become a judge--even if he need only
pass sentence on a layer cake?_]


Ronar was reformed, if that was the right word, but he could see that
they didn't trust him. Uneasiness spoke in their awkward hurried motions
when they came near him; fear looked out of their eyes. He had to
reassure himself that all this would pass. In time they'd learn to
regard him as one of themselves and cease to recall what he had once
been. For the time being, however, they still remembered. And so did he.

Mrs. Claymore, of the Presiding Committee, was babbling, "Oh, Mrs.
Silver, it's so good of you to come. Have you entered the contest?"

"Not really," said Mrs. Silver with a modest laugh. "Of course I don't
expect to win against so many fine women who are taking part. But I just
thought I'd enter to--to keep things interesting."

"That was very kind of you. But don't talk about not winning. I still
remember some of the dishes you served for dinner at your home that time
George and I paid you a visit. Mmmmm--they were really delicious."

Mrs. Silver uttered another little laugh. "Just ordinary recipes. I'm so
glad you liked them, though."

"I certainly did. And I'm sure the judge will like your cake, too."

"The judge? Don't you usually have a committee?"

       *       *       *       *       *

He could hear every word. They had no idea how sharp his sense of
hearing was, and he had no desire to disconcert them further by letting
them know. He could hear every conversation taking place in ordinary
tones in the large reception room. When he concentrated he could make
out the whispers. At this point he had to concentrate, for Mrs. Claymore
leaned over and breathed into her friend's attentive ear.

[Illustration]

"My dear, haven't you heard? We've had such trouble with that
committee--there were such charges of favoritism! It was really awful."

"Really? But how did you find a judge then?"

"Don't look now--no, I'll tell you what to do. Pretend I said something
funny, and throw your head back and laugh. Take a quick glance at him
while you do. He's sitting up there alone, on the platform."

Mrs. Silver laughed gracefully as directed, and her eyes swept the
platform. She became so excited, she almost forgot to whisper.

"Why, he's--"

"Shhh. Lower your voice, my dear."

"Why--he isn't human!"

"He's supposed to be--now. But, of course, that's a matter of opinion!"

"But who on Earth thought of making him judge?"

"No one on Earth. Professor Halder, who lives over on that big asteroid
the other side of yours, heard of the troubles we had, and came up with
the suggestion. At first it seemed absurd--"

"It certainly seems absurd to me!" agreed Mrs. Silver.

"It was the only thing we could do. There was no one else we could
trust."

"But what does he know about cakes?"

"My dear, he has the most exquisite sense of taste!"

"I still don't understand."

"It's superhuman. Before we adopted Professor Halder's suggestion, we
gave him a few tests. The results simply left us gasping. We could mix
all sorts of spices--the most delicate, most exotic herbs from Venus or
Mars, and the strongest, coarsest flavors from Earth or one of the
plant-growing asteroids--and he could tell us everything we had added,
and exactly how much."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I find that hard to believe, Matilda."

"Isn't it? It's honestly incredible. If I hadn't seen him do it myself,
I wouldn't have believed it."

"But he doesn't have human preferences. Wasn't he--wasn't he--"

"Carnivorous? Oh, yes. They say he was the most vicious creature
imaginable. Let an animal come within a mile of him, and he'd scent it
and be after it in a flash. He and the others of his kind made the moon
he came from uninhabitable for any other kind of intelligent life. Come
to think of it, it may have been the very moon we're on now!"

"Really?"

"Either this, or some other moon of Saturn's. We had to do something
about it. We didn't want to kill them off, naturally; that would have
been the easiest way, but so uncivilized! Finally, our scientists came
up with the suggestion for psychological reforming. Professor Halder
told us how difficult it all was, but it seems to have worked. In his
case, at least."

Mrs. Silver stole another glance. "Did it? I don't notice any one going
near him."

"Oh, we don't like to tempt fate, Clara. But, if there were really any
danger, I'm sure the psychologists would never have let him out of their
clutches."

"I hope not. But psychologists take the most reckless risks
sometimes--with other people's lives!"

"Well, there's one psychologist who's risking his own life--and his own
wife, too. You know Dr. Cabanis, don't you?"

"Only by sight. Isn't his wife that stuck-up thing?"

"That's the one. Dr. Cabanis is the man who had actual charge of
reforming him. And he's going to be here. His wife is entering a cake."

"Don't tell me that she really expects to win!"

"She bakes well, my dear. Let's give the she-devil her due. How on Earth
an intelligent man like Dr. Cabanis can stand her, I don't know, but,
after all, he's the psychologist, not I, and he could probably explain
it better than I could."

       *       *       *       *       *

Ronar disengaged his attention.

So Dr. Cabanis was here. He looked around, but the psychologist was not
in sight. He would probably arrive later.

The thought stirred a strange mixture of emotions. Some of the most
painful moments of his life were associated with the presence of Dr.
Cabanis. His early life, the life of a predatory carnivore, had been an
unthinkingly happy one. He supposed that he could call his present life
a happy one too, if you weren't overly particular how you defined the
term. But that period in between!

That had been, to say the least, painful. Those long sessions with Dr.
Cabanis had stirred him to the depths of a soul he hadn't known he
possessed. The electric shocks and the druggings he hadn't minded so
much. But the gradual reshaping of his entire psyche, the period of
basic instruction, in which he had been taught to hate his old life so
greatly that he could no longer go back to it even if the way were open,
and the conditioning for a new and useful life with human beings--that
was torture of the purest kind.

If he had known what was ahead of him, he wouldn't have gone through it
at all. He'd have fought until he dropped, as so many of the others like
him did. Still, now that it was over, he supposed that the results were
worth the pain. He had a position that was more important than it seemed
at first glance. He exercised control over a good part of the food
supply intended for the outer planets, and his word was trusted
implicitly. Let him condemn an intended shipment, and cancellation
followed automatically, without the formality of confirmation by
laboratory tests. He was greatly admired. And feared.

They had other feelings about him too. He overheard one whisper that
surprised him. "My dear, I think he's really handsome."

"But, Charlotte, how can you say that about someone who isn't even
human!"

"He looks more human than many human beings do. And his clothes fit him
beautifully. I wonder--does he have a tail?"

"Not that I know of."

"Oh." There was disappointment in the sound. "He looks like a pirate."

"He was a kind of wolf, they tell me. You'd never guess, to see him,
that he ran on all fours, would you?"

"Of course not. He's so straight and dignified."

"It just shows you what psychology can do."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Psychology, and a series of operations, dear ladies," he thought
sarcastically. "Without them I wouldn't be able to stand so nice and
straight with the help of all the psychologists in this pretty little
solar system of ours."

From behind a potted Martian nut-cactus came two low voices--not
whispers this time. And there was several octaves difference in pitch
between them. One male, one female.

The man said, "Don't be worried, sweetheart. I'll match your cooking and
baking against anybody's."

There was a curious sound, between a click and a hiss. What human beings
called a kiss, he thought. Between the sexes, usually an indication of
affection or passion. Sometimes, especially within the ranks of the
female sex, a formality behind which warfare could be waged.

The girl said tremulously, "But these women have so much experience.
They've cooked and baked for years."

"Haven't you, for your own family?"

"Yes, but that isn't the same thing. I had to learn from a cookbook. And
I had no one with experience to stand over me and teach me."

"You've learned faster that way than you'd have done with some of these
old hens standing at your elbow and giving you directions. You cook too
well. I'll be fat in no time."

"Your mother doesn't think so. And your brother said something about a
bride's biscuits--"

"The older the joke, the better Charles likes it. Don't let it worry
you." He kissed her again. "Have confidence in yourself, dear. You're
going to win."

"Oh, Gregory, it's awfully nice of you to say so, but really I feel so
unsure of myself."

"If only the judge were human and took a look at you, nobody else would
stand a chance. Have I told you within the last five minutes that you're
beautiful?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Ronar disengaged his attention again. He found human love-making as
repulsive as most human food.

He picked up a few more whispers. And then Dr. Cabanis came in.

The good doctor looked around, smiled, greeted several ladies of his
acquaintance as if he were witnessing a private strip-tease of their
souls, and then came directly up to the platform. "How are you, Ronar?"

"Fine, Doctor. Are you here to keep an eye on me?"

"I hardly think that's necessary. I have an interest in the results of
the judging. My wife has baked a cake."

"I had no idea that cake-baking was so popular a human avocation."

"Anything that requires skill is sure to become popular among us. By the
way, Ronar, I hope you don't feel hurt."

"Hurt, Doctor? What do you mean?"

"Come now, you understand me well enough. These people still don't trust
you. I can tell by the way they keep their distance."

"I take human frailty into account, Doctor. Frailty, and lack of
opportunity. These men and women haven't had the opportunity for
extensive psychological treatment that I've had. I don't expect too much
of them."

"You've scored a point there, Ronar."

"Isn't there something that can be done for them, Doctor? Some treatment
that it would be legal to give them?"

"It would have to be voluntary. You see, Ronar, you were considered only
an animal, and treatment was necessary to save your life. But these
people are supposed to have rights. One of their rights is to be left
alone with their infirmities. Besides, none of them are seriously ill.
They hurt no one."

For a second Ronar had a human temptation. It was on the tip of his
tongue to say, "Your wife too, Doctor? People wonder how you stand her."
But he resisted it. He had resisted more serious temptations.

       *       *       *       *       *

A gong sounded gently but pervasively. Dr. Cabanis said, "I hope you
have no resentment against me at this stage of the game, Ronar. I'd hate
to have my wife lose the prize because the judge was prejudiced."

"Have no fear, Doctor. I take professional pride in my work. I will
choose only the best."

"Of course, the fact that the cakes are numbered and not signed with the
names of their creators will make things simpler."

"That would matter with human judges. It does not affect me."

Another gong sounded, more loudly this time. Gradually the conversation
stopped. A man in a full dress suit, with yellow stripes down the sides
of his shorts, and tails hanging both front and rear, climbed up on the
platform. His eyes shone with a greeting so warm that the fear was
almost completely hidden. "How are you, Ronar? Glad to see you."

"I'm fine, Senator. And you?"

"Couldn't be better. Have a cigar."

"No, thank you. I don't smoke."

"That's right, you don't. Besides, I'd be wasting the cigar. You don't
vote!" He laughed heartily.

"I understand that they're passing a special law to let--people--like me
vote at the next election."

"I'm for it, Ronar, I'm for it. You can count on me."

The chairman came up on the platform, a stout and dignified woman who
smiled at both Ronar and the Senator, and shook hands with both without
showing signs of distaste for either. The assembled competitors and
spectators took seats.

The chairman cleared her throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us open this
meeting by singing the _Hymn of All Planets_."

       *       *       *       *       *

They all rose, Ronar with them. His voice wasn't too well adapted to
singing, but neither, it seemed, were most of the human voices. And, at
least, he knew all the words.

The chairman proceeded to greet the gathering formally, in the name of
the Presiding Committee.

Then she introduced Senator Whitten. She referred archly to the fact
that the Senator had long since reached the age of indiscretion and had
so far escaped marriage. He was an enemy of the female sex, but they'd
let him speak to them anyway.

Senator Whitten just as archly took up the challenge. He had escaped
more by good luck--if you could call it good--than by good management.
But he was sure that if he had ever had the fortune to encounter some of
the beautiful ladies here this fine day, and to taste the products of
their splendid cooking and baking, he would have been a lost man. He
would long since have committed polygamy.

Senator Whitten then launched into a paean of praise for the ancient art
of preparing food.

Ronar's attention wandered. So did that of a good part of the audience.
His ears picked up another conversation, this time whispered between a
man and a woman in the front row.

The man said, "I should have put your name on it, instead of mine."

"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."

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 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.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Model of a Judge, by William Morrison