"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?"