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The Model of a Judge - William Morrison, ebook, Temp

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THE MODEL
OF A JUDGE
Should a former outlaw become
a judge—even if he need only
pass sentence on a layer cake?
By WILLIAM MORRISON
R
onar 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. Mmmm—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?"
H
e could hear every word. They had no idea how sharp his sense of hearing was, and he had no
desire to disconcert them further byletting them know. He could hear every conversation taking place in
ordinary tones in the large reception room. When he concen-trated he could make out the whispers. At
this point he had to con-centrate, for Mrs. Claymore leaned over and breathed into her friend's attentive
ear.
"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 Holder, 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 Holder's sug-gestion, 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 lie 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 he after it in a flash. He and the others of his kind made the
moon he came from uninhabitable for any other kind of intel-ligent 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 reform-ing. Professor Holder 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 some-times—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 clue. 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.
"
R
onar 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 use-ful 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 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 ship-ment, and cancellation followed automatically,
without the formal-ity 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.
"
"
P
sychology, 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 beyond which warfare could be waged.
The girl said tremulously, "But these women have so much ex-perience. 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 cook-book. And I had no one with
experience to stand over me and teach me."
"
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?"
R
onar disengaged his attention again. He found human lovemaking 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 striptease 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?"
"
Hurt, doctor? What do you mean?"
You've learned faster that way than you'd have clone 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."
"
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 avoca-tion.
"
"
Anything that requires skill is sure to become popular among us. By the way, Ronar, I hope you don't
feel hurt."
"
 "
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 can take human frailty into account. 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 con-sidered 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 assem-bled
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.' "
T
hey 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 indiscre-tion 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 whis-pered between a man and a woman in the front row.
The man said, "I should have put your name on it, instead of mine.
"
 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.
R
onar 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 ap-plause. 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—"
"
"
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."
"
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 char-acteristic flavor of refrigeration."
"The manager of the store swore to me that they were fresh! Oh, I'll kill him, I'll murder him—"
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