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 sho