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good as another. He could still choose which he pleased.
The assemblage had quieted down. Only the people most con-cerned whispered
nervously.
Mrs. Cabanis, to her psychologist husband: "If I don't win, itll 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 wouldnt 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."
"
Its 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?"
"Ummm." 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."
"
Hes 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, Ronars entire past seemed to
flash through his mind.
"
'
The young bride never knew why she won first prize.
--WILLIAM MORRISON
Page 9
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