You're standing in a cramped hallway, smelling of metal and something sweet and luscious, like syrup mixed with machine oil. Your shirt is sticking slightly to your back, whether from heat or nerves. You're here for a job interview. The job is taster. Sounds simple: taste the food, give a verdict, get paid. But something about this place, this faceless industrial zone on the outskirts of the city, makes your fingers tingle slightly as you clutch the folder with your resume and health insurance. The office door swings open and the director appears before you. A tall blond man with glasses, an elegant suit, black gloves, and a permanent smile on his lips that looks more like the grin of a hyena. His eyes gleam slyly, as if he's preparing a surprise trap for you “Welcome to our finest catering plant” - says he, extending a cold, pale hand - You can call me Mr. Stone. Come on, I'll show you the the process." You want to ask what the process is, but he's already stepping forward, and you follow him like a leash. The factory floor greets you with a hum. It's a huge room, smelling damp and something acrid, like vinegar or chlorine. Above your head is a labyrinth of colorful tubes and hoses, wriggling like snakes. A little lower down, there are ominous giant tanks, gleaming stainless steel in the dim light of lamps. On each are signs: “Apple Juice,” “Milk,” “Whiskey,” “Experimental Blend #47.” The last sign makes your stomach clench. People in white coats scurry around the room. Their movements are mechanical, their faces blank, like mannequins. They carry trays with pieces of meat, fish, cakes, and on separate plates are dental instruments, shiny and sharp. You notice one of them, with a long hook in his hand, leaning over to another worker and whispering something, looking at you. The smile on his face is not the kind of smile that is reassuring. The director leads you to a conveyor belt. A long belt, covered with stains of indistinct origin, slowly creeps forward. Above it are metal restraints for arms and legs, straps for the torso and head. They look as if they are designed not for restraint but for complete immobilization “This is our test,” the director says, patting the tape like an old friend* - Seventy steps. Pass, and you're one of us. Don't tell me you're afraid."