Mother America - Cover

Mother America

by Sam McClatchie

Public Domain

Science Fiction Story: When a country is as champion-conscious as America, it's surprising that no one has yet developed the ultimate contest. Dr. McClatchie, whose recent novel, "The Last Vial," established him as a top-ranking sf writer, now tells us the engaging story of the geneticists' search for.

Tags: Science Fiction   Novel-Classic  

The tall young man faded back quickly, poised for an instant and then threw a long high pass. The crowd came up roaring. Twenty yards from the goal line a smaller, sturdier player swerved quickly around the end and took the pass in his stride. With a beautiful curving run he tricked the fullback, crossed the line and then, showing no sign of effort, trotted back up the field and threw the ball to the umpire.

“Wonderful! What a magnificent runner that lad is! You’re lucky to have him, George.” The speaker, a trimly built, athletic man in his middle forties turned to his companion, talking loudly above the buzz of the crowd.

George Turner nodded agreement. “We are. Every other University in the States was after him. He’s the first Boy America you know. We’ve been watching him for years.”

“The first Boy America?” John Harmon echoed in surprise. “I didn’t know that. You did say Boy America ... not All American?”

“He’s both; All American in football and a Boy America too.”

The gun signalled the end of the game and the two men rose from their box seats to go out. Directly below them the players trotted quickly towards the dressing rooms. Harmon leaned over to watch.

“There he is now. A fine-looking boy too!” He studied the young man’s face intently. “Y’know he reminds me of somebody ... somebody I know well, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s Gloria Manson’s boy.”

Harmon frowned. “No, that’s not it, George. Of course there’s the resemblance to his mother ... and who could forget the glorious Gloria even after twenty years. But it was the way he moved, and that smile.” He shook his head. “It’ll come to me yet.”

They took the belt walk to the parking area and stepped off it at George’s car. Moving quietly on its air cushion, the car joined the line-up out on the main road where George locked the controls on to Route 63. The speed rose to eighty and steadied as the car settled into its place in the traffic pattern. Relaxed in their seats the two men lit their anticancers and puffed contentedly as they watched the scenery. It would be another hour before George would need to touch the controls as they neared home.

“So he looks like someone you know?” George asked. “I’d like to know who it is just out of curiosity. As you are aware, no one but the Genetic Panel knows whose sperm is used to impregnate the Mother America.”

“I haven’t got it yet, George, but I will. Were you the geneticist for this boy?”

“Yes, I was. I told you he was Gloria Manson’s. Don’t you remember when you met her?”

“Soaring satellites!” Harmon exclaimed. “How could I forget? You introduced me to her.”

“Twenty years ago,” Turner mused. “What a crazy week that was. I guess you were glad to get back to the Space Force.”

“In a way,” Harmon agreed. “I’ve often wondered where you were since then. I never dreamed you’d be Dean of the Genetics Faculty when I came to the Space Engineering School.”

“I hope you’ll like it here,” George said. “They couldn’t have picked a better Director.”

The senator from Alaska had the floor. He had had it for several hours now and the chamber was almost empty as he droned on.

“And so, gentlemen, I feel that the greatest state in the union, the only state that can afford to increase its population because there is still some unoccupied space, the only state where anti-conception vaccination is not compulsory until after four children instead of two, the state where ordinary people will have room to get out and exercise instead of being spectators, this state of Alaska, I say, is the only state that should be considered when we select a fine, virile American male as the father of America’s Child of the Year. I would dare to go farther and say we should also provide the female, Mother America of 1995, except that our President, my fellow Alaskan, has generously decided that no one state can have both mother and father. Alaska is a man’s country. It should provide the man...”

Wearily George Turner got up and turned off the colorvision. The political pressures were increasing rapidly; that was obvious. What had started as a national search for the most suitable future parents in America would soon be a free-for-all. He would have to give the committee his choice, and quickly! Back to his work he went; calculating possibilities, eliminating entrants one by one. The National Genetics Laboratory had been given the task of screening the finalists from each state and Turner, much against his will, had been selected by the Director to do the work.

“George,” he’d said one fateful morning, “I have a job for you.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“You’ve seen the report of this new contest being run by Dee Lish Baby Foods, haven’t you?”

“Can’t say I have, sir. I’ve been working on that new sex gene. Haven’t had time to read the papers.”

“Oh? Well it all started on their colorvision program, the one where they select the All American babies. You’ve seen it haven’t you?”

Turner shook his head.

“Sputtering sputniks! I know you’re all wrapped up in your work but it doesn’t have to be a shroud. You’d better get out into the world a little.” The Director laid a friendly arm on George’s shoulder. “This job will be just the thing.”

“What job?”

“Why, the contest! Dee Lish separate the babies into three groups. There’s the natural All American baby selected from families in the two-baby group; then there’s a prize for best baby in the unlimited family section. Naturally, since those parents are in the genetically superior group, it wouldn’t be fair to pit them against the two-baby families. Then there’s a class for babies of artificially impregnated mothers, both married and single. It’s a very popular program. The prizes are wonderful and the winners in the limited family class are allowed to have more children than their quota, all expenses paid of course.”

“I can see why it’s popular all right,” George said, “but where do I come in?”

“Three months ago the Dee Lish scenario writers had a brainstorm. They reasoned that if they began a new contest to pick the most suitable mother in America and then had her impregnated, artificially of course, by the most suitable donor, they would stir up all sorts of excitement for the next nine months and produce a baby that should be a worldbeater. The mother would be given a tremendous annuity, for life, and the babe assured of all expenses right through college.”

“It all sounds faintly nauseating to me.”

“George, you’re impossible. A geneticist who still believes in fortuitous breeding!”

“I’m not so darn sure we can pick ‘em better any other way. We certainly haven’t got all the answers.”

“I agree, George, I agree,” the Director’s smile was still friendly, if a little strained. “This is a National Laboratory, however, and the President rang me up the other day and asked that we do the final screening.”

“The President? But this is a commercial gag!”

“Not any longer, my boy. You see the Russians recently came out with a wonder drug, a sort of gene stimulator, that they claim produces highly intelligent and well-proportioned children. The Chinese now claim that, by using a controlled environment in their communes, they are producing a super race. We had to do something! Our side is going to claim that the union of a red-blooded American male and a modern capitalist female will produce offspring far superior to anything else in the world, thus demonstrating the supremacy of the American way of life.”

“Dear God! Why pick me?”

“You’re junior to all the others, for one thing. And besides, you’ll still be around to see Boy America grow up.”

“Boy America?”

“Each year there will be a new contest; a boy the first year, a girl the second and so on. You’ll have to appear on colorvision of course. It will be a nice change for you, and good for the Laboratory too! New York is a grand town for a vacation.”

“New York is a grand town for a vacation,” George thought bitterly, as he parried the reporters’ persistent questions in the lobby of Coloraudio System a week later.

“Say Doc, what about this super-female from Texas,” one needler shouted above the babble.

“So what about her?” George said gruffly.

“Senator Bragg says she should be the one selected for Mother America.”

“Look, friend, Senator Bragg is a Texan and a politician. Naturally he wants his state to have the honor. I’ll pick the one I think best qualified!”

“Yeah, Doc, we know. But what is this super-female gag anyway?”

“Some women have more female sex genes than others. She happens to have the most ever reported to the Genetic Registry. Has the Senator seen her?”

“He didn’t say.”

“He should take a look sometime. She’s five feet five, one hundred and sixty pounds and looks like a Texas longhorn, without the horns.” He brushed past the reporter. “You got any more bright ideas?”

A New York reporter pulled on his coat sleeve. Annoyed by their persistence Turner shrugged free.

“Doctor Turner,” the man said. “What do you think of this idea of using the Man from Mars as the male donor?”

“You mean Captain Jack Harmon of the Space Force?”

“Yes. He’s in town for the big parade right now.”

“Look, we can’t tell you who the donor will be. It’s against the law, remember?” Turner quoted the rule, “Under Section 48b, single females may bear children if they wish, when authorized by law, but are not allowed to pick the donor. He must remain anonymous. The local Genetics Panel does the choosing. Besides, Harmon has been in space for months. Who knows what changes there may be in his sex glands.”

They reached the conference room and entered. The Dee Lish representative looked at his watch and raised his hands.

“Gentlemen, no more questions please. We have a program on the air tonight and Doctor Turner has to be prepared.” When the room cleared he turned to George. “Doctor, will you be ready to name the winner on tonight’s program?”

Turner shook his head. “You know I’ve interviewed all the finalists but one, Miss Gloria Manson. Until I see her I can’t decide. I haven’t talked to her at all but her press agent promised he would have her here this afternoon.”

“That’s Gloria Manson the actress-dramatist?”

“Yes, the one who wrote The Canals of Mars and takes the female lead.”

“Roaring rockets! If she wins what a blastoff that will be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We have arranged with the Mayor of New York that the winner will ride with Captain Jack Harmon tomorrow in the big parade celebrating his return from Mars. And Miss Manson is the star in a hilarious hit about space. What could be better?”

“To stop the whole damn foolishness altogether,” said George gloomily and ignored the hurt look on the press agent’s face.

They were getting up to leave when the door burst open and slammed against the wall. A tall, beautifully dressed and shaped brunette brushed aside a little man who was trying to talk to her and strode into the room. Her green eyes narrowed like a cat’s after a bird.

“Which of you is the geneticist?” she demanded, and then to George, “You ... you must be ... you aren’t dressed like a business man. Your suit is five years out of style.”

Abashed, George looked at himself. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’d never understand and I haven’t time to tell you. What I want to know is, who gave you the right to use my name in this silly Mother America contest. And you,” she turned on the Dee Lish agent, “quit gawping at me. I’m not going to blast off. Who are you anyway?”

“Miss Manson, please!” The little man was in front of her again. “If the reporters hear about this...”

“Oh shut up, Harry! All right, Doctor, what’s your excuse?”

George rallied and attacked. “I haven’t any, Miss Manson. I didn’t ask for your name. It was submitted to me as a possibility from the Dee Lish Company. You needn’t worry, however. You are displaying adequate reasons for me to disqualify your entry right now.”

“Oh, an advertising stunt, is it? Harry, this is your idea ... you and that pap purveyor!”

“But Gloria, think of the publicity ... the big parade with the man from Mars! Why your play would run for years!”

“OK, I’ll do it!” she said with a big smile and watched the ad-men’s gloomy faces change to astonished delight. “There’s just one little thing ... if I win!” She prodded Harry in the chest with a long stiff finger.

“Yes, dear ... anything!”

YOU have the baby!” The scowl came back to her face. “You utter idiots ... you misfired missiles! How in the Universe do you think I can play a romantic lead wearing a maternity dress?”

George chuckled with delight at the thought and she turned on him.

“What’s so funny, Doctor? And what do you mean I’m disqualified from the contest? What’s wrong with me?”

“Not a thing, Miss Manson.” He grinned happily at her. “But if you can stand having dinner with a man in an old-fashioned suit, I’ll tell you why Mother America should be a contented cow instead of a tantalizing tigress.”

“Hm, this is one orbit I haven’t travelled.” She smiled and nodded her approval. “Set me a course, Navigator.”

They moved towards the door together.

“Doctor! The program tonight ... have you forgotten?”

George looked back and waved airily. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there. And we’ll name the winner too!”

“Well now, Gloria, the dessert!” George was saying. “What’ll it be, crepes suzette?”

She smiled across the table. “Mm,” she considered the menu carefully. “I think I’ll stick to good old American apple pie and cheese.”

“A genuine American small town girl, with small town likes and dislikes! That’s what you are underneath the glamour. Aren’t you?”

She laughed and raised her champagne glass. “And this is from the home-town vineyard too?”

George leaned towards her, his face a little flushed with the wine.

“Gloria, with your ability as an actress we could play the biggest practical joke in the history of colorvision. If only I dared!”

“What’s your idea, George?”

“I’m sick of all this pseudo-scientific nonsense about genetics,” he said, “and I’m even sicker of the crass commercialism and political propaganda surrounding this Mother America business.”

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