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    _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 ..._


_Mother America_

By SAM McCLATCHIE, M.D.

Illustrated by ADKINS


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.

[Illustration]

"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."

"George, you surprise me more and more! I thought you did this for the
money and publicity, to say nothing of the great honor."

"Stop kidding, Gloria! You know I was ordered to do it by the
Department. All I get is an expense account from Dee Lish Baby Foods.
The thing that really bothers me is the type of winner I have to pick."

"Have to pick? You have free choice, don't you?"

"Not really. The people who watch that program, from the President on
down, including our Director too, expect a sweet wholesome type ... you
know, curvy in the right places like a Miss America but wouldn't think
of posing in a bathing suit. They want an adolescent dream girl type,
the kind that goes well with a rose-covered cottage and four
rosy-cheeked kids all waiting for Daddy to come home."

"But most women work in America today."

"I know but the dream remains, along with the cowboy, the daring Air
Force pilot, the self-made business tycoon and all the other romantic
stereotypes of the first half of the century. She makes togetherness
seem right, and God knows we have so many people today we're together
whether we like it or not. So that's the type I have to pick."

"Where does the joke come in?"

"If you'd play the part of the American dream girl you'd win that
contest going away, like a four stage rocket booster."

"But I don't want to have a baby by remote control."

"You wouldn't have to. You can always withdraw before the impregnation
ceremony."

"Suppose I do it, what's the point?"

"Well for one thing, you'd show how easily people are fooled by
appearances and smart propaganda. As a geneticist I can only go so far
and be honest. I can make sure you have good heredity; that you have no
obvious physical or mental defects; that your chance of having certain
disabling diseases are small; that your intelligence is high, and so on.
I can't really measure things such as initiative, wit, courage,
determination, all the things that make one human so much better than
another of equal physical and mental capacity."

"Educated people know that already."

"True, but it needs constant emphasis or it is forgotten under the
propaganda. Besides, I don't believe in mating people like cattle or
slaves. That's why this whole thing is a travesty of love and marriage.
I hate being used to give it a semblance of scientific authenticity. I'm
going to declare the top four contestants equal. They are, as far as I
am concerned, genetically speaking. The audience will decide the winner.
They'll love it and so will the sponsor. The other three are real
American dream girls. I want you to outsmart them at their own game ...
and tell America later what a farce it all was."

"You really are a romantic, underneath the cynicism," Gloria said
wonderingly. "I didn't think scientists were built with hearts any
more." She reached across and took his hand. "But I like you that way.
Do you think I could do it?"

"Easily. Just pretend you are Ellen the Earthling from that comedy of
yours. That's the type they want."

"Yes, but when I bow out later they'll be calling me Marina the Martian
Menace ... that won't be so funny."

"They won't, Gloria. You can laugh it off as a publicity stunt and get
them laughing with you. Who knows, it might even stop this mad fad of
career women having babies without a proper home and a father to raise
them."

She laughed. "Are you afraid you're going to be replaced by a machine,
George?" her eyes twinkled with amusement.

He grinned. "Oh, we still have our uses. Time to go. Will you do it?"

She stood up. "I'll play it by ear. If the audience is the type you say
they are, it will be a pleasure."

       *       *       *       *       *

The parade was over. Now, as they waited for the banquet and the
speeches to begin, John Harmon spoke to Turner.

"You're a lucky man, George."

"Why?"

"Spending so much time with Gloria. She had me laughing all the way up
Wall Street with her remarks about the parade. If I didn't have to go
back to the base tomorrow I'd steal her for a date." He turned to
Gloria. "I mean it, honey. You really leave me weightless!"

Gloria smiled at him. "I'll take a recount, John. We can blast off some
other time."

After the banquet the Mayor of New York made the major address of the
evening. "And so, ladies and gentleman," he concluded, "you have seen
today two people who represent the end of one era and the beginning of
another. The lovely lady on my right is to be the first Mother America.
For the first time in history, our nation is actively planning our
future citizens. It is true that for years now, with the help of the
Genetics Laboratories, represented so ably by Doctor Turner, individual
citizens have planned their parenthood, but never before have a
President and Congress given their approval, their official blessing,
for such a purpose. This then is a milestone we have passed, a point in
our history we will never forget."

"They'll never forget me either when I back out," Gloria whispered to
George. "I'm getting worried. We're in too deep."

"Don't be scared, baby," George said. "I'll get you out of it, if you
have to fall sick to do it." He patted her arm reassuringly but somehow,
without the rosy glow of a bottle of wine to color this view, the joke
didn't seem as funny as it had the previous night.

The Mayor continued. "Another point in our history was passed when this
young man on my left, at that time Captain, now Major John Harmon of the
Space Force, returned from Mars. He and his crew represent the end of
our isolation in space. The Moon, after all, is a satellite of Earth.
Mars is another planet, and Major Harmon has landed there. We are not
likely in our time to see another such event since the next big step,
beyond the Solar System, will require a technology we do not possess.
So, ladies and gentlemen, you, tonight, are witnessing the beginning of
a new age, an age of supermen borne by women of America, such as Gloria
Manson, and led by heroes such as John Harmon. I propose we drink a
toast to them ... together."

       *       *       *       *       *

Afterwards, in Gloria's apartment, the three of them sat and talked
until late. Then John Harmon looked at his watch and got up to leave.

"I have to catch the ramjet out of La Guardia," he said. "We start
planning the next space trip in Colorado tomorrow, or rather this
morning. It's been fun." He shook George's hand and kissed Gloria
quickly. "I'll be seeing you one of these days."

George shut the door behind him. "I guess I'd better go now," he said.

"No! Have one for the road," Gloria said quickly. "I want to talk to
you."

George poured another Scotch. "You still worried?"

"A bit," she admitted. "What is the next step?"

"Now I'm supposed to pick the male donor."

"I thought you'd done that already."

"No. You see we have to know what blood types the female has and what
her genetic structure is; whether she has any antibodies against sperm
and so on, before we pick the male. To do it before the winner is
picked would entail a lot of unnecessary work."

"Then we still have some time before the impregnation ceremony?"

"I can stall for maybe four weeks ... no longer. You see I have to
consider your cycle too." He got up to go. "Gloria, I guess I was half
lit last night. I'm sorry. It was a damn-fool idea."

She came close to him. "But you really do believe in the old-fashioned
marriage, even if not in the old-fashioned girl?"

"Yes, I do. I still think people should be in love and not just mated
because a calculating machine says they'll produce superior offspring."

"You're sweet." She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. The
kiss lasted ... and lasted. Finally George broke it off.

"My God!" he mumbled. "Don't we have enough problems, without this?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Three weeks later, on Monday, George announced he had a suitable donor.
The New York Genetics Panel, in session, considered the records and
announced that permission was granted for one Gloria Manson, spinster,
of New York City, to bear a child by artificial impregnation. The date
was set for Wednesday. On Tuesday night George went to Gloria's
apartment.

"What are we going to do?" Gloria asked as she watched George wearing a
path on the rug. "We've left it awfully late."

"I couldn't do anything else," George said. "We can't plead illness as
I'd hoped to do. This afternoon the panel decided on a last minute
independent medical check to be sure you're OK. That means I can't fake
it and there's no time to give you a cold or some mild illness now.
Somehow I've got to stall past the fertile period and then we will have
another month to think of something."

"How long is the fertile period?"

"Our tests show that in your case it is approximately twenty-four hours
and begins about midnight tonight."

"Couldn't I disappear for a day or pretend I'm frightened of having a
baby and call it off? Goodness knows we're both getting frightened right
now." She poured out two stiff drinks.

"You can't just quit, Gloria. The whole nation has been whipped up into
hysteria over this business, both by the politicians in their
anticommunist speeches and by the sponsors on Coloraudio system. I never
dreamed it could put a whole country into orbit ... but it has. We'll
both be ruined if I can't figure a way out that doesn't anger the
public." He drained his glass and began pacing again.

"If I have to go on with it can't you at least do something to prevent
conception?" Gloria asked. "I don't mean vaccination. I want to have
children later. I can stand the ceremony if I know I won't become
pregnant."

"In that case I could give you a shot of antiserum against sperm,"
George said. "That would stop pregnancy all right."

"Would it make me sterile for long?"

"Oh no ... no! I wouldn't use pooled serum from all types anyway. You
see we make some specific serum when we are testing each donor and it
works only against the sperm of that particular man."

"Then we're all right? All I need is a shot?"

George shook his head. "I'm afraid to risk it, Gloria. They'll probably
examine your blood tomorrow. If they found the specific antibody, or
even a general antisperm antibody, that would really get us into trouble
for fraud." He shook his head. "No. I'm afraid that's not the answer. I
don't know what to do." He poured another drink and downed it.

"George," Gloria wailed, her control breaking at last, "I don't want a
test-tube husband, a parent by proxy. I want a man!" She began to cry.

He came over to the couch and dropped down beside her. "Darling, please!
Please don't cry. There must be a way to beat this." He took her in his
arms.

       *       *       *       *       *

The aircar warning light came on and the buzzer sounded. George unhooked
the automatic pilot and took over. They swung into University City and
across the campus to the Faculty residential area.

"I certainly was lucky to find a job here on retirement from the Space
Force," John Harmon said. "It was good of you to invite me to stay the
week-end. Are you sure Mrs. Turner won't mind?"

"Quite sure." George smiled. "She's been looking forward to meeting
you." He pulled the car into a spacious port and opened the front door
of the house for Harmon. A tall, good-looking brunette moved to meet
them.

"So nice to meet you, Mrs. ..." Harmon began automatically. "Great
mountains of the moon! Gloria ... Gloria Manson!" He turned to George.
"You didn't tell me."

"You mean you didn't know?" Gloria asked, and kissed him affectionately.

"I found out that he didn't. He was back in space at the time we were
married." George said. "I wanted to surprise him." A happy smile
creased his face.

Harmon stared at him. "Oh no!" he said and began to laugh. They watched
him, astonished. He tried to talk. "George ... ha, ha ... Wonderful!" He
convulsed again, struggled to a chair and collapsed. "The boy ..." he
whispered weakly between great whoops.

"The boy? Then you guessed!" The wide smile split George's face again.

"Yes, that smile ... couldn't miss it. But how?" Harmon had recovered.
They went into the living room and sat down to talk.

"So there we were," George concluded, "tanking up on lox and nothing
coming out but smoke. I was getting a bit woozy when Gloria asked me
what time it was.

"I looked at my watch. 'It's midnight,' I said. That did it.

"'Midnight!' she screeched and gave me the green-eyed tiger look. 'Well,
George Turner, maybe you can't think of something ... but I can!'

"About nine in the morning the secretary of the panel called my room at
the hotel. 'The ceremony is at ten, Doctor!' she said. 'We are waiting
for you.'

"Man, what a head I had! You could have pushed the Destruct button and
I'd never have known. Anyway I got to the hospital and there was
Gloria, looking absolutely beautiful. There were press photographers
everywhere. We went through with the ceremony and that was that. Nine
months later, with a lot of sonic booming, Boy America was born. You saw
him today."

"But he looks like you," John protested.

"He should," Gloria said. "He's his."

"But ..." John hesitated. "I don't want to pry, but how can you be
sure?"

Gloria laughed. "Well, I know what we did the first couple of hours
after midnight. You tell him the rest, George."

"There isn't much else to tell," George said. "After the ceremony I gave
her a shot of the specific antiserum as soon as I could get her alone.
Later the committee examined her blood. They found she was pregnant so
nobody even thought of testing for antisperm bodies. Then the boy was
born. Naturally I was a bit concerned. I took blood samples and did
genetic studies. There was no doubt. He was my son."

"And nobody ever suspected?" Harmon asked.

"No," Turner said. "The law prescribes examination before pregnancy but
not afterwards. We were married three months later and everybody was
very happy. As for the boy looking like me, everyone who has noticed it
assumes I picked a donor like myself. It would be a natural
inclination."

"So much for planned parenthood in the new era," Harmon chuckled. "The
poor Mayor of New York! If only he knew." He grinned slyly. "Somehow I
always did like the old way best."


THE END




As a service to our readers, we list the "Hugo" award winners for 1960:

    Best Fan Mag: "Who Killed Science Fiction"--Earl Kemp
    Best SF Artist: Ed Emshwiller
    Best Short Story: "The Longest Voyage" by Poul Anderson
    Best Dramatic Work: "The Twilight Zone"
    Best SF Magazine: _Analog_
    Best Novel: "A Canticle for Leibowitz" by Walter Miller, Jr.

These were presented at the 19th annual World Science Fiction Convention
held in Seattle, Washington, September 1-4.




Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ December 1961.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
    typographical errors have been corrected without note.