Charles Maine - World Without Men

“And so Sterilin remained, and the nations of the world set about regimenting the female sex under the compulsion of law, and built fertility centres and State nurseries and State schools, and laid the foundations for a new kind of human reproduction — childbirth by decree and conscription!”

“But I know all this,” Rona complained, pouting sulkily. “I spent nearly the whole of last year in a fertility centre. I had twins, but one died soon after birth.” She frowned reminiscently. “It was horrible. Why can’t we stay sterile all the time and have fun?”

“I’ve just told you, darling,” Brad said patiently. “If everyone stayed sterile the human race would come to a sudden full stop.”

“Why can’t they sterilize the men?”

“Possibly they could. There’s no point. Sterilin is harmless and perfectly efficient. In any case, women would still have to bear children in order that the race might survive.”

“I think it’s unfair, Brad. What does it matter, anyway? You and me, we shan’t worry if the race comes to an end after we’re dead.”

“True, my dear. But politicians tend to take a long-term view.”

There was an interval of silence while he poured fresh drinks. The hand holding the bottle shook slightly, splashing whisky on the table. He cursed silently. Hardened drinker though he was, he realized that the stuff was affecting his judgment. And Rona was growing restive, as if willing to exchange conversation for romantic ardour for a while. He resigned himself to the inevitable.

Half an hour later he said: “Getting back to more sordid matters, darling, this child of yours, was it a girl?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’ve been checking up, in my own way, over a long time, Rona. It may be a State secret, but I know.”

“Know what?”

“That ninety-eight out of every hundred births are female, and that if the trend continues we shall soon reach the stage where all births are female. Boys just aren’t being born any more.”

“You’re not supposed to know that,” she said carefully.

“Don’t tell me. I’m a journalist Ever since the Russian plan for fertility centres was adopted more than twenty years ago, censorship has clamped down on vital information. The government has gradually taken control of the news and information services. The common people of the world are living in a kind of dream, with news made to measure in order to sustain the dream. You ought to know, Rona.”

She eyed him solemnly. “Yes, I know, Brad.”

“It started, I guess, from necessity. State fertility centres, nurseries, and so on; the kind of thing that might arouse a violent public reaction. Propaganda of the right kind was essential, and the newspapers and other news services were made to toe the line. That was the thin end of the wedge. Even so everything might have been okay, but it started happening…”

“It…?”

“The sex compensation process.”

“You have been checking up.”

“That’s why I’ve come to you, Rona. I’m on to a big story, perhaps the biggest of all time. But I need facts. My editor will print this story once it’s authenticated. It may be the last edition of the paper ever, but at least we shall get the truth to nearly a quarter of a million readers, and they will talk, and it may be that the news will spread round the world.

“Is that what you want?”

Brad grinned sardonically. “I’m the old-fashioned kind of journalist. I believe in telling the people the truth — the real truth — good or bad, whether the government likes it or not. I’m opposed to censorship, official handouts, secrecy in any form, and I defy embargoes on information that should be public domain.”

She regarded him steadily. “That is treasonable talk, Brad.”

“Treason? Sure; today that’s the way it is. You know what, honey? We’re living in a police state, the kind they used to have in the mid-twentieth century. Only it’s more subtle. It’s operated in terms of fertility centres and State nurseries and the Ministry of the Written Word and the Ministry of Statistics. But there isn’t any noticeable relationship between the statistics and the written word. Am I right?”

“I wouldn’t know, Brad. And I could use another drink.” He poured more whisky, a blockbusting dose for Rona and a homeopathic sample for himself. Funny about that girl — how she could drink and drink without reacting. Unless, and for an instant suspicion trembled in his brain, she had received an anti-alcoholic injection earlier in the day (a privilege reserved for government officials on important business, where balance of mind and judgment was imperative). He was afraid that the suspicion might have showed briefly in his eyes, but her expression betrayed nothing. Nevertheless an indefinable sense of caution darkened his mind.

She said: “All right, Brad, what information do you want from me?”

“The answers to four key questions, Rona. First: actual birth statistics showing the increase in female births over male. Second: statistics showing the decrease in numbers of youthful men, that is men under thirty, during the past twenty years. Third: information about recent experiments in artificial insemination and experiments in artificial parthenogenesis. Fourth: electronic brains.”

Rona laughed abruptly. “Hell, Brad, what an imagination you have. Read any good science-fiction lately?”

“You know what I’m talking about, honey.”

“Even if I did, I couldn’t talk about it. You know that.” Brad took her in his arms, resisting an impulse to kiss her. “That’s the routine line of talk, honey. Like you’d give to any nosey journalist. But I’m a more personal contact. We’ve got Lecia in common. You can talk to me.”

“It would be more than my job is worth.”

“Nobody need know. A reputable newspaper never divulges the source of its information.”

“It would take time, Brad. Anyway, where did you dig up this stuff from, about insemination and parthenogenesis, and electronic brains?”

“Knowing a few people in the right places.”

“Like me?”

“Could be.”

She eyed him shrewdly. “What people, for instance?”

“Why should you care, Rona?”

“I like to know I’m in good company before I sell my soul.”

He shrugged, a little puzzled at some enigmatic quality in her attitude. “You’re in exceptional company, honey. At least two names that are world famous, people who are op posed to the State policy of secrecy and this present-day obsession with security. They co-operated.”

“So you’ve got your story anyway.”

“I’ve got a general picture of what’s happening behind the scenes, but I need factual confirmation. Official government figures to prove my point.”

She lay back on the divan, regarding him from low angle with hazy eyes. “What point?”

He sighed patiently. “I’ve been telling you most of the evening, Rona.”

“You told me the background, but not the big scoop you’re working on. Before I make any promises I’d like to be sure that you’re on the right track. It would be rather awkward if I gave you secret information you hadn’t asked for; I mean, naturally, that I should want to keep the risk to a minimum.”

“Reasonable,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“In any case, Brad, until you give me a clear idea of what your story is about I can’t be sure what information to get for you. The Department of Statistics contains four thousand filing cabinets, nearly a million microfilms, and twelve electronic memory banks. I’ve got to know precisely what data you require.”

He glanced briefly at the wall clock: the time was eleven thirty. Soon, he thought, we shall be sleeping together, and tomorrow she will do as I wish. She is suspicious, but not too much so, and she will co-operate in the end. For the moment I must do as she asks.