Charles Maine - World Without Men

“There was one snag: parthenogenesis by its very nature could produce only females. The process of doubling up from a single ovum with its twenty-four chromosomes could not at any stage produce a cell with the male factor of forty-seven. If artificial parthenogenesis could be achieved, it would solve the problem of survival, but not of sex. There would never be another man in the world, not in a million years.

“Information of that type could not be released. The two and a half billion inhabitants of earth could never be permitted to learn about the shadow that was falling across their future. Social stability had to be preserved, and, fortuitously, the mechanism for preserving it already existed in the fertility centres, the State nurseries, the new social apparatus which detached child from mother soon after birth with, in the majority of cases, no further contact throughout life. Women gave birth to children, then promptly forgot them. Nobody discussed maternity; it had became a duty in law and was an unpleasant subject rapidly approaching the level of obscenity. The fertility centres were prisons, albeit pleas ant enough, and inevitably a certain stigma became associated with the process of compulsory fertility. The subject was not openly discussed, and so the preponderance of female births escaped public notice. And of course the information services, including the newspapers, merely followed govern mental direction. The truth was in safekeeping.”

“There you have it,” Brad said. “That’s as much as I’ve been able to find out. Now I need official confirmation.”

Rona yawned lightly. “Brad, I think you’re too inquisitive. Even if what you say is true, what good will it do to tell the world? People are happy enough in their ignorance. Why alarm them and cause social unrest? Government scientists might find the answer to everything in… well… no time at all.”

“The principle is wrong, honey. The government is making consultation with electronic brains when it should be consulting the people. If there’s a crisis, let’s share it. If this is to be the end of man, or even of the human race, let’s go down with dignity, with the correct principles, and not in a kind of neo-fascist, security-ridden condition of ruthless suppression. We have a right to know about our future, Rona — all of us.”

“The government doesn’t share you’re view, Brad.”

“The government doesn’t share anything. What about you? Whose side are you on?”

She smiled and wriggled closer to him. “I’m on my own side, darling. And that could be your side too. Look, it’s late and we’ve talked too much. Come and see me here tomorrow evening around eight. I’ll do my best for you.”

He kissed her gently. “Thanks, honey. I knew I could rely on you.”

“Any friend of Lecia’s is a friend of mine,” she whispered vaguely.

The next morning Brad Somer returned to his apartment at the Waldorf. The night had been satisfactory, and if Rona fulfilled her promise then his assignment would be over. The story would be ready to break, and the world would know the truth about Sterilin, about childbirth, about the future. He sensed a certain abstract justice in the pattern of events. Man had chosen the inviting license of Sterilin-protected amorality, and nature had counter-attacked, logically and inevitably, subtly undermining the entire erotic structure of contemporary society.

Women had chosen sterility in the interests of sexual freedom; nature had responded with a fine sense of irony by eliminating the male sex, and thereby setting a time limit on that freedom. The moral was difficult to define; Brad wasn’t even sure if there was a moral. But somehow the blind scales of cosmic justice seemed to be exactly balanced.

Twenty minutes after reaching the Waldorf, he had a visitor. The internal phone rang, and reception announced the arrival of a certain Miss Lecia Tarrant. She came up to his room, raven-haired, green-eyed, rose-complexioned, and a little breathless. He kissed her briefly.

“I’m worried, Brad. I had to come. It’s about Rona.”

He regarded her questioningly. “She’s all right, Lecia. I spent the night with her, and I’ll be seeing her again this evening.”

“That’s just the point, Brad. Rona isn’t here any more. Yesterday she was transferred to a government training centre at Carlisle.”

Brad’s expression betrayed the disbelief of his mind.

“It’s true,” Lecia went on anxiously. “She telephoned me late last night.”

He crossed to the window and stared thoughtfully at the morning traffic four stories below. The sunshine was bright on the gray road surface. The rains of yesterday had disappeared without trace. He turned to her abruptly.

“Then who was the woman I talked to and slept with? She answered to the name of Rona. She behaved like I imagined Rona would behave. She promised co-operation.”

“She couldn’t have been Rona,” Lecia said, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers.

He crossed to a deep sloping chair and flopped into it wearily. “One of us must be wrong, Lecia. I was with Rona, yet you say she telephoned you from Carlisle. How can you be sure it was her?”

“How can you, Brad?”

“Let’s start at the beginning, honey. First: Why should she be transferred so suddenly?”

“Because they found out — about me and you — about your plan to obtain information from her.”

“Who found out?”

“Security people. They have methods. There are ways of listening over phone circuits even when the receiver is down. There are zone-focusing microphones so sensitive they can pick up whispered conversations behind brick walls.”

“Okay, so what exactly did Rona have to say?”

Lecia inhaled deeply, allowing the spent smoke to drift gently from her parted lips. A real doll, Brad thought. Nicer than Rona, hut too familiar to him over the years to retain much fundamental attraction to him. There was no mistaking the worry in the lines of her face, though.

“She couldn’t say much, Brad. The phone line was probably being monitored. It seems she was called into the depart mental supervisor’s office yesterday morning and told she had been posted to number seven statistical training centre at Carlisle. Three hours later she was in a gyrojet and on her way.”

“But… can you be sure…?”

She nodded mutely.

Brad lay back in his seat, surveying the beige ceiling with out really seeing it. He was conscious of uneasiness squirming in his abdomen, a faint apprehension, a sense of betrayal, the chilling shadow of insecurity.

“What did Rona look like?” he asked presently.

She came over to him and produced a small colour photo graph from the pocket of her coat. He studied it thought fully. It was a head-and-shoulder profile portrait of a pretty auburn-haired girl, not unlike the Rona he had entertained the previous evening, but somehow younger and a little softer in the line of her eyes. Looking at the photograph he realized suddenly the comparative hardness of the girl he had spent the night with, the shrewd modelling of her features, and the predetermined atmosphere of her words and movements. The uneasiness within him expanded.

“Well?” Lecia enquired.

He returned the photograph, pursing his lips doubtfully. “This other girl was similar, near enough to deceive someone who had never met the real Rona. She dressed just how you said Rona dressed, even down to the come-and-get-me stockings.”

“They don’t miss any details, Brad.”

“So what does it all mean? Are they gunning for me?”

“More than that; they’ve got you trapped already. And me too. Whatever you said to the fake Rona last night is on record. There would be a microphone in the room wired to a recorder at the nearest security office. If you said anything compromising…”