Pat Frank - Mr. Adam

The full implication of what he was saying began to sink in. Nature, in a final touch of irony, had picked an inhibited and sex-shy man to become the new father of his country. To some men the thought of possessing the entire female population as a private harem—even if most of the conception would be of necessity by remote control—would have been enormously satisfying to their ego. But to Homer it must have been sheer horror. It was this that had frightened him into his present decline, more than being jailed in the Shoreham’s luxury, or being trotted around to Washington’s most important salons, and placed on exhibition. “Go ahead and talk, Homer,” I urged him.

“That’s about all, except that I want Mary Ellen now more than I’ve ever wanted anything in all my life. I need her, Steve. I’ve got to have her!”

I thought to myself that if Homer’s mother still lived it would be his mother, in all likelihood, whom he would want. I tried to remember what I had read about how an Œdipus complex is transferred. “They haven’t let you see Mary Ellen?”

“Gosh, no. I begged them to let me go to Tarrytown for a day or two, or to let her come down here. Mrs. Brundidge could take care of the baby all right. But Colonel Phelps-Smythe and Mr. Klutz said absolutely not.”

I wondered what was wrong with them, which shows how naive I was at the time. “Don’t worry, Homer, I’ll get it fixed up,” I promised. For the first time, he smiled. He positively grinned. “Let’s have another drink,” I suggested, “and then tackle that dinner over there, and then let’s go down to the Blue Room and look around.”

“Sure!” he said. “Sure!”

He attacked the lobster as if he were starving, which I am quite sure he was, and ate most of the shrimp, and wolfed three of the pastries. I didn’t do much talking. I kept trying to reconstruct the first ten years of his life in Hyannis, Nebraska. I saw a gangling kid, preyed upon by smaller but older boys, running to his mother for protection. I saw an overgrown high school sophomore teased by the girls, and not understanding that their teasing was as much invitation as anything else. I saw a lonesome youth escaping into archeology, and finally geology, who worked hard and earnestly so that in his mind there would be nothing else but his work. Finally I saw a grown man who had thrust human relationships into the well of his subconscious—a man whose marriage was probably the passionate seeking for a second mother to whom to run whenever he encountered the frightening facts of life.

This was the man chosen to re-populate the earth! I wasn’t at all sure that I should arrange for him to see Mary Ellen. Perhaps he should see her for a day or two, but certainly he should not be with her constantly. A different therapy was indicated. “You know, Homer,” I said, “what you told me about your personal life was very impressive. I suppose you know by now that you were mistaken. I should think you would be very attractive to women.”

“Oh, no!” he said emphatically.

“I would think so.”

“But why should I be?”

“Well, you’re young, and you’re tall. All the movie actors are tall. Look at Gary Cooper.”

“Yes. But they’re not so thin.”

“Well, look at Frank Sinatra. Anyway, you’ve got a good frame. All you have to do is put some flesh on it.”

Homer considered this. “I looked pretty good,” he admitted, “when I was in Australia. Lots of fresh air, and exercise. I felt good, too, and ate well. I haven’t had a bit of exercise since I’ve been in this darn prison.”

“We’ll fix that,” I promised. “Now go shave, and put on a fresh shirt, and I’ll take you out of this prison and show you how life is being lived, at the moment.”

Ten seconds after we entered the Blue Room I discovered that acting as shepherd to Homer Adam would have complications, for Homer was no ordinary white sheep who could fade into the flock. If you are some six and one-half feet tall, and your hair flames like a stop light, and you are constructed on the general lines of a flagpole, and if in addition you are the most talked of mortal on earth, and your features are familiar to everyone who has seen a newspaper, then it is very hard to be inconspicuous.

When we turned up at the Blue Room and asked for a table, Pierre, the headwaiter, recognized Adam and almost did nip-ups. He bobbed us to a ringside table, swept away a notice that it was reserved, and then fluttered over our order for a couple of drinks. Barnee, the bandmaster, craned his neck, missed a beat, the trumpet went astray, and the rhythm scattered like a covey of quail. Nobody seemed to notice.

The band pulled itself together, and the music again took form. People were staring. If Homer had been a pink Bengal tiger, he could not have caused more of a sensation. I noticed that the dancing couples were converging towards us. Strangely, the women were maneuvering the men.

The music stopped, and there was absolute silence. Ordinarily, when the music isn’t playing in a night spot it is still pretty noisy, what with the tinkle of glass and china, political and business arguments, the throaty sound of verbal lovemaking, and occasional laughter. But this time when the music stopped there was no sound at all. Then buzzing began, like a swarm of bees, but not exactly. It had a strange timbre to it. Finally I realized it was from three or four hundred women all whispering at once.

“What’s wrong with these people?” Homer asked.

“I dunno,” I evaded.

“This is worse than a dinner party. It makes me feel dizzy—all these people staring.”

“Relax and drink your drink.”

Homer obediently drank his drink. Across the floor I spotted Oscar Finney, who stepped out of a reporter’s cocoon to become a Hollywood butterfly, officially titled Public Relations Counsellor, at a thousand a week. With him was a golden-skinned creature partially clad in gold lamé. I’m always forgetting names, but I never forget a shape like that. Once it belonged to Kitty Ruppe, who danced in the chorus line at an uptown club. Now its name had been changed to Kathy Riddell, and Oscar Finney had made it fairly famous as “The Frame.” I say fairly famous, because Kathy Riddell was one of those Hollywood stars who never seems to appear in a movie, but you see her picture everywhere. She wasn’t enough of an actress to make a USO troupe, but every young man would recognize her instantly, even from the rear, which is more than you can say for Cornell or Hayes.

Finney waved to me. I waved back. “These women,” Homer said suddenly, “are giving me the creeps.” I noticed that while the interest of many of the men had turned elsewhere than towards our table, every woman had her eyes fixed on Homer. Furthermore, they were being very womanly.

“What’s wrong with them?” Homer asked.

“I think they want to have babies.”

Homer’s long neck stretched across the table, and his eyes grew round like a boy who has requested the facts of life from an elder brother. “Don’t they—” he began. “I mean, are all the men—you know, isn’t it possible—?” He stopped, thought for a moment, and went on: “What I mean to say is this, to be blunt. When you—we’ll say you—when you go to bed—” He faltered again. “When you go to bed with your wife, what—I mean—”

“Oh, I see. Here’s the way it is, Homer,” I told him. “Everything is just as usual, except one thing. Afterwards, nothing happens. Nothing at all. No babies.”

“Well, then why are these women—”

“It is a matter of instinct,” I explained. “The instincts of man are purely physical, and of the moment. With women, it is different. Most women. I don’t know about nymphomaniacs. But most women, essentially, want babies. Sure, babies are only part of it to women. But it is an essential part, where to the man it is no part at all. Get it?”