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Mother America   By: (1915-)

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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


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.


"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... Continue reading book >>

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