Despite scientists and cults, despite riots and resignation, not a single male child was. born anywhere in the world during the month of December, 1972. There had been isolated instances, all quite late births, during October and November.
January of 1973 again drew a blank. Not that everyone qualified wasn't trying.
Except, perhaps, the one person who was slated to do more than anyone else-well, almost anyone else-about the matter.
Not that Capt. Raymond F. Carmody, U.S.S.F., retired, was a misogynist, exactly. He liked women well enough, both in the abstract and in the concrete. But he'd been badly jilted once and it had cured him of any desire whatsoever for marriage. Marriage aside, he took women as he found them-and he had no trouble finding them.
For one thing, don't let the word "retired" fool you. In the Space Service, rocket pilots are retired at the ripe old age of twenty-five. The recklessness, reaction-speed and stamina of youth are much more important than experience. The trick in riding a rocket is not to do anything in particular; it's to be tough enough to stay alive and sane until you get there. Technicians do the brain-work and the only controls are braking rockets to help you get down in one piece when you land; reaction-speed is of more importance than experience in managing them. Neither speed nor experience helps you if you've gone batty en route from spending days on end in the equivalent of a coffin, or if you haven't what it takes not to die in a good landing. And a good landing is one that you can walk away from after you've recovered consciousness.
That's why Ray Carmody, at twenty-seven, was a retired rocket pilot. Aside from test flights on and near Earth, he'd made one successful flight to the Moon with landing and return. It had been the fifteenth attempt and the third success. There had been two more successful flights thereafter-altogether five successful round trips out of eighteen tries.
But each rocket thus far designed had been able, barely, to carry fuel to get itself and its crew of one back to Earth, with almost-starvation rations for the period required. Step-rockets were needed to do even that, and step-rockets are terrifically expensive and cumbersome things.
At the time Carmody had retired from the Space Service, two years before, it had been conceded that establishment of a permanent base of any sort on the Moon was completely impracticable until a space station, orbited around the Earth, had been completed as a way-station. Comparatively huge rockets could reach a space station with relative ease, and starting from a station in open space and against lesser gravitational pull from Earth, going the rest of the way to the Moon would be even simpler.
But we're getting away from Ray Carmody, as Carmody had got away from the Space Service. He could have had a desk job in it after old age had retired him, a job that would have paid better than he was making at the moment. But he knew little about the technical end of rocketry, and he knew less, and cared nothing, about administrative detail work. He was most interested in cybernetics, which is the science of electronic calculating machines. The big machines had always fascinated him, and he'd found a job working with the biggest of them all, the one in the building on a corner of the grounds of the Pentagon that had been built, in 1968, especially to house it.
It was, of course, known as Junior to its intimates.
Carmody's job, specifically, was Operative, Grade I, and the Grade I meant that-despite his fame as one of the few men who had been to the Moon and lived to tell about it, and despite his ultra-honorable discharge with the grade of captain-his life had been checked back to its very beginning to be sure that he had not, even in his cradle, uttered a careless or subversive word.
There were only three other Grade I Operatives qualified to ask Junior questions and transmit his answers on questions which involved security-and that included questions on logistics, atomics, ballistics and rocketry, military plans of all sorts-and everything else the military forces consider secret, which is practically everything except the currently preferred color of an infantryman's uniform.
The Eastern Alliance would undoubtedly have traded three puppet dictators and the tomb of Lenin to have had an agent, or even a sympathizer, as a Grade I Operative on Junior. But even the Grade II Operatives, who handled only problems dealing with non-classified matters, were checked for loyalty with extreme care. Possibly lest they might ask Junior a subversive question or feed a subversive idea into his electronic equivalent of a brain.
But be that as it may, on the afternoon of February 2, 1963, Ray Carmody was the Operative, of course; dozens of technicians were required from time to time to service junior and feed him, but only one Operative at a time fed data into him or asked him questions. So Carmody was alone in the soundproofed control room.
Doing nothing, however, at the moment. He'd just fed into Junior a complicated mess of data on molecular structure in the chromosome mechanism and had asked Junior -for the ten-thousandth time, at least-the sixty-four dollar question bearing on the survival of the human race: Why all children were now females and what could be done about it.
It had been quite a chunk of data, this time, and no doubt junior would take quite a few minutes to digest it, add it to everything else he'd ever been told and synthesize the whole. No doubt in a few minutes he'd say, "Data insufficient." At least at this moment that had been his only answer to the sixty-four dollar question.
Carmody sat back and watched Junior's complicated bank of dials, switches and lights with a bored eye. And because the intake-mike was shut off and Junior couldn't hear what he was saying anyway, and because the control room was soundproofed so no one else could hear him, either, he spoke freely.
"Junior," he said, "I'm afraid you're a washout on this particular deal. We've fed you everything that every geneticist, every chemist, every biologist in this half of the world knows, and all you do is come up with that `data insufficient' stuff. What do you want-blood?
"Oh, you're pretty good on some things. You're a whiz on orbits and rocket fuels, but you just can't understand women, can you? Well, I can't either; I'll give you that. And I've got to admit you've done the human race a good turn on one deal-atomics. You convinced us that if we completed and used H-bombs, both sides would lose the coming war. I mean lose. And we've got inside information that the other side got the same answer out of your brothers, the cybernetics machines over there, so they won't build or use them, either. Winning a war with H-bombs is about like winning a wrestling match with hand grenades; it's just as unhealthful for you as for your opponent. But we weren't talking about hand grenades. We were talking about women. Or I was. Listen, Junior-"
A light, not on junior's panel but in the ceiling, flashed on and off, the signal for an incoming intercommunicator call. It would be from the Chief Operative, of course; no one else could connect-by intercommunicator or any other method-with this control room.
Carmody threw a switch.
"Busy, Carmody?"
"Not at the moment, Chief. Just fed Junior that stuff on molecular structure of genes and chromosomes. Waiting for him to tell me it's not enough data, but it'll take him a few minutes yet."
"Okay. You're off duty in fifteen minutes. Will you come to my office as soon as you're relieved? The President wants to talk to you."
Carmody said, "Goody. I'll put on my best pinafore." He threw the switch again. Quickly, because a green light was flashing on Junior's panel.
He reconnected the intake- and output-mikes and said, "Well, Junior?"
"Data insufficient," said Junior's level mechanical voice.
Carmody sighed and noted the machine's answer on the report ending in a question which he had fed into the mike. He said, "Junior, I'm ashamed of you. All right, let's see if there's anything else I can ask and get an answer to in fifteen minutes."
He picked up a pile of several files from the table in front of him and leafed through them quickly. None contained fewer than three pages of data.
"Nope," he said, "not a thing here I can give you in fifteen minutes, and Bob will be here to relieve me
then."
He sat back and relaxed. He wasn't ducking work; experience had proven that, although an AE7 cybernetics machine could accept verbal data in conformance with whatever vocabulary it had been given, and translate that data into mathematical symbols (as it translated the mathematical symbols of its answer back into words and mechanically spoke the words), it could not adapt itself to a change of voice within a given operation. It could, and did, adjust itself to understanding, as it were, Carmody's voice or the voice of Bob Dana who would shortly relieve him. But if Carmody started on a given problem, he'd have to finish it himself, or Bob would have to clear the board and start all over again. So there was no use starting something he wouldn't have time to finish.
He glanced through some of the reports and questions to kill time. The one dealing with the space station interested him most, but he found it too technical to understand.
"But you won't," he told Junior. "Pal, I've got to give that to you; when it comes to anything except women, you're really good."
The switch was open, but since no question had been asked, of course Junior didn't answer.
Carmody put down the files and glowered at Junior. "Junior," he said, "that's your weakness all right, women. And you can't have genetics without women, can you?"
"No," Junior said.
"Well, you do know that much. But even I know it. Look, here's one that'll stump you. That blonde I met at the party last night. What about her?"
"The question," said Junior, "is inadequately worded; please clarify."
Carmody grinned. "You want me to get graphic, but I'll fool you. I'll just ask you this-should I see her again?"
"No," said Junior, mechanically but implacably.
Carmody's eyebrows went up. "The devil you say. And may I ask why, since you haven't met the lady, you say that?"
"Yes. You may ask why."
That was one trouble with Junior; he always answered the question you actually asked, not the one you implied.
"Why?" Carmody demanded, genuinely curious now as to what answer he was going to receive. "Specifically, why should I not again see the blonde I met last night?"
"Tonight," said Junior, "you will be busy. Before tomorrow night you will be married."
Carmody almost literally jumped out of his chair. The cybernetics machine had gone stark raving crazy. It must have. There was no more chance of his getting married tomorrow than there was of a kangaroo giving birth to a portable typewriter. And besides and beyond that, Junior never made predictions of the future-except, of course, on such things as orbits and statistical extrapolation of trends.
Carmody was still staring at Junior's impassive panel with utter disbelief and considerable consternation when the red light that was the equivalent of a doorbell flashed in the ceiling. His shift was up and Bob Dana had come o relieve him. There wasn't time to ask any further questions and, anyway, "Are you crazy?" was the only one he could think of at the moment.
Carmody didn't ask it. He didn't want to know.
CHAPTER TWO:
MISSION TO LUNA
Carmody switched off both mikes and stood gazing at Junior's impassive panel for a long time. He shook his head, went to the door and opened it.
Bob Dana breezed in and then stopped to look at Carmody. He said, "Something the matter, Ray? You look like you'd just seen a ghost, if I may coin a cliche."
Carmody shook his head. He wanted to think before he talked to anybody-and if he did decide to talk, it should be to Chief Operative Reeber and not to anyone else. He said, "Just I'm a little beat, Bob."
"Nothing special up?"
"Nope. Unless maybe I'm going to be fired. Reeber wants to see me on my way out." He grinned. "Says the President wants to talk to me."
Bob chuckled appreciatively. "If he's in a kidding mood, then your job's safe for one more day. Good luck."
The soundproof door closed and locked behind Carmody, and he nodded to the two armed guards who were posted on duty outside it. He tried to think things out carefully as he walked down the long stretch of corridor to the Chief Operator's office.
Had something gone wrong with Junior? If so, it was his duty to report the matter. But if he did, he'd get himself in trouble, too. An Operative wasn't supposed to ask private questions of the big cybernetics machine-even big, important questions. The fact that it had been a joking question would make it worse.
But Junior had either given him a joking answer-and it couldn't be that, because Junior didn't have a sense of humor-or else Junior had made a flat, unadulterated error. Two of them, in fact. Junior had said that Carmody would be busy tonight and-well, a wheel could come off his idea of spending a quiet evening reading. But the idea of his getting married tomorrow was utterly preposterous. There wasn't a woman on Earth he had the slightest intention of marrying. Oh, someday, maybe, when he'd had a little more fun out of life and felt a little more ready to settle down, he might feel differently. But it wouldn't be for years. Certainly not tomorrow, not even on a bet.
Junior had to be wrong, and if he was wrong it was a matter of importance, a matter far more important than Carmody's job.
So be honest and report? He made his decision just before he reached the door of Reeber's office. A reasonable compromise. He didn't know yet that Junior was wrong. Not to a point of mathematical certainty-just a billion to one odds against. So he'd wait until even that possibility was eliminated, until it was proven beyond all possible doubt that Junior was wrong. Then he'd report what he'd done and take the rap, if there was a rap. Maybe he'd just be fined and warned.
He opened the door and stepped in. Chief Operative Reeber stood up and, on the other side of the desk, a tall gray-haired man stood also. Reeber said, "Ray, I'd like you to meet the President of the United States. He came here to talk to you. Mr. President, Captain Ray Carmody."
And it was the President. Carmody gulped and tried to avoid looking as though he was doing a double take, which he was. Then President Saunderson smiled quietly and held out his hand. "Very glad to know you, Captain," he said, and Carmody was able to make the considerable understatement that he felt honored to meet the President.
Reeber told him to pull up a chair and he did so. The President looked at him gravely. "Captain Carmody, you have been chosen to-have the opportunity to volunteer for a mission of extreme importance. There is danger involved, but it is less than the danger of your trip to the Moon. You made the third-wasn't it?-out of the five successful trips made by the United States pilots?"
Carmody nodded.
"This time the risk you will take is considerably less. There has been much technological advance in rocketry since you left the service two years ago. The odds against a successful round trip-even without the help of the space station, and I fear its completion is still two years distant-are much less. In fact, you will have odds of ten to one in your favor, as against approximately even odds at the time of your previous trip."
Carmody sat up straighter. "My previous trip! Then this volunteer mission is another flight to the Moon? Certainly, Mr. President, I'll gladly-"
President Saunderson held up a hand. "Wait, you haven't heard all of it. The flight to the Moon and return is the only part that involves physical danger, but it is the least important part. Captain, this mission is, possibly, of more importance to humanity than the first flight to the Moon, even than the first flight to the stars-if and when we ever make it-will be. What's at stake is the survival of the human race so that someday it can reach the stars. Your flight to the Moon will be an attempt to solve the problem which otherwise-"
He paused and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Perhaps you'd better explain, Mr. Reeber. You're more familiar with the exact way the problem was put to your machine, and its exact answers."
Reeber said, "Carmody, you know what the problem is. You know how much data has been fed into Junior on it. You know some of the questions we've asked him, and that we've been able to eliminate certain things. Suc
h as-well, it's caused by no virus, no bacteria, nothing like that. It's not anything like an epidemic, because it struck the whole Earth at once, simultaneously. Even native inhabitants of islands that had no contact with civilization.
"We know also that whatever happens-whatever molecular change occurs-happens in the zygote after impregnation, very shortly after. We asked Junior whether an invisible ray of some sort could cause this. His answer was that it was possible. And in answer to a further question, he answered that this ray or force is possibly being used by-enemies of mankind."
"Insects? Animals? Martians?"
Reeber waved a hand impatiently. "Martians, maybe, if there are any Martians. We don't know that yet. But extra-terrestrials, most likely. Now Junior couldn't give us answers on this because, of course, we haven't the relevant data. It would be guesswork for him as well as for us-and Junior, being mechanical, can't guess. But here's a possibility:
"Suppose some extra-terrestrials have landed somewhere on Earth and have set up a station that broadcasts a ray that is causing the phenomenon of all children being girl-children. The ray is undetectable; at least thus far we haven't been able to detect it. They'd be killing off the human race and getting themselves a nice new planet to live on, without having to fire a shot, without taking any risk or losses themselves. True, they'll have to wait a while for us to die off, but maybe that doesn't mean anything to them. Maybe they've got all the time there is, and aren't in the slightest hurry."
Carmody nodded slowly. "It sounds fantastic, but I guess it's possible. I guess a fantastic situation like this has to have a fantastic explanation. But what do we do about it? How do we even prove it?"
Reeber said, "We fed the possibility into junior as a working assumption-not as a fact-and asked him how we could check it. He came up with the suggestion that a married couple spend a honeymoon on the Moon-and see if circumstances are any different there."
The Collection Page 48
