When a country is as champion-conscious as America, it's surprisingthat no one has yet developed the ultimate contest.Dr. McClatchie, whose recent novel, "The Last Vial," establishedhim as a top-ranking sf writer, now tells us the engagingstory of the geneticists' search for ...
Mother America
By SAM McCLATCHIE, M.D.
Illustrated by ADKINS
The tall young man fadedback quickly, poised for an instantand then threw a long highpass. The crowd came up roaring.Twenty yards from the goalline a smaller, sturdier playerswerved quickly around the endand took the pass in his stride.With a beautiful curving run hetricked the fullback, crossed theline and then, showing no signof effort, trotted back up the fieldand threw the ball to the umpire.
"Wonderful! What a magnificentrunner that lad is! You'relucky to have him, George." Thespeaker, a trimly built, athleticman in his middle forties turnedto his companion, talking loudlyabove the buzz of the crowd.
George Turner nodded agreement."We are. Every other Universityin the States was afterhim. He's the first Boy Americayou know. We've been watchinghim for years."
"The first Boy America?"John Harmon echoed in surprise."I didn't know that. You did sayBoy America ... not All American?"
"He's both; All American infootball and a Boy America too."
The gun signalled the end ofthe game and the two men rosefrom their box seats to go out.Directly below them the playerstrotted quickly towards thedressing rooms. Harmon leanedover to watch.
"There he is now. A fine-lookingboy too!" He studied theyoung man's face intently. "Y'knowhe reminds me of somebody... somebody I know well,but I can't put my finger on it."
"I'm not surprised. He's GloriaManson's boy."
Harmon frowned. "No, that'snot it, George. Of course there'sthe resemblance to his mother... and who could forget theglorious Gloria even after twentyyears. But it was the way hemoved, and that smile." He shookhis head. "It'll come to me yet."
They took the belt walk to theparking area and stepped off it atGeorge's car. Moving quietly onits air cushion, the car joined theline-up out on the main roadwhere George locked the controlson to Route 63. The speed roseto eighty and steadied as the carsettled into its place in the trafficpattern. Relaxed in their seatsthe two men lit their anticancersand puffed contentedly as theywatched the scenery. It would beanother hour before Georgewould need to touch the controlsas they neared home.
"So he looks like someone youknow?" George asked. "I'd liketo know who it is just out ofcuriosity. As you are aware, noone but the Genetic Panel knowswhose sperm is used to impregnatethe Mother America."
"I haven't got it yet, George,but I will. Were you the geneticistfor this boy?"
"Yes, I was. I told you he wasGloria Manson's. Don't you rememberwhen you met her?"
"Soaring satellites!" Harmonexclaimed. "How could I forget?You introduced me to her."
"Twenty years ago," Turnermused. "What a crazy week thatwas. I guess you were glad toget back to the Space Force."
"In a way," Harmon agreed."I've often wondered where youwere since then. I never dreamedyou'd be Dean of the GeneticsFaculty when I came to theSpace Engineering School."
"I hope you'll like it here,"George said. "They couldn't havepic