Adams’ Apples
9 Birth of a Nation
THE STOCK MARKET ‘CRASH’ was more like an amusement park waterslide. It looped up and around, diving steeply and then going airborne on a rise. But ultimately, you knew you’d hit the bottom and hoped there was enough water left in the pool to buoy you up a little.
“This is all your fault, Smith,” Derek Goldman yelled across the newsroom office. Derek covered the paper’s finance pages and was clearly unhappy. “The market is down another thousand points today. You just had to come along and announce the world is doomed and now everyone has started selling off their stocks.”
“I don’t think it would have been better if people just found out for themselves,” I called back with a glance toward Ed’s office. Everyone looked that direction whenever their concentration on whatever story they were working on was broken. Displayed above Ed’s door were new digital clocks where the traditional analog clocks had displayed the time in different cities around the world. Now, each digital clock was counting down the population of that city’s country. “New York” was clicking down a number about every ten seconds and had just turned from 400,000,001 to 400,000,000. The whole office watched as ten seconds later it dropped to 399,999,999.
Worldwide, the population had dropped over twelve million since the last baby was born. I ran the mental calculation as I did every time I looked at the clocks. If the rate remained constant, it would take 160 years for world population to reach zero. But no one lived that long. Average life expectancy was about eighty with extended longevity still just over a hundred. If there were no accidents and no wars, and everyone lived to natural old age, today’s babies would be the last people on earth in 100 years. What people didn’t realize was that the rate of death would accelerate over that time. Thirty percent of the US population was 25-44 years of age. In twenty years, that bubble would hit as the largest age group moved into their senior years.
I started my next article, looking up demographics. I checked in with Randy Miller at worldpop.io to make sure the graph was correct, projecting the death rate out for the next hundred years. My stories were page two news now and I was struggling to find anything new to add to the community’s knowledge.
The President’s next press conference was more of the same bullshit with a nice dash of opposition bashing. There’d been a lot of criticism about how he handled the whole national emergency, many claiming that if he’d announced a quarantine as soon as he knew about the satellites going to war, they could have saved half the males in the world from sterilization. That wouldn’t have made a difference, of course, but the president was an easy person to blame. He decided to hold a press conference.
This virus is bad. Real bad. Took our manhood is what they say. But most of what you’re hearing is just media hype. Look around you. Nobody’s sick! We’re having bigger orgasms than ever. We’ve got scientists, the best scientists, working on a cure. But the media is full of doom and gloom. We don’t need that.
It’s always been that way. Longer than I can remember. And my memory’s good. Real good. Take World War II for instance. No, my memory’s not that good, but I read about it. Read a lot. I probably know more about World War II than anyone alive. And it was all media hype.
One good headline and before long, there were shortages of tires, gas rationing, lines a mile long to sign up for the army. The media blew it all out of proportion and we just went about our daily lives, living with the hype and trying to buy our ration of sugar. Everyone was in a panic, dressing up in helmets and practicing duck and cover drills.
And what happened? Nothing! Not one enemy ever came to America! It was all hype and was confined to a couple of places in Europe and Asia. Why should we start stockpiling dish detergent? Yes, maybe in fifty years, if nothing happens—and it will happen, I promise you—in fifty years there could be a shortage of people working in the detergent factories. But we won’t have that many dishes to wash, either.
Go out and buy stocks. It’s a good time to get in on the ground floor.
There was more, of course. He was calling for funding of another new agency focused on getting women pregnant through in vitro fertilization. The agency was to be called the National Insemination Project. Their slogan, already announced, was “NIP this in the bud!”
“Have you seen this, Rams?” Elizabeth called from her office as I puttered in the kitchen making her favorite Saturday morning omelet.
“Come to the table and tell me all about it, love.” I flipped the omelet and slid it out onto her plate, adding two slices of lightly buttered toast. The lovely Elizabeth moved into her seat as I set the plate before her with a flourish.
“Such a lovely meal,” she sighed. “It’s a wonder I don’t weigh two hundred pounds.”
“We’ll just have to go back to Smith Stadium and play until we work the calories off,” Ramsey laughed.
“There is that. Oh, I was just reading an article about that guy who wrote The Singularity is Near. The author of the article claims Kurzweil never died but is now housed in a computer server farm in Idaho. He just changed bodies. He holds that the whole sterilization of mankind is simply a precursor to moving into the singularity and that people should begin transferring their memories and philosophy into some specially built computer where they can live forever.”
“Sounds to me like he’s been drinking Dr. Mott’s Fertilization Compound. It’s 100 proof! Every crackpot has a solution and none work,” I said as I sat opposite my wife with my own version of the Smith Omelet—a little spicier than hers.
“I’m sure you’re right. There’s an ad at the bottom of the page for a device that allows you to upload your personality into a computer,” Elizabeth continued.
“What would you do if you bought a new computer and discovered it was really Melvin Skinner from across the street. It’s hard enough to deal with the man as it is!” We laughed at the news and Elizabeth turned to the new ‘Sex and Living’ section of the newspaper. My news had fallen off completely and the old society pages editor had quickly transformed the ‘Modern Lifestyles’ section into a life after sterility section of the paper.
“Did you see this? There’s a battle arising at the Capital already between the NRP and the NIP. The President has come down on the side of the NIP. It seems the NRP ruled that President Muffley’s daughter did not have the correct genetic markers to preserve and was thus ineligible for in vitro fertilization. The National Insemination Program has been fighting to get control of the sperm bank stock and Muffley signed an executive order giving them half the stock. It came with stern words to the NRP that they need to get their focus on revitalizing the male reproductive system instead of designing a supposed super race.”
“I’ll bet that went over well.”
“Oh, yes. Listen to this quote from the President’s speech.”
People are afraid—women really—women are afraid of this process. It’s invasive. They’re going to harvest your eggs and put the sperm with them. Then they’ll stick it back… right up inside your… where you carry the baby. Kind of a reverse abortion.
I know this is worrisome. So, I am offering my daughter. She volunteered. She’s a beautiful young woman. And smart. Maybe the smartest woman on earth. So beautiful and so smart that I’d get her pregnant myself if it was legal. So, she’ll take one for the team and get pregnant through this in vitro thing they do, just to show all women that it’s okay. She’ll be first. Carry the flag, so to speak.
“An entire agency created, just so the president can get his daughter pregnant. That was pretty disgusting!” I took a swallow of coffee to wash the taste of those words out of my mouth.
“Granted, I didn’t think much of the NRP’s methods, but how is the NIP going to differ? How do I apply to get my egg fertilized?” Elizabeth asked.
“You wouldn’t!” I said firmly. “I can’t imagine my wife taking a random sperm into her body to bear a child. I’d want to know where our child came from, at least.”
“That is so chauvinistic! What’s more important? That we have a child or that you approve of the father.”
“I want to be the father!”
“Give me some living sperm then!”
It was looking unlikely that our morning would end playing games in the middle of Smith Stadium. Especially when my phone pulsed in my pocket in the middle of the argument.
“Smith,” I barked at the screen.
“Ramsey, it’s Dr. Ulman. We need you at the hospital, stat.”
“Whoa! I’m not a doctor. I don’t even play one on TV. What could be so urgent?” I asked. I did not like having my Saturday interrupted.
“There’s been a baby.” Ulman said it in the same tone of voice I imagined he’d say, ‘There’s been an accident.’ I waited for the other shoe to drop. ‘Your mother didn’t make it,’ or some such equally tragic note.
“That’s great news, Doc.”
“We need you here to handle the announcement and the press. You’re really the only newspaperman either Dr. Gardner or Dr. Reynolds trusts. We need someone to break the news to the world. Dr. Simpson has done an examination. We have a man who is not sterile.” That shut me down fast. A fertile man. This could mean chaos. And what a story!
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Doc. Don’t start without me.” I shoved my phone in my pocket and grabbed my laptop from the hall table where I’d dropped it the night before.
“What are you doing? Where are you going? Ramsey Smith, you can’t just walk out in the middle of a fight! How are we going to make up?” Elizabeth complained following me to the door.
“Dr. Smith, we’ll not only make up, we’ll celebrate. There’s been a baby.” I tried for the same tone of voice as the hospital administrator, but was entirely too excited.
“I’m going with you!” Elizabeth grabbed her purse and marched to the car with me, forgetting entirely she was wearing sweats and bunny slippers.
“Ramsey, thank God you’re here. We’re already starting to get calls from the media. Someone leaked the news,” Dr. Ulman said as soon as we walked into the hospital. I wondered if anyone at the front desk was getting suspicious about me walking in and being met by a high-ranking doctor each time I entered the lobby.
“Any idea who and how much they let out?” I asked as we hurried to the deserted maternity ward.
“Could have been anyone. We had to re-open the wing to give her a room and that involved nurses, administrators, and maintenance. Then there’s anyone who might have seen her enter the hospital. She was obviously pregnant,” Ulman said.
“The father?”
“He’s a nervous wreck. First the waiting, then the pressure of knowing his life is going to change more than the average new father’s. Finally, we put him in a bed next to his wife and they’re bonding with the baby.” Dr. Ulman knocked on the ward door and a nurse looked out the little window to see who was there. She unlocked the door and let the three of us in.
“How’s it been, Susie?” Ulman asked.
“It’s just started to pick up. We’re getting calls about ‘the pregnant woman’ admitted by the hospital and a lot of requests for names, which of course, we don’t give out. No one’s asked if there’s a baby yet, but there have been a dozen staffers who have tried to walk onto the floor and were upset to find their keycards don’t open this door,” Susie said. “There are only five of us here. Well, plus you three. The two doctors and two nurses and me. Dr. Simpson has been in and out. We’d usually staff an army of helpers on this floor because most deliveries are made by C-Section. That way we can schedule them more accurately and keep the flow going smoothly.”
“Not that we’ve needed that lately,” Ulman said.
“No. It just seems so unnatural for her to just lie down on the bed and start pushing a baby out. There was no surgery and no stitches. Here we are, sir.”
We arrived at a corner room and saw the parental tableau. I snapped a picture on my phone of the three in bed. The man and woman had equally bright red hair—the kind that makes you think ‘carrot top.’ In addition, the man had a bushy red beard. The baby lay on its mother, happily sucking away. This was a Hallmark moment. Or was that a Kodak moment? Whichever.
Dr. Gardner shook my hand as if we were all new fathers and should be congratulated.
“Ramsey, I’d like to introduce you to the Adams family. Jack, this is the newspaper man I told you about. And this is Evelyn Adams and little Lily Adams,” Gardner said. Jack unfolded out of bed. He was thin and tall. With his shock of curly red hair and beard, he looked rather like a lit match.
“Glad to meet you,” Jack said softly. We shook hands. Elizabeth elbowed me in the ribs.
“Oh, this is my wife, Dr. Elizabeth Smith. She came along to…”
“I just horned my way in,” Elizabeth said. She walked straight over to the bed and introduced herself to Mrs. Adams. “I figured a new mom in a lonely place like this could use a new friend. How are you getting along, Evelyn?”
“Oh, just fine,” she smiled. “We’re a little worried just now. I never suspected our baby would be so newsworthy.”
“Don’t worry. Ramsey will fix everything. Won’t you dear?” I walked over to the bed to look at the mother and child. The baby chose that moment to pop off the nipple, fast asleep.
I’m an avid women’s rights supporter. I strongly support equal wages. I’m vehement in my declarations about not sexualizing women. I absolutely believe in the right to breastfeed a baby anywhere and anytime it’s needed. It’s completely natural. But there was a new nipple right there staring me in the eye, so to speak. One I’d never seen before. My physical reaction made me stutter a bit.
“Nice… to meet you. Um… Congratulations.”
“What we need, Ramsey, is a way to announce this that will still preserve as much privacy for the Adamses as possible. And for that matter, will keep the staff out of the limelight as well,” Gardner said, directing me to a chair where a hospital table was set up so I could put my laptop on it. “What else do you need?” He pushed me into the chair and I snapped back to reality.
“Good,” I said, firing up my laptop. “Let’s get the basics down and then start working on a release strategy. Lily Adams, right? Time of birth?” Once I was in front of my keyboard, I was back to being a professional newsman and not a horny husband. Mostly. I did wish we’d had time to finish our fight and return to Smith Stadium.
“The timing is really perfect,” I said as I sent the article and photo to Ed’s desk. No matter where my editor was, he’d get the story in the lead of the Sunday edition. “Now we need to arrange a release to the rest of the news world and call a conference. We’ll make it as inconvenient as we can,” I said, thinking of the WHO press teleconference at four a.m. “Let’s hold it tomorrow morning at ten. I love it when I get to drag the news people out of bed on Sunday morning.”
“Do we have to?” Jack asked. “I thought just giving you the story would mean we wouldn’t need to face anyone else.”
“Oh, Jack, I wish it were so. You have just become the most newsworthy man on earth. Getting them all together in one place and letting them ask questions gives you a perfect way out of having to deal with them all individually. Now, let’s talk and I’ll brief you on the kind of questions you can expect these jackals to throw at you.” Jack looked stiff as a board as he tried to sit in the other chair and then stood to look at his sleeping wife and baby. Then he came back to the chair. I saw Elizabeth chatting in the hall with the administrative nurse, Susie. “Give me a sec, Jack.” I had a quiet conversation with the women before they left. I returned to Jack.
The poor guy!
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