Y.A.I.W.L.R.
By Paul Stansfield

(continued)

"Well... who really cares? Both of these changes seem meaningless, I mean..."

"Let's move on again. There's much to see." Then they were in a smaller room, populated by a man lying on an operating table, surrounding by three doctors. As they approached Doyle saw that they were cutting the guy's genitals.

"Oh God!" He managed to turn his gaze away. "What the hell was that? Are sex change operations getting more common or something?"

"Not especially. And that's not what we're seeing here. This man is having the doctors give his urethra rifling."

"Rifling? Like in the inside of a gun barrel? What on earth for?"

"Precisely like in a gun barrel, for the same reason. It imparts spin on the ejaculate, making it come out faster. This is still not completely proven, but there's some evidence that a faster load increases the chances that the sperm will find the egg and impregnate the woman. And it's tougher to get pregnant these days, so more guys are trying it."

"Great. So thanks to me, premature ejaculation is considered good? Some legacy, and mostly unfair, I might add."

"You don't understand. The guys don't come quicker during sex necessarily, but when they actually do, it comes out faster. Plus I understand that it saves them some time at the urinal, as well."

"Oh. But still, uggghhh. Anything else to show me?"

"Yes." They were in a different room. A female doctor was handing a woman a very familiar shaped medicine package.

"I think you made a mistake, Adlai. The Pill was invented before I was born. Sorry, and before I was conceived, I should say."

The laugh pealed again. "No error, I just need to explain this one. Yes, it is The Pill she's giving her, and it's basically the same formula. What's different is the patient. She looks normal, but she's not. She's Biologically Dominant -- a Dom for short. One of the most powerful ones -- her range is fifty miles. She..."

"What does that mean, Biologically Dominant?"

"Let me finish. You probably heard back in the time we left how when groups of women live together for a while, like in a dorm, that they change their menstrual cycles to match one of them?"

Doyle nodded, and then realized that this couldn't be perceived. "Yeah, sure."

"Some women in 2051 do that more strongly. Extreme ones can change every fertile woman's cycle within a large area in only a few hours. The first recorded case caused quite a panic in New Orleans in 2030. So the government had to step in. Dom's have to stay on The Pill, or else avoid communities of over 20,000 people."

"Huh. Wacky. Isn't that violating the Dom's civil rights, though?"

"I guess you could make that argument. But since others are affected, the laws were passed. But this concludes the first leg of our journey."

"Wait a minute. All this reproductive stuff. I assume that I become a famous fertility specialist or something?"

"I don't know, exactly."

"Well, why all the pregnancy and fertility changes then, if I might not be? It doesn't make sense."

"You're thinking in the wrong way. The presence of you caused this, but not necessarily directly. Maybe you save the life of someone who changes it, or some bacteria from you mutates and infects others in some way, or you bend down to tie your shoe and two people's eyes meet and they begin a relationship, or a billion other possible tiny things which nevertheless change things drastically. Now let's see what you've done to the arts."

The blackness fell. Once again it was only the feel of the medium's hand gripping Doyle's. "Doyle, why are you considering suicide, anyway?"

"You're the observer. Don't you know that even?"

"I can't see into your mind well. Bes1des, I want to hear it from you."

Doyle sighed and then cleared his invisible throat of nonexistent phlegm. "It's not the typical reasons. You know, some big trauma, like being fired, or being dumped by a girlfriend, or the death of a parent, or any of those. It's just that life isn't that fun. It's not horrible. it's just... blah. I'm bored, and getting sick of it. I just don't see the point of it."

"Your psychiatrist didn't help you, then?"

"Not enough, obviously. He means well, but he's not helping me in any significant way. I don't know, I just see other people having so much of a better time than me all the time, and it just depresses me."

"How do you know that they're so deliriously happy? Or if they are, how do you know it's so constant?"

"I don't, really. It just seems that way."

"Maybe your standards of happiness are too high. But, never mind, we've arrived." Doyle looked around at the scene before him. It looked like a normal small city's downtown area. A fair number of people were walking the sidewalks, entering stores. Traffic was brisk, and comprised of fairly normal-looking cars. Smaller, maybe, with different lines and colors, but not flying through the air or anything. The citizens themselves were much like their comrades in the fertility clinic. Dressed in quasi-1940's style clothes, but otherwise the same. Beehive hairdos for women had apparently come back, too.

"I thought you said our next destination was in the arts."

"It is. It's different, again because of you. You're on a movie set."

"Where are the cameras, the lights, the microphones? Where are the road-blocking sawhorses, the electricians, and the surly union laborers? Where are the actors' trailers and buffet tables?"