There were more mis-statements, but those were enough. I did what any man, any scientist, would have done. I gave my findings to the world. They were published under the title: "What the Baby Books Won't Tell You." The article stirred up immediate controversy.
It is not enough to uncover a conspiracy; you must find a motive. I had discovered the motive behind the Great Conspiracy.
Baby books were not written to teach parents how to care for their children; baby books were written to sell baby books. And magazines published articles about babies to sell magazines to mothers.
Valid reasons. If they had not existed, there would have been no baby books, no women's magazines. But this had far-reaching consequences: the market for baby books and women's magazines was the great, proliferating population of new parents. If the awful truth about parenthood were published, if these hardy, ingenuous souls were discouraged, something quite startling would happen to the market: it would disappear.
There were attempts at suppression on all levels, but the truth was out and nothing could stop its spread. Secret printing presses turned out reprints by the millions; they were passed from hand to hand. Fathers whispered the word to husbands; husbands passed it on to bachelor friends.
The word raced around the world.
It would not have been so disastrous if Lindsay McPherson had not simultaneously perfected his contraceptive pill out of a Southwestern plant named Lithospermum ruderale. For the first time, a contraceptive was safe, cheap, and convenient—and 100% effective in reducing male fertility.
Birth control was in the hands of the men.
Billions of the tiny pills were turned out. Enemy nations sowed them over each other's territory in boxes containing translations of my article. Men cached them away, carried them in money belts, hollowed out hiding places in the heels of shoes....