Rand's heroes are selfish, barren fornicators. Like herself.
Chambers put it this way:
Yet from the impromptu and surprisingly gymnastic matings of heroine and three of the heroes, no children it suddenly strikes you ever result. The possibility is never entertained. And indeed, the strenuously sterile world of Atlas Shrugged is scarcely a place for children. You speculate that, in life, children probably irk the author and may make her uneasy.
They no doubt made her more than "uneasy": Rand's entire philosophy collapses when confronted with the reality of parenthood. We are, after all, and in direct contradiction of Rand, the means to our children's ends -- and morally obligated to be so.
What else, except "damned fraud," can you call a person whose supposedly rational philosophy can't account for the propagation of the species?