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Jesse Francis McComas, born on June 9, 1911 in Kansas City, Kansas, was an American science fiction editor.
He entered publishing in 1941 as a salesman and editorial representative, spending two years in New York with Random House. He returned to California in 1944, working as the Pacific Coast editorial representative for Henry Holt and Company. For Simon and Schuster he became their Northern California sales manager and general editorial representative.
McComas was the co-editor, with Raymond J. Healy of one of the essential early anthologies of science fiction, Adventures in Time and Space (1946).
Within a few years, he was the co-founding editor, with Anthony Boucher of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. He edited the magazine from its inception in 1949 as The Magazine of Fantasy. In the fall of 1954 he left the magazine as an active editor but continued in the role of advisory editor until 1962.
During the 1950s, McComas reviewed science fiction for the New York Times.
McComas wrote several stories on his own in the 1950s using both his own name and the pseudonym Webb Marlowe.
He left to the San Francisco Public Library his collection of 3,000 volumes of fiction and 92 science fiction magazines dating from the 1920s.
J. Francis McComas died on April 19, 1978 in Fremont, California.
Complete Fiction
J. Francis McComas
(custom book cover)
Jerry eBooks
About the Author
Bibliography
Flight into Darkness
Contract for a Body
“The Department of Abject Apology”
Shock Treatment
Brave New World
Parallel
Criminal Negligence
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Flight into Darkness, Astounding Science-Fiction, February 1943
Contract for a Body, Fantastic Adventures, July 1948
Department of Abject Apology, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, October 1953
Shock Treatment, 9 Tales of Space and Time, 1954
Brave New Word, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1954
Parallel, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, April 1955
Criminal Negligence, Astounding Science Fiction, June 1955
Flight into Darkness
A STORY of the reconstruction period after the war—and the only possible cure for a hundred-percent-convinced Fascist.
Dr. Linkman stepped rapidly across the subway platform and into the elevator that went to the street. He stood quiet, with soldierly erectness, as the elevator shot from a depth of three hundred feet below ground to more than five hundred above it. His hard face was expressionless, showing no sign, of the triumph that boiled within him.
He left the elevator at the eighth level, walked a block down the glass-inclosed span and entered his apartment. He skirted the comfortable living room, went through a bedroom and entered a small closet. The closet was bare of furniture. What hung on the wall gave the tiny room distinction and lent it the air of being a shrine.
A large, framed photograph of Hoffman hung there. The fat, cruel face, magnified many times life-size, stared out challengingly. Below the picture hung a battered sword and an officer’s dress helmet.
Dr. Linkman lifted his hand in the forbidden salute.
“At last, my Leader,” he breathed. “The day of restoration is dawning!”
The door of the bedroom behind him opened. Linkman whirled, took a step forward, blocking the door of the closet. His crippled brother, Franz, limped into the room.
Linkman smiled thinly.
“Ah, Franz,” he said. “I have good news for you.”
The cripple’s sad face lighted.
“Josef! They have made you manager of the plant?”
“Yes, I have worked my way up in the approved democratic fashion! After much pondering, our masters have decided that Colonel General Linkman is gone and the recently graduated Dr. Linkman is a thoroughly reformed character. Why, if I make good on this assignment, they may even let me—what do they say?—run for office! Bah!”
“But, Josef, will they . . . will they let you work on my—”
“Silence!”
Dr. Linkman strode forward and put both hands on his brother’s twisted shoulders.
“You will forget that—as they have forgotten it! You hear?” He shook the boy a
little. “Yes, I will work on it! I will build it! But you must be silent about our work. Understand?”
Franz nodded. Then he caught sight of the picture.
“The Leader!” he gasped. “Josef! His picture is forbidden!”
Linkman drove his fingers into Franz’s shoulders until the boy cried aloud.
“That, too, is another thing you wall never mention,” he said slowly.
“Oh, don’t, Josef! You’re hurting me! But it is against the law—”
His voice trailed off into broken sobs.
Linkman’s fingers relaxed slowly, almost reluctantly, and his arms dropped to his sides.
“Against their law, boy. I obey the Leader’s law!”
Franz’s small body seemed to shrink even more.
“But my ship . . . your position . . . I thought—”
Linkman grinned down at him.
“Do not worry, little Franz. Your ship will be built. It shall be a tribute to his memory.”
He turned back to the closet and saluted again. Then he closed the closet door, reverently.
“Come, Franz,” he said, almost pleasantly, “it is time for dinner. And if you doubt me or my course, little brother, just remember how all their technicians laughed at you when you went to them with plans for a rocketship that would travel to the Moon and beyond!”
Hastings looked from General McClernand to Oliver. He shifted uneasily in his chair and looked down at the papers in his hand.
“After all, gentlemen,” he murmured, “I’m just the head of a department and—”
“And I’m just an old soldier!” roared McClernand. He scowled fiercely at Oliver. “I don’t pack any weight here, either.”
Mark Oliver grinned amiably at the old man. His long figure slouched lower in the chair behind the big desk.
“Sorry, Hastings,” he said gently. “Don’t let the general’s bickering with me embarrass you. And don’t be alarmed because he takes your side of the matter.”
“It isn’t a question of sides, sir,” Hastings said. “It’s just a question of fact advanced by my department.”
“Exactly!” bellowed McClernand. He leaned forward and pounded Oliver’s desk. “Here’s this soulless Department of Psychological Correction comin’ out and challengin’ your pet, Linkman! D’ye remember, now, how I kicked when you appointed him?”
“Of course. You won’t let me forget.” Oliver’s quiet voice grew a little weary. “You just won’t forget, Mac, that the war’s over and we’ve got a job to do—without prejudice
“Maybe I won’t forget. But Hastings, here—he doesn’t know anything about Linkman’s past—an’ he comes here—”
“I. . . ah, beg your pardon, general.”
Hastings was acutely uneasy. The general’s roars would never have been tolerated in the Psycho section. He looked at Oliver’s face, placid under the old man’s wrath. There was strength, there, underneath the calm. Why didn’t he use some of it against the soldier’s irrational outbreaks?
He cleared his throat again.
“If I might state my report,” he ventured.
“Yes, Mac,” said Oliver. “For Heaven’s sake, pipe down and let Mr. Hastings state his case.”
Oliver clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back. His attitude was one of careless ease, but his eyes were intent on the psychologist.
“Very well, sir. Ahem” He leafed through the report. “Ah, three mechanics, Cutlar, Vornov and Lockheim were discharged from the Zellerkraft plane factory. That’s a native-managed concern.”
“Your precious Linkman is the head man,” growled McClernand.
“Charges were,” continued Hastings, “maladjustment to occupation, lack of disciplinary balance, no receptivity to routine, general debility and so on.”
“Put that in my language,” ordered McClernand.
“Certainly. It means, simply, that they were lazy, incompetent, insubordinate and took poor physical care of themselves.”
“Well,” asked Oliver, “why have you come to me?”
He unclasped his hands and sat up straight in his chair.
“Just this, sir. The primary character and aptitude analyses that were made on these men gave no indication of such a development. When they were pronounced ready to begin work under our government, we had every reason to believe they would progress, not deteriorate.”
“I see.”
“Further—” Hastings swallowed and plunged on. “They have voluntarily applied to us for testing. Our preliminary examination gives no evidence that the alleged character reversal has taken place.”
McClernand jumped to his feet again.
“See!” he snapped. “There’s dirty work. That Linkman—”
“Just a minute!” Oliver did not raise his voice, but McClernand became quiet. “A psychograph of your emotional balance, Mac, might not give you a very high rating. Now, please be quiet until I’m through with Mr. Hastings.”
He turned to Hastings and the young man fidgeted in his chair again. But Oliver’s tone was kindly.
“Just what conclusion is your department trying to draw?” the director asked. “And why have you come to me?”
“Well, sir—” Hastings began to wish he’d never been promoted to such arduous jobs as arguing with big shots. “We can see no reason why such charges should have been preferred against these men. The manager of the factory is a native of doubtful antecedents—”
Oliver took out a pipe and began to fill it. He stared at McClernand’s beet-red face. Although Oliver’s face was impassive, Hastings could have sworn he saw the director’s lips twitch.
“Tell me, Mac,” the director asked, “just what your attitude is.”
“Well,” snarled the old man, “I think there’s some of these natives that ought to be taken out and shot! Linkman’s one of ’em. I know—I fought him for five years! But you think he’s reformed! So—after he gets this job—he cans some employees under suspicious circumstances—I want it investigated.”
Oliver applied the glowing tip of his lighter to his pipe. He puffed slowly for a few seconds, then leaned back easily in his chair.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “it has been investigated. Dr. Linkman wrote me of his intention to discharge those men. With his letter, he sent affidavits from workmen in the plant, corroborating his charges. As a final point, I would remind you that their dismissal was approved by the plant guild.”
Hastings looked down at his papers.
McClernand made a wordless noise.
Oliver got up from his desk and walked to the window. He stared out over the clean, white city, his view a tangle of arching traffic spans, needlelike spires of dwellings, spotted here and there by the dark green of hanging parks.
“Come here, gentlemen,” he said.
They got up wonderingly and stood by him.
“See,” he said. “That is theirs. Not ours, theirs. And we must give it back to them as soon as we can. We have a home of our own, you know, and I, for one, would like to get back to it. Because, fundamentally, we don’t belong here.”
Young Hastings then realized why Mark Oliver was director of this Occupied Area. He realized, more dimly perhaps, why he. himself, could never hold such a job.
Oliver turned from the window.
“That is why, Mac, and you, too, Mr. Hastings, that is why I have given Dr. Linkman his position. Why I will give others similar positions. I may make mistakes. If I do, I will remedy those errors as fully as I am able. But we must, all of us, run the risk of error—and run that risk cheerfully, so we can get our job done and go home.”
He put his hand on Hastings’ shoulder.
“Continue with your tests, Mr. Hastings. When you have a complete report, bring it to me.
“Yes, sir.” Hastings put his papers in his brief case and walked to the door. There he” turned. His eyes behind his glasses were very bright. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
The door had barely slid shut behind him when McClernand grabbed Oliver by the arm.
“That was all very pretty, Mark,” he growled. “And good for the youngster. But you can’t fool these psychiatrists. They’re scientists—”
“They’re scientists as long as they agree with your prejudices, Mac. Now, let go my arm and I’ll order up a drink for us.”
McClernand straightened and moved back a pace.
“I’m an old has-been,” he muttered. “My opinion doesn’t count in these days of love and kisses for the enemy!”
Oliver-threw his arms wide in a gesture of despair.
“For the love of Heaven, Mac,” he cried, “just what do you suspect Linkman of doing?”
“I don’t know. I only know he’s in a spot to do harm if he’s a mind to. And I know damn well he’s a mind to! The butcher!” Oliver shook his head wearily.
“Sorry, Mac,” he said quietly. “I can’t discuss it further. If I err, it’s got to be on the side of tolerance. That’s why I’m here.”
“All right, all right!” McClernand stamped to the door. “Just remember, son, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks!”
If it had been an old-fashioned door, he would have slammed it shut behind him.
Dr. Linkman glanced at his wrist watch. It showed five minutes past five. In the outer office he could hear his secretary close her electrotyper.
She appeared in the doorway, coat in hand. “Good night, Dr. Linkman.”
Linkman smiled benevolently.
“Good night, my dear.”
She frowned a little.
“Don’t stay late, sir. You’ve been working awfully hard lately.”
“Now, now,” he said. “You run along and don’t worry about me. You must enjoy yourself—not think of an old man like me.”
She shook her curly head.
“You’re not old, doctor.”
She smiled again as she went out. Linkman heard the office door slide shut behind her. The benevolent look was replaced by a scowl.
“Little flirt,” he grated. “Women in industry—bah! Their place is in the home, bearing children for the race!” He shrugged. “Ah, well. That, too, will change.”
He walked over to the production chart on the wall.
“Twenty-three units per day,” he mused. “And they allow me just twenty-three units of raw materials. Our masters are good accountants.” He moved back to his desk and picked up a scratch pad. His brows contracted as he figured. “Hm-m-m. To get material, I must lessen the quality of the plant’s output. How long, then, before the inspectors find out?”
There was a rapid double knock at the door. Linkman ripped the sheet off the pad and tossed it down the waste chute.
“Come in,” he called.
A man in working clothes stepped in, locked the door behind him and walked with swift, military strides into Linkman’s office.
My general!” he saluted.
Major Falkayn!” Linkman returned the salute. “Sit down, major.” He pushed a box of cigars across his desk. “Smoke and be comfortable. You have earned relaxa
tion.” Falkayn slumped down in a leather chair, leaned back and closed his eyes as he puffed on the cigar. Linkman, too, lit one and the two men smoked silently for a few moments. Then Falkayn spoke slowly:
“This is wonderful, sir. The first time I have relaxed with a social equal in ten years! f have been”—his slow voice grew passionate with disgust—“a workman! A faithful member of one of those accursed guilds! Pah!”
Linkman smiled thinly.
“I have begged my way into a university.” He raised a clenched fist. “I, a soldier, have studied plant management and the principles of democracy! I have allowed myself to be—educated!”
He broke into a sharp, grating laugh.
“But that is past. Soon, you and I will wear uniforms again!”
His cold eyes stared off into space over Falkayn’s head. He seemed to be seeing a vision for his muscles tensed, his shoulders went back. Falkayn waited respectfully for a moment, then coughed slightly.
Still staring, Linkman said, “I will make a great leader, Falkayn. And you shall be my deputy. Give me your report.”
He leaned back slowly and listened with half-closed eyes,
“Yes, sir. I have the great pleasure to report that the hull is finished. The left bank of tubes is installed. The right bank will be in place in another day. Tonight, we are starting to weld the fuel tanks.”
“An operation of some four days,” mused Linkman. “And the storage of materials?”
“We have accumulated a four-months’ supply of all necessities. Our munitions are limited, though.”
“We must get more! We must work faster!” Falkayn leaned forward in his chair.
“But, general. We must steal armament. And those faithful to the Leader’s memory are few—very few. I, myself, have worked twenty hours a day—my regular shift in the plant and the balance on our ship.”
Linkman stood up. Falkayn followed suit and stiffened to attention.
“These excuses are not valid,” rasped Linkman. “If you cannot execute my orders, I’ll replace you, major. I want everything ready within one week from tonight!”
Falkayn saluted without speaking.
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