Made in U.S.A. and Other Science Fiction Stories Read online

  Made in U.S.A. and Other

  Science Fiction Stories,

  by

  J. T. McIntosh

  Tom's eBooks May 2021 (c, ebook) - 143,400 words

  Contents:-

  Introduction

  Pandora's Box,

  Venus Mission,

  Machine Made,

  End of the Beginning,

  The Reluctant Colonist,

  Made in U.S.A.

  Beggars All,

  First Lady,

  Five Into Four,

  You Were Right, Joe,

  Tenth Time Round,

  I Can Do Anything,

  The Gatekeepers,

  Spanner in the Works,

  Poor Planet,

  Planet of Fakers,

  Introduction

  First, let's begin with a disclaimer: I do not own the rights to publish these stories. As I shall explain, though, it seems necessary to put out this eBook in the interest of pushing McIntosh's estate to do something similar....

  J. T. McIntosh was a fairly successful UK novelist back in the 1950's and 1960's, and he also put out a respectable amount of short fiction during that time. For whatever reason, many of his stories were only sparsely anthologized; Groff Conklin seems to be one of the few anthology editors to feature his stories on a regular basis. Hence, the existence of this eBook.

  "Made in U.S.A." is the title story because it's my favorite. "Poor Planet," "First Lady" and "Tenth Time Round" are also very good. "The Gatekeepers" has a scene of torture that is somewhat shocking.

  This collection basically contains the stories that were the easiest to get on the Internet. Me and My Shadow are currently preparing a second collection that will feature some of McIntosh's longer stories, such as "Two Hundred Years to Christmas" and "Mind Alone." It will probably take a few months, though. Work on "The Real People" was halted when we found out it was the basis for his novel The Cosmic Spies.

  Some notes about the story files:

  Careful readers will note that some of the stories are proofread to UK standards, some to U.S. standards. My apologies for this, but it was not noted until very late in the process. Again, my apologies.

  Most of the stories are proofed to the original magazine versions. However, it's no secret that most magazines inserted more line breaks into the stories than were really necessary. I have taken the liberty of removing some of them.

  A final note: It's embarassing to admit, but I don't know how to create a Table of Contents for this eBook. Yes, I am mortified, but there it is.

  Tom Dean

  [email protected]

  May 2021

  *******************************

  From Wikipedia:

  James Murdoch MacGregor (14 February 1925 – 22 July 2008) was a Scottish journalist and author best known for writing science fiction under the pen name J.T. McIntosh.

  Born in Paisley, Renfrewshire, Scotland, but living largely in Aberdeen, MacGregor used the pseudonym McIntosh (along with its variants J. T. MacIntosh, and J. T. M'Intosh) as well as "H. J. Murdoch", "Gregory Francis" (with Frank H. Parnell), and "Stuart Winsor" (with Jeff Mason) for all his science fiction work, which was the majority of his literature, though he did publish books by his own name. His first story, "The Curfew Tolls", was published in the magazine Astounding Science Fiction during 1950, and his first novel, World Out of Mind, was published during 1953. He did not publish any work after 1980. He died on July 22, 2008.

  Along with John Mather and Edith Dell, he is credited for the screenplay for the colour feature movie Satellite in the Sky (1956).

  During 2010 the National Library of Scotland purchased his literary papers and correspondence.

  John Clute writes that "McIntosh never lost the vivid narrative skills that made him an interesting figure of 1950s sf, but his failure to challenge himself or his readers in his later career led to results that verged on mediocrity. His early work warrants revival".

  Novels:

  World out of Mind, Doubleday, June 1953

  Born Leader, Doubleday, January 1954; also as Worlds Apart, Avon, 1956

  One in Three Hundred, Doubleday, 1954; from 3 novellas that appeared in F&SF, 1953-1954

  The Fittest, Doubleday, June 1955; also as The Rule of the Pagbeasts, Fawcett Crest, 1956

  When the Ship Sank, Doubleday, June 1959; as by James Murdoch Macgregor

  Incident Over the Pacific, Doubleday, October 1960, as by James Murdoch Macgregor; also as A Cry to Heaven, Heinemann, March 1961

  The Iron Rain, Heinemann, January 1962, as by James Murdoch Macgregor

  The Million Cities, Pyramid, August 1963; expanded from Satellite Science Fiction, August 1958

  The Noman Way, Digit, June 1964; expanded from "The ESP Worlds," New Worlds #16 July 1952 (+2)

  Out of Chaos, Digit, 1965

  Time for a Change, Michael Joseph, March 1967; also as Snow White and the Giants, Avon, May 1968; expanded from If Nov. 1966 (+3)

  Six Gates from Limbo, Michael Joseph, 1968; also as Six Gates to Limbo, in If Jan. 1969 (+1)

  Take a Pair of Private Eyes, Muller, September 1968; based on a TV play by Peter O'Donnell, first in a series

  A Coat of Blackmail, Muller, August 1970; second in the series

  Transmigration, Avon, December 1970

  Flight from Rebirth, Avon, July 1971; expanded from "Immortality for Some," in Astounding, March 1960

  The Space Sorcerers, Hale, June 1972; also as The Suiciders, Avon, November 1973

  The Cosmic Spies, Hale, Nov 1972; abridged as "The Real People," in Worlds of If, November/December 1971

  Galactic Takeover Bid, Hale, June 1973

  Ruler of the World, Laser Books, March 1976; text restored, as This is The Way The World Begins, Corgi, April 1977

  Norman Conquest 2066, Corgi, June 1977

  A Planet Called Utopia, Zebra, August 1979

  ***********************************

  Pandora's Box,

  by J. T. McIntosh

  Operation Fantast #8 March 1951

  Short Story - 2711 words

  “So you made a mistake,” said the girl softly.

  “Call it that if it gives you any satisfaction,” the lawyer replied equably.

  “What else can I call it? ”

  “Over-zealousness to impart good news, perhaps.”

  “Good news? That my aunt was dead?”

  “That you were rich.”

  The girl shrugged. “How exactly did it happen? ” she asked. “Someone by the name of Maria Smith died somewhere, and the similarity in name made you think Kathrine Bradley was dead?”

  “I can understand your annoyance, Miss Holmes. I am sorry. I communicated with you on the excellent authority of seeing the death notice of Kathrine Zenobia Bradley in the Major Times. Perhaps you think I should have attended the funeral first. The evidence seemed strong enough for me, but it now appears that the newspaper in question, produced by a staff of three, made the supremely natural mistake of substituting the reader of the lessons in church last Sunday for the woman who had died the day before, and vice versa. I am informed, by the way, that the fee for the death notice has been refunded and that it will appear corrected next week without charge. Does that satisfy you? ”

  Even in mild dispute, ambiguity is fair game. “As I didn’t pay for it, I’m not really concerned,” retorted Zenobia.

  “You will have your little joke,” said the lawyer, with an amiable snarl.

  “I’d be grateful for my aunt’s address in Major. I think I’ll go and see her. Can you give me it? ”

  “With pleasure, Miss Holmes, and desolation that
at the moment it is all I can give you.”

  When she had gone out through the office, to disorganise its male and female staff again, the lawyer wondered for just a moment if she had resented his irony, after all. But then he remembered that if one can shoot stinging words across a table like table-tennis balls, there is no pleasure in it unless they are returned with equal—or almost equal venom. Without malice, he hoped Kathrine Bradley would die soon and that he would see her niece again.

  Major was a small Connecticut town which was like most small towns but didn’t know it. It had the usual bank, the usual library, the usual trees and the usual people looking incuriously at Zenobia, knowing her for a visitor and with no interest in her other than her business in town, her job, her age, her name, her income,whether she was married, and how long she was staying. That is, apart from mere superficial interest in her face, her figure, her white dress, her tan stockings, her white shoes, and anything else she wore or carried, visible or invisible.

  Characteristically, Zenobia stopped the prickliest of the local cigarette-coughers to ask which was Mimosa Terrace. He let smoke out round his cigarette and caught it in his nostrils to breathe again while he assessed her unhurriedly.

  “You’re on it,” he told her briefly.

  “Thank you so much,” said Zenobia gratefully, unable to resist playing the part she probably looked. As she passed him she wondered if it was her legs or her shoulders he was looking at, but she didn’t allow herself to turn and find out.

  Number forty-seven was very like numbers forty-five and forty-nine, but Zenobia identified it easily enough by the number. There was brick, stucco and glass, and there was a door. Zenobia ignored them all and found the bell with her first finger.

  There were only two maids who could have answered the door—the one who was neat and pretty and wore a spotless uniform, and the one who didn’t care. The one who answered was neat and pretty, and her name could only be Mary Malone.

  ‘ ‘I’d like to see Miss Bradley, Mary,” said Zenobia.

  “Please come in, Miss,” the maid invited in an Irish accent. “But my name is Deborah.”

  “Malone?" asked Zenobia hopefully.

  “M'Cormick, Miss. What name shall I say? ”

  “Zenobia Holmes.”

  “Miss Bradley's niece? I’ll tell her, Miss.”

  Zenobia stood in the little hall and looked at the pictures of Franklin D. Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson. If there were a third, presumably it would be of Grover Cleveland. It was a pity about Mary—Deborah, rather. Still, she was Irish.

  “This way, Miss.” It was Deborah again. Zenobia nodded to Roosevelt and Wilson and entered the lounge.

  Aunt Kathrine poured out the coffee and handed the cup to Zenobia. The girl had been surprised it was coffee. It should have been tea, perhaps iced. But the game had gone on long enough, and anyway all the rules had been broken when Aunt Kathrine, whom she had never seen, turned out to be quite out of character. She had never gossiped in her life, she dressed like a town matron, and intelligence lit up the face that was old but beautiful. She was a fanatic, of course, but not a stupid one.

  “Well, if it’s what brought you here, I’m glad they got the names mixed,” she said.

  “I’d have come any time if you’d asked me,” Zenobia told her, playing the frivolous but golden-hearted niece.

  “Why did you never come?”

  Zenobia waved her arm airily. “Why have I never been at the top of the Empire State?” she replied.

  “It’s like that, is it?”

  You couldn’t dazzle a woman like Kathrine Bradley by changing colours. Zenobia allowed herself a change.

  “No, I thought they watered your feet and shook the fruit off you every spring,” she admitted. “Honestly, if I knew you wore red and used some three-syllabled words I’d have come long ago.”

  “If they watered my feet I might still have been as glad to see you.”

  “Yes, that’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it?”

  “You’re an actress, aren’t you?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “You have, since you came in.”

  “Oh, that. No, I sell a story or two now and then and between times live on what mother left me and think about selling something else.”

  “Are you a good writer?”

  “No. I haven’t the ideas.”

  “I’ll give you an idea if you like. You can write it down and send it to a science-fiction magazine. That’s the only place for it.”

  Zenobia knew the fanaticism was coming, the hobby, the mysticism—the one insanity of an unusually sane woman.

  “I’m listening,” she said with curious gentleness. But Kathrine Bradley, who noticed so much, would never know she had stopped acting.

  “You have brains,” said the old woman, “though it apparently amuses you to pretend you haven’t. So maybe you’ll understand me when I say I’m a philosopher. A lover of thought. I don’t often talk about it. I just think.

  “Have you any idea why there have been no women philosophers? Perhaps it’s because men have the edge of us in versatility. I think, but I can’t write. You write and you don’t look as if you ever think. If I’d been a man I might have done both and played golf and poker and told good stories and been able to service a car. As it is, I don’t do anything but weigh things up, read the lessons in church, and sit in the garden.

  “It’s strange how few people see things as I’ve gradually come to see them. They’re there for everyone to see. People say the world’s heading for disaster, but only as people have always said that. And anyway, they’re thinking of the atom bomb and bigger and more terrible wars—and I don’t think stopping them would make the slightest difference.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Zenobia. “What can be worse than an atom war?”

  “The same thing coming about more slowly in another way. An atom war now might save us, if enough people were killed.

  “I’m seventy-one. I’ve been taking an intelligent interest in things since I was fourteen, or earlier. I’ve a lot to work on. I've seen the world change in fifty-seven years as it never changed in any hundred, two hundred, five hundred in history. And people ignore that. They can see how little essential change there was between the fourteenth century and the eighteenth, but they think the people then were too stupid to know any better. They don’t see how fantastic the growth of science has been.

  “You hear a talk on the radio about the possibility of jet planes. You go out and sit in the garden, and when you come back you hear jet planes are flying faster than sound. You read in the paper that a radio you can wear in your ear will be on the market soon and if you get your paper late you can go out and buy one at the nearest store. High explosive is the most destructive thing we know one morning, and the next morning we read about the atom bomb, and before we've got our breath back it's the hydrogen bomb they’re talking about.”

  “While all this is going on people walk about unconcerned. You'd think they'd see . . .”

  “But they do,” interrupted Zenobia. “Everybody knows this. We don’t talk about it, because we can’t do much about it.”

  “But if we don’t talk about it, how can we work out what's going to happen?”

  “Who could ever work out what was going to happen?”

  The old woman shook her head. “It didn’t matter then,” she said. “It was a long way off, and anything might have happened. But now it's too late for anything to happen but disaster. We're flying faster and faster. No one makes any attempt to slow down. We all help to make the machine gather more and more speed, never admitting that sooner or later the wings must come off.”

  “Perhaps then we’ll be going so fast we'll fly without them.”

  “You’re young. Whatever the prospect, you’d be optimistic. But I'm not a pessimist—just a thinker without even the mental clarity to put my thoughts as you could put yours. But I can see it, Zenobia, I can see the world flying nowhere with n
o pilot. It can only be the end of the world, if no one finds a way to stop it. And soon. I won't see it, but you will.”

  “The end of the world,” murmured Zenobia. But if I m to make a science-fiction story of it, I’ll need more details.”

  “You’re humouring me,” said Kathrine without heat. “Being understanding but not pandering to me. That means you don't really see it, as I do. You believe that something will keep us right. And yet you're young. You don’t believe in God as I do. I believe in God because there’s nothing else to believe in.”

  “Why not believe in Man?”

  “How can I? I see things and add them up. I always get the same answer—which is strange, for it’s the same answer if I look at war or peace, chemistry or physics, biology, psychology, or even archaeology. My only hope is that, after all, something is guiding us, something or someone who knows where we’re going and can and will see that we get there safe. No man, no group of men could do anything. It has to be something more than men.”

  “Is the coffee still warm?” Zenobia asked.

  Kathrine sighed and poured out a cup. “Yes, you're right,” she said. “The world is right, after all. If we can’t do anything, it's better not to look. It’s sane, it’s the most reasonable thing man has done in his history—to know disaster is coming, but remember his children have to be fed and the rent paid. And here in the middle of it all I have to pretend to be a seer when all I can claim is that I’m not blind, and throw stones into the calm pool before the lava turns it to steam. Don't write it, Zenobia. Let the pool stay calm a little longer.”

  “It would, anyway,” said Zenobia, drinking coffee. “It's not stones you’re throwing in, but leaves that drift away on the surface. And there’s thousands there already.”

  Back in the street she was not as happy as she had been when she amused herself by expecting an Irish maid called Mary Malone to open the door. She had had no idea of what her aunt would be like, and perhaps she should have left it like that.