Of course I am objective enough to know why I feel this way. But knowing the reason for the feeling doesn't change the feeling, at least not in a hardened old character like me.
I also know that to wipe out all mankind would not be just. It would kill millions who have never harmed me, or for that matter harmed anybody else.
But why in hell should I be just? When have these glabrous primates been just to me? The head-shrinker tried to tell me to let my emotions go, and then perhaps I could learn to be happy. Well, I have just one real emotion. If I let it go, that's the end of the world.
On the other hand, I should destroy not only all the billions-of bullies and sadists, but the few victims like myself. I have sympathized with Negroes and other downtrodden people because I knew how they felt. If there were some way to save them while destroying the rest ... But my sympathy is probably wasted; most of the downtrodden would persecute others too if they had the power.
I had thought about the matter for several days without a decision. Then came Mischief Night. This is the night before Hallowe'en, when the local kids raise hell. The following night they go out again to beg candy and cookies from the people whose windows they have soaped and whose garbage pails they have upset. If we were allowed to shoot a few of the little bastards, the rest might behave better.
All the boys in my neighborhood hate me. I don't know why-. It's one of those things like a dog's sensing the dislike of another dog. Though I don't scream or snarl at them and chase them, they somehow know I hate them even when I have nothing to do with them.
I was so buried in my problem that I forgot about Mischief Night, and as usual stopped in town for dinner at a restaurant before taking the train out to my suburb. When I got home, I found that in the hour of darkness before my arrival, the local boys had given my place the full treatment. The soaped windows and the scattered garbage and the toilet paper spread around were bad but endurable. However, they had also burgled my garage and gone over my little British two-seater. The tires were punctured, the upholstery slashed, and the wiring ripped out of the engine. There were other damages like uprooted shrubbery ...
To make sure I knew what they thought, they had lettered a lot of shirt-cardboards and left them around, reading: old lady ormont is a nut! beware the mad scientist! psycopath (sic) ormont! ormont is a fairy!
That decided me. There is one way I can be happy during my remaining years, and that is by the knowledge that all these bastards will get theirs some day. I hate them. I hate them. I hate everybody. I want to kill mankind. I'd kill them by slow torture if I could. If I can't, blowing up the earth will do. I shall write my report.
SUBURBAN SKETCHES
Gratitude
The sound of three men in "loud discussion of planting plans drew the man from Venus. This was at Mrs. Hort's neighborhood party on a fine May week-end. The forsythia's golden rain had ended; the magnolias had littered the lawns with their petals. The azaleas blazed in orange and purple and the dogwoods in pink and white.
Carl Vanderhoff, on his second bottle of beer and fourth hot-dog sandwich, said: "... I can't bother much with annuals this year. I shall have to do some surgery on that cracked Japanese maple ..." He was medium-sized and a little gray, and taught French Lit at Penn.
Sydney Devore, the oldest of the three, lit his pipe and said: "... I've got three new kinds of cactus, and as soon as I get them unpotted ..." He led a retired life as a consulting engineer.
Bill Converse, burly and ruddy, waved his fourth beer-bottle and said: "... if there's any screwy plant in the world, trust Sydney to plant it ..." He was a vice-president of the Keystone-Fidelity Insurance Company.
Several of those at the party had objected to Devore's unconventional planting, such as his setting out assorted species of cactus. Vanderhoff had supposed that cactus would not thrive in the dank of a Philadelphian suburb. These, however, did as a result of Devore's care in keeping weeds and grass away from them and potting them through the winter.
As Vanderhoff's own wife had said, Devore lived alone without a wife to keep him within the bounds of convention. But why couldn't he plant decent iris, phlox, and chrysanthemums like everybody else? The cactus made his lot stand out like a sore thumb ...
Before Converse could say more about this eccentricity, Mrs. Hort's brother, the spaceman, sauntered over. His uniform, unless one looked closely, was like that of a chief petty officer of the United States Navy. Vanderhoff understood that Grant Oakley was in fact some sort of chief mechanic on the Goddard.
Carl Vanderhoff braced himself to look interested in Venerian matters, though the flight of the Goddard had been so oversold and overpublicized. He had already seen, heard, and read so much about it, through the normal channels of information, that he was getting bored with it.
"You fellas like to plant things?" said Grant Oakley with a noncommittal smile; a compact, competent-looking little man with bad teeth.
"Wait till my roses, come out," boomed Converse. "I've got ..."
"I'm trying out this new bug-killer, R-47," said Vanderhoff. "It's said really to lick the Japanese beetles ..."
"Come over to my place after this breaks up," said Devore, "and I'll show you my South American ..."
As they all spoke at once, Oakley stared with a vague smile until they ran down. Then he said:
"How'd you like to plant something from Venus?"
"Oh, boy!" said Devore. "If I only could ..."
"Hm," said Vanderhoff. "Perhaps ..."
"People would think I was nuts," said Converse. "I suppose a plant from Venus would come crawling into your house at night like some kind of octopus?"
"No, nothing like that," said Oakley. "The plants of Venus are higher-developed than ours, but they don't run after you. What would it be worth to you to plant them?"
Devore frowned. "You mean you have some?"
Oakley smiled, dipped a hand into a coat pocket, and brought it out. He opened it just enough to show a small fistful of seeds ranging in size from that of an apple seed to that of a lima bean.
"Now," he said, "supposing these was seeds from Venus — I'm not saying they are, understand — what would they be worth to you?"
Vanderhoff said: "That would depend on what they grew up to."
Devore said: "I thought the Department of Agriculture had a regulation —"
"Who said anything about the Department of Agriculture?" said Oakley. "I haven't said these was from Venus. But supposing they was, what would you do about it?"
Devore said: "Well, I suppose I ought — but to hell with that. I want some of those. But I couldn't pay you anything like the transportation cost."
"The same for me," said Vanderhoff. "How about you, Bill?"
Converse rubbed his chin. "We-ell — if you two take some, I guess I will too. But none of us are rich, Mr. Oakley."
Oakley shrugged an eyebrow. "Neither am I. I brought these because I got to have some quick money. How would ten bucks a seed strike you?"
Devore whistled. "Suppose you tell us what they are first."
"You'll read all about it when the Department of Agriculture gets out a bulletin. But these little black fellas are the singing shrub. The medium-sized —"
"What does the singing shrub do?" asked Vanderhoff.
"It sings. The blue ones are the bulldog bush. You understand, these are just the names the fellas on the expedition called them. The scientists gave 'em Latin names, but you'll have to read those in the Department of Agriculture Bulletin."