Yesterday I mentioned that L. Sprague de Camp was one of the trio of science fiction writers who worked at the Philadelphia Navy Yard during World War II. While he was important in the field, I never read much of his work.

But in 1963 I did get a collection of his short stories from the Science Fiction Book Club entitle A Gun for Dinosaur, and I recall enjoying it quite a bit.

I’ve just re-read a few of the stories that I recall most vividly and they mostly live up to my recollection.

There’s the title story, for example, “A Gun for Dinosaur”. For the life of me I don’t understand why Hollywood never snapped it up and turned it into a movie; I suspect it could be just as big a hit as Jurassic Park. I’ve mentioned previously about my pipe dream of winning a billion dollar lottery and what I would do with the winnings (which will never happen, least of all because I never buy any lottery tickets). Well, I have a long list of movies and TV shows that I’d like to finance. And I’ll add to that list an anthology series based on some of the classic science fiction stories that I’ve enjoyed. This story would be right up there. 

Just adding that I would make sure that those stories were adapted right. They wouldn’t be dumbed down like Hollywood tends to do. I realize the American public is extremely stupid. I wouldn’t be making shows for them. I’d be making the shows that I’d want to see.

Anyway the title story is about going back in time to hunt dinosaurs. Of course, it’s so expensive it’s only available to the wealthy, and the story zeros in on two guys in particular who pay to go on an expedition. One of them is a spoiled ass, rather in the mold of Elon Musk. Needless to say, things do not go as planned and the “Musk” figure keeps screwing things up.

I happen like the somewhat old-fashioned well-made play where the title of the play, or a variation of it, is worked into the final line. Like Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest or Gore Vidal’s The Best Man. Similarly, de Camp manages to make  this story end with the words “a gun for dinosaur”. Good job!

Then there’s “Aristotle and the Gun”, another time travel story. In this one the protagonist decides that if he can go back to convince Aristotle to use the scientific method rather than simply reasoning things out, he will advance the cause of progress. He expects to return to a present-day world where super-science dominates. Things do not go as he planned.

In “The Guided Man” the slightly milquetoast protagonist enlists the services of Telagog to help him to get a job and impress his girlfriend. Telagog is a technology that allows a controller, who has experience, say, in dancing, to take control over a client’s body and turn him into a world class ballroom dancer temporarily. The problem arises when the controller falls in love with the protagonist’s girlfriend and decides to sabotage his chances with her.

Finally, there’s the story that I remember most vividly: “Judgment Day”.

The previous stories I only remembered vaguely and I had to reread them to refresh my memory, but this one really had a profound effect on me when I read it back in 1963 and I recalled it in its entirety.

Apparently it is at least partly based on de Camp’s own personal experiences of being bullied when he was growing up.

The story starts out as Wade Ormont, a 50-something physicist, describes discovering a new form of nuclear fission involving iron that could literally blow the entire world up, as the core of the earth is made of iron. He came upon this discovery entirely by accident and is certain that no one else is likely to discover it. His problem is whether to publish his findings or not. Because once the discovery gets out into the world, someone, somewhere, is likely to make use of it, and if a true madman gets hold of it, that would literally be the end of the world.

The rest of the story is his reflections on his growing up and being bullied and abused wherever he went. He was sent to military school and the abuse continued there. As an adult he didn’t fare much better. He married, but his wife could only stand him for six months before divorcing him.

As a result he has developed a true hatred for the human race.

Here is how the story ends:

The one genuine emotion I have left is hatred. I hate mankind in general in a mild, moderate way. I hate the male half of mankind more intensely, and the class of boys most bitterly of all. I should love to see the severed heads of all the boys in the world stuck on spikes.

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.