IntroductioN

As a writer I come across many people with stories to tell, most of which are useless. In the case of two men I shall call Dr. Spencer and Dr. Donaldson, quite the opposite was true.

In the beginning they were reluctant to reveal what they knew, partly for fear of ridicule and partly because they wished to keep their experiments secret.

During a party, Dr. Paul Spencer, a full-bearded stocky man in his middle thirties, began talking to me about telepathy, a subject which I’ve found of interest, much as the rumors of flying saucers—neither of which I believe or disbelieve. Paul Spencer claimed that some years back he had come across an idea—theory if you will—which might make telepathy possible. (I won’t go into the technical details because I’m not qualified to do so. The general idea is that since thoughts are electrical impulses, they can be picked up by an electronic tuner—like radio waves are gathered by AM or FM tuners—to be channeled through an amplifier, changed to another frequency which would tune them to another person’s mental wave band. The theory was that telepathy is a reality but that each person’s thoughts are on a different wave-band and thereby unable to be picked up by another brain. The tuner would work as a mechanical device to adjust one person’s thoughts to the wave-band of another’s—thereby making telepathy possible to anybody.)

I argued against the concept of telepathy merely for the sake of a good evening’s discussion. Because he was feeling a little too high and it was a private party among friends, Paul Spencer claimed that he had done extensive experimenting on it with John Donaldson, who was a telepathically sensitive person.

“We have tapes which would curl your hair,” Spencer explained, “but nobody would believe them. That’s why we haven’t told anybody. As it is, I’ve talked too much!”

Donaldson had just walked up to the bar to pour himself another drink. He was a tall, dark-haired man with large nervous eyes. “That’s quite right, Paul. Nobody would believe you. So keep quiet!”

“You can’t stop here!” I exclaimed; now determined to learn as much as possible. “If you have something—please go on! Look, I’m not about to laugh. The theory does sound fantastic. But...if you’ve evidence...”

Donaldson filled his glass with Scotch. “Maybe there isn’t any harm in telling you, after all. Even if you did write about it, who would believe you?” He took a large swallow of the drink. “It would sound like science fiction!”

“And that’s for sure!” Spencer nodded, his face wide with a serious grin.

But the conversation was interrupted at that point because our wives came into the den. Nothing more was said that evening. But the next day I continued to think about what hints they had offered; my writer’s instinct was acutely sparked. Even if it was nothing but talk, there was possibly a kick-off point here upon which I could develop a story.

I called Spencer that night to ask if I could come over and talk to him about the telepathy tuner. He was reluctant at first but I explained my purpose and he finally consented.

That evening we met in his lab, behind the large house in which he lives in Woodland Hills, California. John Donaldson was there and they explained in more detail what they had been doing, most of which went completely over my head. The lab was a scattered assortment of wires, tubes, tools and bulky electronic equipment. Their explanations seemed as difficult to understand as this electronic collection of gadgets surrounding me. But in the end, they presented these facts:

“Once the tuner was developed,” Spencer announced, sitting on a tall stool, playing idly with a straight-stemmed empty pipe, “I put John here into an hypnotic state, then placed the headphones, especially re-designed for high frequency, on his head. I ran the dial up and down the frequency bands and at one point noticed that he tensed, his lips started to move, then relaxed as I changed the position of the dial setting.

“Pin-pointing the frequency was a delicate job, taking a little more than half an hour. All the time, John was showing signs of deep frustration and nervousness, muttering to himself, as if having a nightmare. I almost brought him out of the trance, then decided against it.

“Once the adjustment was made, he said, very clearly, in a stilted voice, as if he were having difficulty forming words: ‘My name is Torlo Hannis. Who are you?’ He repeated this over and over again. I turned on the tape recorder and didn’t disturb John for some twenty minutes.

“The question kept repeating itself. Nothing else. Finally I turned off the tuner and brought John out of it. After playing the tape back to him, he admitted to having strange dreams. In his mind had come this voice. Though he understood the words, it was hard to form them into English.”

Donaldson explained: “It was as if the language sent were different, insofar as the organization of word patterns. I found it hard to reorganize them.”

“My theory is,” Spencer offered, “that this Torlo speaks another language and is projecting telepathically, we are picking up his thoughts, John is having difficulty re-translating them into English patterns—or at least he was in the beginning.”

“How long have you been on this?”

“For three months. We have now learned much about Torlo Hannis but there is a lot more to learn. I’ve recorded everything. John can now talk quite rapidly, exchanging questions with Torlo Hannis. The voice pattern is different when he speaks for Torlo.” After a moment to let me think this through, he asked: “Would you like to hear some of the tapes?”

I was most eager.

As Spencer threaded a tape into the machine, he said: “The major fact we have learned so far is that Torlo is from another planet, either existing now or far in the future or in some other dimension. Don’t laugh! It’s just that we have been trying to come up with some theory. Exchanging information with Torlo proves the following: he is human in shape and biology, there is ancient history which suggests that his race came from a planet much like Earth—or Earth itself. The culture which gave him birth spans the galaxy, though he is isolated on a planet called Noomas, where he was shipwrecked some years ago. Well, let him tell you through the voice of John Donaldson.”

It is enough, here, to say I listened to the tapes, all of them, then insisted they attempt to contact Torlo. Their arranged meeting was not due until three nights later. In the following weeks and months, I was a fascinated spectator as the doctors continued their communication with Torlo Hannis. At my suggestion an organized method of work was established, so that we could get a clear picture of the world on which Torlo lives. My motive was to see if there was a story here that I might use.

In the end I had enough material to organize into a book which, though fantastic, contained a fascinating and exciting adventure. Only after weeks of pressure did John and Paul finally allow me to use the material, but only on the condition that if I referred to them at all it would be under fictitious names.

I present the following as nothing but a good tale, something with which to pass a pleasant evening. Most readers will say it is merely the imagination of a science fiction writer; and who am I to deny them this belief? As to the others who will believe—or want to believe—who am I to claim they are wrong? Dr. Spencer and Dr. Donaldson believe; I trust them. And therefore one must conclude that I believe there is a Torlo Hannis living in some other time or some other dimension, who through his own experiments in telepathy, has by some freak of fate made contact with Earth through the Spencer Tuner.

Charles Nuetzel

Thousand Oaks, California

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SLAVEGIRL OF NOOMAS