Long John Nebel

by Way Out World

  Then came the trip.

  I received word from Norman that a great event was to take place on Easter Sunday, in an amusement park called Frontier City, in Oklahoma City. A prototype of the OTC-X1, six feet in diameter, was to be launched, proving the power of the utron accumulator.

  I landed in the western metropolis with several friends of mine to discover that the spacecraft was hidden away on the outskirts of town and no one was being permitted to see it. Sitting in that early morning restaurant a thousand miles from Broadway, with the rain pouring down on the gray dawn highway outside, this report seemed a little ominous. However, several of us were more curious than tired, and we decided to drive out to the mysterious “hangar” and see what was going on.

  We wheeled through the torrential storm of thunder, lightning, and rain, along semi-lit streets, and eventually pulled up in front of the place where the model of the spaceship was being kept. Our reception was hardly cordial, but my friends and I worked our way into the abandoned warehouse they were using for the OTC-X1. I must admit that we didn’t make any startling discoveries. The prototype was in a small room guarded by four burly men. We were permitted a quick look and then abruptly ushered out.

  The next day I was informed that Colton wasn’t in town, but that Carr had been around, but unavailable, for several days. He had asked us there, but where was he?

  Now, none of my boys are “private eyes,” but it didn’t take them long to find Mr. Carr; he was in semi-seclusion in a local hospital. I went over and found out that he had had some trouble with his throat and was having it checked. I thought it was pretty peculiar when he told me that he wouldn’t be able to attend the launching of his own spaceship on the following Sunday. However, he assured me that he would be there in spirit and in voice—he had prepared a tape recording to be played on the evening following the “launching of the prototype.” For some strange and psychic reason a dark feeling came over me and I began to doubt that I’d ever have the great and interplanetary privilege of seeing the model OTC-X1 take wing (which would have been pretty clever for a ship that didn’t have any—wings, that is).

  Then came Sunday morning. Launching time was set for three o’clock in the afternoon, at Frontier City. We arrived at the historic site about noontime and began checking around. We discovered that there was a central headquarters for the OTC operation located near an amusement-park-type ride which was a larger version of the OTC-X1. A beautifully designed and executed device of polished aluminum, it was intended that in the future it would simulate an actual flight in the full-sized craft, but at that moment one could merely enter it and look around—for a quarter.

  An associate of Carr’s gave a rather lengthy lecture, which was not what anyone had come for, but the crowd waited patiently. At last three o’clock came, three o’clock went—and nothing happened. The prototype didn’t even show up. Four o’clock came, looking for three o’clock, saw the direction it had taken, and followed along. Five o’clock trailed after them a little later. Nothing had happened. No launching, not even something to launch. And it was long, long after launch-time. In fact, it was almost time for dinner. Finally came the announcement. There would be no take-off today because of “technical difficulties.” No one could find the switch. Or possibly someone pulled a switch. Well, regardless, after a thousand-mile trip, I was just a little irked at its all adding down to a small nothing.

  The room was jammed with the press, who listened attentively as Norman Colton described how a “mercury leak” had delayed the scheduled testing. He added that they hoped to have it repaired and ready for flight in a couple of days. But it never happened, and after another day or so of useless waiting, I took my miracle-seeking caravan back to New York town.

  During this period and for six months following, another dramatic announcement originated from Colton and Carr. They would “fly to the moon,” they said, “on December 7th, 1959.” Even I was offered a seat on that spectacular expedition, which I had to decline because of a luncheon appointment. When it’s a choice of luncheon or launchin’, I dig food to fantasy every time.

  According to Norman Colton, the OTC-X1 would travel to the moon in five and a half hours. Naturally, the trip back, being a downhill slide all the way, would be a little shorter.

  December 7th trotted by breathlessly, and nothing occurred. To this date the OTC-X1, wherever it might be, is earth-bound. Or if it finally hit the air, I never heard about it. And since I never recognized “modesty” as being Carr’s outstanding virtue, I must take it for granted that no such flight ever took place. Later on, Otis T. Carr was brought into court, in the State of Oklahoma, on charges which I believe were, in effect, the disposing of stock under improper conditions. If I’m not mistaken, he was fined some $5,000. And that was that.

  Naturally, you understand that this was what is commonly referred to as “bad publicity.” I say “commonly” referred to, because some pretty shrewd people have questioned whether there is such a thing as “bad publicity,” that is, so long as “they spell the name right.” Actually, I think it’s obvious that some publicity is destructive, but it takes a wise man to know when what is which. The effect of Carr’s Oklahoma involvement with the law was to attract more people, to stimulate the general interest, to convince a number of people that the great man was being “persecuted.”

  It was after Carr got clear of “gross intimidation” that rumors spread widely and wildly to the effect that Carr and Company had received a very large grant from one of the most famous institutions in the land. Fifty thousand was spoken of, a hundred thousand was mentioned, a quarter of a million was wondered about, a million was whispered—as far as I know, no such grant was ever forthcoming. However, it must be conceded that if such grapevine gab didn’t convince some worthy institution that such an endowment should be offered, it was a powerful persuasive to innumerable potential investors in the OTC-X1.

  Then, having swept across half the country, from Baltimore to Oklahoma City, the Carr-Colton operation continued the sweep, swinging all the way to Apple Valley, California. In this charming little West Coast community, Otis T. Carr leased a building, erected an enormous highway sign (sporting, I’m told, the original OTC-X1 prototype), and stepped up his expansion program. One gathers that the town, if somewhat befuddled by the builders of spacecraft and anti-gravity motors, nonetheless took the OTC clan to its collective bosom.

  Carr and his various projects received great publicity in the papers in his area of the country, while in New York the district attorney’s office indicated that they were interested in the organization’s stock procedures in Gotham. At this writing, although there seems to have been some push and pull between the Carr-Colton contingent and the D.A.’s office, nothing has been brought to any concrete action.

  Meanwhile, back at the ranch country of the desert valley community, Carr sailed along happily. At the end of August, 1960, the front page of the Desert Valley News-Herald, announces that Otis will begin his operation and hiring and all that, on September 15th. The three main projects mentioned are the OTC-X1, the Carrotto Gravity Motor, and the display ride model of the ship.

  Also broadly announced in that issue of the newspaper is the “International Space Craft Project Convention,” scheduled for the first few days of September, and sounding like a direct competitive enterprise to George Van Tassel’s bit of the same general name. Among those listed as being expected to appear are—Gloria Lee, author of some way-out mystical writing; John Otto, certainly not the country’s most scientific investigator of saucers and contactees; Reinhold O. Schmidt, contactee and president of International Space Craft Project; Dan Fry, whom you’ll remember from earlier in this book. The report on this convention is, by the way, concluded in what is a very (unintentionally, I think) funny way. After mentioning this Space Craft Project, and all of these very esoteric people, it suggests that since the visitors will be out in a particular location for the affair, they might want to run up the canyon and take a
look at a tourist “gold camp” where they can play at panning for that ever-precious metal. Of course, Carr takes the position that there’s plenty at the end of the rainbow—which end he hasn’t said. But one thing we know—he claims he has the transportation to get there.

  And so one of the world’s most extraordinary corporations rolls along, to the delight of all (excepting the SEC, and a couple of DA’s); even those who have invested, both lightly and heavily, in the outlandish speculations of oracular Otis still, with rare exceptions, confidently support OTC Enterprises.

  But, if I were to credit this amazing attractiveness to one person, if I were to credit a single individual talent with the success of the entire bit, I wouldn’t name Otis T. Carr, oddly enough, but Norman Evans Colton—who may well be the greatest salesman I ever met. I don’t buy his product, but how that man can pitch!

  *****

  The years bring more and more fantastic discoveries of science and technology into reality. The number of things invented by man now reaches well into the millions, but there’s always something new, something never thought of before—at least as far as the public is aware. The smallest thing can make a man more money than he ever thought existed; a hair pin, a bobby pin, a safety pin, a staple, a paper clip; and what are all these things—little bits of wire. Well, in my time I’ve seen some strange things introduced onto the social scene. Inventions beyond the wildest imagination of most people. But they’re believed and bought by the ever-fascinated fellow—not you, of course; I mean the other guy.

  His name is Andy Sinatra, and he can’t sing a note, but when you hear his rather unusual flutter-frequency and hesitatingly-husky voice, you’re not certain that he can talk, either. That is, until you find out that his conversations are often held with people from the misty worlds behind the mirrors. Then you understand. Believe me, if you don’t understand, you’ve got problems.

  Usually Andy prefers to be referred to as the “Mystic Barber,” as cutting hair is his method of acquiring a livelihood; but on my shows he’s better known as the “Mystical Tonsorial Artist from Brooklyn.”

  To describe the Barber as unusual wouldn’t be giving you the full picture; but, on the other hand, it would require photography to present an accurate representation. He isn’t a tall man, and leans toward being a little on the round side. Actually he doesn’t really lean, but he does carry his right shoulder a bit higher than the other one.

  Andy is in touch with other worlds. He’s visited by Martians, who are identifiable because of their having no reflections—a point which he’s noticed when they come to his tonsorial parlor for a trim or a shave. Usually, however, his contacts aren’t so direct, but are accomplished via telepathic communication. Not the ordinary, run-of-the-mill, everyday, man-in-the-street, common-garden-variety, down-to-earth, two-feet-firmly-planted-on-the-ground, common sense kind of telepathy—his mental relationship with the mysterious ones are the extraordinary, miracle-of-the-mill, once-a-year, pie-in-the-sky, vision-of-paradise, up-in-the-air, walking-on-clouds, extra sensory kind of telepathy. And, believe me, there’s a difference. I don’t know what it is, but if they were the same the disappointment would be more than I could bear.

  Naturally, this special order of mentalism requires a little unusual effort to be achieved. This, the Mystical Tonsorial Artist has accomplished via his headband inventions. Although they have an overall similarity, each one has its own particular and unique characteristics. However, all are worn in approximately the same manner, and that is around the head, just above the ears.

  One of these bands, which is a couple of inches wide, and has a pair of weird, bouncy antennae on it, is for tuning in on the Venusian sending frequency. Of course, Sinatra hastens to assure us that he no longer needs this instrument to get the message, but, in turn, insists that all beginners should have one to make the telepathy simpler.

  Another band serves the opposite need. That is, Friend Andy has become so intimate with the people from outer space, and proficient in the use of telepathic communication, that he suffers from a constant bombardment of extraterrestrial messages; therefore, to provide himself with periods of relief he devised another headpiece to black-and-block out the thoughts at appropriate times. This band is also decoratively constructed, like the first, of bits of wire, glass, tops of tin cans, and other valuable minerals of earth.

  There are several more bands in Sinatra’s collection, but these two give you the general idea. As a matter of fact, just for the sake of authenticity, I’ve had one made up identical to his “receiving” set, but, of course, I consider it all plain nonsense. That is, I can pick it up, and put it on my head, the way I’m doing…hnjje ptnnygh oooops rerewonson th tr th oopsam gadabamm ononontotoont p…and then remove it, and absolutely nothing happens. But, you have to admit, it’s kind of wild stuff.

  On one occasion I had a man named Gist Talmist on the program with an invention called the “psygistograph.” This particular creation seemed to be composed of an umbrella with no fabric, various strings and wires. I have no doubt that its purposes were many and magnificent, but after five hours’ conversation with the deviser of this machine I was still unable to understand, and more unable to convey to others, its functions. However, it may be that in machines, as in men, “they also serve who only stand and wait.”

  However, if there are inventions that just sit there and do nothing, there are others that are a positive explosion of activity, devices that flash and flicker and—do nothing. As a matter of fact there are a number of such examples of imagination, but the greatest of these madnesses is the Spectro-Chrome gaff created by a small, transplanted Indian who prospered in this country under the name “Colonel” Dinshah Pestanji Ghadiali. This particular confidence man, who has been reprimanded by the law to the extent of suspended prison sentence and a very heavy fine, started his extraordinary pitch immediately following the First World War.

  Invading a field that was already heavy with a host of medical quacks, he proceeded to make himself one of the most successful of these connivers. This he achieved by inventing a worthless contraption called the Spectro-Chrome Machine which did nothing but blink various colored lights. Each of the many hues was possessed of powers to “cure” particular disorders and/or diseases. Brilliant red restored virility, violet “de-sexed” one. At one point he was imprisoned for some time for conviction on a Mann Act charge, which, one would imagine, would have a rather negative effect on his “medical” career, but he continued to work very successfully following his release. Many, many thousands of the Ghadiali contraptions were leased and sold; thousands more paid for “instruction” classes, and books. When being tried for his questionable activities he was confronted by a number of witnesses who asserted that their relatives had died while following the treatments of the occult operator. Yet, regardless of the obvious nonsensicality of the invention, and notwithstanding the disastrous testimony of government witnesses, over a hundred persons came forward to claim that the quack had “cured” them with his gaff of a thousand lights.

  The one thing the Ghadiali machine couldn’t cure was gullibility.

  Dr. Wallace Minto, physicist and chemist, has been on my radio show several dozen times—often as an orthodox scientist discussing physics, astronautics, chemistry, biology, and other serious areas of investigation, but more frequently he has taken to the microphones in defense of, and to expound upon, telepathy, clairvoyance, psychometry and aura readings. His interest in the offbeat, particularly the “psychic”, amounts to fascination; and of the various categories mentioned I imagine the one that occupies his greatest attention is “aura reading.”

  Now there are only a few mechanical instruments associated with aura reading, but those that are are wild. Of the highly technical and intricately complicated versions none compare with Dr. Minto’s machine.

  My television show for one week was going to be dedicated to the proposition that all auras are created—by the mind that sees them. But Minto was going to
appear on the show to establish that the little haloes of many different colors actually did exist. It was his theory, and that of many other people who buy the aura action, that each person possesses a personal nimbus which is composed of one, or more, colors. The radiations, as well as being tinted, are supposed to vary considerably in width, distance from body, and so on. By weighing the implications of the various colors and measurements, a professional aura reader purportedly can diagnose illnesses, attitudes, emotions and characteristics.

  A black aura is found only about the physical being of a corpse.

  Normally, auras are read without any mechanical aids by those “possessed of the power,” but Dr. Minto devised a method by which such examinations might be conducted on a more “scientific” level. He employs an aura meter. Unfortunately, when he brought it to my television show the cables carrying current all around the studio interfered with the function of the device, but it was a remarkable thing to see. Covered with dials, and knobs and switches, it gave the impression that it could not only read auras, but could also serve as a small Univac, on the side. Of course, as far as I was concerned, there was no doubt as to its efficiency. In point of truth, to my mind it had but one minor flaw—I don’t believe in auras.

  Another aura meter which is really fascinating is the one conceived and merchandised by the Rev. V. L. Cameron, of Elsinore, California. This one consists of a cylindrical “handle” about 1” in diameter and 4” long. From this hilt a wire angles down an inch or two and then arcs up and away for almost a foot. At the end of this tension wire is connected a “head” in the shape of a slender rifle cartridge. When held by the grip, the rest of the assembly tends to bounce and “rock” freely up and down and from side to side. Presumably, by following the action of the aura meter, one can deduce certain things about people, find water and precious minerals, and in general have a rollicking good time. If you’re not really able to achieve your desired heights as an aura reader with this unique (and, by the way, beautifully designed) instrument, then Rev. Cameron has something else to aid you in your endeavors—a pair of aura goggles. These made it possible for anybody—well, almost anybody—to see auras. Naturally, in my modest manner I have to admit that I’m not anybody; as a matter of fact I don’t know anybody who’s anybody. But if somebody is anybody they can see auras with the Cameron Aura Meter.