In researching the origins of the UFO phenomenon, especially the advent of the Flying Saucer Craze, one is continually surprised by what one discovers.
While looking up material on the origins of Rev. Orval Lee Jaggers’ belief that flying saucers were kidnapping human beings, I ran across a humorist column that gave a tongue-in-cheek contactee tale well before George Adamski started telling us about fair-haired Venusians he’d encountered in the desert.
(The following manuscript by Hal Boyle, who was last seen two days ago reading a copy of “Tom Swift” on the steps of the New York public library, was found in a beer bottle in a perambulator in Central Park. The empty bottle apparently had fallen from a great height.)
Aboard a Flying Saucer over Pitcher, Okla. – (AP) – Don’t tell me discus are imaginary. Here I am, in the middle of one, zooming around the American landscape like a boomerang.
These things aren’t discs or saucers at all. They’re built like a cowboy hat seven-stories tall.
The reason you folks down below have been disagreeing on the size is you haven’t seen the whole thing. All you have seen is the reflection of the sides where patches of the infra-invisible paint were burned off these huge space ships as they passed too close to the sun on their way here from Mars.
Yes, Mars! I am a prisoner aboard a 1947 model “Flying Saucer” from another planet. Let me explain:
I left the New York public library at dusk the other day and dropped into a quiet bar to wash down a warm vitamin pill with a cold bottle of beer.
Finishing it, I turned to a silent figure sitting next to me – the only other customer in the bar – and all but fainted. I saw a thing some eight feet tall, covered with thick green hair, with one eye like a hardboiled egg in the center of his forehead, and no visible mouth at all. He was naked, his hands were three-clawed and big enough for a Brooklyn center fielder.
The green man’s yolk yellow eye burned menacing red. One hand twisted one of a series of knobs on his chest marked “Slang, American,” and noiseless words drifted to me.
“Scram, Mac. But take along some beer. You’re going on a long ride.”
Then I found myself lifted and tossed sprawling. There was the sound of a door closing and a sense of lifting rapidly into space.
I scrambled to my feet and looked out the window – its infra-visible paint is only invisible whem you look at it from the outside. Manhattan was falling away beneath us like a toy town.
“Well, how do you like your first ride in a flying saucer, Orson Welles?” leered the green man. “You’re on the way to a place with more martinis than there ever were in New Jersey. ”
“Look, this may be a flying saucer,” I complained, “but I’m not Orson Welles. I got this high forehead from wearing a tight hat.”
“Then who are you? ”
“I’m his cousin, Artesian Welles,” I countered, “and who or what are you?”
“I’m Balminston X-Ray O’Rune from Mars,” said the green msn, “and you have probably ruined my chance to win the sweepstakes. ”
“What sweepstakes? ”
“Why the sixty thousandth centennail running of the universal Martian treasure hunt sweepstakes!” Crossly grunted thr green man. “This time there are 500 space ships competing. To win I have to bring back ten rare objects, including Orson Welles. Now somebody will beat me. It’s all your fault for looking like somebody else. ”
Moodily he tossed some peanuts on top of his head. To my mild surprise it opened and a double row of teeth chomped down on the peanuts. Now I knew where his voice had been coming from.
“What are the other items on your treasure hunt list?” I asked.
“Oh, I’ve already got a slice of moon cheese, a burning spark from the sun, the fingerprint of Motner Machree, a phonograph record of Gargantua singing “Mammy,” and an autographed smoke ring from Winston Churchill ‘s cigar,” said the green man.
“I’ve just got a few things lect to do in this country – like buying a new motor car, getting a nickel beer and a good five cent cigar, and plucking a hair from the eye brow of John L. Lewis.”
“Balminston, old boy,” I said, “I think you and the other flying saucers are going to be here a long time. Your search is only beginning.”
“I’ll keep you as a hostage then,” he said. “You steer while I catch a little sleep. ”
So here I am wheeling this blasted flying saucer back and forth between the Bronx, Santa Fe and Seattle. I have scribbled down this story and twice tried to smuggle it out in a bottle through the gravity exhaust tube. But each time the green man woke up and caught me.
Somehow I’ll manage to get the bottle out. You must believe what it contains. Bigger tales have come out of smaller beer bottles.
If I succeed I’ll send out more details on the flying saucers tomorrow. If, however, the green man catches me again, well –
“Look out below, Peoria.”
Come to think of it, this us more of an alien abduction tale than a contactee tale.
Disappointingly, Boyle’s tale at first suggests telepathic communication until he notes the presence of a hidden mouth atop the green man’s head. I also liked his (admittedly corny) take on how we might not be seeing what we think we see, courtesy of something like infra-invisible paint being burned off or whatever. There’s shades of Flatlander in that premise!
Hal Boyle did write a second half to his tale, ostensibly to continue his earthbound writing career, but it’s really not as impressive as the first half.
Still, it’s just more proof that these experiencers already had material to work with when their time came.