jak.themothmanprophecies-第49部分

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　　Finally　I　returned　to　my　New　York　apartment　at　2　A。M。　in　early　December；　nursing　a　heavy　cold；　a　souvenir　of　the　freezing　West　Virginia　rains；　exhausted。　Before　I　even　had　a　chance　to　take　off　my　coat　the　telephone　jangled。
　　
　　Dan　Drasin　Was　on　the　line　and　I　had　never　heard　him　in　such　a　state。　His　normally　calm　voice　dripped　with　terror。
　　
　　〃How　can　I　stop　all　this；　Keel？〃　he　cried。
　　
　　〃Stop　what？〃
　　
　　〃All　the　things　that　have　been　happening。　I　want　to　quit。　I　want　out！〃
　　
　　〃Look；　I　just　got　in。　What's　wrong？　What's　been　happening？〃
　　
　　〃Everything。　I　can't　take　it　anymore。〃
　　
　　I　knew　Dan　didn't　drink　or　take　drugs；　and　I　certainly　never　expected　him　to　go　to　pieces。
　　
　　〃There's　only　one　way　'out；'　Dan。　This　damned　thing　bees　an　obsession　。。。　a　fixation。　The　only　way　to　stop　all　the　nonsense　is　to　stop　thinking　about　UFOs。　Get　rid　of　all　your　files。　Take　up　stamp　collecting　or　chasing　women。　The　UFO　business　is　emotional　quicksand。　The　more　you　struggle　with　it；　the　deeper　you　sink。〃
　　
　　I　finally　calmed　him。　A　few　days　later　he　gave　me　part　of　his　files　and　destroyed　the　rest。　I　returned　his　files　to　him　a　year　or　so　later。　I　asked　him　many　times　about　what　prompted　that　frantic　phone　call　but　he　would　never　discuss　it。
　　
　　The　day　after　I　returned；　Al　Johnson　called。　The　tape　of　our　interview　had　been　accidentally　erased；　he　said。　He　wanted　me　to　e　to　Washington　and　do　another　one；　which　I　finally　did　several　months　later。　An　engineer　had　accidentally　placed　the　first　tape　on　a　pile　to　be　erased。　Such　errors　were　being　routine　to　me。　On　one　occasion；　a　German　reporter　came　to　my　apartment　with　a　camera　crew　to　interview　me　for　German　television。　Originally　he　planned　to　shoot　about　fifteen　minutes　of　film；　but　I　was　so　brilliant；　charming　and　informative　that　we　ended　up　doing　a　full　half…hour。　A　few　days　later　he　phoned　me。
　　
　　〃We　can't　understand　it；　Mr。　Keel；〃　he　began；　with　dismay　in　his　voice。　〃But　the　footage　we　shot　in　your　apartment　isn't　usable。　Parts　of　it　are　overexposed　and　sections　of　the　sound　track　are　filled　with　static。〃
　　
　　The　same　reporter；　incidentally；　had　visited　Derenberger　in　West　Virginia　and　was　present　when　Woody　announced；　〃Cold　is　over　the　house　right　now。〃　They　went　outside；　and；　sure　enough；　a　large　luminous　blob　was　soaring　casually　overhead。
　　
　　Strange　things　happened　to　the　written　word；　too。　I　was　at　Ivan's　farm　one　afternoon　when　a　New　York　editor　called　and　demanded　to　know　what　had　bee　of　a　UFO　story　Ivan　had　promised　him。
　　
　　〃I　sent　it　to　you　a　week　ago；〃　Ivan　protested。
　　
　　When　we　went　into　town　to　pick　up　the　mail　there　was　a　large　manila　envelope　with　a；　Florida　postmark。　Ivan　opened　it　and　threw　the　contents　down　in　disgust。　It　was　the　UFO　story　which　he　had　mailed　to　New　York　the　week　before！　Somehow　it　had　gone　to　Florida　instead　and　someone　had　remailed　it　back　to　him。
　　
　　My　own　problems　were　equally　bizarre。　The　editor　of　a　short…lived　occult　magazine　asked　me　to　contribute　an　article；　〃anything　。。。　it　can　just　be　something　from　your　trunk。〃　I　dug　out　a　short；　unpublished　piece　from　my　files　and　mailed　it　to　him。　There　was　a　deafening　silence。　A　couple　of　weeks　later　I　met　him　for　lunch　and　he　pulled　out　a　sheaf　of　papers。
　　
　　〃I'm　afraid　we　really　can't　use　this；　John；〃　he　said。　He　handed　me　a　dog…eared　manuscript；　single…spaced　in　elite　type。　I　have　always　used　pica　type　and　automatically　double…space　my　manuscripts。　My　name　and　address　were　at　the　top　of　this　masterpiece　and　it　had　arrived　at　his　office　in　one　of　my　envelopes。　As　I　read　it　I　could　see　that　it　was　a　real　piece　of　garbage。　To　this　day　I　don't　know　what　happened　to　my　manuscript；　or　how　the　trashy　substitute　was　switched　with　it。
　　
　　When　I　returned　to　New　York　in　December　I　found　that　my　entire　stable　of　contactees　was　mourning　my　passing。　Apol；　Lia；　Cloe；　and　their　band　of　poseurs　had　convinced　them　all　that　I　had　e　to　an　untimely　end　in　a　mine　cave…in。　This　marked　the　beginning　of　a　new　phase。　It　was　no　more　Mr。　Nice　Guy。　The　entities　spread　vicious　rumors；　turned　against　the　contactees；　and　terrified　them。　Jane　woke　up　one　night　to　find　all　the　gas　jets　on　her　kitchen　stove　were　turned　on　and　the　house　was　filling　with　fumes。　The　same　thing　happened　to　Shirley；　and　on　the　same　night。　Fred　Miller；　an　elderly　Long　Island　fanner　who　entertained　men　in　shiny　spacesuits　in　his　kitchen；　suffered　a　rash　of　mysterious　fires。
　　
　　Even　the　old　devil　and　Daniel　Webster　theme　was　dusted　off。　Harassed　contactees　were　ordered　to　sign　an　impressive…looking　piece　of　parchment；　allegedly　a　contract　for　their　beleaguered　souls。　I　was　caught　up　in　the　game；　playing　old　Daniel's　role；　arguing　with　demons　to　save　the　contactees。　They　let　me　win；　of　course；　having　proved　their　point。　Good　and　evil　were　synonymous　in　their　phantasmagorical　world。
　　
　　When　Linda　Scarberry　gave　birth　to　a　baby　girl　that　month　she　decided　to　name　her　Daniella　Lia。　No　one　other　than　a　couple　of　contactees　knew　of　the　Indian…like　entity　named　Lia。　Linda　had　just　picked　the　name　from　left　field　because　she　liked　it。　Later　Dan　Drasin　told　me　his　mother's　name　was　Lia　。。。　a　fact　I　had　not　known。　Neither　had　Linda。
　　
　　Synchronocity　all　over　the　place！
　　
　　On　my　way　to　see　an　editor　of　True　magazine　one　afternoon；　the　elevator　in　the　Fawcett　building　stopped　inexplicably　between　floors　and　the　lights　went　out　for　several　seconds。　That　night　a　contactee　called　to　tell　me　she　had　met　Mr。　Apol　and　he　was　chuckling　over　how　I　had　been　〃stuck　in　an　elevator。〃
　　
　　The　big　〃EM　effect〃　slated　for　December　15　was　now　more　clearly　defined。　The　space　people　were　timing　it　so　it　would　coincide　with　the　annual　Christmas　tree　ceremony　on　the　White　House　lawn；　I　was　told　At　the　very　moment　when　President　Lyndon　Johnson　threw　the　switch　to　light　up　the　tree；　the　power　all　over　the　country　would　fail。　Knowing　the　entities'　perverse　sense　of　humor；　and　impressed　by　the　accuracy　of　many　of　their　previous　predictions；　I　bought　this　lock；　stock；　and　barrel。
　　
　　My　biggest　concern；　however；　was　my　telephone。　My　bills　were　now　astronomical。　I　was　constantly　being　cut　off　in　the　middle　of　conversations；　or　foreign　sounds　were　injected　into　my　line。　Somebody　would　strum　a　one…stringed　guitar　or　blow　a　shrill　whistle　while　I　was　talking。　Like　Ivan；　I　often　heard　the　distinct　sound　of　an　extension　being　picked　up　or　put　down　Electronic　beeps；　eerie　music；　hollow　metallic　voices；　all　became　mon　on　the　blasted　instrument。　My　gentle　protests　to　the　telephone　pany　turned　into　howls　of　rage。　I　demanded　the　privilege　to　personally　examine　my　telephone　line　from　one　end　to　the　other。　And　the　telephone　pany　granted　permission。
　　
　　On　December　13　I　visited　the　main　office　of　my　telephone　exchange　a　few　blocks　from　my　apartment　building。　A　technician　and　a　young　〃Special　Agent〃　met　me　at　the　door　and　escorted　me　through　the　entire　building。　The　security　measures　were　impressive。　Every　floor　consisted　of　a　series　of　locked　rooms。　My　escorts　were　constantly　fiddling　with　keys。
　　
　　My　line　passed　through　the　walls　of　my　apartment　building　to　the　telephone　room　in　the　basement。　The　lines　were　built　into　the　walls　when　the　building　was　constructed　so　there　was　no　way　they　could　be　tapped　in　the　house　itself。　The　basement　room　was　always　locked。　There　my　line　was　hooked　to　a　line　which　traveled　in　a　tube　under　the　city　streets　to　the　exchange　building。　Here　again；　a　tap　was　impossible。　If　any　tap　existed；　it　had　to　be　in　the　basement　telephone　room　or　in　the　exchange　building。
　　
　　Inside　the　exchange；　the　tube　came　out　in　a　locked　room　and　my　line　was　separated　from　the　others　and　soldered　to　a　set　of　terminals　which　were　connected　to　wires　leading　to　the　dialing　mechanism。　I　had　studied　books　on　the　telephone　system　and　I　knew　exactly　how　all　this　machinery　worked。　The　only　thing　that　impressed　me　was　the　age　of　all　the　equipment。　Most　of　it　had　been　built　and　installed　in　the　1920s。　It　would　be　a　pliment　to　call　it　junk。　It　was　all　antique。　Some　rooms　contained　apparatus　so　old　it　looked　like　young　Tom　Edison's　laboratory。　There　were　coils；　meters；　switches；　and　rheostats　that　were　outdated　when　Marconi　was　sending　his　first　signals　across　the　Atlantic。
　　
　　However；　all　this　rickety　debris　appeared　to　be　in　good　working　condition。
　　
　　In　another　locked　room　a　group　of　people　were　working　with　a　device　called　a　〃pen　register。〃　This　was　a　gadget　that　could　be　patched　into　any　telephone　line　to　record　every　number　dialed　on　that　phone。　A　moving　pen　wrote　the　number　on　a　strip　of　paper。　Thus　the　telephone　pany　could　obtain　a　record　of　every　local　call　made　on　a　given　phone　（long…distance　calls　are　automatically　recorded　on　another；　more　elaborate　device）。
　　
　　If　anyone　was　tapping　my　phone；　they　had　to　do　it　from　the　two　terminals　at　the　tube　outlet。　Or　a　connection　had　to　be　made　at　that　point　and　the　wires　strung　to　another　room。　The　locked　doors　and　tight　security　meant　that　only　authorized　snoops　could　connect　such　a　tap。　And；　as　I　learned　later；　the　New　York　Telephone　pany　was