Control Somnambule

To: General James Kearny, Directorate, A.F.I.

From: Amos P. Fineman, M.D.

Subject: Statements made while under deep hypnosis byCaptain Paul Davenport, Project Apollo astronaut, and an evaluation thereof.

Classified: For your eyes only.

Dear Jim:

Herewith, as I promised you, a summary of the events that occurred during and after "Operation Moonshot," and my verbatim report of the strange statements made under deep hypnosis by Captain Paul Davenport, the astronaut who made our first successful circumlunar orbit and return last week.

Before I go into it, I do want to remind you of the trust and confidence Air Force Intelligence has shown in me in the past, by way of preparing you for some conclusions, later ...

After your urgent summons, I was briefed at Patrick AFB by Colonel Friend, project coordinator. He told me that the shot was made in total secrecy. Even Captain Davenport didn't know that he'd been selected to ride the bird until two hours before final countdown. When he was told, he was understandably elated; competition among the astronauts was keen to be the first to make the deep-space flight around the moon and back.

Vehicle, as you know, was the Saturn C-1, with high-energy propellant second stage and steerable Centaur last stage. The capsule, a modified three-man re-entry vehicle command module, with the extra space taken up by an oversize stop-and-start solid-fuel rocket engine. All checked out perfectly during the 48-hour countdown. During the final countdown, when Davenport was being strapped into the contour chair in the capsule, he showed no symptoms of undue strain. He completed his checkoff list with calm precision.

Launching went according to schedule and the Saturn lifted off smoothly. The shot was programmed to make a high-speed run to the moon -- something under 34 hours. Synergic ascent was to the southeast, out through the so-called "Capetown anomaly," the known gap in the Van Allen radiation belt. As the capsule approached the moon at high speed, it would reverse itself, retro-rockets fired to slow it enough to enable it to slip into a tight orbit about the moon. As it began its transit of the far side, it would release a brilliant sodium-vapor flare, visible on earth. Transit of far side to take about 51 minutes. As it again came into earth's view, it was to release a second flare, after which full thrust would be applied by the solid-fuel engine and the capsule would begin its 60-hour journey back to earth and re-entry

All stages functioned as (continued on page 66) Somnambule (continued from page 63) planned; signals came in loud and clear, including those checking the vital life-support system of the capsule. Every tracking station on earth followed it; the powerful radio-telescope at Sugar Grove locked on the capsule's special signal which would only cease for the 51 minutes during which the capsule would be on the far side of the moon.

Exactly as programed, 34 hours, 14 minutes after all-burnt, the brilliant flare was seen on earth, and Davenport's calm voice, delayed two seconds by distance, announced he was beginning transit of the far side of the moon, relaying technical information about TV cameras, electronic image storers, etc. His voice faded, and was silent for 49 minutes, 20 seconds, and then he came on again, still calm, loud and clear: "I have earth in sight. Firing flare." And the brilliant pinpoint of light was clearly visible in all telescopes.

"Full thrust," his voice came, across cislunar space. "Hello, you blue beautiful old --" And at that instant, his voice cut off. Simultaneously, all life-support system telemetering data ceased sending. His signal vanished from both the powerful Sugar Grove telescope and the Jodrell Bank receiver, in England. Every device aboard the big capsule which had been sending smoothly, efficiently, stopped abruptly.

Every effort to contact the capsule failed. Various emergency devices were triggered, including additional powerful flares stored in the capsule's skin. No results. The thought of the million-to-one accident -- meteor collision -- was uppermost in all minds. It would take a total and instantaneous disintegration of the capsule to destroy every emergency sender built into the capsule.

All tracking stations were kept on the alert. Until the 60 hours planned for the return journey were over, there was no thought of giving up.

And suddenly, five hours, 54 minutes after the capsule's disappearance, it began sending loud and clear; its pip once again picked up by the Sugar Grove telescope -- and Davenport's voice finished the sentence which had abruptly been cut off nearly six hours before: "Hello, you blue beautiful old earth, here I come."

The tapes clicked over smoothly, efficiently -- the instruments recording perfectly -- every one of them taking up where they'd left off five hours, 54 minutes earlier.

Questions were immediately put to Davenport -- and it was then that the puzzle deepened. He insisted there'd been no interruption whatsoever -- that the return flight was exactly on schedule. He expressed astonishment when told he'd disappeared completely for nearly six hours. He could not explain the disappearance of the capsule from all tracking stations, nor what had occurred during those lost six hours when his own voice had been silent.

Approaching earth 60 hours later, Davenport quietly announced he was making the delicately precise maneuvers for slipping into the "re-entry corridor," and exactly as programed, the big capsule was seen drifting down well within the impact area in the south Atlantic.

Davenport and the capsule were snatched from the ocean by copter, deposited aboard a carrier, from which they were flown by special jet to Patrick AFB.

Again Davenport insisted that at no time had he ceased sending -- nor had he missed any contact from earth. He had slept for some hours -- but long after the mysterious disappearance had been reported. The instruments and tapes aboard the capsule corroborated Davenport's firm denial that anything had gone wrong -- they all showed uninterrupted identical data: speeds, times, orientation in space, a continuous functioning of the UHF tracking signal -- no break whatsoever in any of the life-support systems.

A capsule, moving at speed, does not suddenly cease sending, and disappear from every tracking station of earth, and just as suddenly reappear -- all unknown to its occupant -- without good and sound reason. A persistent and patient survey of all the telemetered data finally disclosed that the capsule had undergone an intense "storm" of highly charged subatomic particles -- of what sort, unknown. A storm of this magnitude must have existed as a long band, stretching between the moon and earth.

Furthermore, the capsule had, apparently, drifted within this enormous ribbon of high-intensity magnetic force for the exact length of time the capsule had disappeared from the tracking scopes, dropping out of it six hours later.

It was thought that radar beams and radio signals must have simply been "bent" around this field, and instead of bouncing back to disclose a blip, would have, instead, gone on, uninterrupted, thereby causing the observers to believe that the capsule was not there.

A field of this intensity would also, of course, cause instantaneous stoppage of all electrical instruments -- including that most sensitive electrical instrument of all -- Davenport's brain.

This somewhat tenuous theory is now the officially accepted explanation of the dramatic disappearance and reappearance of America's first successful manned orbit of the moon.

However, it was an alert film technician, Harry Wyckoff, who discovered the curious discrepancy which led to my being called into the case. As you know, within the manned capsule, and focused so as to cover the entire capsule interior, there is a spring-operated high-speed microminiature camera, geared to take films at certain intervals in order to record the various body positions the astronaut might assume under zero gravity conditions.

In developing this film, Wyckoff noted what appeared to be a discontinuity in the series of tracks which were placed on the edges of the film as correlating data to be used in conjuction with other instrument readings. These tracks, instead of continuing in even series, terminated with one set of coordinates and abruptly started with another, much later, series.

He ran the tiny film through a magnifier and immediately discovered that there had been a break in the film, a break which had been spliced so expertly as to be unnoticeable to the casual inspection.

Wyckoff ran the film at an exceedingly slow speed and discovered four of the tiny frames showed -- not the bulky figure of Davenport floating in space, but, rather -- an empty capsule interior. Four frames, just before the splice, which seemed to indicate that for at least a short time, Davenport had been absent from the space capsule.

Obviously, this was impossible. A man, encased in a bulky space suit, dependent for his very life on the umbilical cords trying him to his life-support system -- such a man does not disengage those cords, breach his sealed hatch and crawl out of a capsule moving through a hard vacuum at speeds of many thousands of miles an hour. And then, after all that, crawling back in -- resealing his hatch -- a job which must be done by tech from outside -- and surviving. No, no.

The only solution appeared to be the obvious one -- there'd been a mix-up. A double exposure, either during camera-loading or after the camera had been off-loaded. But both jobs had been done by Wyckoff. That film had been whole and unspliced prior to blast-off. It looked very much as if someone had edited that film and missed those last four frames. But who? And -- why? He strugged it off; the whole shot had been a weirdy. Nevertheless, he did mention it to Colonel Friend, project coordinator -- a deeply worried man at the moment.

Colonel Friend viewed the film in slow motion, stopping the camera on the four views of the empty capsule interior. Several of the "umbilical cords," wires that led to Davenport's body, were plainly visible, hanging loose.

It was then the colonel requested that Davenport be questioned under hypnosis, in an attempt to discover what (continued on page 128) Somnambule (continued from page 66) really had occurred, 200,000 miles from earth, during those six hours of silence.

Colonel Friend's request was channeled through Rand Corporation, the Air Force's Research and Development facility at Santa Monica, and through Rand (and your good offices, Jim) I was contacted and asked to perform the deep hypnosis and subsequent questioning of Davenport.

At first glance, Captain Paul Davenport didn't appear a promising subject for hypnosis. About five feet, 10 inches tall, with alert green eyes, he moved with the poise of a fine athlete.

He hadn't been told the reason for this hypnosis attempt -- only that it was hoped he'd have made some subconscious observations during his six-hour blackout which might reveal themselves under hypnosis. Observations which could be of inestimable value to the astronauts to follow.

I was surprised at the ease with which he slipped into a light trance. It seemed to indicate that he'd undergone prior hypnosis, through I'd been told he never had. A person, once hypnotized, achieves initial trance rather quickly. Davenport lay back on the couch, concentrating intently on the whirling spiral disk I held before him, and within a few minutes he was in the very deepest trance known as "somnambule." In this state, Davenport would actually relive and re-enact any incident in his past at my bidding.

I told Davenport he was back in the space capsule, preparing for final countdown. Immediately he stretched out on the couch in the reclining position he assumed within the capsule. In a conversational tone I then read the long list of items to be checked off by an astronaut about to ride a spaceship into deep space.

And quickly, eyes blank and indrawn, Davenport reached here, there, above him and to the side, making twisting motions, snapping imaginary switches, turning dials, reading instruments off to me, reliving, totally, the last moments prior to launch.

"Fire!"

At the moment of blast-off he sank down into the couch, jaw slack, eyes receding deeper and deeper into his head. He actually flattened under the force of his relived gravity pull of the Saturn's million-and-a-half-pound thrust. He grimaced, groaning slightly, holding his abdomen.

"What is it, Davenport?"

"Pain. Pressure hurts here." He touched his right abdomen.

Finally, the g pull eased, he resumed his normal reclining position, eyes flicking from one imaginary instrument to another, speaking coolly, a look of growing elation on his face. Suddenly a wide grin split his face. "A-OK," he murmured. "Booster separated on course, on altitude." He listened to an unheard voice, nodding. "It looks good."

"Captain Davenport -- Paul," I said quietly, "what's happening?"

Instantly the elation dropped from his voice and in the flat tones of the submerged personality he said, "In synergic ascent above the tip of Africa and heading for the hole. Altitude -- --"

I snapped my fingers softly, and he ceased speaking. "This is 35 hours later," I told him. "You have transited the far side of the moon; have released the second flare. The earth is coming into view again. What's happening now?"

Again he assumed the alert position, checking his nonexistent instruments. "Full thrust," he said crisply. He peered ahead, and grinned. "Hello, you blue beautiful old -- --" He froze, staring into space ahead of him, a surprised look on his face.

"What's happening?" I said quickly.

"Gravity," he murmured. "I -- I'm feeling gravity -- and there's been an interruption from Sunnyvale monitoring station -- --" He stared before him, blinked hard, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "No," he said. "No."

"What do you see, Davenport?" I snapped.

"It's a -- a ship. Dead ahead. As though I'm tailing it. And now -- --" He punched savagely at something in front of him.

"Engine," he gasped. "Burping."

He waited, a look of helplessness on his face. "It's cut out," he muttered, still staring ahead, as though through the capsule window. "The engine's not firing. I'm moving up on it." His eyes bulged. "There's a hatch opening -- and -- I'm going into it. The spaceship -- I'm inside it."

He waited, rigid, then slowly his head swiveled to one side. "Don't open that hatch!" He was trying to roar, but it came out a faint breathless shout. He watched in horror as something -- the hatch, apparently, was dropped out of the capsule. He closed his eyes, then snapped them open again. He suddenly lashed out, slowly, awkwardly, as though retarded by a clumsy space suit. "Stay away -- My oxygen!"

He stiffened for a moment, as though having difficulty breathing, then slowly, he took a tentative breath, then another. Surprised, he breathed deeply. "Air," he said. "There's air on this."

"Where are you, Davenport?" I asked softly.

"Big spaceship," he said. "Like a small hangar. Empty? No -- those are people?" This last, questioningly.

"Describe them," I said sharply.

He shook his head. Squinting his eyes as though peering beyond a brilliant light. He put a hand up to shade his eyes. "Can't see a thing. Blurred." Suddenly he lifted both elbows, as though fighting something off. He flailed ineffectively.

I snapped my fingers and abruptly he was quiet. "What's happening, Captain?"

"Taking me out of the capsule --" He stopped, starting, amazement on his face. "We're moving up on another ship --" His voice dropped, became awestruck. "My God! This is a spaceship?" His head moved slowly from side to side, as though surveying a great bulk. "This thing is bigger by far than the Forrestal. It's like a mountain of metal. We're going into it. It's immense. Immense. What sort of power do they use? Why doesn't it register on our trackers? A thing this size, no matter how distant -- stop!" He lashed out, slowly, dreamily, like a man moving underwater.

He closed his eyes, shuddering slightly. "God! Don't touch me. Don't." He shrank away, then he lashed out, swinging his big fists violently. Gradually, he relaxed, arms down.

"What's happening, Paul?"

"They're talking to me. Soothingly. Quietly. One of them --" his face wrinkled in disgust. "He's patting me on the head -- like I'm a scared dog, or something. An infant."

"He's patting you? Then you can see them? Describe them."

He shook his head, his limbs moving slowly. Walking motions. "I can't see them," he mumbled.

"Try, Davenport. Look at them, closely. Closely. You can see them perfectly, can't you?"

"No," he whispered, after a moment's intense straining. "No. I can see everything else -- this wall. Metal. Warm. And this room -- low table. Bright lights. Like a lab, maybe? Wall with a big chart, or graph on it. But -- not them. I can't see them." He squinted painfully. "Blur. Just a blur."

He thrashed about again, making those same slow-motion fighting actions. He grunted, sweat pouring off his face.

"What's happening, Paul?"

"Taking off my suit. My clothes. Tape. Naked." The perspiration vanished and suddenly he shivered, teeth clicking. "Man, it's colder than hell, now. Naked. Standing alongside --" A puzzled frown on his face, and then the clearance of sudden recognition. "Like a police lineup," he muttered, scowling. "There's a chart or outline hanging on the wall. I'm standing next to it. Light coming through it. Smell of electricity -- ozone." He remained rigid, arms at his sides. Then, reluctantly, his arms spread out, his fingers apart. He opened his legs. He scowled. "Some sort of fluoroscopy. They're measuring me, taking pictures of my insides."

"Who are they?" I snapped my fingers. "Paul. Listen. I want you to see them. Look right at them. Look at them."

He half sat up, peering, as though through blinding lights. "Nothing," he said softly. "Can't see them. Just a blur."

"All right. You're up against a screen. You feel that it's a fluoroscope of some sort -- an X-ray machine. Go on."

He shivered again, goose flesh popping out all over his arms. "Counting my ribs," he said. "Toes, fingers -- teeth. What is this -- hey!"

He went on, describing in great detail what appeared to be a very thorough physical examination. Nothing external, apparently, was left unnoticed. He described the feeling of a viscous slimy substance which hardened over him. At this point his body assumed a slowly stiffening position.

"What do you feel now, Captain?"

His voice was choking -- panicky. "It's like a tight pressure suit," he gasped.

"Tight. Tighter. I can't breathe." He went rigid, arms down at his sides, fingers extended, toes stretched out, chin back. He remained that way for long seconds, and then he relaxed, took a deep breath.

"Paul? What's happening?"

"Ah, feels good. Thought I'd had it --" He winced slightly. "Peeling it off. I'll be --" He got up on an elbow and stared. "It's me -- a mold of me. Split in half. It looks like -- a mummy case. Soft material, a little like foam rubber. A mold of my body." His muscles bulged again and he made frantic flailing motions.

"What is it?"

"It's an operating room," he said, and his voice was flat, dead, filled with suppressed terror. "They're putting me on a table. No!" He half rose, mouth wide open in a scream.

I snapped my finger and he subsided, looking up at the ceiling, eyes wide, staring.

"Tell me, Paul. What's happening now?"

"Something -- They're putting something on my temples. Wires. Electricity again."

I watched him intently. Suddenly on each side of his head, the hairs stood straight out; the skin over the temples became completely white, bloodless.

He went limp and his arms lay at his sides, unresisting, palms out, fingers curled slightly. He was apparently in a deep, electrically induced coma. He breathed slowly, evenly. I took his pulse. It had dropped to nearly a quarter of normal. His temperature was also way down. He remained, unmoving, looking at the ceiling, but I noticed a curious horripilation, a spasmodic shudder of his stomach muscles, and on impulse, I opened his shirt.

I stared. A fine red line ran from his breastbone down to his lower abdomen. Even as I watched, the vivid red streak faded until it became a thin white scar line that might have been only a creased imprint from the couch. And in a moment, even that vanished; nothing remained but matted hair.

Gradually, his pulse and heartbeat returned to normal. He began breathing heavily again. Eventually, he opened his eyes and I saw the pupils expand, then begin a slow circling movement, exactly as they'd done when I'd been putting him in trance.

"Davenport," I said sharply. "Quick! What's happening?"

"They are telling me --" his voice seemed dragged from deep within. "When I return to flight, I will not remember. I -- will -- not -- remember --" He nodded agreement.

I snapped my fingers. He relaxed. "What's going on now?"

He came up on one elbow, then swung off the couch, a look of pleased surprise on his face. "My space suit. My clothes. They're trying to dress me. OK, OK --" He made irritable brushing motions. "I can get the damned things on."

He put his hands up over his head and made careful wriggling movements, as though slipping into a tight-fitting suit. He "adjusted" various clips and snaps, and finally, reached up and guided something down over his head and onto his shoulders, obviously his helmet. "Careful," he murmured. He glanced to the right and left, checking, and he nodded again. "That's good. That does it."

"Paul?" I said questioningly.

"They're taking me back. There's the capsule."

"Where are you now?"

He craned his head around, slowly, awkwardly, as though fully encased in space gear. "Looks like the hangar deck of an aircraft carrier," he murmured, "if there could be a carrier this big, that is. God! It looks like the runway at Patrick. Miles long." Miles long." He made curious twisting contortions.

"What's going on now, Paul?"

"Back in the capsule," he said, his voice straining, as he grunted and adjusted himself. He glanced around. "One thing, they know the manual as well as anyone."

He sucked in a breath and sank down onto the couch, seeming to flatten as he did so. He remained that way for a long moment, his cheeks sunken, eyes receded, and slowly, slowly, his features began to fill out again, his breathing became regular and he opened his eyes. Instantly a grin came on his face and he said, "Hello, you blue beautiful old earth."

"Paul," I said, "where are you?"

He looked at me, then quickly glanced beyond, as though still staring at a far-distant -- but rapidly approaching -- earth. "In the can -- heading for home," he said matter-of-factly. "Sixty hours to re-entry."

"How about the big spaceship?" I said. "The operating room?"

He flicked switches and examined dials. "I don't follow you at all, friend," he said impatiently.

Obviously, the experience, and it was a valid one, was over. He'd been put into flight once again and all memory of the past six hours obliterated at the conscious level. I snapped my fingers. "When I count three, Captain Davenport," I said slowly and distinctly, "you will come back, with no memory of anything you have said here. One, two, three--"

He sat perfectly still, then he said, "All over?" I nodded and he said, "Funny, I don't remember any of it --"

"There's nothing to remember, Captain," I told him.

Afterward, I compared notes with Colonel Friend. I asked him if Daven- port had undergone a fluoroscopic examination after the space flight. Friend shook his head.

"I'd like a complete gastrointestinal series," I said. "As soon as possible."

"But -- why the GI series?" he asked. "Has Davenport complained of anything?"

"No, he hasn't," I said. "And that's just the point -- he should have."

The series was made. Davenport was given the usual dosage of chemicals which are used to make the internal organs visible to X rays. Under the fluoroscope two very strange things were noted: From breastbone to lower abdomen, a long thin line glowed noticeably. Also, in the cecum -- the first portion of the large intestine located in the lower right part of the abdomen, the entire area glowed with the same pulsant light.

Davenport's medical records show that he has never had an appendectomy -- or surgery of any kind, in fact.

Close interrogation elicited the admission from Davenport that just after his having been selected to take the "big ride" (as he puts the moon shot) he had felt some nasty pains and a slight rigidity in the right lower quadrant of his abdomen. In other words, he'd been exhibiting definite symptoms of appendicitis. He attributed the pains, however, to nervous excitement.

He admitted that the pain was quite bad directly after the rocket lifted; the strain of the heavy g pull pressing down on his abdomen undoubtedly would have aggravated this condition. But he says that after he'd orbited the moon and come in sight of the earth again -- the pain vanished.

An exploratory operation was performed on Davenport in order to ascertain the source of the strange glow within his body cavity, and it was then we discovered that Davenport's appendix had been expertly removed -- and apparently quite recently. Fresh pink tissue covered the incised area.

But odder still -- there was a long row of regular geometrical figures or designs, triangles, loops, dots and dashes, outlined in pale blue on the cecum, just above where the appendix had been. I would say it is a tattoo, in inert, ineradicable ink.

The source of the glow has been unidentified to date, but I feel certain it is the residual effect of some radioactive process used to regenerate tissues -- to heal incisions instantaneously.

Some very faint scar tissue did remain inside, however, enough to show beyond doubt that Davenport's abdomen had been opened, at one time ...

My conclusions are these: Davenport actually underwent the traumatic experience he so vividly relived for me.

By some beings -- species unknown (attracted by the flares?), the space capsule was snagged in mid-flight and taken aboard a huge spaceship of some kind, obviously equipped with radar-deflection devices, as well as the powerful subatomic force-fields which completely stopped all instruments (but not the spring-operated camera -- as they discovered, necessitating editing the film).

This ship, doubtless a scout, then transferred Davenport to an immensely greater "mother" ship, and there Davenport was subjected to a thorough physiological examination -- complete to having a mold made of his body.

In the course of internal examination (the opening undoubtedly made with an instrument operating on the principle of the electron scalpel which makes a microscopically thin incision), Davenport's diseased appendix was discovered and removed -- and the queer "tattoo" placed on the conveniently broad cecum.

He was then closed up and the incision treated by some process which virtually instantaneously regenerated the tissues. Davenport was revived, put into a deep trance, given a posthypnotic command to forget everything that had occurred since his capture, then placed back into the capsule and put into flight at the precise spot his schedule called for.

His inability to describe his captors seems to have been due to some brilliant emanations that came from them, making it impossible for him to look directly at them without a blurring of his vision. When I ordered him to look at them, he peered painfully, as into some intolerably dazzling light ...

One last conclusion I offer gratuitously:

Zoologists, and other interested individuals concerned with the study of many types of wildlife, follow the practice of capturing a selected few of whatever particular animal is under study, attaching small harmless identifying tags to them, and then releasing them.

These tags, along with specific coded information, usually contain a request to whomsoever might later capture the tagged animal, to return the tag, along with pertinent data such as date of capture, location, size and weight of the animal, etc.

In this way, growth patterns, migratory habits, longevity and other technical data are gradually amassed concerning the particular species under study. Such tagged animals are known as "controls."

Do you follow me? It would appear, from Davenport's queer "tattoo," that he was seized in flight, swiftly and expertly examined -- inside and out -- tagged, and then released.

By whom -- and for what purpose -- remains to be seen.

Sincerely,(Signed) Amos Fineman, M.D.