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Albuquerque, New Mexico
June 15
Dear Joe:
I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.
My process--original with myself, by the way--is to send out feeler
vibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then I
establish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without his
knowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes my
letter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what he
has done.
My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of an
individual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, but
I fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tell
you about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I have
accomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.
In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind of
sleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.
Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.
As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...
my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hard
time classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquire
the stuff needed for the destruction of these people.
Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, the
impressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioning
for me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficient
mechanism I inhabit.
I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.
It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurried
immediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked up
and all about me at the beauty.
Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. I
simply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions was
to realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do not
let yourself believe they do.
This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.
Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. She
wore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention was
diverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.
The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried from
nearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene with
an attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I told
myself. But they were.
I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that you
unfortunately do not have--invisibility. I lay there and listened.
"He was stark naked," the girl with the sneakers said.
A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.
"Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out of
this area."
"But--"
"No more buck-bathing, Lizzy," the officer ordered. "No more speeches
in the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Now
where is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him."
That was it--I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to this
oversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressions
that assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,
pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. I
must feel each, become accustomed to it.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information I
have been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.
What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission is
impaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can write
you with more enlightenment.