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"in smooth English." They did not speak to our scientists; they did not send sophisticated signals in uniquely decipherable codes as any well-behaved alien should before daring to penetrate our solar system. No, they picked Gary Wilcox instead. And Joe Simonton. And Maurice Masse. What did they say? That they were from Mars. That they were our neighbors. And, above all, that they were superior to us, that we must obey them. That they were good. Go to Valensole and ask Masse. He will tell you, perhaps, as he told me, how puzzled he was when suddenly, without warning, he felt inside himself a warm, comforting feeling — how good they were, our good neighbors. The Good People. They took a great interest in the affairs of men, and they always stood for justice and right. They could appear in different forms. With them Joe Simonton exchanged food. So, in times gone by, did Irishmen, who talked to similar beings. In those days, too, they were called the Good People and, in Scotland, the Good Neighbors, the Sleagh Maith. What did they say, then? "We are far superior to you." "We could cut off half the human race." It does begin to make sense. These were the facts we have missed, without which we could never piece the UFO jigsaw together. Priests and scholars left books about the legends of their time concerning these beings. These books had to be found, collected, and studied. Together, these stories presented a coherent picture of the appearance, the organization, and the methods of our strange visitors. The appearance was — does this surprise you? - exactly that of today's UFO pilots. The methods were the same. There was the sudden vision of brilliant "houses" at night, houses that could fly, that contained peculiar lamps, radiant lights that needed no fuel. The creatures could paralyze their witnesses and translate them through time. They hunted animals and took away people. In The Magic Casement, a book edited by Alfred Noyes about 1910, I find this little poem by William Allingham, which I invite all ufologists to learn as a tribute to Joe Simonton: Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. We are progressing, step by step, in a forest of reports and facts obscured by speculations and theories. I am trying to clear the underbrush. In the previous two chapters, order has begun to emerge. It is reassuring to find the phenomenon follows certain laws, however bizzare, and that it has puzzled our ancestors as much as it challenges us. aad re ee oe re oat ’ a oo. 1 3. The Secret Commonwealth It would be a grave mistake to believe that we, in the late twentieth century, are the first people