ufo contact 115 people still who battle against great odds for what they know to be right. We believe that, with Your Majesty's approval, further evidence can be produced for your consider- ation which will help greatly your understanding of these matters, thereby encouraging others to seek the truth of these visitations from outer space. It is our sincere belief that there is far too much at stake for the world to continue to supress or ignore news of events of such magnitude. Should Your Majesty so desire, George Adamski's friends would be honoured to tell their own stories and show their own films in Your Majesty's presence. With respect, Sincerely The Editors. The evidence of the quiet contacts by RONALD CASWELL "THEY'LL NEVER GET CLOSE ENOUGH when I've got this in my hand, you know, Ronald", said Fred with some conviction, looking down at the gleaming object he held on his knee. He had a slightly rueful smile on his face. He reminded me of a youngish Bob Hope in looks except that his nose was not so sharp and his face a little more rounded. "It's a power zoom lens, see. It's fully automatic. - They know that if I get them on this, NO-ONE will be able to deny it". We sat near to the open French window of the lounge with the sun streaming in, I on the comfort- able old settee, Fred on a highbacked chair, one knee crossed over the other, looking thoughtfully at his own fingers idly adjusting the lens-piece of the cine-camera. May Morlet was somewhere in the house, probably ringing through to some of the guests we were ex- pecting later in the day - or maybe she had driven into Antwerp with Ingrid, Fred's wife, who had a hairdressing appointment that afternoon. Tomorrow we were to run through to The Hague to meet some of our Dutch friends who were arranging Fred's lect- ure and film-show there. Hans was about somewhere in the big old house. He had arranged for a few days' leave and travelled down from Copenhagen some days before. Hans is Major Petersen of the Royal Danish Air Force, organ- iser of the European and Asian sections of IGAP. He may never live it down, but, much-travelled man that he is, he had left his passport back home! He gave a huge chuckle as he described to us how he had managed to talk himself across the German frontier. Luckily his wife had now sent the passport on. I had flown across to Brussels a few days before, on September 1st, and drank coffee in the airport lounge with Pat Morlet, May's elder son, whilst we waited an hour or so for the Steckling's plane to come in from Washington, via New York and Co- logne. They were flying LUFTHANSA. Patrick had them paged as the Cologne flight be- gan to stream into the arrival bay, everyone on the look-out for the baggage coming up on the wide moving belt from below. Mrs. Suzy Peeters, May's lifelong friend, and Treasurer for the Belgian groups, arrived in her tiny Volkswagen and smilingly greeted us, together with Philip, May's younger son, who had been filming the aircraft from the airport roof. We were all old friends. Suzy was to help with extra transport back to Antwerp. We looked at the people who were coming over to the inquiries desk; and the floor clattered with luggage-loaded trollies as the passengers came away from Customs and began passing through the barri- ers, some hurrying, some looking lost, others being greeted enthusiastically by waiting friends. The huge hall rang with sound, and above all were the dis- embodied voices speaking loftily from many hidden loudspeakers. We wondered what Fred and Ingrid would look like. A neat-looking couple with a boy of about seven spoke to one of the clerks at the inquiries desk. They turned and faced us as the man pointed our way. Fred was about 6 feet 10, Ingrid about 5-7. Glenn was looking around him at the high roof of the foyer. Ingrid was an attractive young woman with natural blonde hair, slim and wearing a white, two-piece suit. She did not look the type one would expect to see at a special private meeting of members of the United States Senate Aeronautics and Space Comm- ittee. Fred seemed a rather serious-faced young man. Both were in their early thirties. Both were German- born, naturalised Americans. They had lived in Ca- nada for some time prior to their arrival in the States. Only little Glenn's voice was totally Ameri- can. So this was Fred Steckling, the young man who had not wished to "take over", as George Adamski had hoped during the last few days of his illness in Washington, D.C. As Fred said, no-one could take G.A.'s place. So it was left at that. And George had died, not knowing. Or did he know, that wise old man? Madeleine and Fred and Ingrid had just gone on working as before, only much harder. Telling G.A.'s story, showing his films, bothering the officials on Capitol Hill. And now they had Madeleine Rodeffer's film to show as well, the amazing close-up shots of the scout-craft hovering over her "front yard", which was in reality, the long sloping, grassy bank running from her house down to the road. At the most, a hundred feet in the air, level with the tall tree-tops. Madeleine and Ingrid had faced a chilly reception committee at the private Senate hearing of January 1965, a couple of months before George died; and at the end of the showing of George's film sequen- ces and a 45-minute verbal barrage from some sarc-