“The new comics included a lot of copies of the Fatman, the Human Flying Saucer comic book,” Fagan continued. “Frank and Randy were saying how great they thought it was, sort of reviving the look of Captain Marvel. But I spoke up and said I didn’t like it, because I thought it made fun of fat people. They were a little shocked that I would say something like that in Otto’s presence, but—though he obviously disagreed—it didn’t seem to bother him. After all, it was just my opinion.”
“Who’s hungry?” Binder asked. He was quite surprised when Fagan insisted on treating them all to a restaurant meal. Then it was Fagan’s turn to be surprised, when he entered the Chestertown restaurant that Otto selected. “It was the seediest place imaginable, a real dive, with the lights down low—it was so dark in there! I turned to Otto and asked, ‘Isn’t there any place that’s nicer than this?’ Binder said, ‘Yes, there is one other place, but it’s quite expensive.’ I got the feeling that perhaps Otto didn’t frequent the place where we eventually had our dinner. I wasn’t rich, but I wanted to do something for Otto, and I felt good about it.” Sometime in the course of that meal, Binder brought up his interest in reincarnation, and in paranormal phenomena like séances. But he was most eager to talk to them about the theories of Dr. Raudive.
Listening to the tape recording made during this visit with three fans reveals all kinds of little, personal things about Otto. He was an attentive host. He made sure they were comfortable, and offered them drinks. (His beverage of choice was beer.) According to Fagan, OOB spoke very deliberately, yet freely, with evident sincerity. The guests sat on an enormous couch, and Otto took a seat in a nearby easy chair. Sometimes, they were joined by his cat Pearl.
The visitors hadn’t come with a specific list of questions, so the resulting discussion isn’t very revealing, in terms of comics history. Randy Cox asked about whether Otto had written for Street & Smith comic books, and Binder could only answer, “I’m sure I wrote a couple of Doc Savages, but I really can’t remember.” (He did, according to his records.)
Binder became most animated when he was talking about Mort Weisinger and Dr. Fredric Wertham. (Most of those comments have been included in earlier chapters.) What seems clear is that, whatever adversity had come his way, Binder wasn’t bitter. He was, more than anything, dumbfounded by the behavior of some of the people he had come up against.
“I’m gonna tell you another story about Mort. You can print it if you want. See, this guy makes excellent money. Good wages at DC, he sells articles on the side and such. He’s always making money. So we go out to lunch. This happened more than once. Many times.
“The waitress gives us separate checks, see? Which meant that maybe the tax on the check cost an extra cent or two, by dividing the amounts. So he asked the girl for a single check! This would embarrass the hell out of me. Once he even told the girl, it costs an extra penny if you give us separate checks. So the girl would go back and make out a single check, to save one penny. A minute before, he’d shown me a check for $1000 from This Week or something. He was a cheap, miserly bastard.”
Binder was patient, even when the sometimes-eccentric Fagan repeatedly mumbled his words. “I really am a little deaf in one ear,” Otto assured him. “Let me just move my chair a little closer.”
When asked about how many words he could write in a day, OOB replied, “These days, I can do about three thousand words, or ten pages. By then, I’m dizzy. I can’t even think straight any more. The most I ever did in a day was twelve thousand words, but that wasn’t every day. What I do now is work steadily, so it piles up nicely.”
Fagan has a distinct memory of Binder stating that he and Jack were convinced that the original art to Whiz Comics #2 (the first appearance of Captain Marvel) still existed, but OOB wouldn’t say if they knew who had it.
As time passed, the author shared a bit of his philosophy of life. “Every person, or nation, or world, should have its own self-determination,” he said. “Whether you stumble along or not, you’ve got to learn it all by yourself. You have to go through your experiences. Nobody can yank you through life.”
This was the occasion when Binder admitted that he thought UFOs were real. “I believe that they exist, simply because the documentary evidence is so strong. The hard part to figure out is, why are they here? My one idea is that they’re leading us to the stars, so that we can join the whole community of worlds out there.
“You know what would really excite me? If a UFO landed out here, and some little guys came out, and—if they knew our language, and some people say they do—if I could just talk to them. I would get a big bang out of that.
“Even if they didn’t have any great message. Just to say ‘hello,’ … and to hear that they came from another star. I wouldn’t want to take a ride with them. I’m too much of a coward. I’d just like to talk to ’em.
“I certainly wouldn’t want to go back to their world to stay. Supposing it was some sort of advanced planet? You’d feel like a moron. What kind of a life would that be? If I went, or just went on a trip around the world in a saucer, I’d want to come back and write about it.”
Finally, it was time to leave. Binder signed some Captain Marvel comics for Randy Cox, as well as a copy of his latest book Hospital Horror. They said their good-byes, and then headed back to Rutland to prepare for the annual Halloween costume parade and party at Tom Fagan’s house.
Late-in-life photo of Otto Binder (with beard), 1974. Courtesy of Michael Turek.
On another occasion, Binder was visited by Bertil Falk, Ulf Johansson, and Hans Stefan Santesson, fans from Sweden who had traveled to America to meet him. (Hans Stefan had been the editor of Fantastic Universe Science Fiction and The Saint Mystery Magazine.)
Falk wrote, “On February 22, 1974, I picked up a car from a Manhattan rent-a-car dealer in New York City.”5 After gathering his passengers, “the three of us went upstate in order to visit Otto Binder in Chestertown, New York. It was a very cold day, there was a lot of snow and the road was a sheet of ice.
“His house is a pleasant one. It is about one hundred years old and his wife … collects antiques and curios of different kinds, a hobby, which seems to be more and more common in the United States, where the habit is more spread than in Sweden. His studio is small. The walls are covered with books and his foremost instrument is of course his typewriter, even though a tape recorder also is prominent on his desk.”236
As it turned out, the Swedes’ visit coincided with a period of gasoline rationing. “[Binder] and his wife displayed hospitality, which in every respect made the twenty-four-hour long trip successful. Even the problem with gasoline was solved, though the crisis at the time of our visit was enormous. Most service stations were closed or had no gasoline and by those that were open, car-owners had to stay in line for up to two hours. But with the assistance of Binder our tank was filled in Chestertown and we could return to Manhattan with new experiences.”237
The last known interview with Otto Binder occurred in the summer of that year, and saw print in Fawcett Collectors of America fanzine in October 1974. It was conducted by Matt Lage, who at the time was living in Milan, Illinois. (Excerpts from this interview appear in earlier chapters.)
Binder continued to stay in touch with many of his old friends, although he and Ione had ceased sending Christmas cards. The list, which numbered two hundred and fifty names, was just too long. Despite their semi-seclusion, Otto wrote notes and made phone calls to keep in touch. Some did drift away. Neither Bill Woolfolk nor Julius Schwartz heard much from him (and presumably vice versa) after his move to the Adirondacks.
C. C. Beck was another story. That connection had been strong, both professionally and personally. Otto and Ione felt a kinship with C. C. and Hildur, with seemingly never a cross word exchanged. (And, considering that Beck became a world-class curmudgeon in later life, this was quite remarkable.) He kept in touch with Beck, writing occasional letters, like the one dated January 14, 1974.
The f
rontier novel Binder referred to in his missive to Beck was The Frontier’s Secret, published later in 1973 by Popular Library. For some reason, Binder used the pseudonym Ian Francis Turek for this novel of the early pioneers in America, which takes place just after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Its subtitle on the cover reads, “The lusty novel of a man and two women thrusting far into the untamed country,” and the book does feature a far-from-original love triangle between its protagonist, a white woman, and a “sensuous Indian princess who burns with desire for a man she cannot have.”
The Frontier’s Secret shows that when he was sufficiently engaged in the material, Otto could still produce solid, well-researched fiction. He moves his protagonist Scott Leland Hayworth through a number of famous historical episodes of the era with considerable skill. The meeting with Daniel Boone, early in the book, is especially well done. This book is dedicated to Jack Binder, because he was the one who handed the research to Otto on a silver platter. His work on historical dioramas at Fort William Henry had turned him into something of an expert on the Revolutionary War era. In any case, it’s a readable, interesting book, and it seems strange that he used a pseudonym (though the inner copyright notice bears his real name). It’s unclear why, if he was trying to break into a new literary genre, he did not want his name on the cover.
Harkening back to his days writing scary stories for Weird Tales in the 1930s, Binder also branched into the gothic field—though with somewhat more questionable effectiveness. His Terror in the Bay was strictly by-the-numbers storytelling, with a lonely female protagonist inheriting a spooky, old mansion in a small New England town. Hospital Horror, the book he proudly bestowed on J. Randolph Cox, was just one of a series of paperback originals in Popular Library’s Frankenstein Horror Series, which was attempting to capitalize on interest in the Universal and Hammer monster movies. Binder’s monster was a hunchback named Renolf LeClaire. The misshapen monster seeks revenge against the doctor who had put him back together after a terrible accident, leaving him a grotesquery no woman could love. It’s pretty silly stuff, with no attempt to inject any sort of pathos into the hunchback’s plight.
One book project that engaged Otto Binder more than most of the others was a collaborative effort with Max Flindt, a colleague from the Space World days. As Flindt tells the story, he picked up the phone at his California abode one day in 1973 to find Binder on the other end of the line. “You won’t believe this,” Binder said, “but I’ve decided to take you up on your offer to expand your manuscript and find a publisher for it!”238
At first, Max drew a blank. “Then I remembered that I had sent him an expanded version of On Tiptoe Past Darwin some years before.” What had been a relatively brief essay (which Otto plugged in Space World) had been expanded to about forty-five thousand words. “I was quite surprised and pleased that Otto wanted to work on it, and of course, I gave him my okay.”
Binder got to work at once, and began sending chapters to California for Max’s comments. “Otto got a little, shall we say, over-enthusiastic. … And I had to rein him in, upon occasion,” Flindt recalled. Despite the fact that the basic thesis of the piece—that ancient astronauts came to Earth in prehistoric times and mated with humans—might be considered outré by some, Flindt was a scientist and wanted to present the work in a sober, scientific manner. Binder, on the other hand, wanted to bring color and excitement to the book.
The Frontier’s Secret (1973) was published under the pseudonym Ian Francis Turek. ™ and © the Estate of Otto Binder.
Mankind—Child of the Stars (1974) was Otto Binder’s last book published during his lifetime. ™ and © the Estate of Otto Binder.
In the end, both were pleased with the resulting manuscript. It began, “This book is concerned with the strong possibility—almost a probability, in our measured opinions—that mankind on earth may have had superintelligent ancestors from outer space. Man may therefore be a hybrid, partly of terrestrial origin, partly extraterrestrial. There exist an incredible number of amazingly persuasive ‘proofs’ in support of this theory, which are duly presented in the pages ahead.” The authors attempt to answer questions about man’s evolution that continued to puzzle scientists.
However, even the indefatigable Elwood was unable to find a publisher for it. Low-rung Curtis wouldn’t take it.
Finally Max Flindt came up with a solution. He was friends with Erich Von Daniken, whose Chariots of the Gods? and other books had created a sensation. With an introduction by Von Daniken attached, Fawcett agreed to publish the book sight unseen. (The last line of Von Daniken’s introduction became the cover blurb: “I know of no work since Darwin that deserves as much attention with regard to the evolution of man.”) By the fall of 1973, Binder and Flindt had turned in their finished manuscript. Both were very excited about the potential sales of this book, now titled Mankind: Child of the Stars. It was published in October 1974, and sold a middling 169,000 copies. The book received mediocre reviews, and was hardly the runaway best seller that would have turned around Binder’s slender finances. His portion of the initial royalty check was $3,900, or $18,716.76 in 2015 dollars.239
Much of Otto Binder’s creative energy in the 1970s was devoted to studying the life and “special abilities” of Ted Owens, whose book How to Contact the Space People was published in 1969. Owens claimed that he derived psychokinetic (PK) powers from Space Intelligences—i.e., space aliens—who communicated with him telepathically. He maintained that the aliens taught him how to manipulate the weather and other natural phenomena (lightning, tornados, earthquakes, hurricanes), which he had done on numerous occasions, as well as affect the outcome of sporting events; and he had documentation to prove his claims. Owens was a member of Mensa who had an IQ in the 148–152 range (genius). For someone whose claims were seemingly outrageous, Owens was sober, well organized, and well spoken. He explained that the Space Intelligences’s purpose in communicating with him was to warn mankind of the dangers of nuclear war and environmental pollution. According to Owens biographer Jeffrey Mishlove, PhD:
One day in 1970, Owens walked to the mailbox outside of his Virginia home and found a letter from a writer named Otto Binder. The writer, corresponding from New York State, had heard about Owens and his abilities and was intrigued by what little he had read. He thought he might like to write a magazine article about Owens and wondered if the psychic would send him some material. This letter to Owens from [Otto Binder] was the beginning of a four-year collaboration.240
To substantiate his claims, Owens began sending Binder newspaper clippings, files, reports, copies of correspondence, and other material.
Shortly after getting in touch, Owens noted that the Norfolk, Virginia, area, where he lived, was going through an exceptionally dry period. To demonstrate his powers to Binder and the world, he wrote a letter to the Norfolk Ledger-Star on June 16, 1970. In that letter, he announced that he was going to prevent disaster to the corn crops in the area by making it rain substantially within one week, and keeping it raining in the Norfolk-Virginia Beach area all summer long. The weather, he said, would be marked by his “trademark,” heavy lightning storms. Finally, to convince doubters, he would bring a hurricane from Florida to Virginia.
On June 21, less than a week after his announcement, the newspaper ran the headline “Tornado Winds Rip through Area and Dump One-Half Inch of Rain.” The rain continued, accompanied by lightning storms the following day, and didn’t stop until the area had been thoroughly drenched. Then, after a month of near constant rain, Hurricane Becky—which had been terrorizing Florida—moved suddenly northward and “the Red Cross was alerted to prepare for floods in various parts of coastal Virginia, as Becky unloaded millions of gallons of rainwater over a region already soaked to the bone.”241
Binder found it hard to shrug off this sort of thing as mere coincidence, especially when there were numerous other similar examples. After reviewing the material that Owens sent him, Binder wrote the first of four
articles about Ted Owens and the Space Intelligences, which appeared in the August 1970 issue of Saga magazine. In “Ted Owens—Flying Saucer Missionary,” which Mishlove calls Binder’s “third and most important piece” on Owens, the author attempted to determine whether Owens’s accurate predictions were due to precognition (“seeing the future”) or the result of PK powers. Was Owens himself causing weather phenomena, or was he seeing these phenomena coming and taking credit for things he didn’t cause? Binder concluded that it was more likely Owens was causing, rather than predicting, such events.
The third and most important article on Ted Owens by Otto Binder was “Ted Owens—Flying Saucer Missionary” in Saga magazine (August 1970). Art by Gil Cohen. ™ & © respective copyright holders.
Binder decided early in their “collaboration” that Owens’s story would make a good book. Owens became excited and sent a great deal more documentation, which piled up everywhere in Binder’s writing studio. They spoke occasionally by telephone. Owens asked Binder to go on record with a letter that he could pass on to others, regarding the basis of the Saga articles. In February 1971, Binder wrote:
[Ted Owens] furnished me with thorough documentation, affidavits, and signed testimonies as to the PK feats he accomplished in the past ten years, as featured in those [Saga] articles. He also sent me his entire set of personal diaries, which back up all of his feats as they occurred.
Otto Binder: The Life and Work of a Comic Book and Science Fiction Visionary Page 25