So Jean Dixon and J. Edgar Hoover connected?
Well I think he personally infiltrated that old bats Children to
Children "Foundation" and caught her using foundation money for own
personal gain.........this is the woman who marked the Kennedy family
for murder over and over and said Russia Will Beat Us To the Moon.....a
self proclaimed divine prophetess - until caught in too many phoney
deals.....
These are political propaandists - as old King said in bible "did I not
tell you he would prophesy no good to me, only evil".....or seeds of
destruction....and a hired gun fulfils the prophecy - for None Dare Call
it Propaganda?
This is how Mafia operates - with Numbers Rackets they used to sell
Dream Books to poor blacks in our area - this is organized crime, dirty
money taking over America.....like this one billionaire who now gets tax
abatement who had ships in the night with Columbian gold off shore at
his magnificent estate in Florida nad the House of the Sun with its
landing strips and docks and planes and ships in the night?
A hang out for psychics and those engaged in MKUltra let us call it for
lack of better word?
These are governments operating illegally within and from
without......former CIA bag men and contract killers.....and always this
Meyer Lansky connection?
So what does Lieberman think of Jewish Mafia? So see why John Gotti was
sent away and Italian Mob put away to exclusion of Meyer Lansky whose
son went to West Point?
Saba
6
Successes and Failures
The house telephone rang in my New York apartment. There was a man
downstairs from the US Customs who wanted to see me. His identification
looked kosher. Could he be sent up?
You have to be careful in New York, but I trusted the concierge's
judgment. Besides, although the visit was quite unexpected, I had an
idea what it might be about. Some time previously, I had flown in from
Mexico bringing the precious Colt that President Lopez Portillo had
given me. I had already brought it into the United States several times,
openly and legally, and had never had any problems at customs after
producing my documents as an accredited agent of the Mexican security
services. On the last occasion, however, the official took the gun away,
returning after a long delay to explain that he would have to retain it.
There was something that needed checking, and I would be notified later
of the outcome.
The customs agent, whom I will call Carl, looked authentic enough, as
did the badge he showed me. He was carrying a small package.
'Mr Geller?' he said when I opened the door. 'I have your gun to return
to you. Special orders from the United States Attorney-General to
release it.' How the Attorney-General became involved, and whether it is
normal for confiscated goods to be returned by personal delivery, I have
no idea. Nor do I know if Carl was acting under orders or if he was just
curious to meet me. Anyway, I invited him in and we had a pleasant chat,
during which it emerged that he was interested in psychic matters. As he
got up to leave, he told me where I could reach him, and asked me to let
him know if I ever needed help of any kind.
There was, as it happened, something I needed very badly. My mother was
then living on her own in Israel, and I wanted her to come and live in
the USA so that I could see more of her in between my engagements. I had
no intention of becoming an American citizen myself, or of establishing
permanent residence there. Indeed, it was not practical for me to
establish permanent residence anywhere, since I was constantly
travelling all over the world fulfilling my professional engagements.
New York was only one of my temporary home bases, and my status of
non-resident alien required me to spend no more than six months (183
days, to be precise) of each year in the USA, a condition I obeyed
scrupulously. However, New York was the base I visited most often, and
it was where I wanted my mother to be.
Carl promised to see what could be done, and shortly afterwards he came
to see me again together with a man I will call Don. He, I gathered, was
a counter-intelligence agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
We had a long and informal conversation, with Don doing most of the
talking. He was fascinated by the whole paranormal field, especially
telepathy, and was keen to see for himself what I could do. We did some
of my usual drawing experiments, and he was delighted to find that, like
many people, he was just as good at receiving and transmitting images as
I was.
'Look,' I said to him at one point, 'if I can be of any assistance to
you in any way, I'd be happy.' I had no hesitation in making the offer.
The FBI is one of the most respected law-enforcement agencies in the
world, and its image is a good deal cleaner than that of the CIA. I was
sure that nothing they might ask me to do would conflict with my own
interests or principles. If they wanted to return any favours I might do
for them, that was up to them. There was no mention of payment by either
of us.
Don looked very pleased, as if he had been hoping that I would say that.
I had in fact had dealings with the FBI before. This is what happened:
On 9 August 1975, a young man named Samuel Bronfman was kidnapped close
to his father's home near New York, and according to press reports his
father was asked for 'a substantial sum' for his safe return. Edgar
Bronfman was the head of the huge Seagram whisky empire and, as his
eldest son, Samuel was due to inherit a good deal of the billion-dollar
business.
The Bronfman family had apparently been contacted by both mail and
telephone, and a tape of Samuel's voice had been delivered to them. The
written message told Mr Bronfman that his son had been buried in an
underground cave somewhere in Westchester County, and left with enough
food for ten days at the most. Negotiations were said to be under way
for his release in exchange for a seven-figure sum, but there was no
mention of what steps were being taken by either the police or the FBI.
Also unreported (until now) was the fact that a member of the Bronfman
family put through a call to me from his home in Toronto to ask if I
could help locate Samuel before it was too late.
This was not long after Sir Val Duncan had told me I could use my
natural gift for dowsing to find just about anything, and as I have
said, my usual reaction to a challenge is to have a go. I agreed to do
what I could at once, for I knew Edgar Bronfman was a generous
contributor to Jewish causes and a strong supporter of Israel. The
necessary arrangements were quickly made, and a private helicopter flew
me from New York to the area where Samuel was thought to be in his
underground prison.
First, I was taken to the palatial Bronfman home and shown a number of
Samuel's personal possessions in order to establish some kind of link
with him. Then I climbed back into the helicopter, and we flew up and
down over a wide area of Westchester County, but I received no
impressions at all. Apparently, my first assignment of this kind was a
complete failure. Edgar Bronfman was in his Manhattan apartment, so I
decided to go along and admit my defeat to him.
The luxurious town residence had been turned into a command centre, and
among those present, in addition to the desperate father, was the chief
of the New York FBI. As I was shown into the living-room, the first
thing I noticed was a large map of New York City attached to an easel.
Suddenly, before I had even been properly introduced to anybody, I had
one of those moments of super-confidence. I walked over to the easel and
jabbed my finger into the map, somewhere in the Brooklyn area.
'That's where he is,' I stated, with complete certainty.
That is exactly where he was. I cannot claim to have located Samuel
Bronfman single-handed, because it was one of his kidnappers who
eventually provided the police with the exact address. The FBI then
moved in, recovering Samuel, who was unharmed, and a reported $2.3
million stuffed into rubbish sacks. It was revealed that the FBI had
been staking out the area for some time after watching the hand-over of
the money and following the very careless extortionist back to his home.
The kidnappers, two Irish-Americans thought to have been involved in
fund-raising for Irish terrorists, eventually noticed that they were
under observation. For some reason, they became convinced that the Mafia
had sent a hit-squad to get their money and, believe it or not, one of
the kidnappers then sent his daughter along to the local police with a
note asking for protection! Both kidnappers: were later jailed.
That is the story as it was reported in the press, although it is one
you might not believe if you read it in a crime novel.
Although I had not made any contract with Mr Bronfman, after the happy
ending to this affair I sent him an invoice for $25,000, which I
reckoned he could afford. I was then receiving fees of up to $5,000 for
my ninety-minute lecture-demonstrations, and I felt this was a fair sum
for two or three days of hard work, especially since I had at least
provided evidence for the accuracy of my impressions. I have a strong
suspicion, incidentally, that at the moment I put my finger on that map,
it was not known that Samuel was in Brooklyn. Not surprisingly, however,
nobody told me.
I received a cheque in due course for the sum asked minus one zero! I
decided to let go at that, however, since there had been no written
contract and $2,500 was better than nothing.
Several years later, there was a curious sequel to this episode. I was
in a hotel in Europe, discussing an assignment about which I cannot give
details here except that my client was somewhat secretive, as European
businessmen tend to be. When I brought up the subject of my fee, the man
wrote something on a corner of his napkin, tore it off and rolled it
into a tight ball, then handed it to me. I smoothed out the tiny piece
of paper to find the figures
2.5 written on it. That was all, and I assumed they meant $2,500. I
accepted with a nod, and the man asked for the address of my bank. He
would pay at once, he assured me.
I called my bank a day or two later to check that he had kept his word.
A puzzled clerk told me that there had been no recent payment of $2,500.
'There has only been one entry in your account in the last few days,' he
added, 'for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.'
As soon as Don heard that I was willing to offer him my services, he
said, 'I understand you're in need of some help yourself, concerning
your mother?' Carl, the customs agent, had evidently briefed him well.
Both Don and Carl soon became regular visitors to my apartment, and they
would sometimes bring their wives or their colleagues with them. The
table in my living-room was often piled high with handcuffs and bundles
of keys, which they would remove in order to be able to relax in
comfort. We often went out to eat together, and my relations with the
FBI men became more informal as well as more frequent than they had ever
been with the CIA agents I met in Mexico.
One day, Carl came to see me with a colleague from the US Drug
Enforcement Administration. They showed me a stack of photographs of
some very ugly-looking characters, and another one of a ship. A major
drug delivery was expected soon, I was told, and they were wondering if
I could learn anything from these photographs? I did my best, and passed
on the impressions that came into my mind, although as is usual in this
kind of work I heard no more.
This must be as disappointing to you as it always is to me, but you have
to understand that a golden rule of any kind of police or intelligence
work is that nobody is ever told anything at all except on the
'need-to-know' principle. If there is no need for you to know something,
you are not told it. As several of my clients have put it, there was
only one way I would ever know if I was delivering any information of
value: I would be asked for more.
As in Mexico, I was asked for more. One day, Don asked me a question
very similar to one of the first that Mike had read out from his
shopping list.
'If I drive you around the block where the Soviet Consulate is located,'
he said, 'could you tell me something about what's on one of the floors
of the building?'
The consulate was only ten blocks away on East 67th Street, so we went
for a ride. All the windows on the floor in question, I noticed, had
been blacked out. I saw with some amusement that there was a police
station right across the street.
I returned to the area several times on foot, taking care to keep out of
the range of the camera slung over the front door, and as in Mexico I
simply passed on whatever I had picked up with my psychic antennas, and
heard no more.
Next, I was invited to a party in an isolated house out on Long Island
Sound, where the host was an intelligence agent whose speciality was
Soviet affairs, and one of the guests was to be a Soviet official he
very much hoped could be persuaded to defect. I was asked to do two
things: demonstrate my abilities to the man if I had the chance, and
send him an unspoken message to defect. I found both requests somewhat
unusual, potential defectors usually being much more useful if they stay
put and keep up the flow of information, but it was not for me to ask
questions.
Don came along with a woman who was not his wife, whom I had met, but a
counter-intelligence agent. They soon arranged for me to meet the Soviet
guest, a short and stocky man whose hair was white, although he was not
more than middle-aged. I was not told his name. I bent a key for him,
which he seemed to find intriguing and gave him my telephone number,
inviting him to get in touch if he wanted to. (He never did.) All the
time I was sitting beside him, I punched out my silent message as hard
as I could: Defect, defect, it's good for you, defect . . .
It was at about this time that Arkady Shevchenko, the
Under-Secretary-General at the United Nations, defected after passing
information to the US authorities for more than two years. In his book
Breaking With Moscow (1985) he says: 'I was grateful that even in the
age of technological miracles no one could yet read thoughts.'
Some of his former colleagues at the Soviet Mission now probably know
better. In 1980 I received a telephone call from a man with a thick
Slavonic accent asking if I would come and give a demonstration-lecture
to the Parapsychology Society of the United Nations, in the Dag
Hammarskjold Auditorium.
I was surprised to learn that there was such a society, but there was -
I have the printed announcement of my performance - and the evening went
very well, although the lights were uncomfortably bright.
The small auditorium was well filled, and although the UN is as
multinational an organization as you can find, a good many of the faces
looked distinctly East European. At least one member of the audience, I
believe, was an intelligence agent sent along by one of my friends - not
to see my show but to check out his fellow spectators.
Cameras clicked all through my performance, and questions in a variety
of Slavonic accents were asked afterwards. I was probably filmed as
well, for when the lights were finally dimmed, I noticed a man in the
back row packing up a very large camera-case. I posed for some informal
group photographs afterwards, and a newspaper reporter who was present
later obtained a copy of one of them for me, with the names on the back.
Several of them were Russian.
Several months after my show at the UN I was booked to take part in a
'psychic cruise' to Bermuda on board the SS Britannis. As engagements of
this kind usually are, it was a welcome combination of well-paid work
and relaxing leisure. To my great surprise, I immediately recognized
several faces in my floating audience. The last time I had seen them had
been in the Dag Hammarskjold Auditorium. Later, I chatted informally
with some of them, and the trip passed off without incident, although I
did have an uneasy feeling of being watched all the time.
Perhaps they were wondering if there would be a repeat of the incident I
described in My Story when I was on another cruise, a musical one this
time, as a guest of one of the artists, Byron Janis. There were also
some Hungarian musicians on board, and they had the bright idea that we
should all concentrate on stopping the ship! We did, whereupon the
engines suddenly stopped humming and the ship, the Renaissance,
gradually slowed to an almost total standstill. Byron, with his best
innocent expression on his face, went to ask the captain what had
happened.
'We just have a little problem,' he was told. 'The propeller drive shaft
seems to be in a very contorted shape, and the fuel is not getting
through properly.' It took a couple of hours to get the engines started
again. I felt like a naughty schoolboy and have never tried anything
like that since.
* * *
Later in this book, I will be telling you about some of my most
successful undertakings. In the rest of this chapter, I am going to
describe a few of my less successful ones. I am doing this for two
reasons: I do not want to give the impression that I can do anything on
demand at any time and always get it right, and I hope that the serious
student of the mind and its powers will be able to learn as much as I
think I did from those failures.
As an investigator for the FBI, Don sometimes became involved in the
hunt for kidnappers and their victims. Once, he telephoned me from
Arizona to tell me that the father of a boy who had disappeared had
offered to pay my expenses if I would fly out and help look for him. I
agreed at once, and travelled all over the area concerned, but was
unable to receive any impressions except that the boy had been killed
and buried in the desert. I never heard if his body was found.
The last request I ever had from Don could have led to my greatest
success if I had been proved right. It was like something out of a
second-rate thriller, although from Don's tone of voice as he briefed me
I could tell he was not playing games. Nor was he merely testing me - he
had done that often enough already. No, there was a major problem: what
it amounted to was that there was evidence, presumably from an Eastern
bloc defector, that a member of the topmost layer of the US
administration in Washington was a long-time Soviet mole, a 'sleeper'
who had been trained to remain in place indefinitely.
'Could you just come up with a name, an initial, a general impression -
anything at all?' Don asked.
I had very little to go on, but I did what I could, and a few weeks
later I did come up with a name. When I passed it on to Don, I could see
he thought either that I had gone out of my mind or that I was kidding
him. He just would not take me seriously, and I am sure that he never
passed on the name I gave him to his superiors. So it will probably
never be known if I was right or wrong. Evidently, Don thought that I
had lost my touch, for he never asked me to do anything for him again.
The FBI, as you might expect, does not say much about its involvement
with people like me. The only mention of it in print that I have seen
was in the 27 January 1986 International Herald Tribune, in which the
deputy assistant director of the bureau's records management division,
Thomas H. Bresson, was asked if it was normal for the FBI to deal with
psychics. He replied, 'I wouldn't rule it out.'
Nor, as I know, would some of his colleagues.
In June 1978, a twenty-five-year-old New Yorker named David Berkowitz
was sent to prison after being convicted for the murder of six people,
and for wounding another seven, most of them attractive young girls.
Sentencing him to a total of 315 years in jail, the judge expressed his
'earnest desire that this defendant remain in jail for life, until the
very day of his death'. I doubt if a single New Yorker felt otherwise,
for there has never been a killer as feared and hated as the individual
who terrorized the city throughout much of 1977 and became known as the
'Son of Sam'.
It was Carl who persuaded me, without difficulty, to become involved in
the case. He introduced me to a New York police officer who was clearly
ready to try anything, and one evening we drove to the scene of Son of
Sam's latest murder, a lonely 'lovers' lane' spot near the Verranzano
Bridge. Before we set out, he showed me some police photographs of
previous victims. They turn my stomach over even today when I think of
them, and I could not have been more strongly motivated than I was after
I had seen them. If there was anything at all that I could do to catch
the maniac responsible for what I had seen, I was going to do it.
I strolled around the area, concentrating as hard as I could - maybe too
hard. I began to pick up impressions, and gave the policeman a verbal
description of a man. I also gave him the only word that really came in
strongly: Yonkers.
I felt that I had not been much help. Yonkers is a large area of upstate
New York, and there were probably thousands of men living there who
fitted my none too precise description. So I cannot claim to have
contributed anything useful to the solution of this case.
Later, it became known that the police had caught Berkowitz after
checking all vehicles that had been given parking tickets at or just
before times when there had been a murder in the area concerned. It was
after tracing one car back to its owner's Yonkers address that they
finally moved in and made an arrest. It was no consolation for me to
know that the limited information I had provided was correct. Correct it
may have been, but it was not specific enough to save the life of at
least one more innocent young girl.
To add to my feelings of frustration regarding this case, I learned
later that several other psychics were called in at various stages, some
of whom provided information that, had it been co-ordinated at the time
with my modest contribution, might well have led to an earlier end to
this dreadful case.
A more recent case on which I seemed to do everything right except solve
it took place in Rome in the winter of 1983. Two members of the wealthy
Bulgari family were kidnapped from their home in November, and released
on Christmas Eve after a ransom had been paid. During the search a
relative of theirs asked me to come and help locate the victims, a woman
and her seventeen-year-old son, and with the co-operation of the Italian
police I searched all the areas involved.
At first, I drew a complete blank. Then, one day as Shipi and I were
tramping the streets of Rome, I received a sudden and very strong
impulse to go at once to a certain piazza on the other side of town. We
got there as fast as we could, whereupon a Mercedes screeched to a halt
beside us, and a woman got out and rushed to a public telephone. I
recognized her as a member of the Bulgari family, and she recognized me,
since we had already met briefly. It turned out that she had just
received a telephone message to come to this call-box and wait for
another message. This was in the early stage of the case, when the poor
woman was being given repeated instructions to dash from one call-box to
another to receive ransom demands.
Something very similar happened again a couple of weeks later. Once
more, I felt a strong compulsion to go to a certain place. I felt
something was about to happen there, as before, and indeed it did. There
was no telephone in sight this time, so I just stood on the pavement for
a few minutes, wondering what I was supposed to be looking for.
Everybody tends to look suspicious in circumstances like these, but I
did not receive any definite impressions from passers-by until a man
wearing a white sweater walked right past me and tossed something into a
metal litter bin. I had a good look at him, and passed on a description
of somebody I felt sure was involved in the case. Had I remained on the
spot, I would once again have run into a member of the victims' family,
who had been summoned by a telephone call to retrieve a package from the
bin in question. It contained the boy's ear, hacked off by the sadistic
kidnappers in an attempt to force the payment of a large ransom.
Evidently, the attempt was successful, for a week later the two victims
were released, and the family lawyer confirmed that money had changed
hands. By yet another 'coincidence' I had already marked the exact spot
where they were found on a map, without knowing why it was to be
significant.
Why had my powers led me to the exact spot at the right time, drawn my
attention to an ordinary-looking fellow doing something that looked
quite natural and harmless, and then let me down when it came to the
information that really mattered? This kind of thing seems to happen
again and again when I am dealing with dangerous people, whether
kidnappers or murderers. Are my survival instincts somehow suppressing
my psychic ones?
If it became generally known that I could solve any problem on demand,
my name would be at the top of every hit-list in the world of organized
crime, and it would not be there for long. I would have to be
eliminated. Perhaps it is in my own interests not to solve major crimes?
I have had some success, however, with minor crimes. A wealthy client of
a world-famous jeweller had left some priceless object at one of its
branches to be altered. While the craftsmen were working on it, it was
stolen. The manager was extremely upset. He did not want to call in the
police, fearing that the publicity would damage him even more than the
financial loss. So instead he called me.
I went to the store, scanned it in my usual way, with my hands, and told
the manager that the object had been stolen by a former employee, whom I
described, who was now living in a town several hundred miles away in an
area I mentioned. The manager confirmed that just such a man was already
on the list of suspects. To make sure, he persuaded me to fly to the
town in question, where I rented a car and prowled around the area in
which the suspect lived and had recently bought a restaurant. My initial
impressions were confirmed, and the case was then handed over to the
well-known criminal lawyer Roy Cohn. I heard no more about it.
I dislike working on kidnap or murder cases. The pressure is very great,
and the feeling that desperate people have pinned their hopes on me
makes it harder for me to work successfully. Another problem is that I
have usually had no direct contact with the person I am supposed to be
looking for. In the case of a kidnap or murder victim I might be able to
make indirect contact by handling some personal property, as I did on
the Bronfman case, but this is not the same as personal contact. Sniffer
dogs can only find what they are looking for if they recognize its
scent, and it is possible that telepathists work in a similar way.
One of my clients may have found a simple but ingenious solution to this
problem. He is the head of a large chemical company with interests all
over the world, and a spate of kidnappings in his country led him to
take the question of personal security very seriously. Would I agree, he
asked me, to enter into a contract whereby if he were to be kidnapped,
he would concentrate his mind at certain precise times of the day and
try to send out a 'distress signal' that would help me find him?
This struck me as a very sensible idea, and I accepted his proposal.
Since then I have had several others of this kind, some of them also
from the heads of major corporations, including one of the best-known
Hollywood film studios. Naturally I hope that none of my 'insurance'
clients will ever have to send me a telepathic claim, but if they do I
am sure the fact that I have made personal contact with them will make
things easier for me. Some of them have even given me such personal
items as scarves, combs and old toothbrushes as additional aids to
establishing contact. Once again, I cannot help wondering why it is the
people at the top of their professions who are the most receptive to the
kind of thing that I do. Could it be that they know, even if only
subconsciously, that they would not have reached the top without using
their own psychic powers?
One of my clients telephoned me at the end of 1985 to wish me the
compliments of the season. I told him I was working on this book and
asked how he felt about having his name mentioned in it.
He laughed. 'If you do that,' he replied, 'then they'll kidnap me - and
they'll kill you.' So I will not mention the name of this chairman and
principal stockholder of a very well-known international corporation.
Then I mentioned an idea that has occurred to me more than once
recently.
'How would you feel,' I asked him, 'if I were to give a news conference
and confess that I was a total fraud who had been fooling the world all
these years?' I sometimes feel like doing this just to see what would
happen, and I am sure I could get a huge advance for a book about my
'tricks'. The problem is that I would never be able to explain how I did
them!
He laughed again, a little more warmly this time. 'I'd go on hiring
you,' he said. Coming from him, that was a real compliment.
Now I come to an episode of which I feel thoroughly ashamed. I have
never mentioned it before in public, and I include it here as an example
of what can happen when psychic powers are misused. It answers the
question I have often been asked: 'If you're so psychic, why don't you
go and break the bank at Monte Carlo?'
I came to England in 1975 to promote the Polydor album Uri Geller, on
which Maxine Nightingale - a singer I helped to launch - sang some
lyrics I had written to music composed and arranged by Byron Janis and
Del Newman. One evening, Shipi and I went along to a London casino near
Marble Arch to try our combined skills at the roulette table.
A couple of years previously we had tried to make some quick money by
psychic methods at a casino in Las Vegas. We had ended the evening so
broke that we could not even afford a hotel room, but had to spend the
night in our car wrapped in newspapers to keep warm.
This time it was different. Whether I was using my powers to make the
ball land where I wanted it to, or whether I had precognition of the
number, as I had had eight times out of ten tries in one of the Stanford
experiments (which was filmed), I do not know. All I know is that our
earnings rose steadily. It was more than a lucky break; it was one of
those occasions when nothing can go wrong, and you know it.
We deliberately made our pile slowly, in order not to attract too much
attention and risk being 'asked to leave', as they say. We stayed very
late, then made our way back to the Churchill Hotel with all our pockets
crammed with banknotes.
In the small hours of the morning, we counted our takings. We had made
just over �17,000. In our excitement, we made immediate plans for a
trip to Monte Carlo.
Later, after what was left of a sleepless night, a huge Daimler arrived
to take me to Liverpool for a radio programme. I decided to take my
bundle of banknotes with me, and as we drove out of London I kept
opening my briefcase to make sure it was still there. Then something
very strange and frightening happened, which is as hard for me to
describe as it may be for you to believe. There was a sudden explosion
in my head, and a loud cry, followed by a long echo and the building-up
of a pressure that became unbearable. My mind was filled with a single
thought: why had I used my powers for my own gain? I felt both hot and
cold, and began to tremble. My mouth went dry. I thought I was going
insane. This, I said to myself, is the end of Uri Geller. I'm about to
explode because of this - thing in my head.
A. Saba
Dare To Call It Conspiracy
A. Saba
Dare To Call It Conspiracy
http://www.tcom.co.uk/hpnet/tge6.htm
