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But for the seasonable interposition of the Aliens, Franklin’s existence would have been confined to the Investigator, and no doubt he would still be there, orbiting the sun.¹ As it was, a passing Alien saucer decided to give Franklin a weighty push in the right direction. They told Barrow that Franklin was on his way, and where he would splash down into the ocean.

Though Franklin was in very poor shape at this point, he had the presence of mind to check the communications equipment and see the message from Barrow which told him of the Aliens’ assistance, and when he should strap himself into the command capsule. Everything else would be handled by the Martians on Earth.

The re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere was a very turbulent ride, and the capsule’s impact with the water almost killed him. But he had only been sitting in the dark for a few moments, feeling the foreign sway of the water, when the top of the capsule was opened and light blinded him.

They looked at him. He looked at them. No one said a word. The rescuers immediately knelt to help the debilitated, scrawny figure out of the capsule. They pulled him out, all bones and eyes, his sickly brown skin covered in greasy patches of some foul-smelling muck, and they wrapped him in coarse gray blankets.

John Franklin was back from space.

Franklin felt that something was odd. He noticed that the people around him were not talking to each other. It wasn’t like the coldness of people bent on ignoring each other; they seemed to be operating as though they knew what each other was thinking. Franklin had to listen to the sound of the waves and the wind and the machinery of the ship to be sure that he hadn’t gone deaf. There were no voices. He could see that they weren’t opening their mouths, but why wasn’t anyone speaking?

He was given warm food, dry clothing, and left in a small room—all without anyone saying anything. After a very long time, he heard footsteps approaching and the door was thrust open. It was Barrow. He looked at Franklin for a moment, frowned and grew stern, before his face suddenly cracked into a smile. He laughed and, licking his lips, said, ‘My God, I forgot you left before everyone started teeping!’ Barrow’s words sounded odd, almost like he had picked up an accent.

Franklin looked at him blankly.

‘Telepathy, my dear boy. The wave of the future. But now, I want to know what happened.’

As I have stated, early historians of the expedition suggested that Back suffered from a hysterical psychosis of some kind, precipitated by chronic food shortages and cultural myths about starvation and monsters. Some controversial new studies have questioned the legitimacy of this diagnosis, claiming it was actually a product of hostile accusations invented to justify Franklin’s survival.2 Indeed, as the sole survivor, there is of course the possibility that Franklin was the killer, but that seems very unlikely given his personality.