That man is, of course, Howard Hughes, whom I knew, sometimes a great deal better than I wanted, for the last 20 years of his life.

When I first got to know him in 1957, he was still in full charge of his empire, and I was the new chief of the Time-Life bureau in Los Angeles.

The Hughes empire at that time included Hughes Tool, an immensely profitable maker of oil drilling tools which he inherited from his father; Hughes Aircraft, which turned out mostly high-tech, high-security electronics, largely for the United States government, and assorted smaller interests.

Hughes was by that time almost entirely out of the movie business and had not yet become a casino owner in Nevada. He was also struggling to maintain control of Trans World Airlines (TWA), much coveted by Juan Trippe, then head of Pan American Airlines who was at or near the top of the Hughes list of villains.

The TWA struggle was - for reasons I never clearly understood - of particular interest to another titan of the time, Henry Luce, the founder and headman of the Time-Life media empire and my big boss. He let me know he wanted a major story in Fortune magazine on TWA's troubles and I immediately put aside all other assignments and set to work on Hughes and TWA.

By this time in his life, Hughes had become the recluse he would remain until the end. I knew he had not talked with a newsman in a very long time and certainly wasn't inclined to grant an interview. I also knew he had an honest, competent public relations man in Dick Hannah. Hannah had the world's toughest job - speaking for a man who wanted neither to speak nor to be seen, and he did it with grace and integrity.

After some pro-forma calls got me nowhere, I asked Hannah if I wrote my questions out, would he get them to Hughes? He agreed so I compiled a list of about 50 questions, each of them the when-did-you-stop-beating-your-wife? variety. To my astonishment, Hughes himself called to protest against those ``terribly unfair questions'' to which I responded that if he would let me interview him, we could fix that quickly.

He snorted, but said he would review the questions and call me at home that night. He did and thus began a strange, on-again-off-again relationship that lasted until his death.

For weeks after the breakthrough, Hughes called me every night. We finished all I needed for Fortune in a few calls, after which Hughes pleaded with me to hold the article until he could give me all the details of a much better TWA story. I told him Henry Luce would make that decision and he promptly asked me to take his proposal to Luce.

After some agonizing, I decided Hughes was entitled to that much, so I went to visit Luce at his winter home outside Phoenix, Arizona. I flew to Phoenix on an airline not TWA. Once there, I rented a car from a nondescript local agency.

Luce's home was inside a gated area and was surrounded by brick walls. When I got there, I parked behind the house where the car couldn't be seen from the street.

I did the best job I could of laying out Hughes' case and then told Luce that Hughes seemed to have me under constant surveillance, which seemed both inexplicable and unnerving. That irritated Luce. He lectured me at great length about the dangers of paranoia and told me to get on with my job.

Properly chastised, I went back to my locked rental car and as I got in, I noticed something hanging from the horn rim. It was the business card of the Phoenix TWA manager and on the back was a message: ``Mr McCulloch: Please call Mr Hughes immediately.''

I took the card and trudged back to Luce's front door. Luce answered the bell and I handed him the card and told him where I had found it.

Luce inspected the card carefully, harrumphed and said: ``That settles it. We're going ahead with the Fortune story now.''

And we did, but I have always wondered how much better it would have been if we had waited for the inside details Hughes had promised.

I wasn't surprised when I got back to Los Angeles to learn that Hughes wanted me to call. I did, and he asked for Luce's decision. When I told him, there was a soft click and the phone went dead.

But the silence was temporary. Hughes began calling me several times a night, until our phone was ringing every 15 minutes. One night, my wife took a call and explained I was tired and needed rest. Of course, Hughes said, I hope he sleeps well.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again. ``Mrs McCulloch,'' he said, ``is Frank any better rested now?''

I took the phone and said, ``What is it this time, Howard?'' He said something about an important development in air transport that he thought I should know about and I should come to be told about it. All I had to do, he said, was to drive to a certain intersection on the way to Los Angeles International Airport and look for a two-tone Mercury sedan parked under a street light.

It was 1.30am and I hesitated for a moment but I knew it was too big an opportunity to pass up.

I approached the Mercury and noticed it had a driver, so I stepped up to the window and asked if he worked for Hughes. ``Yes,'' he said. ``Get in back.''

We drove to the far and unfinished side of the airport where the driver produced a key that permitted us to enter a large gate. He drove a short distance and stopped, saying: ``This is where you get out.''

I stood there in the dark feeling foolish and more than a little apprehensive when I heard a voice say: ``Is that Frank McCulloch?'' I said yes and he answered: ``I'm Howard Hughes.''

I stuck out my hand but he backed away hastily. ``Oh, no, no,'' he said. ``I was just eating a hot dog, and I have mustard and ketchup all over my hand.''

Then he asked: ``Would you like to take a ride?'' I said certainly, expecting the Mercury to reappear.

But Hughes pointed into the dark, and for the first time I became aware of an enormous shape. Hughes led the way and the shape turned out to be the prototype model of the Boeing 707, then the world's biggest and most advanced passenger jet aircraft and one that would revolutionize the air travel industry. Already on board when we got there were the co-pilot, who had flown the plane down from Seattle at Howard's insistence, and Howard's wife, the actress Jean Peters.

After introductions, Howard seated Ms Peters and me immediately behind him and the co-pilot in the cockpit and we roared out of the Los Angeles airport at 2.20am.

For the next three hours, we flew over much of the southwest, returning to Los Angeles at daybreak. Halfway through the long ride, Hughes dismissed the co-pilot and brought me up to sit alongside him at the controls.

``You ever piloted anything?'' he asked. Nothing. Not even a Piper Cub.

So for the next 20 minutes or so, he instructed me in the functions of all the instruments in front of me.

After a silence he asked me: ``How do you like it?'' Like what? ``You've been flying her for the last 20 minutes.''

``Howard,'' I said, ``we're all lucky I didn't faint dead away and run this thing into the ground when you told me that.''

As we came up over the vast carpet of lights that marks the LA Basin, Hughes moved me out and brought the co-pilot back. The sun was just rising as we hurtled down the Century Boulevard approach to the airport. The first glimpse of the runway below us came just as the co-pilot squeaked: ``You're awfully steep, Mr Hughes. Awfully steep,'' as he pressed back in his seat.

``I've got her, son, I've got her,'' Hughes said. And he touched the 707 down like a feather and rolled it out to the west gate.

``Do you always do that without talking to the tower?'' the co-pilot asked.

``Didn't say anything to them when we left and didn't see any reason to tell them we were back,'' Hughes replied. The door opened in that cavernous, empty fuselage and Mr and Mrs Hughes departed without another word.

It may well have been the last time anybody outside Hughes' tiny circle of bodyguards and hangers-on ever saw him.

``If I live to be 100, I'll never believe this happened,'' the co-pilot said. ``I wish he had stayed aboard. Now I've got to fly this baby back to Seattle and I'm sleepy.''

That strange evening pretty much set the tone for my relations with Hughes in the years that followed. He always knew where I was and what I was doing, and he telephoned frequently, usually to question something.

He called me in Saigon when I was Time-Life bureau chief there, and he wondered why ``some of you damned fools don't seem to realize that war can't be won.''

He called me in Washington, DC (``Why can't you give Mr Nixon a break?'') and later in New York, to say: ``I've never heard of Cliff Irving.'' Irving, a freelance writer, had just sold, for huge money, the autobiography of Howard Hughes, purportedly dictated by Hughes.

When I reported Hughes' denial to my superiors who had purchased the magazine rights to the Hughes story for Life, and to the corporate types at McGraw Hill, which had bought the book, chaos reigned.

Among other directives, I was ordered to not take any more calls from Hughes, which was roughly equivalent to telling Niagara Falls to stop falling.

It took weeks, but we finally exposed the Irving hoax. Some time later, I received a letter from Managua, Nicaragua, to which Hughes had finally retreated. Inside was a piece of notepaper on which was scrawled the word ``Thanks.'' It was signed HH.

I left Time-Life shortly thereafter and in 1975 became the managing editor of the Sacramento Bee. It had been more than three years since I had spoken to Hughes, so I was startled when a static-blurred voice advised me on my personal phone line that ``Mr Hughes wants to talk to you.''

I recognized the voice as one of a small coterie of Mormons who supervised every aspect of Hughes' life in his final years.

I waited, but the familiar voice never materialized. After a few minutes, the aide came back on and said: ``I'm sorry, but that won't be possible.''

I shrugged it off as more or less a typical Hughes encounter.

The next day, I heard that Hughes had died aboard his own plane en route from Managua to Houston for medical treatment.

Now, nearly 30 years later, I am still deeply touched that Howard Hughes wanted to talk to me on his last day alive. I'd give a lot to know, Howard: About what?

And a final admission from me: I never did figure out what the 707 ride was all about until I saw The Aviator.

I'm sorry, Howard, that I was so dense. Jet airplanes were indeed the way of the future.