E.T. The Book of the Green Planet

by William Kotzwinkle

  From the row where he toiled, E.T.’s thoughts went out hour after hour, their destination Earth. They hit brick walls, garbage cans, delivery trucks. Finally, the Flopglopple secretly focused his fingers into a scope and sent E.T.’s thought-wave through it. The wave connected with Elliott, in an alley behind the school, where a ring of boys had gathered. Elliott was in the center of the ring, fists up, and an angry look in his eyes.

  “G’wan, Elliott, knock his block off.”

  The circle closed, and Elliott’s opponent came after him, fists flying. Elliott felt the blows land, but he didn’t feel E.T.’s thought-wave land, though it made a direct hit in the center of his forehead. He was too busy hitting his opponent.

  “. . . punch his lights out . . .”

  “Gettim, Elliott.”

  E.T., light-years away, closed his eyes and wondered why Elliott couldn’t hear, when the beam had struck so directly on center.

  The Flopglopple looked at E.T., and listened in on the communication. “Growing up.”

  “What?” E.T., startled, looked at the Flopglopple.

  “Getting older,” said the Flopglopple, and resumed his digging.

  “Growing up, growing up, growing up.” E.T. paced the row, terribly upset, for when people on Earth grew up they lost their wisdom. On the Green Planet, here in the Seventh Nebula of Galactus, as you grew up you got wiser. On Earth, for some reason, when young creatures matured, they lost their secret rulership and became slaves, fools, and blew each other to pieces. He’d seen it on the 6:30 news.

  “My friend is in danger. He is about to become the most terrible thing of all. He is about to become Man.”

  C H A P T E R

  8

  The path seemed to undulate like some great glistening reptile in the dark. But the scales of the serpent were clusters of Lumens, bred by Botanicus to feed along the edges of the path, so that it would always be lit for travelers from the fields.

  Overhead, the planting and harvesting machines floated lazily back toward their depots, and E.T. and the Flopglopple were following the path in that direction, to the maintenance depot.

  It was a large lighted area run exclusively by Micro Techs. The buildings, therefore, were not simple nobbley gourds, but sleek domes of gleaming metal. Nor were they lit by the homey glow of Lumens; powerful beams of light shone everywhere.

  At the depot’s heart was the Micro Tech Club, where the frenzied little beings went to unwind; its dome was decorated with bands of colored laser light, and music could be heard coming from its windows.

  “I’m trying to restrain myself,” said the Flopglopple, his tripod of feet scratching frantically in the ground. “But I can’t!” And he raced toward the Club, went through the doorway in a blinding rush, and disappeared within.

  E.T. approached more slowly, across the hard surface of the depot, a plane perfectly flat and lifeless, the way Micro Techs liked things, so as to avoid the unpredictable, such as flowers growing in one’s way, but it was not E.T.’s way; his fingers trailed dully along over the inhospitable surface. Ordinarily he wouldn’t go to the depot at all, but tonight he had a reason, and it was one that made him fearful. Slung over his shoulder was a kitbag, with a small bulging object inside it.

  “Well,” he said to himself as he came to the doorway. “I’ve got to party,” With this Earth phrase to brace him, he squared his shoulders and entered.

  The inside was as sleek as the outside, everything metallic and shining; tables were crowded around a small dance floor, where the Flopglopple was already gyrating with other Igigi Gyrums, their lithe slender bodies snapping madly, their tripodial feet moving in a blur. Music came from a gleaming little bandstand, and there a Fluteroot was swaying, playing its heart out; it was accompanied by a Trompayd, the Trompayd’s brassy golden cheek petals swelling out as it blew. A pair of Timpanums, their taut drumhead blossoms beating like rhythmic hearts, kept an intricate beat. The plants were all potted, in large containers provided by the management. Flashing colored lights ringed them, and these plants did not play the gentle music of the groves; theirs was the wild, exotic music of the capitals, of Lucidulum and Crystellum.

  Seated at the various tables and almost oblivious to the music, were the Micro Techs, arguing as always:

  “. . . unrelated to the recognizable properties of the system . . .”

  “No, no, it’s a simple defection of A and D!”

  “Stop, you’re choking the definition!”

  “I’ll choke you!”

  Their transparent little heads glowed bright red as they shouted, screamed, and banged on the tables, their enormous round eyes popping.

  “I’m sorry but you’ve left out position, energy, and atomic weight.”

  “A priori formulation! Fraud!”

  “I cling to the original metric.”

  “Yes, well, you might as well cling to a bedpost.”

  For all their technical brilliance, their diminutive stature made them argumentative, and as a rule, quite rude. E.T. made his way through their tables, at which they sat on high stools, flailing their arms. And when he passed, one of them leaned toward him, squeaking, “Adverse ratio? Dissimilar magnitudes? Capsule eject, eh? Kicked off the ship?”

  E.T. ignored the jibe, for he had bigger things on his mind, strange and frightening things—the matter of his planetary destiny, already shaping his footsteps.

  He skirted the dance floor, where a handful of young Jumpums were bouncing up and down to the beat; they came to the Club in their early years, before they grew too big to get through the door. And beyond them, E.T.’s Flopglopple was flopping madly to the beat, his long loose arms tied in bizarre knots with his partner.

  E.T. made his way to the bandstand. The Fluteroot tooted above him, swaying in its pot, and the Trompayd bent back, blowing a high sweet passage. Seated on the edge of the flashing pot was a Micro Tech, playing the fifty string a’lud, each string as thin as a hair; his own hair-like fingers, countless in number, picked over the strings in a blur, producing the most intricate sound imaginable, the sound of his own compressed and complex soul.

  This was Micron, the only Micro Tech E.T. was friendly with, from a voyage made long ago, to a planet whose musical enchantments had affected Micron and changed him, and made him an outsider. His fifty string a’lud was from that planet, and remained the source of his enchantment.

  He opened his eyes now, saw E.T., and joined him on the floor. They took a table together, off in a corner. Its smooth transparent surface was lit from within by a changing pattern of light, suggesting approaches to infinity.

  “I hear you’ve had bad luck,” said Micron.

  “It’s probably going to get worse.”

  “Why?”

  E.T. lifted his long neck, craning it high and looking around to see if he might be overheard. Then he lowered it and leaned in toward Micron. “I’m going to borrow a starcruiser.”

  “An interesting thing to do,” said Micron, and he too looked around, for ears that might have come too close. But they were alone in the crowd.

  “Will you help me borrow it?” asked E.T., his voice now no more than a hoarse whisper as he leaned still closer, the lines of electric infinity reflecting on his ancient face.

  Micron drummed his many fingers on the table, the whole of them looking like handfuls of nervous spiders. “And where would you go in a borrowed starcruiser?”

  “To Earth, the Blue Planet.”

  “Never heard of it.” Micron gazed slowly around the room, his round eyes taking on a faraway look as they reached the bandstand and rested upon his a’lud. “There’s only one planet I wish to see, and you know what it is.”

  “Shadoma Rubi?”

  “Shadoma Rubi, the Planet of Song. Yes, for that I would risk a great deal.” Micron reached for his a’lud and strummed it thoughtfully. “For it is where I live, in my heart.” His a’lud sounded, with a soft and melancholy air, as if calling across an impossible distance. E.T. listened, and
knew the feeling.

  “You will help me?”

  Micron ceased playing, set his a’lud on the table, and became the brisk, officious Micro Tech he was supposed to be. “My friend, the ships of Lucidulum are the most advanced of vehicles. To merely start one takes a lifetime of study.”

  “I was mistaken then,” said E.T., and made as if to rise from the table, knowing that no Micro Tech can admit to not understanding anything technical. “I assumed you had the knowledge—”

  “I know what I know,” said Micron. “But the ships of Lucidulum know much too. You don’t just walk up to one and say, let us go.” He leaned forward now, his own voice falling. “The ship itself would sense our approach, long before we got near. The ships of Lucidulum are—alive.”

  The two friends fell silent then, and the music from the bandstand floated around them, vegetal and strange, rising from the unknowable depths of the Trompayd’s tap root to eternity. The Fluteroot’s mellow reed sound joined it, and the Timpanums rumbled with them, all of it sewing the air with the ineffable, and E.T. felt it twining itself around him.

  Micron looked back at him. “Yes, there are mathematical facts for which there is no explanation. These fools—” He nodded toward the other Micro Techs in the room. “—think they can argue their way to solution, but the Mind Holders alone, the great mathematicians of the Fleet—they alone know its secret.”

  “Botanicus will know.”

  “A vegetable wizard,” scoffed Micron. “We’re discussing High Radiation Cruisers.”

  E.T. stared down into the electron patterns flashing in the table. The mission, he knew, was beyond him. What could a plant doctor like himself hope to know of synchrophotonics? Of velocity and the stress of the wormhole vortex? He might as well try to get to Earth on a bicycle.

  “Nonetheless,” he said to Micron, “if I make the attempt, are you with me?”

  “It’s an impossible undertaking,” said Micron. “I must say no.”

  “I have with me,” said E.T., opening his kitbag, “a new beverage. I learned its formula on Earth. It is called beer. Would you care to join me?”

  “Always interested in new concoctions, Doctor.”

  E.T. walked home in the light of the Near Moon and the Far, their glow casting twin shadows everywhere. “We are two-mooned too,” said the Flopglopple. “Both wisdom and ignorance pull at our soul.”

  E.T. looked at the creature, but the Flopglopple had returned to silence as he flopped along, examining the night.

  Between them was Micron, whom E.T. had given several bottles of his home-brewed beer, which he knew could change one’s point of view dramatically—a situation he wanted to bring about with Micron. It had worked, perhaps too well.

  “Wonnerful, wonnerful,” stammered Micron. “Beer, you say? Most amazhing drink . . . hiccup . . .” The little creature waved his filamental fingers in the moonlight, thin threads entwining, combining, releasing, like some dream-plant of shadows.

  He staggered forward, attempting to strum his a’lud, which was strapped around his neck . . . play anything . . . fixsh anything . . . fly anything . . . hiccup . . .” He fell down in a little heap, unconscious.

  E.T. and the Flopglopple picked him up, E.T. saying, “I am filled with guilt for what I’ve done, for a headache of some magnitude will attend Micron’s awakening. Is it right to do such things to a friend?”

  “He doesn’t seem unhappy,” said the Flopglopple, looking at the stupefied grin on Micron’s face.

  They carried him to the outer edge of the depot, where the Micro Tech barracks was situated. It was a genuine Micro Tech creation—a construction of maddening detail, built with a thousand clean and perfect corners. Disorder of any kind troubled Micro Techs deeply and the building was spotless. Even in the darkness, a Micro Tech stood admiring it, drawing comfort from all the sharp, angular lines leading to more of the same.

  “If they could,” said E.T. to the Flopglopple, “they would arrange the leaves on trees, putting them all in a neat pile at the top.”

  Micron woke, thrashing, as they approached the barracks. “. . . one more sip . . . of . . . of . . .” He passed out again, and E.T. and the Flopglopple snuck him inside.

  The corridor was sleek and shining. Micron’s room was small, bare, and frighteningly neat, as are all Micro Tech quarters. A bed unfolded automatically from the wall as they entered, and the covers rolled down with a faint mechanical whisper; the pillow fluffed itself out, until every wrinkle vanished.

  “Set him down gently,” said E.T.

  Micron opened his eyes, winked, and said, “I’m with you, Doctor . . . hiccup . . . count me . . . count me—”

  “—out,” said E.T., as Micron’s head rolled to the side and a tiny snore escaped his lips.

  The door flew open and a Micro guard bristled in. Micron woke and waved. “Goo’ evening, offisher. We’re having a . . . a little feshtival of the arts.” He reached for his a’lud and fell, out of his micro bed, onto the floor.

  “What is going on here?” snapped the officer of the guard. “What is wrong with this technician?”

  “. . . feshtival . . . fesh . . .” Micron began to crawl around beneath his bed.

  “He has just come from—the Jaws Man,” said E.T. “He had a tooth repaired and his gums and tongue are numb.”

  Micron rolled on his back, fingers waving gaily, like the legs of a drunken centipede. “. . . modelo tar bu (he sang) . . . modelo tar bee . . .”

  “He appears to have gone mad,” said the guard, frowning darkly. He looked at E.T. “And who, may I ask, has dental work done in the middle of the night?”

  “I do,” yammered Micron, grabbing the edge of the bed. “I love night dentis’shry.” His fingers went limp and he slid back down on the floor, dragging his pillow with him.

  The guard stared with wide blinking eyes, then snapped his gaze around the immaculate room. “This compartment is a mess. Unbelievable sloppiness. And he’s a mess.” The officer of the guard looked at E.T., and his frown suddenly deepened. “Aren’t you the demoted Botanist First Class? Put off ship?” He drew himself to his full height near E.T.’s knees and snapped, “Creating more havoc here, is that it? Spreading your influence? I order you to leave at once.”

  “. . . give ’im a beer . . .” croaked Micron, clutching his pillow.

  “Out!” shouted the guard.

  E.T. and the Flopglopple backed out of the room, and then scurried down the hall.

  “I think,” panted E.T., “a pattern is developing—of my being—constantly in the soup.”

  “Purely—mechanical—reasoning,” answered the Flopglopple, as they raced into the barracks yard. “You are an infinity of causal factors, only some of which—lead to the soup.”

  But E.T,, as if possessed by just those factors, stopped and tipped over a trash barrel, which he knew would drive the compulsive Micro Techs into a frenzy. “Hollow Bean!” he shouted, and raced with his Flopglopple, out of the depot.

  A joyous surge of telepathy shot from his brow and sped toward Earth. Owing to E.T.’s erratic style, his telepathic replicant went through Earth’s atmosphere fluttering and darting like a knuckleball, and descended toward a used car lot where Honest Monty the Used Car King was selling an elderly woman an automobile that had been owned by a dragster named Cameron “Cam” Shaft, now deceased. Its frame had been bent into a right angle by a bus, but had been cleverly repaired by Honest Monty’s spot welder.

  “Yes, ma’am, this little gem was owned by a woman like yourself, who never drove it farther than the supermarket on sunny days.”

  “Well, I do like these fancy flames painted on the hood,” said the gray-haired woman, gazing through her trifocals.

  “Yes, they’re quite decorative,” said Honest Monty, “and—”

  And E.T.’s replicant landed, on Honest Monty’s shoulder. Honest Monty blinked, and gazed at his elderly customer. Suddenly it was as if his own dear mother stood before him, for E.T.’s replicant was
crawling down his shirt front, over Honest Monty’s heart. “Ah, Mother, I mean ma’am, actually I have a better car for you over here—”

  “Does it have flames painted on it?” asked the little old lady.

  “I’ll have some painted on for you, dear. This car is much more suitable.”

  The little replicant dropped to the ground, looked around quickly. It only had so much thrust and no more, and must find Elliott before its energy was drained. It shot away in a streak of faint rainbow light, and reached Elliott’s house with a dying charge. But it found its way in through a window, to Mary’s room, where Mary was just putting on her imitation pearls, and taking a last look at herself in the mirror. Her date was due to arrive any minute. He was a computer engineer, very attractive and intelligent, although his conversation tended toward the discussion of disc-drives, terminals—and modems, which she’d made the mistake of thinking was a new rock and roll group and had told him how much she’d liked their latest record.

  “However,” she said to herself as she left her room. “I’ll be better company tonight.” She’d had Elliott instruct her in matters of software, and felt suitably prepared.

  The replicant followed Mary out of the room, its energy failing fast. It slid down the banister beside her, confused about its mission, feeling only a great but diffused love for the occupants of this familiar house. It was supposed to merge with one of them, merge and communicate . . .

  “O.K., gang,” announced Mary, as she stepped into the downstairs hall, “may I have your attention, please?” She felt she should tell them who her date was, explain some of his background, reassure them that their mother was not going out with just anyone. “Alex will be here in a few minutes and—”

  “Yeah, Mom,” said Michael, not hearing, head buried in Sports Illustrated. “Have a good time.”

  “—and I’ve told him all about you and about your interest in modems.”

  “. . . um-hummmm . . .” said Michael, concentrating on the biography of a seven foot center with elbows like andirons . . . enjoy yourself.”