“Michael, you’re not listening to me.”
“Sure I am, Mom. Modems.” He turned the page.
I’m searching for a new father for you, said Mary to herself. Isn’t that important?
She saw that it wasn’t. Her children were adjusted to things as they now were, to a one-sided household with herself at the center, trying to keep it from flying apart. Her dates were traumatic only for her, not them.
“Hey, Mom,” said Elliott from behind her, “did you remember everything I told you?”
“Yes, Elliott, I’ve achieved computer literacy.”
“CPU?”
“Central processing unit.”
“Bus?”
“No, Alex has a car.”
“Mom!”
“Oh, sorry. The bus carries signals to and from the microprocessor.”
“Alright,” said Elliott, “now don’t blow it.”
“Thank you, dear.”
I love this child, she thought, looking at Elliott, and I want him to be happy. And he wants me to be happy. And why do I feel like crying when I see him rooting for me, that my date should be successful and I don’t perform like a dumb terminal with Alex? She leaned down and kissed Elliott on the forehead. “You’re a good teacher, Elliott.”
E.T.’s little replicant jumped from the banister, toward Elliott, trying to deliver the message but Elliott moved and the replicant landed in the umbrella stand, message nearly forgotten in any case, all of it fading now, like a dream from another world.
“Company coming!” cried Gertie from her post at the window. “He has curly hair and a little black beard and a box of candy and he’s taller than Mom and he—”
“Thank you, Gertie dear, that’s sufficient.” Mary walked toward the door. “I won’t be late, children.”
“Take your time, Mom,” said Michael. “Don’t worry about us.”
“You may have a few of your friends in. Not entire neighborhoods.”
“Got it, Mom.”
The way he says that, reflected Mary, I know hordes of teenagers will be in here, until five minutes before I return. But what can I do?
She opened the door. E.T.’s replicant leapt desperately from the umbrella stand, missed Mary, and landed on Alex’s forehead. Alex stared at Mary, blinked slowly. “I just had the most astounding realization about linear address decoding.”
“I’m sure you did, Alex,” said Mary, and took him by the arm, turning him around on the doorstep. She had the feeling it was going to be a scintillating evening at the data bank.
C H A P T E R
9
From the horizon, at noon, came a sudden eruption of light—first red, then yellow, then blue, above the distant capital of Lucidulum. The sky filled with the colors, which spread like a canopy, shell-shaped, as if some genius of the sea had gestured. And from the heart of Lucidulum came the faint sound of its populace intoning a chant, half murmur, half song.
“A Mind Holder has been crowned,” said Botanicus, “with the Wreath of Wisdom, Final Rank.”
E.T. gazed at the radiant canopy, which was the energy-mind of this new Lord of Lucidulum, now a cosmic power, a principle, primal and complete.
Botanicus nodded, as his students gathered around.
“In that direction, toward such a moment, do you all progress. One day, thousands of years hence, you shall yourselves be crowned, without exception.” He turned toward E.T., and lifted an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps with one exception.”
Micron piloted a tiny, low-flying service capsule, which the Micro staff used for repair runs around the farming region. E.T. and the Flopglopple rode scrunched up in back with the tools. Micron had an ice-pack on his head. “Each time I turn my neck, just slightly, a stabbing pain—here.” He pointed to his temple.
“On Earth,” said E.T., “it is called a hang-over.”
“Yes, that is how I woke, hanging over the edge of the bed.” Micron shifted his ice-pack. “I don’t think I will drink more beer if it can be avoided.”
“It is not strictly necessary,” said E.T. “On Earth we sometimes drink another drink. Gertie made it for me. It is called Kool-Ache.”
“I do not think I wish more ache than I now have, Kool or otherwise,” said Micron, again adjusting his ice-pack.
The little pilot banked the service capsule and began descent; a moment later the vehicle fired its landing jets and the craft settled down in a small clearing in the hill region. The transparent hatch of the capsule opened, and the three crawled out, E.T. and the Flopglopple dropping down on the ground behind Micron.
“This is the region of the ancient mines,” said E.T. “Why have you brought us here?”
Micron said nothing, only smiled and led the way into the hills. Stone piles, from early excavations, lay everywhere. It was a barren place, dead as an airless moon. “From another time,” said the Flopglopple, “in the beginning.”
E.T. looked around the desolate landscape, and saw a number of Tickli Moot-Moot plants, tall and slender and possessing the peculiar characteristic of making a laughter-like sound; on most occasions they could be heard chuckling softly to themselves, and always in the most remote and inhospitable places—as if they were there for the purpose of cheering a cheerless surrounding. Tickli Moot-Moot, or, Continuously Tickled Plant as it was known in the handbook of wild flowers: and here it stood, typically, in a stark landscape as gloomy as any one could find.
“But they aren’t chuckling,” said the Flopglopple, listening closely, his ear extending from his head on a long elastic trumpet-like protuberance. “No, not even a giggle.”
E.T. walked around the clump of silent Moot-Moots.
Thirst, we are . . . dying of . . . thirst, said the plants, but E.T. knew it already, from a dozen signs.
It has not rained . . . in seven double moons, sighed the plants. And they gave a choking, tortured chuckle, though it was no laughing matter, but laughter was the only sound they had, produced when their flowers opened to attract a nectar bird whose call was also like a laugh. But the nectar bird had not been here for a long time, for the nectar was dried to dust, as E.T. could plainly see as he peered into the fragile, wilted blossoms.
“Come on,” said Micron. “What are we standing around for? These plants are dead.”
“One moment,” said E.T., and turned to the Flopglopple. “Find a rain crystal, quickly.”
“Rain crystal, rain crystal—” The Flopglopple sped off, tripodial feet a blur. Only when running at top speed did his keen intuition begin to work; when the scenery was a blur he saw things inside it, and so it was now, as it rushed past him in a flickering dance, within which he saw the secrets of the terrain.
“. . . buried caverns . . . veins of metal . . . silver . . . gold . . . nothing useful there . . .” He sped even faster, streaking in a great circle around the landscape. Suddenly, he put on the brakes.
“Rain crystal.” He screeched to a stop and dove at a slide of loose rock. He yanked the rocks aside, and revealed the glowing crystal within, its face dark, darkened by the stormy potency within it. He pried it from the rock and rushed back with it to E.T. and the Moot-Moots.
“Rain crystal!” He handed it to E.T.
“You are a splendid Flopglopple,” said E.T., and set the crystal in among the Moot-Moots.
Why have you disturbed me? asked the crystal.
“Dying Moot-Moots,” said E.T.
Hadn’t noticed, said the crystal. Busy, you know.
“Well,” said E.T., “we’d appreciate a—”
Spot of rain. Yes, quite, said the crystal, and concentrated.
A cloud appeared over the hilltop, and then another, coming like fluffy animals called by their master.
Right down here, said the crystal. Parched Moot-Moots.
The clouds sailed in, and dropped low, so that suddenly E.T., the Flopglopple, and Micron were standing in mist, which swirled all about them.
A soft chuckling was heard. It was answered by a rumbling
from the clouds, and then the rains began. E.T. and his crew danced out from under the shower, which confined itself solely to the Moot-Moots.
“Interesting demonstration,” said Micron. He looked at E.T. “They teach you a few things at the gardens, I suppose. We have electronic cloud-makers at Micro Tech Headquarters. Make you sheets of rain any time you like. But this wasn’t a bad show, if a trifle old-fashioned.”
E.T. nodded his head at the Moot-Moots, satisfied they’d now survive, and he resumed his march, following behind Micron. “I’m receiving a signal,” he said, “a dark one.”
“From there,” said Micron, and pointed to a shadow in the hillside. As they approached, E.T. saw it was the opening to one of the abandoned mines, millennia old.
But just beyond the shadow of the opening was a heavy metallic seal, blocking the shaft from entry.
“Locked,” said the Flopglopple.
Micron studied it for a moment, then ran his spidery fingers over the face of the plate. “One of the old electron locks, simple enough if you know how.” His fingers worked, emitting a steady stream of squeaks and beeps of the electron code. The plate grew suddenly incandescent, and itself began to squeak and beep, and a moment later it became transparent, and then vanished altogether.
A dank, damp smell rose from the passageway.
“I feel a powerful presence,” said E.T.
“I too,” said the Flopglopple. “This shaft is not going to be merely an empty channel carved in rock.”
And the Flopglopple, who by nature always propels himself headlong at full speed into new opportunity, stepped cautiously into the shaftway.
Micron drew a laser torch from his little tool case, and it cast a bright beam into the darkness ahead.
“There’s the old descent tube,” he said, pointing to a cylindrical shape in the rock ahead of them. Dust and webs covered it, dulling a finish that had once been bright. But, thought E.T., that was so long ago; he would have to open deeply buried layers of his memory to recall what had once transpired here, and who had engineered it.
Micron ran his fingers over the face of the descent tube and a control panel popped open, cobwebs and dust flying up from it. The little technician examined the line of gauges. “Pressure is still good. Everything functional, nice bit of work, made to last. Well, come aboard.” A door swung open in the tube, more dusty webs breaking apart. E.T. and the Flopglopple stepped inside.
Photoactinic light filled the tube as Micron closed the door, the light emanating from an ancient tentacled Lumen, whose radial arms undulated with a brilliant internal glow. The tube was its eternal prison, wherein it shone for itself, and for no one.
Micron was testing the interior controls. “System’s a little sticky, but I think it’s safe enough.” He pressed a button, and E.T. felt an almost imperceptible movement, but a glance at the gauge showed they were descending at a very high speed.
The Flopglopple looked around with great interest and saw a distortion of himself on the curving inner wall, head greatly elongated. “Pressure P on corresponding volume V?” He pointed at his head, thinking it had actually shaped itself into a cone, which he thought very handsome.
“A reflection,” said E.T.
“Reflection,” mused the Flopglopple, but kept feeling his dome hopefully, as the descent continued.
And then, smoothly, it stopped. The door opened and they stepped out. Owing to the great depth, the gravitational field had altered, and the Flopglopple took an enormous leap, twiddling his tripodial toes in the air.
They stood in a rock gallery, whose roof arched high overhead; at the far end of the gallery, light and shadow moved.
“My frontal lobes murmur with expectancy,” said E.T. “The inner layers of memory have spoken, and I know who dwells here.”
“Yes,” said the Flopglopple, whose own memory had dived deep. “We are in the realm of the asteroid miners.”
Micron nodded. “The outlawed ones.”
“Who visits?” A rough voice echoed in the gallery, and a figure moved from the shadows. It had a large head, which, even in the poor light of the cavern, could be seen to be strangely formed, and while its body was not much larger than E.T.’s, it was clearly from another branch of the planetary family.
Micron stepped forward. “We come as friends,” he said, voice echoing through the gallery.
“Friends?” The figure took a step forward. “We have no friends. Approach cautiously, intruders.”
E.T., Micron, and the Flopglopple moved slowly down the gallery, only the Flopglopple remaining gay and unperturbed, his footsteps still enjoying the lighter gravity, as he continued leaping up and down, toes twiddling. E.T. felt a current, magnetically potent, sweeping the gallery.
The asteroid miner’s head was hard and faceted, like a gemstone. “But where are your arms?” asked the Flopglopple, perhaps impolitely, and staring at the creature’s odd-shaped body—a long, mummy-like cylinder of blue and purple, faceted as was his head.
He is an ancient amalgam, thought E.T. His kind is wrapped in mystery. E.T. noticed then, that the creature’s head reflected light, as do the precious gems. Its eyes, like its head, were glowing, a crystalline lattice radiating at the center, the lattice moving, pulsing regularly.
“A living relic,” said the Flopglopple, dancing around the creature, who apparently was able to tolerate the Flopglopple’s innocence. “Primeval design,” continued the Flopglopple, scrutinizing the being’s head and body closely. “Metallic laden. Creates heat and life through electromagnetic field, needing little food or oxygen to sustain it. You feed on—?”
“Metals,” growled the ancient creature.
“Ah,” said the Flopglopple, nodding its head and looking around the gallery. “And so your natural home is close to those veins, yes, yes, I see.”
“Do you?” asked the creature sardonically, and E.T. saw that its crystal eyes reflected lost dreams, of the former eon, when metallic beings had ruled, and gathered the metals of the moons and the diamonds of the comets, and ravaged the planetary system with war.
Sudden apprehension filled E.T. More trouble would result from conspiring with such a being. I’m liable to find myself in a jam, a pickle, and the dog home.
“We’ve come to seek your help,” said Micron.
The creature’s faceted head flashed, the facets each bearing a moment of light, before it moved back into the shadows. “This way.”
The subterranean being led them into a second gallery, a vaulted room with furniture of stone, comfortable enough for a creature able to ingest metals, but E.T. thought a cushion of moss would help considerably.
The room was lit by radial Lumens, tentacles glowing as they crept along the walls and ceiling. And the feeling of the place, despite its cold rock walls, was one of deep security, for in fact, thought E.T., we are deep, and not likely to be disturbed. No one, at least, will overhear our plan. The Contentment Monitor does not descend here.
“What can I do for you upper world beings? What use have you for an old miner?” The creature leaned back in its stone chair, and again the facets in its head flickered with an internal light.
“We need a flight crew,” said Micron, “to get us through the warp of time. And you’ve piloted big ships in the past.”
The old miner studied his guests more closely now, and an orange-yellow luster filled the crystal lattice of his eyes.
E.T. felt an emanation of material desire coming from the being, and he leaned forward to clarify the mission; and his tongue naturally chose words he’d learned on Earth, their destination. “We’re not after—” He paused, to get it correctly. “—big bucks.”
“You’re after what you’re after,” said the old miner. Now it was his turn to lean forward. “I am called Occulta. I used to fly the great starcruisers of the former eon. And I’m at your service.” He smiled, and a drop of mercurial substance dripped from his lips.
Occulta took them deeper, down a corridor of hewn pillars. Streaks
of gold ran through the rock, entwining the pillars like garlands.
“Another being ahead,” said the Flopglopple, scurrying forward, toward a third chamber, in which he disappeared. E.T. and Micron followed, with Occulta, into the chamber, where they found the Flopglopple gazing at its occupant.
The creature’s head was disconcertingly like E.T.’s, as if showing clearly where once the two lines of evolution had been one. But the differences between them were also profound. E.T. studied the armless shape. Where had he seen such a thing before?
The Flopglopple provided the answer. “A large bulb of garlic,” said the Flopglopple, examining the rotund sheaths of the creature, each of them like a separate clove. But instead of the fragile skin of that plant, the creature’s skin was armor plate, and no knife could ever peel it, that was certain. It meant to endure, and had provided for itself accordingly.
The eyes, though superficially resembling E.T.’s, had a quite different characteristic—they were metallic mirrors. E.T. peered into them, trying to find their expression, but saw only himself in miniature, approaching. The creature spoke:
“Look yet more closely, visitor. You’ll find all you know and love in my eyes, for you will always find yourself.” And he laughed cynically, a dark laugh, dark as his body, whose inner sheen was silvery, the vessels of his life-flow bearing streams of the precious ore. E.T.’s frontal lobes filled with archaic patterns, of a cold metallic reign, where once this creature had been a prince. That reign was over now, and its prince in exile beneath the world.
“I am Sinistro,” said the mirror-eyed old sovereign. “What business have you here?”
“They wish to recruit us,” interjected Occulta. “To pilot them through the warp of time. We know it well, eh, Sinistro?”
They laughed together then, and suddenly their bodies expanded, blossoming outward in the most astonishing way. The metallic folds lifted, like petals, raised from within by long thin arms, hidden until now.
They are like flowers, thought E.T. But they were not gentle buds in blossom, but the opening of fierce warriors. Their lifted sheaths revealed a pulsing interior core, charged with magnetic power. Inner ribs, supporting the lifted sheaths, were shining. The long tentacle-like arms gestured in archaic sign language, and E.T. felt the creatures’ magnetic centers merging in a single powerful field. He leaned toward the Flopglopple and whispered, “Such beings are not to be taken lightly.”
E.T. The Book of the Green Planet Page 7