E.T. The Book of the Green Planet

by William Kotzwinkle

  A telepathic beam rose from his brain, and sped out between the twin stars of Lakama and Oto. Passing the first, second, and all successive boundaries, the tiny beam found its way to Earth, off by about 20 degrees, powerful but erratic, like its sender. It landed in the TV section of a department store, where twenty-five TV screens suddenly showed a silvery ghost, with duck feet and a long neck, crowned by an eggplant-shaped head.

  “Sumpin’ wrong with yer sets, mac,” said a shopper, as channels began flipping in a rushing pattern, while the little mental replicant tried to find its way out.

  “I assure you, sir,” said the department head, “there is nothing wrong with these sets.”

  “Yeah, sumpin’s flyin’ around inside ’em, bugs or sumpin’.” The customer, who had to purchase a small set for his drinking den, a place of cosmopolitan grace, gave one of the sets a kick.

  “Please, sir, these are not used cars.”

  “Sometimes a kick straightens ’em out.” The customer, who made submarine sandwiches for a living, adopted his electrical engineering stance. “Wakes the old tubes up.” He took a set in his hands and shook it violently. E.T.’s little beam was bounced out through the back. “Yeah, that’s better,” said the sandwich engineer.

  Set free in the store, the tiny glowing replica of E.T. was wondering where in the name of heaven it was.

  “Come on, Gertie, we’ve got to buy you some galoshes.”

  A familiar voice sounded in the aisles. The telepathic replicant turned, little neck rising up, toward Mary, as she dragged Gertie along.

  “I don’t want galoshes,” said Gertie. “We don’t even call them galoshes anymore.”

  “What do you call them?”

  “Designer boots.”

  “Well, I’m calling them galoshes,” said Mary.

  “I hate them.”

  “You’ll learn to love them. All little girls learn to love their galoshes.”

  “Only if they’re yellow. And I’m not little anymore.”

  “Sir, do you have any yellow galoshes?”

  “No, madam.”

  “See,” said Gertie.

  “See what?” asked Mary, beginning to grow bewildered as she always did when shopping for her children; another hour and she’d be babbling in the aisles, in the common tongue of mothers. Then I’ll yell at Gertie, Gertie will start whining and digging her heels into the carpet, and I’ll be one step from the Child Abuse Center.

  “Please, Gertie, be cooperative, we’re going to buy green galoshes.”

  “Yuck.”

  “Thank you, sir, galoshes in green will be fine.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Such a refined salesman, reflected Mary. A good influence for my barbaric children. We’ll buy the galoshes and I’ll ask him to marry me.

  She waited as the salesman rooted through the boot boxes. She’d been seeing more of Alex lately, but he’d proven to be slightly on the manic side, electronically calculating the calories of the meals they ate, and “interfacing” the soup and salad. She was no longer sure if she wanted an alphanumeric relationship. Maybe something cozier, based on footwear.

  “Here you are, young lady, try that on.”

  “Yuck.”

  “That’s right, dear, yuck-green galoshes.” Mary gazed down at the salesman’s bald head. It’s warm and homey looking. I can easily imagine it sticking up over the end of the living room couch every evening.

  “There, young lady, how does that feel?”

  “Awful.”

  “We’ll take them,” said Mary. Because I’ve got to get out of this store. Not because I almost just now took out my lipstick and wrote I love you on this man’s head. But also because I just saw a little green creature looking at me. From over in the next aisle.

  E.T.’s telepathic replicant was indeed looking on, and now it was following Mary and Gertie through the store.

  Gertie pulled Mary into the electronic game aisle, and picked up a Speak and Spell. “Mommy, remember mine?” She held the spelling computer up to Mary. “It’s still broken.”

  E.T.’s mental replicant dove into the computer, and flew through the microchips, rearranging their memory with quick skips of its toes. So when Gertie pressed the Speak and Spell, it said, in E.T.’s voice, “B. good.”

  “Huh?” Gertie stared at it. “Mom, it’s, it’s—”

  “—too expensive,” said Mary, and put the Speak and Spell back down on the counter.

  “Mom!” cried Gertie.

  “Don’t dig your heels in, Gertie.” Mary yanked her along, as Gertie yelled and hung on to the edges of counters.

  “Mom, somebody else might get it, it has a message on it!”

  “That’s right, dear, it says come along with your mother before she pulls your arm out of the socket.”

  “It was E.T.!”

  “E.T. is gone, Gertie. Far away.”

  Just then, Elliott turned the corner in the toy department, with a very odd look on his face. He blinked, dully, toward Mary and Gertie.

  “Elliott,” said Mary, “what are you doing here? Don’t you have a music lesson at this hour?”

  Elliott blinked again. “I had the feeling I’d—meet someone here. Someone—”

  “Who?” asked Mary.

  “He was here!” cried Gertie. “Elliott, E.T. was here!”

  Mary went quickly into action, taking Elliott by one arm and Gertie by the other. “Come on, children, let’s move it. We’ve got lots more to do today.”

  She couldn’t let them fall back into fantasies about E.T. Their life was on Earth, not out in space. She had to protect them, against what she wasn’t quite sure, but it was no good them dreaming about E.T. For E.T. was like their father—not somebody they were likely to see again, ever.

  E.T. climbed over the rim of the canyon. The launch pad, empty now, was below, only Micro Techs left, straightening things up. He continued along the rim of the canyon and found his way to the crevice in the rock. He entered it, down the rough-hewn staircase. Here and there Lumens hung, lighting the winding passage deep into the mountainside, and lighting the grotto where Sinistro, Occulta, and Electrum sat on their stone couch.

  The transparent bubble of their concentration was once more floating in the center of the grotto, and within it, as before, was a mental image of the command module of the starcruiser. Micron stood beside the bubble with the Flopglopple, the two of them staring into it, where the spectral forms of Sinistro, Electrum, and Occulta floated, hands on the controls.

  “They’re with the ship, out through Lakama and Oto,” said Micron.

  The spectral forms of the dark lords moved on the flight deck, from instrument to instrument, piloting their spectral starcruiser. Then, as the navigation screen showed them about to leave the planetary system entirely, their figures began to dissolve inside the bubble, and then the bubble itself dissolved, control panels and command seats dying into darkness.

  Sinistro’s physical body slumped on its stone couch, exhausted from sustaining the mind bubble so long, and Electrum and Occulta slumped beside him. Electrum’s right eye slowly opened, and the pulses within it were faint. He raised himself up on one elbow and addressed E.T. “A point about which I want to be absolutely certain—” The dark lord’s other eye opened. “—we’ll each have our own bicycle?”

  “I promise,” said E.T.

  “Excellent.” Electrum’s eyes closed back up, and a faint smile crossed his lips, as he slumped forward again.

  E.T. tended to the old miners, then, putting to the lips of each a tumbler of liquid—the herbal extraction called Voogle Oppep #2, made of an excellent array of vivifying flowers, all lively and bursting with vitality—the Rapidly Ascending Oppep itself, able to climb a hundred yards a day in season; and the five strains of Voogle, whose vine, though slower growing, could, once it had wrapped around a slender tree, bend that tree to the ground, after which it would release its own tap root and it and the tree would spring straight, the Voogle
flying off the top and sailing to a new growing site, where it would root once more.

  The extract of these plants glistened now on Sinistro’s lips, and the old miner brightened and straightened, his energy returning in a smooth natural flow, and he started to rise to his feet.

  “You are not altogether restored,” said E.T. “You need this rubbed on your brow,” and with his glowing fingertip he touched a spot of salve to Sinistro’s brow, and then Occulta’s, and Electrum’s. Their ragged, exhausted mental auras responded with a quiver, and reshaped themselves, edges firming up into the proper density. “Much better,” said E.T., examining the three old miners closely. They protested that they were perfectly all right, that they could make giant mental energy enclosures all day and notice no strain, but they were glad of E.T.’s attentions, for no one had tended them in ages; no one had touched their brow, or cared if they wandered alone forever in their caverns, decrepit and dying. No, this little Doctor of Greenery was different, for they could feel his tender concern, and though they were gruff and violent old pirates, they, like all creatures of planets Green and Blue, responded to kindness.

  “Decent little bean-reaper, isn’t he,” said Occulta softly, as E.T. left them to rest, placing a bag of aromatic herbs in the stone chamber, which would complete his ministrations. A scent, unlike anything the dark denizens of the underworld had ever smelled before, filled their chiseled noses. A pleasant ease came over them, and they fell into a gentle and untroubled sleep, in which they dreamed of a faintly glowing spirit who cared for them, and stroked their brows, and whispered tales of ancient glory, in which they themselves were the heroes, and all was well in their reign. They remembered all, all the greatness they’d once known, and lived it again, and spent the night in such fantastic memories as these, which E.T. made for them, with his herbs of love.

  C H A P T E R

  1 3

  The dining hall of the launch base was slowly filling. A starcruiser had returned to the pad, and its pilots, the Mind Holders, were making their way to a table. Slender, ethereal, delicate, they entered in a group, discussing neuronal networks, but the only sound from them was a hissing undertone, their communication on a higher and more subtle frequency.

  The other tables were filling with Micro Techs, whose chairs, of course, were higher. Their manners were deplorable, for they argued fine points of technology and physics while banging their spoons. Loud, boisterous, one might almost say uncouth, the Micro Techs cared only for the designs of supermicroprocessors, and the components of linear momentum, the hall echoing with every aspect of these subjects and many others besides.

  “Pla! B and T9 with electron volume vom sixtus!”

  “Ridiculous! You cannot use the start sequence F in that arrangement, which is essential with the merketron othmak.”

  “Both wrong! You must look to mass point Tlaskret Sluckk, in the E-field.”

  “You’re all a bunch of dull-witted digit drivers!”

  They shouted, were overbearing, and bounced up and down in their chairs. Their thousand-thread fingers tied themselves in frenzied knots as they emphasized a point, and their terribly agitated, high velocity conversation made the dining hall into a buzzing hive.

  When the soup came, they hardly noticed, just spooned it up while they continued arguing—though it was a delicious broth of Bazmat Lizoona. The soup spilled down their chins, and because they dunked their crackers so violently, their fingers needed to be licked continually clean, which they did, in the middle of their bickering.

  And then, while brandishing his spoon, one of the Micro Techs started to yawn. His fingers slowly loosened, his spoon fell into his lap, and he collapsed face down in his soup.

  A series of little splashes followed, all around the hall, as one Tech after another yawned and fell in the soup.

  The Mind Holders, accustomed to gross behavior from the Micro Techs, did not notice that all around them heads were going down. They were engaged in higher considerations, concerning the mystery of corporal teleportation, when suddenly one of them, in the midst of a nonverbal transmission to his neighbor at the table, found his elbow going into the salad dressing. How terribly inelegant of me, he remarked to himself. And now I seem to be falling into a plate of Beeperbeans. Observation: The soup was drugged . . .

  A moment later, his colleagues had also slumped into the salad dressing, and two moments later the entire dining hall was asleep, under the dominion of the Sleeping Princess, Shemoda Nuncoor. In their deep sleep, the Mind Holders saw her, a beautiful veiled spirit of the plant world, spreading her cape over the launch base.

  The Flopglopple flopped along beside E.T., and his gaze kept running over E.T.’s form, which was bent, tired, and very, very sad.

  The Flopglopple reflected: Something’s bothering the boss.

  The Flopglopple reflected some more, and put a toe in his ear as an aid to concentration. I should be able to help him. Running through my brain in profuse if disorderly fashion, are all the great equations of the last one thousand years.

  I should be able to apply them.

  Instead I have a toe in my ear.

  Why?

  Because I’m a Flopglopple.

  Micron walked beside them, down the canyon path, toward the launch pad. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he said to E.T. “My logic cells are clicking.” His little body pulsed with information, his internal schematic on display. “Yes, all you need is a Tech like me, well schooled, with total absorption, faultless recall, and a handsome, audacious nature.”

  “Noisy little package, isn’t he,” said Sinistro, following on the path with Occulta and Electrum. Their forms dominated the path, their metallic cloaks opening and closing as they strode along toward power once more.

  “I’ll have not one, but two bicycles,” said Electrum, “and I shall have them set in a necklace so that I can wear them all the time.” The old pirate of the stars laughed heartily, as he’d not done for centuries. Treasure, yes, there’d be much of it—bicycles, paper routes, and Gum.

  “And I—” thundered Occulta, “—I shall be a Burger King.” He pointed at E.T. “Did not the little Doctor of Greenery describe Burger as the greatest of all things in the universe? Yes, I shall be a Burger King.”

  The three metallic lords strode fiercely forward, down the canyon path, toward the base. The lights of the base were becoming visible now, through the last ranks of the forest.

  “Ah me,” sighed E.T. to himself, as he looked down at the launch base. Within it, not a soul stirred, for everyone’s face had fallen in his soup, and snores filled the air.

  I must be deranged, thought E.T., to have done a thing like this.

  His mind was confused, divided, remorseful. But each time he thought of Elliott, growing up a galaxy away with no one to counsel him, he knew he must proceed with his reckless plan. “El-li-ott,” he groaned softly.

  “Who’s this El Li Ott he’s always talking about?” asked Sinistro.

  “I believe he’s a ruler of the fabulous planet Earth,” said Electrum. “Thus, he would be one of the Burger Kings.”

  The dark lords nodded together over this obvious fact, for it would be pointless to cross the universe for anyone less than a potentate of Burger. “He will be rich, of course,” said Sinistro. “The Earth word for wealth is moo-la. And we shall have it, my friends, much, much moo-la and—a pogo stick.” Sinistro smiled at the ignorance of the others, for he alone had been told about the device. “All the great rulers have a pogo stick. It is kept by their throne for times of emergency. Elliott, the King of Burger, has one in his closet. As you know, we shall each have our own closet.”

  “Truly, this is a mission worthy of our talents,” said Electrum.

  “The little doctor has told it all,” said Occulta. “Earth’s treasures are uncountable. The Monopoly Board, for example, which is worth millions, especially the portion called Boardvark. I must tell you, in advance, Boardvark is mine.”

  Sinistro cast a sharp gl
ance at his companion but said nothing. However, thought Sinistro, when the time comes, we shall see who rules Boardvark, from a pogo stick. Wearing the helmet of Foot, and decorated in bicycles.

  Conversation ceased, then, as the edge of the forest was reached. The launch pad was before them, the great starcruiser at its center. In all the attending domes and barracks, lights burned but no one moved anywhere. A heavy silence, punctuated only by the occasional snore, filled the air. Sinistro patted E.T. on the back. “You’ve done it, Doctor,” he said softly.

  I’ve done it, thought E.T.

  The Flopglopple edged up to him. “You’ve broken about a hundred planetary laws in one jump.”

  “I can’t be trusted to water a dandelion now,” said E.T. “I’m a criminal.” He sagged within, as the full realization of what he’d done came over him. “This is the first act of infamy on the planet in thousands of years.”

  “Oh well,” said the Flopglopple, “I’m usually in trouble.”

  “No,” said E.T., “you are an Innocent.”

  He gazed at the trees, the sky, the familiar moons, and thought—this cannot be my home anymore. “Once we take that ship—” His gaze traveled to the launch pad. “—we shall be wanderers forever more, severed from home through eternity.”

  “I don’t care,” said the Flopglopple. “I like your company.”

  E.T. looked again at the forest, and felt beyond the forest to the gardens, the flowers, the blooms. Once we take this ship, E.T. will not phone home. The call will not be accepted.

  He put his foot out, and took a step.

  “For Elliott.”

  His heart-light flickered, and from it a ray of the highest order shot forth, indicating sacrifice for love. It traveled to the heart of the universe, which is everywhere, and was duly noted—but E.T. knew nothing of this, only felt terrible guilt and despair in his aged soul.

  “Look at it,” said Micron, staring at the huge, sleeping installation. “And it’s all mine to play with—every last di-nerkling, gam-axiter, and resiston.” He stretched himself to his full height, of approximately thirty centimeters, depending on whether or not he was wearing his padded socks. “I’ve always wanted a puzzle like this to play with.”