“Many search the mountains, hills, and forest for us now. Do not be captured.”
“A Flopglopple is not easily overtaken,” said the creature and sped off, out into the night.
E.T. stepped from the door of the turnip and walked wearily to the rear of the cave, where he had grown a little fungus bed for himself, and onto which he laid himself with a sigh. “A Flopglopple is not easily overtaken, but a dry old demoted Doctor of Botany, formerly First Class, may not be so difficult a quarry.” He sighed again and rolled over. In very little time, exhausted from his labors and his constant hiding, he fell asleep.
His thought-wave switched to the telepathic frequency, and his tele-replicant went out through the mountain cave, and into the universal spaces. It crossed the Pass to Immensity and, piercing the dimensions, came down on Earth, off course by fifteen city blocks, above a midtown pool hall.
“Alrigh’, I’ll make the t’ree ball in the corner.”
“An impossible shot, Fat Freddy.”
Fat Freddy knew this, for his game had been falling off lately owing to his being force-fed 120 proof vodka. Vision blurred, cue shaking, he struck the cue ball, just as E.T.’s tiny replicant came spinning down onto it. The added English sent the cue ball in a perfect trajectory, where it sank the three ball.
“Nice shot, Fat Freddy.”
I seen some kind of little green guy land on the cue ball, thought Fat Freddy. I am havin’ d.t.’s but it don’t appear to affect my game.
Not d.t.’s, Fat Freddy. E.T.’s.
The little green guy sailed off the cue ball and was on the way again, traveling fifteen city blocks to Elliott’s house, where only Harvey the dog was at home, chewing on an old baseball glove.
Not much flavor left in this. I’m in desperate need of a Milk-Bone.
He wandered into the kitchen.
They always make these shelves too high for the average dog.
His paws were up on the counter, his snout straining, but he couldn’t reach the box of Milk-Bones, which was plainly visible and precariously balanced.
If we had a canary, I could train him to fly up there.
Harvey lowered his paws, just as E.T.’s little replicant shot in and bounced around from wall to wall.
A little more to the left, said Harvey, directing the bounce.
The replicant landed on the Milk-Bone box, with just enough weight to tip it over, spilling the contents on the floor in the sort of disordered pile appealing to dogs.
Thank you, said Harvey, wading into it, jaws open.
The little E.T. form expired in the cupboard.
The Flopglopple stalked through the woods, with loops of Rakoor Ram over his shoulder; his step was alternately cautious and carefree, according to his nature. “I trust to speed,” he said to himself, as he gathered more of the strong pliable vine.
But the forest was filled with Micro Techs, riding in little two-seater pods, very fast and maneuverable. The Flopglopple watched from the brush as a pair of pods skimmed by, the Security Techs inside them craning their necks around.
“They seem upset about something,” remarked the Flopglopple to himself, not knowing that Micro Techs cannot bear to have something of theirs lost, misplaced, unaccounted for, or otherwise out-of-line. That an entire command console, four life-support systems, and an atomic clock had vanished disturbed them to the point of compulsive mania. Their big round eyes were popping from their heads.
The Flopglopple waved to them.
He wondered why.
Probably, he thought, speeding off in a blur, because I’m a Flopglopple.
Following behind him in an equal blur were the Micro pods. Their drivers had signaled to the other pods, a dozen of which were now converging on the Flopglopple, who reflected that when the chase was on, life was sweet.
His tripodial feet churned, his four-hundred vertebrae swiveled, as he tore in and out between the trees. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him the pods matching his wildly winding track. He screeched to a stop, cut directly left and sped off in a new direction.
The pods screeched to the same stop, cut with him, and stayed on his track, only a few meters behind.
“Hmmmmm,” observed the Flopglopple, “maybe I should increase my stride.” His elastic legs sprang into longer spans, his speed nearly doubled, and again he checked over his shoulder.
The drivers of the pods were shifting gears, pods streaking into high. But then, throughout the woods, it suddenly became—
Jumping time!
The forest began to move in a dizzying labyrinth, trees leaping every which way, forming chutes, cul-de-sacs, circles, parades, chorus lines, and spinning wheels. Pods crashed into rocks, into lakes, into each other, and the Flopglopple sped over several hillsides in the meantime, still clutching his loops of Rakoor Ram, the vine of grace.
With disappointment he looked back down the hillside at the Micro Techs, who were out of the chase and swearing at each other, blaming each other for the collisions.
“They’re fast,” remarked the Flopglopple, “but not fast enough.” He zoomed away, and very shortly had brought the vines of pliable grace to E.T.
“Did you have any trouble?”
“None,” said the Flopglopple.
The Rakoor Ram vine was taken into the turnip and shaped into a sphere of interlocking points, nearly as big as the turnip shell itself. The vine had already been soaked in Tadana, and grown steel-like in nature. The robot, looking at the vines, and at the hardened, hollow turnip shell embedded with steely Fusion Blooms, shook his head. “These things are no longer vegetal; they have crossed the border and are hard, technological creations, as I myself am.” He looked at E.T. “What science is this, that shapes the plant world so?”
“An outlawed one,” said E.T. He too paused and contemplated his work—this hollow hardened shell, and its new spherical lattice, the vine of Rakoor Ram, twisted like a nest of steel serpents. I have coaxed these plants to densities and strengths beyond their law, and they have obeyed me. Thus, as the robot says, they are no longer vegetal, and I do not know what they really are, only that they are capable of withstanding enormous heat and pressure.
“Now,” he commanded, “we must fix Dagon Sabad at each of these twists.” He indicated the spots where they’d intertwined the vine into little cups, and into each of these cups a shoot of Dagon Sabad was placed.
“A lovely garden,” said the robot, nodding at the spherical arbor. “A perfect decoration you have made in secret, briiiiick cliiiiiick, and we will present it to the Lords of Lucidulum. Is this your plan?”
“Something like that,” said E.T.
“It’s working perfectly,” said Elliott to Michael, as they walked through the school hallway. “I’ve been playing hard-to-get and Julie’s nuts about me.” Elliott preened himself proudly. It was almost too easy, this business of becoming a sharp operator. He supposed that he’d go through a series of girlfriends, starting with Julie and ending who knew where?
“Well,” said Michael, “don’t out-cool yourself.”
“Mike, I know what I’m doing. I understand the moves.”
“Here’s my class,” said Michael, turning into a doorway. “See you later.”
Elliott continued on by himself, toward the basement stairs. Yes, it was easy, this girlfriend routine. Of course, he still hadn’t kissed her, but that was designed to drive her straight into his arms.
Crazed with passion.
How could a guy miss with a plan like that? It was one of life’s unfolding answers, the kind that comes to you naturally, if you’re patient.
He turned the corner of the hall and saw Julie standing there, talking to Snork Johnson, captain of the junior swimming team, of which Julie was a member. She was leaning back against the wall, and Snork was leaning in next to her, supported by an elbow to the wall, so that his lips were terribly close to hers.
And she was smiling.
The way she smiles at me, thought Elliott, the blo
od draining from his brain. He stared at them, at the angle of Julie’s posture, at her silky ponytail, and at Snork’s broad shoulders and superior manner. He could swim underwater from here to Japan.
Elliott wanted to step between them and drill Snork Johnson between the eyes. After which Snork Johnson would beat him senseless.
Julie, can’t you see I’m standing here?
She did not see him standing there, or if she did, she didn’t seem to care.
My plan, thought Elliott, as a deep sigh passed through him, like soft slow haunting music heard in the night.
He turned and shuffled in the other direction. Life had just given him another important lesson. There was a fatal flaw in his plan. The girl can find somebody else.
He stumbled toward the stairs and started down them. He felt feeble, weak, dizzy, heard a soft trumpet playing a heart-breaking tune in his ear.
Where have I heard that trumpet before?
In Mr. Zontack’s living room. She wanted me to dance with her and I was staring at Mr. Zontack’s shark.
Julie, he cried inside himself, don’t go with Snork Johnson!
He entered the basement of the school, and ducked into the locker room. He’d go into gym class and do 250 chin-ups in preparation for some serious swimming.
Because action was needed.
“Hey, Elliott,” said Greg, “how’s it going?”
“ ’kay,” mumbled Elliott, and got quickly away. He couldn’t talk to anyone, it hurt too much. He raced to the chinning bar, and after twelve fast chin-ups he dropped to the floor, arms trembling.
The gym echoed with bouncing basketballs, and Elliott joined one of the games. His usually laid-back style was suddenly frenzied, and he raced around the court, calling madly for the ball and gunning shots from every angle. In his frenzy, he did not see when an equally excited little replicant of E.T. came through the ceiling. The replicant whirled, spun, was as keyed up as Elliott but as always, was off target.
It landed in assistant coach Munsterweich’s gin-filled liniment bottle, from which it emerged still more confused. It shot off, great excitement still propelling it, and crashed into the electric scoreboard, where it clung among the buzzing lights.
El-li-ott, I am carrying forward a great plan!
Julie, sighed Elliott, oh Julie.
C H A P T E R
2 1
In the innermost chamber of Lucidulum, the Contentment Monitor made his report. “My unit investigated the demoted Doctor of Botany.”
“And?”
“Though all seemed to be in order, I was not satisfied. I went, therefore, to inquire of Botanicus, chief of the agricultural sector.”
“And what did Master Botanicus say?”
“He said the doctor was working on a bug. Apparently one that troubles the ear.”
“Good, he is finally doing useful work.”
“Yes sir.”
“A dozen ruined pods!” shouted the head of Micro Tech Security. “I send you out to find valuable stolen equipment and you ruin what equipment we own. Junk!” He pointed at the dented, wrinkled, racked-up pods, which now lay in a heap outside Micro Tech Headquarters. The head of Security was hopping about in fury, his eyes bulging, his transparent interior a tornado of temper. “Nincompoops! Imbeciles!”
“Sir, the forest kept jumping around.”
“An entire forest jumping around?” screamed the head of Security as he jumped around. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Sir—”
“Shut up. Repair those pods! And resume your search!” The head of Micro Security stormed off the field and back into his office, promising himself that whoever had stolen the equipment would pay for all this aggravation. “I’ll have him counting stove bolts in Outer Igbolgia.”
E.T. and the Flopglopple carried another plant into the turnip—a large one with thick rubbery leaves. “What is this?” asked the robot.
“It is Rasoor Oob,” said E.T., and pointed to the bulbous fruit at the center. “Pierce it.”
The robot did so, ejecting a sharp spike from his fingertip, and a membranous substance gushed from the fruit.
“Spread it quickly, before it dries,” said E.T., and indicated that the spherical lattice should be covered. They worked until the entire arbor was covered with the membrane and they had an airtight inner space, a ball within a ball. “Rasoor Oob,” said E.T., and pressed the membrane with his fist. It was already drying into a firm clear skin. “It can withstand a hundred atmospheres.”
E.T. entered his own village again, and made his way toward the family gourd. He found the Parent outside, tending to the herb garden. Each patch of herbs was surrounded by a ring of gemstones, of the sort to which that herb was most in tune; stone and herb grew together, fostering each other’s well-being. To the herb the stone gave stored warmth and reflected light, and to the stone the herb gave waves of wisdom, in higher spirals—the wisdom of the rooted, which the stone could mull over in its long eternity of solemn contemplation.
“Hello, my Parent,” said E.T., stepping along the little garden path.
“Welcome, child. You have been away at your new greenhouse?”
“Yes,” said E.T. “I’ve created a very large turnip.”
“And your ger-a-ni-um? Is that how it is called?”
“Yes, my Gertie geranium. I have caused it to flourish.”
“Good,” said the Parent. “The blossoms of the universe should be spread. It is the truest diplomacy, for our soul is in the flower, as the old writings have it.”
The Parent continued puttering in the herbs, straightening, transplanting, its ancient back bent; the herbs responded with the tiniest of movements, not lost to E.T.’s trained eye. “Your garden thrives,” he said.
“Ah well,” said the Parent, “just a hobby. Nonetheless, these archaic medicines—” It broke off a tiny leaf and breathed the aroma between its fingers. “—they are still the best.”
“You are a great healer,” said E.T.
“And so, dear child, are you. My lore is yours. What have I not taught you?”
“You have taught me all,” said E.T. “And I must apply your teachings.” He bent to a tiny patch of emerald herbs and ministered to them as he spoke. “I won’t see you again for a while. My new researches shall claim all my attention, night and day.”
The Parent looked at him, eyes holding a strange glitter. “What is the medicine for loneliness?” asked the Parent, startling E.T.
“Have you such a need?” asked E.T.
“No, child, I have left the rings of fire that burn us with one desire and another. But—have you?”
“I’m uncertain,” said E.T. “I have feelings I do not understand.”
“The Jumpum is a restless tree,” said the Parent. “In that way it has forsaken much of its former serenity.”
“But it found the water for which it thirsted,” said E.T.
The Parent gazed at E.T. again, and seemed to read E.T.’s soul as easily as looking in a flower’s cup. But it said nothing, only placed its leathery palm on E.T’s head, and rubbed it gently. E.T. felt as if he were an herb in a tended garden, receiving the healing touch of the well-schooled gardener. The spirals of wisdom appeared to him, and he knew the Parent was raising him one spiral more, to help him in the great task that lay before him.
In the night, then, when the gourd was still and even the Lumens were sleeping, E.T. rose from his bed and walked softly down the neck of the gourd toward the Parent’s chamber. He held a single Lumen by a thread, the sleepy Lumen’s light flickering on and off as it dreamed.
E.T. entered the chamber. There, stretched out on its own bed, was the Parent, ages old. I do not even know how old, reflected E.T. When his own life had begun the Parent was already an Elder, and the aura of such creatures is immense and unfathomable. That aura shone as the Parent slept, and E.T. stepped into its radiance. It affected him all over, and filled him with an indescribable bliss, for the Parent loved him, and it w
as a wise love born of great time. E.T. could feel intelligence and counsel blending into him, guiding him. He stood motionless in the glow of the teaching, and knew he’d never reach the end of it, for the Parent had comprehended the immortal self.
E.T. looked at the ancient face in repose. So much of what he knew came from this being, and yet when all was said and done this being was a mystery, for the Elders gradually begin to vanish in a mist, their thoughts so inscrutable that they become silent as the trees somehow, and one can pass them by and never know that they are wisdom; so was the Parent vanishing, gaze involuted, silent as wood and stone, and mystery ever increasing.
E.T. himself had begun to feel this mystery gathering in his own form—for he too was changing. His own path had taken such an unexpected turning that he was no longer certain of life’s goal, as once he’d been. The goal was mystery, the trail unmarked. And so one mystery faced another—he and the wise Parent, a conundrum. And yet—
He bent over the beloved sleeping form, and touched his finger lightly to the Parent’s forehead and whispered, “I’ll be right here.”
Micron entered the turnip, lengths of wire draped over his outstretched arms. The robot followed behind him, bearing the first of many loads of electronic apparatus which the Jumpum trees had been concealing in their roots.
“Not new,” said Micron, “but perfectly adequate.” He lifted the modular pieces, examining each one carefully and admiring its construction. “Built by my wing, microscopic detail. This single unit—” He held a small box up. “—has two million parts. Here’s the main computer, fits in the palm of your hand. Here’s the—”
“Can you fit it into our design?” asked E.T. nervously.
“I’m a Techno. You ask us, we make it happen. You’ve got a nice little shell here. It will stand stress?”
“It is rated above the best alloys,” said the robot, as a length of tape clicked from his chin slot, bearing his latest stress measurements of the turnip.
E.T. The Book of the Green Planet Page 18