E.T. The Book of the Green Planet

by William Kotzwinkle

  Micron tore it off, looked at it. “This will do fine.”

  A semicircle of computerized units—the assembled command module—wrapped itself around Micron and the robot, who sat before the many controls, pressing buttons. “Give me fore . . . aft . . . trim,” said Micron.

  The robot pressed, as instructed, his display board lighting up. “All functional.”

  The transparent sphere within the turnip was now a double lattice, of vines and wires, all of it coated by the membrane of Rasoor Oob. Micron pressed one of the buttons on his console, and the mouth of a Fusion Bloom was exposed in the wall of the turnip, a metallic shield dropping away. At once the flower of Dagon Sabad that faced it stirred and spat a tongue of serpentine power into the waiting mouth of the Fusion Bloom.

  “Number One firing,” said the robot, as the Fusion Bloom roared, plasma streaming through the wall of the turnip, into the outside air.

  “Good,” said Micron. “Let’s try the entire lower ring.”

  The robot threw a lever, which simultaneously removed the shields from the circle of Fusion Blooms near the floor of the turnip. The nearby flowers of Dagon Sabad quivered, and spat their charge, stimulated by the opening mouths of the Fusion Blooms.

  The lower ring of Fusion Blooms roared, in a sound that vibrated the floor of the turnip under E.T’s feet. The Flopglopple looked at him. “That is the sound of the ancient world,” he said, “when our atmosphere was alive with the primal fire.”

  Outside, the lizards watched, as the turnip’s lower portion was lit in a net of glowing plasma.

  “Close main valves,” said Micron to the robot. “We don’t want to draw any spectators.”

  “Captain,” said a crew member of an intermediate orbiting station. “I’ve just picked up a tremendous power surge.” He pointed to the viewing grid. “A sixth magnitude surge, Zone Twenty-Seven, Lucidulum.”

  “Relay to the fleet,” said the orbiter captain. “There should be no reactors of that magnitude there.”

  “Orbiter Five to Lucidulum. Reporting sixth magnitude surge.”

  “This is Fleet Commander Lucidulum. Ships One and Two, investigate power surge, Zone Twenty-Seven, over.”

  “On the way, sir. One and Two.”

  E.T. and the Flopglopple entered with two more plants, potted, with enormous leaves and fruits that were quite clearly and rhythmically breathing.

  Micron turned in his seat. “Ah, that feels good.” He inhaled deeply. “Pure oxygen,” he said, turning to the robot, who was belted in beside him. “Those plants give it off in great quantities.”

  “I regret,” said the robot, “that respiration is not required in my system.” His mechanical eye-shades fluttered sadly.

  “A Moja Vari plant,” said Micron, turning to E.T. “Am I right?”

  “Breath of Travelers,” said E.T., nodding and placing the two plants near the nutrient troughs and tubes that fed Dagon Sabad and which would now also feed Moja Vari. “Two will be sufficient. They reproduce very quickly.” He pointed to the seed buds that dotted the leaves, a few of which had already dropped into the soil of the pot and were now sprouting.

  The robot turned back to his glowing screen, on which two bright objects suddenly appeared. “Approaching starcraft, high velocity.”

  Micron popped up and down in his seat, straining against his safety belt. “Those are Lucidulum cruisers! They’re after us!” He turned toward E.T.

  E.T. lifted a finger. “We must—buzz off.”

  “We’ve got no food, no water!”

  E.T. pointed to the nutrient troughs and tanks. “Dagon Sabad and Moja Vari are provided for. As for us, we will find junk food along the way.” He hurried over to the radar screen, where the blips were getting bigger and louder. “Now please—buzz off!”

  Micron and the robot activated the command console, pressing many buttons, throwing all the levers. The door of the turnip slid closed, followed by the second door in the membranous inner sphere which the Flopglopple drew shut, the membrane self-sealing.

  “All secured.”

  “Main engines firing.”

  The lower rings of Dagon Sabad began to quiver, plant after plant stirring. From their centers tongues of fire leapt into the mouths of the Fusion Blooms.

  Outside the lizards watched, as the bottom half of the turnip lit up, Fusion Blooms belching plasma. The turnip seemed to hiccup off the ground; then suddenly it was lifted higher, camouflage blowing off it in a swirl of leaves.

  In ancient days, said one of the lizards, there were plants such as this.

  A fine sight, said the second lizard. The little doctor is wise.

  On all sides, the Jumpum trees began bouncing around. The sight of the turnip sailing into the air inspired them to mighty leaps of their own, and they accompanied it, briefly, in the air, then dropped away as it continued to climb.

  Within the turnip, the robot continued to work his control board. “Second stage,” he said, and his large round eyes began to fill with a grid of sparkling constellations, as his internal navigational mode came on.

  E.T. went from place to place in the lattice work of Dagon Sabad, as the plant shot forth its power—streams of it flowing and feeding the rocketry of the Fusion Blooms. His turnip ship lifted rapidly now, into the night sky.

  The robot switched on the outer viewing screens and the heavens appeared before them. Moving among the stars were two Lucidulum cruisers, rapidly approaching.

  Botanicus and E.T.’s Parent sat together in the Parent’s gourd, engaged in friendly reminiscing, for they were both old parties, and ancient citizens of the Green Planet. Upon the table before them was ambrosia Botanicus had brought, poured in crystalline cups whose pattern was a network of the distant stars in the constellation of Nahaz Erdu. They clicked their cups together, and the ten fingers of Botanicus glowed at the tips—his wisdom digits, one luminescence for each great deed he’d accomplished, ten in all, in a life measured in eons.

  “Your child is unique, dear friend,” he said. “He has always been my finest student.”

  The Parent sighed and sipped the ambrosia. “The Destiny Dreamers saw all this, of course, long ago. But it was thought better to keep it hidden.”

  “The best decision,” agreed Botanicus. “A great fate is hard enough, without being told of it an advance.”

  “And naturally,” said the Parent, “one hopes that one’s child will be spared, that he will remain ordinary, and consequently, happier.”

  Beside the beaker on the table was a transparent ball, showing the living night sky, stars twinkling. Botanicus leaned toward the ball, keenly interested, his ten fingertips radiant. “He found the power, he applied it correctly. And now—”

  Streaking into view within the ball were the images of two Lucidulum starcruisers, and one flying turnip.

  “Briiiiizz . . . starcraft closing fast.” The robot’s arms moved quickly, working his bank of controls. “I am setting course Six Seven Two, Near Moon Pass.”

  “Firing upper ring,” said Micron, punching a second row of buttons, and another portion of Dagon Sabad’s arbor trembled, and spat fire.

  E.T. stood beside Micron’s seat. “Does it respond?”

  “It has kick,” said Micron, as the turnip continued to climb. He pressed more keys on his board. “We have a few wobbles, because the power is so raw.” He looked over his shoulder at the crackling lattice work of Dagon Sabad. “Where did you find that thing?”

  “A rare specimen,” said E.T. “It must approve of one’s ambitions before it accompanies one.”

  “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t change its mind,” said Micron.

  “I’m feeding it what it likes,” said the Flopglopple, tending the nutrient tanks.

  And I, thought the robot, gazing at the Near Moon growing larger in his viewing screen, I continue my search for truth, I go where it takes me. I go . . .

  “Visual sighting, Captain, starboard.”

  “Aircraft specification, please,”
said the captain calmly, as he trimmed to starboard.

  “It’s—it’s—”

  “Yes? What did you say?”

  “It appears to be a—I’m sorry, Captain, I—”

  “Well, speak up, what is it?”

  “A flying turnip, sir.”

  The starcruiser captain swallowed with some difficulty, and switched on his microphone, connecting him with the Commander of the Fleet.

  “Starcruiser One reporting. In pursuit of Sixth Magnitude power emitter.”

  “Aircraft specification, please.”

  The starcruiser captain sighed, and made his report.

  In the innermost chamber of Lucidulum, a startled voice rang out. “A flying turnip?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  “The Commander of the Fleet is pursuing a vegetable?”

  “Apparently so, Your Lordship. It appears to be some sort of hybrid.”

  A soft click on the central communication board sounded. “Commander, this is the Inner Chamber. “You are pursuing a turnip?”

  “Affirmative, Your Lordship.”

  “Do not fail to capture it, Commander. I’ll not have our planet circumnavigated by members of the cabbage family.”

  “Circumnavigation is not its course, sir. It is already at the edge of our gravitational field and still accelerating.”

  “I don’t care where it’s going or how. You command the finest spacecraft in the galaxy. Catch it.”

  A V-shaped stream of starcruisers climbed, like the point of an arrow, aimed at E.T’s vehicle. The root of the great turnip dangled like a tail and its leaves had all blown away; but its network of Fusion Blooms drove it with passionate brilliance toward the Near Moon, plasma flowing from it in a hundred tongues.

  But the starcruisers, pride of the galaxy, were gaining, ramjets flaming.

  The voice of the Fleet Commander echoed in each of the ships. “Prepare to deploy meteor nets.”

  A hatchway beneath each of the cruisers slid open, and as from the spinnerets of some great spider, lengths of super tensile line were spun out, and held by telescoping rods that joined the lines from cruiser to cruiser, in one great net, strong enough to hold a speeding comet.

  Inside the turnip, Micron’s fingers were flashing over his command console, increasing power, activating more rings of Dagon Sabad. The robot’s metal fingers moved with equal precision at his navigation tasks. This was like the old days, when he was a new machine, flying with the Fleet to the unknown—when I was young, before they replaced me, before I became outmoded.

  He looked at the rear viewing screen, at the pursuing Fleet, the Fleet that had scrapped him. “On course,” he said, turning to Micron. “We are headed into the Far Moon Pass.”

  In the viewer, the Near Moon fell behind and the Far Moon grew increasingly larger. E.T. looked into the view screen and saw the starcruisers deploying their nets. They were trying to catch him, like a bug, and pin his wings forever. He hurried over to the ring of Dagon Sabad, and began to implore the plant to put forth more power. To each flower of Dagon, he spoke soft botanical incantations from his great storehouse of knowledge. “Do wheelies . . . keep truckin’ . . . pour it on . . . burn, baby, burn . . .”

  “More!” cried Micron as he saw the net closing in on them. “We’ve got to have more!”

  E.T. shuffled nervously back and forth, coaxing Dagon Sabad to pour its true form out, the universal force that quickens the Cosmic Egg, the force stored in this simple unassuming plant. “Please,” begged E.T. “Show your stuff!”

  To what end? asked the spirit of Dagon Sabad.

  E.T. tried to answer, but no language from Earth or the stars could describe what he felt. His heart alone glowed, and from it came many vibrations—of a simple love he’d known, given by a stranger in the universe, a boy, whose soul was somehow the hope of the world. “His love is just a speck of dust in the ages, Dagon Sabad, but I believe it is the only treasure.”

  Acceptable, said Dagon Sabad.

  “Net formation stabilized.”

  The starcruisers were fused as one craft, their arrow shape inverted now, into a scoop, bearing in on their target. The Far Moon had been passed, and the stars alone were ahead.

  The commander, leading the formation, gave the order. “Full acceleration.”

  “Full power, Commander.”

  The net closed, encircling E.T’s ship. But Dagon Sabad, quickener of the Cosmic Egg, released a burst of seventh magnitude power, which it used for stirring sleeping nebulae.

  At his viewing window, Micron saw the stars ahead cluster and shift to the blue spectrum, as the turnip accelerated to light speed and beyond.

  “Briiiicck . . . we have escaped the net. Setting course, constellation Nahaz Erdu, Gate of Dimension.”

  I’ve just been outrun by a turnip, said the Commander of the Star Fleet to himself.

  “But I can’t control it!” cried Micron, tilting off his seat and dangling by his safety belt.

  The turnip was wobbling, going into a spin, its walls beginning to shake. They had full power, of the seventh magnitude, but the untried ship, the experimental turnip, was unable to stand up to it.

  E.T. fell down with the pitch and slid across the floor. His eyes rotated wildly, as the immensity of the power he’d tried to harness shook him from place to place. “El-li-ott!” he cried, knowing it was over, that his luck had failed, and that he’d dragged his innocent friends to their doom. The Flopglopple’s face appeared next to his, as the creature joined him in sliding around.

  “Forgive me,” said E.T.

  “. . . lovely time . . . sliding . . .” said the Flopglopple, for whom rolling over a waterfall in a broken barrel would be quite enjoyable, and pitching about in deep space in a rattling turnip was even better.

  “We’ll be killed!” cried E.T.

  “Upside-down!” answered the Flopglopple, as the ship stood him on his head, where he balanced momentarily, toes in the air.

  He doesn’t understand, reflected E.T. He’s a simple soul who trusted me, and now—

  Pieces of the wall cracked, fell inward. Wires sparked and burned. The Lumens careened around, their light flickering. E.T. slid the other way across the floor, his mind a net of anguish and regret. How had he dared fly in the face of the unknown? There were unwritten rules and he had broken them all. A telepathic surge went out from his brow, containing all that he knew from the collected centuries. It formed a telepathic replicant of tremendous vitality, his last gift to Elliott.

  Elliott stood in the shadows of the dance floor, watching the couples doing their thing under the rainbow light. It was Friday night and the community recreation hall was filled. And Julie was dancing with Snork Johnson.

  “Guess he beat you out,” said Tyler, standing next to Elliott.

  “You think I care?” Elliott straightened the lapels of his jacket.

  “Yeah,” said Tyler, “I think you do.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” said Elliott.

  “Cut in on him,” said Tyler. “Tell him to paddle off.”

  Elliott looked at Snork.

  If I told him to paddle off, he’d cream me. At the very least, he’d humiliate me with some cutting, superior remark in front of Julie, to which I’d have no reply.

  Because Snork has confidence and machismo. Because his father’s a judge.

  Elliott flashed for a moment on his own father, the missing link, gone, gone, gone. And with him had gone something undefinable, but it translated into confidence.

  Of which I’ve got zero.

  Zero charisma.

  A wave of loneliness hit Elliott, as he felt the space that separated him from his father, and Julie, and everybody.

  “Well,” said Tyler, “go to it. Tell Snork to get lost. Tell him if he horns in on your girl again, you’ll put a pin in his water wings.”

  “I’m going downstairs,” said Elliott, and walked along the edge of the dance floor, to the door. He went down the narrow staircase to t
he first floor of the rec hall, where the Ping-Pong tables were. A bunch of guys were there, all of them dateless losers pretending they didn’t care, while working on their backhand serve and blasting some wicked shots over the net. When a girl went by they put a little more spin on the ball in the hopes of demonstrating what championship Ping-Pong was all about, and of course the girls didn’t pay any attention.

  Lance was there, squinting across one of the tables, Nerd News rolled up in his back pocket. “Hey, Elliott, how’s it going? Come on, I’ve got this table reserved.”

  Elliott sighed and picked up a paddle. This was his Friday night, playing Ping-Pong with the world’s biggest nerd.

  “Alright, Elliott, I’ve been perfecting my serve.”

  Elliott returned it lifelessly, not caring, the ball falling into the net.

  “Devastating, isn’t it,” said Lance. “I sense a shutout in the making.” He squinted across the table again and lofted the ball in his special thumb-wiggle serve. It bounced on Elliott’s side and skipped over his paddle.

  “I’m in incredible form tonight,” said Lance.

  All along the wall, video games were buzzing, crackling, filling the air with muffled explosions. Overhead the ceiling rumbled with the sound of the dance floor. Julie was up there, part of the sound, part of the music and the mood. While I, thought Elliott, play Ping-Pong with Lance.

  “Brace yourself, Elliott, here comes a world class move.”

  E.T’s replicant came through the ceiling, finally on target and streaking toward Elliott’s head. It landed, smoothly, merging with Elliott’s energic aura, then blending still more deeply, into his innermost nature. Elliott felt a faint ripple pass through him, and flicked his Ping-Pong paddle, sailing the ball back at Lance with a table-edge hit that sent the ball over Lance’s paddle and bounced it off his forehead, between the eyes.

  The replicant sank deeper into Elliott, down into the most delicate parts of his personality; there the replicant saw a vague and shadowy form, burdened with sadness; it was part of Elliott, the part that weighed him down, that destroyed his poise, and made him wander lonely.