E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial in His Adventure on Earth

by William Kotzwinkle

  Then he put the van in gear, stepped on the gas, and pulled away. A horrible ripping sound signaled that the entire hose system was tearing from the house, and as it tore away, the enormous plastic envelope surrounding the house collapsed. The van skidded to the bottom of the drive, trailing twenty feet of main hose behind it like the flailing tail of a dragon.

  Michael leaned on the horn. Policemen scurried to move the crowd barriers and the crowd parted to let the van through. Elliott bounced around in back as the van slid into the open. Only then did he notice that two agents were inside the hose that trailed the van, the agents clinging to the hose’s ribs and trying to climb forward.

  And had he been able to look out the other end of the hose, he would have seen Mary jumping into her car with Gertie.

  She was pulling down the drive, past government vehicles, in pursuit of the van and hoping that the theft of it, just perpetrated by her children, wasn’t actually a criminal act, though she strongly suspected it was.

  “Where are we going, Mommy?” asked Gertie.

  “For placenta cream,” said Mary, screeching through the opening in the police barricades.

  “Did Elliott and Michael steal the van?”

  “Yes, dear . . .”

  “Why didn’t they take me with them?”

  “Because you’re too young to be stealing vans,” said Mary, barreling down the street. “When you’re older, then you can.”

  She squealed around the corner, after the wayward van. She knew now that the monster was alive, knew it in every tortured nerve-ending of her body. And whether wishes or just dumb luck had brought it back to life, she was glad, for though it was causing still further complications in her situation—though police cars were now chasing her, and it, she knew that somehow—it was the best.

  The bouncing agents struggled up the hose, clinging to its swaying shape. At the mouth of it they could see Elliott, working frantically.

  Hey, thought one of them, that kid isn’t trying to unlatch this hose, is he?

  A moment later the agent was rolling in the street, hose collapsed around him and his colleagues, as the van sped on, leaving them behind.

  Michael fought the wheel and pedals of the zooming van. “We’re gonna get killed, Elliott,” he called over his shoulder. “And they’re never gonna give me my license.”

  He marveled at the way other cars moved aside just before the moment of collision; and the van whipped on. Elliott climbed up to E.T.’s bouncing lead box, opened it, and unzipped the plastic bag.

  E.T. sat up, brushed the dry ice off himself, and looked around. “E.T. phone home.”

  “Are they coming for you?” asked Elliott.

  Zeeeep zeeple zwak-zwak

  E.T.’s eyes were bright, but even brighter was his heart-light, which answered Elliott with a brilliance that filled the van.

  Michael whipped the van off the avenue and onto the road that climbed a hill called the Lookout. And looking out from the Lookout were the Dungeons & Dragoners he’d phoned a half hour earlier. They were waiting now, with bicycles.

  The van streaked to a stop, and Elliott and Michael helped E.T. down.

  The Dungeoners—Greg, Tyler, and Steve—stood open-mouthed as the little monster was brought toward them.

  “He’s a man from outer space,” said Elliott, “and we’re taking him to his ship.”

  As the doctors’ minds had reeled earlier, so now the Dungeoners reeled. But in the Game they’d played all parts—mercenaries, orks, wizards, knights—and somehow it prepared them for the amazing. So, though their minds had just fallen apart, they nevertheless helped E.T. into Elliott’s bicycle basket and then raced off, down one of the four roads that ran up to the Lookout.

  Tyler led, long legs pumping up and down on his pedals. A glance back over his shoulder gave him another mind-boggling view of the thing in Elliott’s basket, and he pumped faster, eager to get rid of it in a hurry, whatever it was. Before it started multiplying.

  “Elliott!” screamed Greg, spit flying behind him. “What . . . what . . .” But his tongue fumbled in his moist mouthful, and he could only dribble in wonder as he pumped for all he was worth. Beside him, Steve was hunched over his own handlebars, winged hat on, wings bent by the wind. He too glanced at the monster and knew that whatever it was, it was somehow related to letting your kid sister make you bake mud pies. He’d fill in the details later. But a deep vow was born in him at that moment, never ever to have anything to do with anybody’s sister anymore, including his own. Weird things could happen, such as he’d probably learn about in freshman hygiene class. He bent further over the handlebars, his young mind raging with unanswered questions, his feet flying on the pedals.

  As this strange crew of cyclists dipped out of sight, the hilltop filled again, with government vehicles, police cars, and Mary. They all screeched to a stop around the van and the police leapt out, guns drawn. Mary leapt out at the same moment, and ran toward the police, screaming, “No, they’re only children!” Months of frustration, fear, and plain craziness filled her voice; the police drew back, startled, as she pushed past them. If she’d been this convincing in divorce court, she’d be a richer woman today.

  The momentary diversion increased the bikers’ distance from the police, who were still dealing with the van and the dry ice that was spilling out of it. But when the doors were fully opened, it was seen to be empty.

  At that moment, from the bushes emerged another figure who’d somehow known that this place was the most important spot in the world this evening. “They took their bikes!” screamed Lance. “I know where they’re going!”

  Mary clamped her hand over the little nerd’s mouthful of buckteeth, and dragged him into her car. But Lance rolled down the window and shouted to the police and government agents. “The lake, they’re headed for the far side of the lake!”

  The police sailed off with the agents, in the direction of the lake.

  Lance turned to Mary. “The forest—I’ll show you.”

  “But—the lake?”

  “Hey, I may be a nerd, but I’m not stupid, you know.”

  E.T. and company pedaled on along the winding pavement, toward the landing site. The Dungeoners kept looking at E.T., their minds disordered from the sight of him, but their hearts telling them another thing, wordless and forceful: that he was their friend and this was the Game at last, in its highest form. They pedaled harder, faster, bearing him off to whatever awaited him.

  The police cars were circling the lake, past camps, cottages, the park attendant’s shack. “Naw, nobody’s been here . . .” The attendant stared at the vehicles piling up on the dirt road. “What’s goin’ on?”

  Wheels spun, tires sent mud and stones shooting in the attendant’s direction, and then the chase team was gone, back along the lake road to the pavement again.

  Which way? wondered the lead driver, a police sergeant with one twitching eyelid, twitching all morning, as though something were signaling inside it. It twitched his wheel to the left and he was moving, following some inner radar.

  The cars behind followed him, racing back along the highway, accelerators down, government agents insisting on fancy floorwork; this chase was big, and nothing could get in its way. “Fork here—spread your men out—”

  Radios signaled across the chase, and the cops branched out, forming a fan whose support lines were the grid of streets, a fan that kept wheeling and turning, opening and closing, one block after another.

  “. . . turn, turn . . .” The twitching eyelid twitched and car wheels twitched with it, closing in again on some weird signal up ahead, a signal reaching all of the drivers from the heart of their quarry, an extraterrestrial whose excited communication band was searching the heavens with a telepathic probe so strong that even the stones could feel it.

  E.T. bounced in Elliott’s basket, hanging on to it with his long fingers. His head was buzzing with signals, buzzing with

  znackle nerk nerk snackle do you read us?


  Yes, my Captain. But please hurry will you zinggg zingle nerk nerk

  Tyler’s long legs were blurred pedalwork, knees pumping his ten-speed, leading the crowd, Michael beside him, hunched over his own set of wheels. Faintly, Michael heard the siren.

  “They’re coming!” He shot a glance toward Elliott.

  “The alleyway!” shouted Elliott, cutting in ahead of both of them, Greg and Steve following, spit flying, wings folded back. Slim rubber tires screeched as they skimmed into the alley’s broken asphalt; the alley was the trunk line to their destination, to the far hills, which felt farther off than they ever had before.

  The bikes bounced and swerved over the cracks, and the backs of the houses glanced, windows blinking, shaded eyelids going up. A hand, holding a can of beer, brought the can to lips that trembled for a moment, blinds pulled aside. Did I just see a monster go by in a basket?

  A belch followed, another, and then a heavy footstep toward the old liquor cabinet. A man needs a chaser after a sight like that. I’ve got to cut back on this stuff . . .

  “Hang a right . . .” The agent pointed, his fingertip seeming to glow. How do I know where to go? he asked himself. I just know that I know. Up there . . . there . . .

  Car wheels spun toward the alley. Police cars hit it in seven different places, then formed a caravan over the broken pave. The lead car, still wheeled by the twitching-eyed sergeant, shot through the narrow corridor, siren going, the sergeant’s good eye working double-time, but God help the little old lady, he thought, who steps out from behind the garbage cans for a smoke. Because we’ll drive her right over the goddamned clothesline into next week.

  On the outer edge of the fan, the agents were closing, cutting off the far end of the alleyway. A glowing finger pointed, glowing with absolute certainty.

  “There they are!”

  Elliott spun his wheels, jumped off his bike, and ran it up a flight of concrete steps, beside an old garage. Michael and Tyler were right behind him, bouncing up with him, into a backyard, shielded by wooden fences on both sides.

  Greg foamed over the top step, Steve beside him, wings up as they stopped, took their bearings, and then shot out into the next alleyway.

  Tyler was already there, sliding right, Michael sliding with him, and Elliott and E.T. between them. E.T. stared around, enormous eyes revolving. Don’t let me be caught xyerxyer nark vmmmmmmmnnnn can you hear me?

  zerk, nergle vmmmmnnnn znack our great Captain bids you hurry, danger danger danger

  The alleyway bent in a gentle upward arc, skimmed by five bicycles bearing one monster toward the high hills, through the back way, the inner circuit known better to bikers than to car-jockeys. The big vehicles came against each other, one line lower, were blocked, had to back off, turn, start again.

  “Slippery little rats,” said the sergeant leading, his left eye fluttering like a strobe light, faster than eyelids are supposed to go. He backed over some ashcans, hoped there was no old lady, dog, kid, or sacked-out drunk behind or inside them, because they were under his wheels if they were. He accelerated forward, siren wailing, cap visor tugged down over the bridge of his nose in determination. He roared out the far end of the alley and turned left again, following his eye.

  “The little bastard . . .” Agent Keys was mumbling to himself. “The no-good little sonofabitch.” Elliott’s sweet, lying face was with him. The kid will go far in life with a face like that. Screw you all up, just at the last moment, when you have the trophy in your hand.

  “Turn, turn!” he screamed, knowing the course, feeling it in his fingers, his toes. His driver wheeled it, setting a new pattern, back out into the street, just as Tyler and Elliott appeared from the alley.

  “Shit,” said Tyler, “there they are . . .”

  The last piece of street in their path, the last city block before the forest, before escape, was suddenly filled, agents on both ends, cops in the middle, as doors opened and personnel spilled out.

  Elliott wheeled back around toward the alley. The snout of a police car appeared there, pursuit lights whirling, the car bearing down.

  The fan had closed all the way now, tight in to the center, folding in completely on the boys. Tall Tyler crouched over his ten-speed. “Let’s just try and crash them.” He pedaled forward, Michael beside him, and Elliott right behind, bikes revved as fast as they could go. There was some space, a narrow channel between two of the parked vehicles. Tyler pointed, Elliott nodded. Greg and Steve flanked the flying wedge, Greg’s mouth finally dry, parched, spitless for the first time in years. “We can’t make it,” he said, but he bent over his handlebars, wishing he had just one bubble left to blow in their faces. Steve’s wings bent flat against his head, pressed by the driving wind of his speeding bike. If he angled it right, he could plow right into a cop and spend the night in jail.

  The phalanx of bikes drove toward the wall of police, government agents, paramilitaries. All the corridors were blocked.

  One last crash, thought Elliott. That’s all we could give him.

  E.T. raised a finger and gave a little lift to the chase. The bikes shot into the air, over the tops of the pursuit cars.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” said the chief of police, hands on his hips, cap tipped back, gaping.

  Five bicycles were sailing over the houses.

  Keys felt his stomach falling toward his feet, as if he’d just walked off a building. The bicycles skimmed the telephone wires, then the tops of the poles, and then disappeared into the twilight, leaving nothing behind but a winged hat.

  E.T. gazed down at the ground below. Yes, this was much better, a smoother ride. His heart-light had come on again, and was shining through Elliott’s bicycle basket into the dusk.

  An owl, lately returned to his favorite tree, woke up and shifted his wings, lazily. Time to bite the old mouse . . .

  He lifted himself aloft.

  What in heaven’s name . . .

  Five flying bikes sailed by the bird, who rolled over backwards in the air, beak snapping nervously. E.T.’s heart-light caught his powerful gaze. He stared at the elderly goblin, whose own eyes were slitted in third awareness, watching the night.

  The bats are getting bigger around here, thought the owl.

  Or I’ve lost my mind.

  The bikes were already gone, into the falling darkness. Elliott angled his, in the pattern he knew now, and the others followed, gliding in his path.

  “Tell me when it’s over,” drooled Greg, eyes closed, wet lip drooping. Beside him Steve’s hatless head was flying hair, raised to the tip-ends as he stared at the ground below. Sisters, he said to himself softly.

  Tyler and Michael were flanking Elliott, and E.T. was gazing into the distant sky, his outer awareness probing beyond the clouds.

  znack zerkle dergggg oh, my Captain, is it really you?

  znerkle derggg dergggg

  A telepathic face appeared to him, that face most trusted, most perfect and sublime of all the ancient travelers. It smiled its turtlish smile of highest consciousness, and then was gone, into hidden bands of rushing descent.

  “The forest!” shouted Elliott, as the bikes banked in the sky, and the others could see it ahead—the rolling hills and then the deep shadows.

  Mary, grounded, but moving along, maneuvered her car up the same hillside, instructed by her nerd. “On up the fine road,” said Lance, morosely. The greatest bike chase of all time and he wasn’t in it. Why?

  Because he was . . .

  A nerd.

  Gertie sat between them, the geranium in her lap. More new blossoms were opening in it, petals unfolding as Mary bounced the car up the fire road.

  Lance gazed ahead at the dark treetops. “I’m getting some heavy signals,” he said. “Park here . . .”

  They parked, got out, and entered the woods, Lance leading, Mary holding Gertie’s hand. Their path was slow, but the path above treetops is not, and Elliott led his party along it, swiftly, to the hidden communicator.

&nbs
p; “There . . .” E.T. pointed with his finger, and the flying bicycles went into a descent pattern. They glided lightly down, touched in the grass, and rolled to a stop.

  Ulllll-leeple-leep

  The communicator hummed. As Elliott approached it, a sudden beam of brilliant lavender light broke over him. He froze in it, looked at E.T. The old monster stepped into the light with him, and together they looked up.

  The Great Ship was overhead, soft lights glowing. It seemed to Elliott as if an enormous Christmas tree ornament had fallen from the darkness. He stared at the beautiful vehicle, drinking in the greatness of its power. It was E.T. multiplied a millionfold, the greatest heart-light the world had ever seen. Its mysteries shone into him, and messages of love and wonder ran up and down his body, melting him to nothing. He turned toward E.T.

  The ancient voyager’s eyes had grown bigger too, filling with the sight of the beloved mother Ship, Queen of the Milky Way. Her command lights shone their elegant patterns around her hull, and he felt the mind of the cosmos therein, in its most evolved form. He looked at his friend, who had helped him to call across an incalculable distance. “Thank you, Elliott . . .” His voice had become stronger, as its overtones increased in harmony with the Ship, defining higher and higher patterns of energy.

  I promise, he said to the glowing hatchway, not to peek in windows.

  But at that moment he felt another pattern entering the clearing, and there was the willow-creature, and he gazed at her in silence for a long moment.

  Gertie ran toward him. “Here’s your flower,” she said, holding out the geranium.

  He lifted her into his arms. “B. good.”

  A shadow moved at the edge of the clearing, and the sound of jingling keys filled the night. E.T. quickly set Gertie down. He turned to Elliott, and held out his hand. “Come?”

  “Stay,” said Elliott.

  The old voyager embraced the boy, and felt the cosmic loneliness run through him, as deep as any he’d ever felt. He touched Elliott’s heart, and made the intricate wave-sign over it with his fingertips, to release the child from the narcosis of the stars. “I’ll be right here,” he said, fingertip glowing over Elliott’s chest.