E.T. The Book of the Green Planet

by William Kotzwinkle

  He slipped it off his wrist and tossed it to her. “I’ve got to split, see you later.”

  He made a slow, measured exit, feeling her eyes on him, feeling the warm sun, the gentle breeze, senses alert to everything—except E.T.’s message, which was scattered now, little beads lost on the burning pave.

  On the other side of the Pass to Immensity, on the Green Planet in a village gourd, upon a moss bed, E.T. groaned. How could Elliott not hear him?

  The greenhouse, one of thousands that were situated everywhere in the fields of Botanicus, had been swept out by the Flopglopple, and its glass had been cleaned by the robot. E.T. had made the greenhouse functional, opening its nutrient valves and filling the center trough. In it, now flourishing, was a transplant of Antum Tadana.

  “This plant,” said the robot, looking in at Antum, “he is special?”

  “He contains the seed of a great energy,” said the Flopglopple as he swept the robot’s feet, his own feet, and the feet of the trough.

  “And this?”

  “That is a Gertie geranium,” said E.T. “From a far-off world.”

  “A most lovely flower,” said the robot, as its electron sensor came on. “Of course, I am no judge of such things, but the world that produces this blossom must be an exquisite place.”

  “We shall make cuttings of it,” said E.T. “And increase its loveliness.”

  The robot moved on to a homely little plant, within which a modest vegetable was beginning to appear. “And this?”

  “It is called a turnip,” said E.T., “and this is what we are going to do with it—” He showed the Flopglopple and the robot how a hybrid was to be made, between the turnip and vigorous Antum Tadana.

  “And what will be the result?” asked the robot.

  “A very big and very hard-skinned turnip,” said E.T., enigmatically, and began the crossbreeding of the two plants.

  The little turnip sat, mutely brooding on the new activity bred into it; strange un-turnip-like surges were suffusing it, and its outer shell was growing harder than any turnip’s ever had before.

  Beside the center trough another trough had been placed, now attended by the robot. He hummed mechanically as he weeded and watered, and was most affectionate with the row of little plants in this new trough. They were a rare species, a relative of Yaa Iram the Fire Plant. Each of the plants had a single fruit upon it, whose shell, inside and out, was heat resistant. A spiny ring grew around its center. “Don’t touch,” said the robot, when the Flopglopple came near. “Those spines are charged. They fire into the heart of the fruit.”

  “It’s breathing,” said the Flopglopple, pointing to the undulating, mouth-like cavities at each end of the plant.

  “It draws igneous gases into itself and digests them with a bang.”

  The spines crackled with their growing charge, which was suddenly released into the heart of the plant. A muffled roar was heard, and the tenacious roots of the plant had to grip hard to keep it in place, as plasma exhaust came out the back end of the little fruit, along with a single floating seed. “It has dined,” said the robot, and moved to the next one, where the process was repeated.

  “A most energetic little plant,” said the Flopglopple, as the muffled roar was repeated all down the row.

  “A remnant of earlier ages,” said E.T., “when the planet was nearly molten and the air on fire. It is called Eruca Vara, the Fusion Bloom. It is thought to have once been tremendously powerful, able to withstand four-hundred million degrees of heat. But whatever it breathed at that time has passed out of memory.”

  “Out of memory,” said the Flopglopple. “And yet—”

  “Yes?” asked E.T.

  “Somewhere—” But the Flopglopple’s mind, stretch as it might, could not quite reach the era in which the mysterious power had flourished.

  “We shall increase its size, in any case,” said E.T. And he opened the nutrient flow to the trough of Fusion Blooms.

  Overhead, E.T. and the robot had hung a network of incandescent wire, the wire shaped into glowing quadrangles and octahedrons. “What are these forms?” asked the Flopglopple.

  “They are the blueprint of the plant world’s desire and design,” answered E.T. “Sound waves pulse along these wires and affect the plants below, intensifying their growth harmonics.”

  The robot was checking the overhead system, running its signal through his electronic brain. A row of lights flickered across his forehead, as he read the current. “Just a bit more amplitude,” he said, raising the gain on the hanging device. “The plants will like that, I’m sure.”

  The Gertie geranium certainly liked it; in fact where there had been one lone geranium in a pot there was now a row of the flowers, brightly blossoming, and E.T. sent the Flopglopple out each day to plant a new cutting somewhere in the fields of the Green Planet, so that Gertie’s gift to him might spread everywhere.

  Beside the row of geraniums, the row of little Fusion Blooms continued their muffled, explosive breathing, and the turnip wondered inside itself at the odd sensations permeating its cells. If it could have spoken it would have said that it was some turnip indeed.

  And then its leaves suddenly turned up at the ends, and its roots began to tingle.

  Botanicus entered the greenhouse.

  He was accompanied by one of his large lizards, with fast-flicking eyes and tongue. Botanicus’s own eyes were sweeping the area quickly, from trough to trough, and to the geometrical stimulators hanging above them. Then his glance found E.T. “A new experiment, Doctor?”

  “For a bigger—turnip.”

  Botanicus stepped over to the pot where the little vegetable was growing. He stroked its surface gently. “With a skin like carbon steel, I see.”

  “To withstand frost at the polar extremity of our planet,” said E.T.

  “Where everything is enclosed in weather domes and heated by sun mirrors? But—” Botanicus smiled. “—nonetheless an interesting attempt.”

  Botanicus pondered, hands locked behind his back, all ten of his fingers glowing with the higher power. His lizard slithered across the floor, cunning eyes seeming to peer through each thing to its soul, but what it did with its knowledge was unknown. The lizards of Botanicus, like the teacher himself, kept their own counsel.

  “And the fiery relic?” He stepped to the row of Fusion Blooms, which the robot was tending. The robot’s head echoed with clicks and a length of tape emerged from his chin slot, as he said, “Vegetal Energy Experiment Number Five.”

  “And its application?” asked Botanicus.

  “A self-sustained heating unit for use in the aforesaid polar outposts,” replied the robot, as he’d been instructed.

  Botanicus turned and looked at E.T., their eyes holding each other’s for a long while, and E.T. felt the teacher’s great mind probing him and discovering all that was hidden in his heart. He knows what I am trying to create, thought E.T., and so it ends.

  Botanicus continued gazing at E.T., and then at the troughs, his head slowly nodding. E.T. knew that in the next moment the order would come to dismantle everything, that the agricultural section could make better use of his talents than in this turnip business. Would a reprimand follow as well? More time in the House of Dogs?

  “I strongly recommend,” said Botanicus, pointing to the turnip, “that you include the nutrients Lota-120 and Ertong Number 7.” He stroked its leaves. “They will add intelligence and elasticity to the walls. And you will want that.”

  Botanicus smiled and turned to the door, his lizard slithering after him. The reptile whipped its tail, knocking the Flopglopple out of the way, and then it glanced at E.T. He received a sudden jolt of its mentation, swift, elusive, the message sinking to the reptilian centers of his own brain, those beyond his immediate comprehension, and there the message lodged, for future reference.

  “Contentment Monitor approaching,” said the robot. “On local Course Zero Two Six, south by southeast . . .”

  The whirling form
of the Contentment Monitor streaked from that quarter, over the fields and down to E.T.’s greenhouse, where it whirled around from window to window, and then streamed in through a tiny crack in the door. Its cyclonic body whirled from trough to trough, fanning the leaves of each plant. Then it whirled up to E.T. The fluttering orb studied him carefully, sending its sensitivity beams all over him. “You seem happy, Doctor.”

  E.T. bent over his turnip, which had now doubled in size. “All is going well.”

  “A new food, is it?” The Monitor’s whirling eye hovered over the iron-skinned vegetable.

  “Bred for harsh conditions,” said E.T.

  “Very good,” said the Contentment Monitor. “To be carried to the dead sun regions.” It spun over to the robot. “And you, Mechanical Object, are you content?”

  The robot’s electronic brain clicked and beeped as it bent over the Fusion Blooms. “I search for truth.

  Permanent malfunction, noted the Contentment Monitor. But it’s harmless.

  And the Monitor sped away.

  The robot’s fingers extended, telescoping out with a series of clicks, into a pair of measuring calipers, which it then applied to the turnip. “It has doubled in size once more.”

  “Time for transplanting,” said E.T.

  The Flopglopple led the way, out into the forest, where it proceeded to speed around in every possible direction, its great velocity turning it into a blur. “Not here . . . no, not here either. How about over here . . . no, not there . . . let me try . . .”

  A peculiar extension had gone out from its ear, long and trumpet-like, which it was holding to the ground as it sped along. Then suddenly it skidded to a stop, listened carefully with its trumpet and raced back to E.T. “I’ve found the spot.”

  “A full-force line?”

  “Deep and strong,” said the Flopglopple.

  The robot carried the turnip-trough, his mechanical arms locked against the weight, and his step firm and steady. He’d been feeling much better lately, with the new charge in his battery and good friends to talk with. “I presume we are going to a nodal planting point?”

  “Yes,” said E.T., “we need the full planetary force. With it, we can grow a prize-winning turnip.” He smiled to himself, and a thought-wave went out through his telepathic portal.

  The robot saw it go, and quickly calculated its course. “Outer Range Five Zero Five, Gate of Immensity, destination—Earth.”

  Mary opened the hatch of her broken-down Plymouth, and hauled out the laundry basket, which was piled high with mud-encrusted children’s clothing. Her washer was broken and no one had anything to wear. Gertie, carrying a box of soap powder, walked with her toward the door of the laundromat. “But couldn’t we fix our washing machine?” she asked.

  “The repairman is at a rubber hose symposium,” said Mary. “His time is limited this week.”

  She heaved through the door and flopped the basket down in front of the coin-operated machines. “Did you bring the change, honey?”

  “Elliott took it all to play Space Invaders.”

  Mary sighed, took a dollar bill out of her purse and went to the change-making machine. It swallowed her dollar, chewed it thoughtfully, and spit it back out as unsuitable. Mary stared at the machine, then rummaged in her purse again, but all of her dollars were dog-eared.

  She walked to the door marked attendant, and knocked. No answer came, but water was seeping out from under the door. She pushed it gently open and found the attendant asleep in a large cardboard box. In repose, he had the countenance of a moron, but she supposed he was competent, and wondered if he’d be a good father to Gertie. “Sir—”

  He opened one bloodshot eye. “Trouble?”

  “Do you have any change?”

  “Down the block,” he said, pointing dully toward the wall.

  Mary gazed at him in his cardboard box, imagining how the box would look in her living room; it seemed more comfortable than her own easy chair, in which Harvey the dog had lately taken to burying his bones.

  She walked back out to the change-making machine and carefully pressed a dollar bill against the wall, flattening its edges. Then she put it into the metal mouth. “Eat this or I’ll kill you.”

  . . . course five zero five, destination Earth . . .

  E.T.’s telepathic beam, homing in on Mary’s vibration, entered through the roof of the laundromat and landed in a dryer, where it was spun around at a high speed.

  Gertie, sitting in the laundry basket, looked up. A row of tropical plants hung in the window, and every one of them had just blossomed, petals opening out in a riotous burst of color.

  “E.T.!”

  The telepathic creature was whirled out of the dryer and spun dizzily through the laundromat; but it sensed Mary’s desire, to get something out of a machine on the wall, for she was striking it with an empty soda bottle. “Quarters, you monster, I’m a working woman and I’m tired!”

  E.T.’s beam shot into the machine, analyzed its mechanism and tripped it until the thing emptied itself, spilling quarters all over the floor.

  “Shhhhhh,” said Mary to Gertie, as they quickly scooped up the jackpot.

  E.T. and the robot joined the Flopglopple in the forest field. “A powerful planetary artery,” said the Flopglopple, “runs right through here, and this is its pulse point.”

  The robot’s head swiveled slightly. “Aircraft approaching, southwest, two-hundred-eighty degrees.”

  “A local cargo ship,” said E.T. “We are exposed here.”

  “But,” said the Flopglopple, “our turnip will thrive here as nowhere else.”

  E.T. nodded, for he could feel the pulse himself, a rhythmic surging that came from just below the surface, as if a giant reptile of energy was passing beneath their feet.

  “Very well,” he said, as they watched the cargo ship pass out of sight. “We will plant our turnip here. Robot, go back now and fetch our trough of Fusion Blooms, for they must grow beside the turnip. I shall go and see about disguising this place, to keep it safe from passing eyes.”

  He left the pulse point in the field and entered the forest.

  “Where is the Elder Jumpum?” he asked a lizard.

  He is with the young ones, teaching them technique. The lizard pointed with its tail, down the forest path.

  E.T. walked along until he found the Jumpum Elder, surrounded by little Jumpums who were watching him bounce. As if on a trampoline, he sailed into the air, branches waving. His trunk was light, the wood of the Jumpum noted for that, and his roots, which evolution had made enormously flexible, waved ecstatically in the air. He came down lightly, his canopy of silken leaves and branches acting like a parachute.

  As he landed, he perceived E.T.’s presence, and leapt to E.T.’s side. Jumping time!

  His branches reached out, and he put E.T. into line with the little Jumpums. “My roots are short and weak,” said E.T., but he jumped, with all the spring in his legs. His jump did not carry him far, but the Elder was laudatory nonetheless, for he didn’t expect anyone but a Jumpum to really know what fancy jumping was all about. Excellent, excellent, now let’s try again.

  E.T. crouched down, curled his long toes and sprang forward. He landed, rolled over in the dust, and picked himself up.

  Fine, fine, said the Elder Jumpum. You’re a good sport. Now let’s do it again.

  “Elder Jumpum, I’m—wasted.” E.T. feebly lifted his hand and then slowly raised himself on one elbow. The Jumpum leaned in over him.

  Come, let’s jump all over the place. Jumping is wonderful.

  “Elder Jumpum,” said E.T., “I will jump with you some more, but I need a favor.”

  Anyone who jumps around with me has only to ask, said the Elder, and he leaned down to listen to E.T.’s request.

  “Increasing in size at an alarming rate,” said the robot, his calipers telescoped to their full length around the giant turnip.

  “It’s as big as the greenhouse that once held it,” said the Flopgl
opple proudly, for the plant was thriving marvelously in the outdoor spot he’d chosen for it.

  “Contentment Monitor approaching,” said the robot, withdrawing his calipers, his head swiveling skyward. E.T. signaled with his heart-light, into the forest.

  The Elder Jumpum saw the light and called to his family. Jump to it!

  They bounced out of the forest toward the greenhouse-sized turnip. The bigger Jumpums surrounded it, and the little Jumpums leapt up and clung to its sides. And the Elder Jumpum took a flying leap to the very top of it, as the Contentment Monitor paused overhead and looked down:

  “Jumpums jumping for joy. Very contented. Probably holding a jumping contest.” It sped off to file its Well-being Report.

  “Truly,” said the robot, “this is one of the great vegetables.” He stroked the sides of the enormous turnip. “But one would need a laser beam to cut through its skin.” He turned to E.T. “Is this practical? A demolition team will be required to liberate the edible interior.”

  “Inject Lota-120,” said E.T., and the robot obeyed, needling the growth hormone directly into the pore they’d drilled in the skin of the vegetable. The turnip, enormous now, and realizing it was like no other turnip ever created, drank deeply of the growth accelerator; it knew itself to be indestructible, with skin and roots akin to stone and steel, but it could not surmise its destiny. I’m one tough turnip, it reflected to itself, and let it go at that.

  Spread out in the field around it were the Fusion Blooms, not nearly so great in size as the turnip, but having increased their heat resistance, through extracts of Fire Plant, their close cousin, which E.T. had fed them. “Good to two-hundred million degrees,” said the robot, calculating the strength of their skin and the density of their expirated breath.

  “In prehistoric time they floated free,” said E.T., “propelled by their own breath. When the planet cooled, they returned to the ground, and rooted. But—” He nodded to their small, straining forms, which seemed, like the Jumpums, to strive for release from the soil with each one of their nuclear breaths.