E.T. The Book of the Green Planet

by William Kotzwinkle

  “Monitors approaching, southwest, V-formation, considerable numbers.”

  E.T. and the Flopglopple waved to their family of Jumpums, one of whom still had its roots in the elixir bath. It leapt out dripping, and bounded with the others, who’d already taken their places in a ring—the entire family of trees encircling the turnip.

  The Fusion Blooms had by now woven their tenacious weave right into the turnip’s skin, fusing their vines to it. But loose tendrils waved freely around the surface.

  “Embrace your friends,” said the Flopglopple, and the waving tendrils suddenly wrapped themselves around the Jumpums, and bound them to the turnip in an unbreakable grip. The faint crunching of bark sounded through the ranks of the Jumpums.

  The voice of the robot crackled again, through a tiny speaker attached to E.T.’s finger. “Monitors entering your area, south by southwest.”

  The whirling orbs, like a flight of little cyclones, flashed over the horizon. “This is the demoted doctor’s sector,” said the point Monitor. “Look sharply.”

  “Now,” said E.T. to the Jumpums, whose capillaries were singing with elixir of Tadana. All around the turnip, the attached Jumpums curled their powerful root systems; then they seemed to crouch a little, and then they jumped.

  The turnip broke free of the ground, the great vegetable sailing into the air, carried by the Jumpums.

  This is jumping, said the Jumpums, bearing the turnip lightly between them, and coming down amidst a number of turnip-shaped boulders with which they blended, as the Monitors sailed by overhead.

  Once again, said the Jumpums.

  They curled their massive roots under a second time, and sprang into the air again, on a long gliding leap that carried them out over a nearby lake. They floated down, leaves fluttering, and sank beneath its surface.

  Immersion, reflected the turnip. My fate is a mixed one. But I am patient, for something great awaits me.

  When the Monitors landed, E.T. was puttering in an experimental garden he’d created, of forest herbs and fruits, to justify his presence so far from the agricultural fields. The Monitors, their eyes fluttering excitedly, descended around him. “We were told,” said the leader, “of Jumpums jumping into the clouds.”

  “They’re high spirited,” said E.T.

  The Monitors whirled toward the Flopglopple, who had his feet in the tub containing elixir of Tadana. “And what are you doing?” asked the leader.

  “Tired,” said the Flopglopple, pointing into the pans. “Herbal infusion for aching feet.”

  The robot entered the clearing then, and the Monitors circled him. “Old Machine, what has been going on here?”

  The robot’s head beeped and whirred. “Gardening detail . . . briiiick . . . I trim and clip . . . as instructed.”

  “I don’t believe him,” said one of the Monitors. “Open up your panel.”

  The robot obeyed, and the Monitor darted inside the robot’s back, activating his immediate memory. “And now—give me a readout, Old Machine.”

  E.T. groaned to himself, for the robot’s readout would tell all.

  A length of paper was ejected from the robot’s mouth, and E.T. groaned again, as the Monitors gathered around it, reading.

  “Hmmmmm,” said the leader. “Well, it is just as he said. Simple gardening, cutting and planting. Since the machine cannot speak falsely—” The Monitors whirled off as quickly as they’d come, and E.T. looked at the robot.

  “A faulty wire,” said the robot, raising one finger. “Very handy sometimes when one is questioned.”

  The Jumpums emerged in a fountainous burst from the lake, and brought the giant turnip down on the shore among the huge boulders which it so closely resembled. E.T. and the Flopglopple were waiting, and E.T. ordered the Fusion tendrils to release their iron grip on the Jumpums, who stretched and shook their branches out.

  “You are good friends,” said E.T.

  Just some good-natured jumping, said the Jumpums, and jumped off, back toward the forest.

  E.T. circled the turnip, inspecting it for damage, but its iron skin was unmarked, and the Fusion Blooms, their own shapes hardened now, were also unscathed.

  But his peace of mind did not last long. From around the edge of the lake, a large lizard approached, and behind it, the figure of Botanicus.

  “Watering your turnip, Doctor?” Botanicus slowly circled the giant plant. He touched the edges of the Fusion Blooms that covered the skin, and examined their pulsating petals. “There is a plant,” he said, still musing, “whose rhizome is pure lightning. I domesticated it ages ago but finally let it run wild again, as it was so fierce in temperament. Not much is seen of it now, except upon the mountaintops, where the storms gather.” He looked at E.T. “Great skill is needed in handling it, for it holds the last vibration of eternity, that force which thrilled the Cosmic Egg in the beginning. I speak of Dagon Sabad, the mountain reed.”

  He bent down, his glowing fingertips touching a little creeping plant that grew along the water’s edge. “Now this is a much different sort of plant, so gentle and cooperative.” The glowing finger of Botanicus stroked the leaves of the plant, and its entire system quivered, leaves rustling. He put all the fingers of both his hands upon it, and the plant expanded in a sudden wild tangle, up the sides of E.T.’s turnip. Botanicus patted it, shaping it to the turnip’s exterior, and in very little time the turnip was indistinguishable from the surrounding foliage of the forest.

  Botanicus turned and gazed toward the distant mountain range. “Dagon Sabad, Doctor. Approach it humbly, and with caution.”

  Botanicus strolled off, his lizard slithering after him. It turned, casting a last glance at E.T., and in its eyes he saw lightning flash.

  C H A P T E R

  1 9

  The mountain trail was steep and E.T.’s legs were short. Moreover, the region of the mountain was untamed, and it was here that the strangest plants of all were known to grow. Even on the lower slopes, the species known as Nistus Opa, the Illusionist, was at work—from its petals a faint wraith flowing. E.T. looked, and saw Elliott, shaped in mist, waving to him.

  “El-li-ott!”

  “An illusion,” said the Flopglopple, reminding him and tugging him on by. “It reads your dreams and answers them.”

  The robot had stopped, and was staring into the flower-mist, where he saw an image of a vintage model robot like himself, with opposite polarity, a charming machine, very delicate and winking at him. “. . . briiick . . . briiiiz . . . how do you do,” he answered, attempting to kiss its misty hand.

  “Come on,” said the Flopglopple, tapping the robot on the head with a soft clunk. The robot blinked and looked away from the mist. “A dream?”

  “A dream,” said the Flopglopple.

  “We robots rarely dream, except for short bursts of static. I must say—” He kept turning back as the Flopglopple dragged him on. “—it is a most pleasant activity.”

  “El-li-ott . . . El-li—ott . . .”

  The Flopglopple ran back and grabbed E.T. again, prodding him away from the illusion and on up the path.

  I alone, reflected the Flopglopple, am not susceptible to Nistus Opa, for my dreams are hidden, even from myself.

  They climbed on, as the path twisted and turned, higher up the mountain slope. “Who has worn this path down?” asked the robot.

  “No one is known to live here,” said E.T.

  “An odd track,” said the robot, “all holes and scratches.”

  The trail led out of the brush, and narrowed, with rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other. E.T. looked down into the chasm, its bottom lost in shadows. The trail turned a corner in the cliff, and they edged around it.

  bounce bounce bounce

  They heard it, then saw it—a mountain Jumpum, very light and springy, wildly bouncing toward them on the narrow path, roots up, branches flying.

  boing boing boing

  It hogged the path, seeing nothing, enjoying itself. Its roots curled u
nder and it sprang straight at them. E.T. searched for a command to stop it, popped into Earth language, muttered “California kiss-off,” and dove into the dirt.

  The Flopglopple and the robot fell with him, and the mountain Jumpum sailed over them.

  “. . . briiick . . .”

  “. . . oh, no . . .”

  “. . . hold tight . . .”

  Sounded like voices back there, thought the mountain Jumpum as it continued down the path. Must be hearing things.

  bounce bounce bounce

  E.T.’s party brushed itself off, and continued cautiously along the path. It opened out once more, into a wide slope. But now the day was ending, and long shadows were falling upon the mountain. And within the shadows were other shadows, of the Fearful Potencies, shape-shifting in black. “They are the Urumolki,” said E.T. “They cannot be tamed.”

  The entities, hooded, black-cloaked, glided by, thin as shadow but awesome, their presence a weight upon the party, as if within their slivered forms tremendous density had gathered. In fact, they were an epidermal organism—thin skin able to absorb nourishment directly through the pores. They were capable of kitelike flight, and their host organism was anyone foolish enough to wander their way. One wrapped itself around E.T. and turned him gently back toward the cliff, as if to lead him over it. Another wrapped itself around the Flopglopple, and spun him too, toward the cliff, for the Urumolki do not like visitors on their mountain.

  E.T.’s toes touched the cliff edge, and his warning systems came on, toes tightening their grip. He fought against the shadow, but the Urumolki’s weight was against him, tipping him forward.

  Beside him teetered the Flopglopple, his tenacious tripod of feet gripping the edge.

  The mountain gods reject you, said the Urumolki, and applied their concentrated weight to the impertinent intruders. How dare they seek passage through the sacred shadows of Urumolk. To the bottom with them!

  “Buzzzz . . . cliiiick . . . beep . . . that will be quite enough, thank you.” The robot’s powerful arms reached out to E.T. and the Flopglopple, stripping them of their shadows and snapping the black forms like an old tablecloth. The Urumolki collapsed, into black shapes no bigger than a sparrow’s wings. The robot tossed them away in the air, and they vanished in flight. “Must have thought we were cold and needed shawls . . . cricck . . . beep . . . considerate of them, but . . . buzzzz . . . cumbersome things, could trip someone.”

  “Thank you,” said E.T. “We were almost—ding swizzled.” He stepped back from the sheer drop, which seemed determined to claim his relatively immortal form.

  “Too much hospitality,” said the robot, gazing after the fleeing shadows. “Can’t do enough for you.”

  His faulty wire, thought E.T., still feeling the death grip of the Urumolki.

  Night enveloped the mountain. They walked by the light of the robot’s eyes, which sent bright twin beams out, through the darkness. His head turned here and there, sweeping the area in front of them. The Flopglopple flopped along beside E.T. “Where does this plant we search for dwell?”

  “I don’t know,” said E.T. “I don’t even know what Dagon Sabad looks like. All the texts say is that it must be found at night, for its power to be full.”

  They picked their way up through slides of stone and low clinging brush. The robot climbed ahead of them, his mechanical hands drilling footholes in the rock; then, from his mid-section a length of climbing rope reeled out. “Grab on.”

  E.T. wrapped the rope around himself and the robot’s inner pulleys cranked him up. The Flopglopple followed, and in this way they scaled the ever steepening slope. “You are a mountaineer,” said E.T., as the robot hauled him up the next blank wall of stone.

  “Outmoded but agile,” said the robot, sending the line back down for the Flopglopple, who hurriedly tied it too low and was hauled upside-down, arms dragging, eyes gazing down into the lights of all they’d left behind, far below.

  Their climb had brought them to a smooth plateau, where the Near Moon shone, and E.T. could feel that they’d come closer to it and to those stars he sought, Nahaz Erdu, Gateway of Dimension, which flickered more brightly now, out beyond the dark mountain peak.

  The robot’s eye beams penetrated the plateau, and caught movement, in the depths of an overhang. A shadow swept out, gigantic, and rose up—a black cape that cloaked the moon.

  “Urumolki!” cried E.T.

  The Urumolki had massed together, blending their malevolent forms into this great whipping shade, through which the moon’s rays could not shine. It hovered above the exploration party, its sinister undulations slowly lowering, a portion of the night itself which belongs to no planet, and is its own ruler.

  “Extending hospitality again . . . cliiiiick.”

  “Run!” cried the Flopglopple.

  E.T.’s tongue was tied in fright, but his Earth language finally unloosened, with “Beat it!”

  “Very well,” said the robot, and ejected a wire rugbeater from the end of his arm as the Urumolki dropped toward E.T., its dark mind a mass of weight and power.

  These heights are for the Urumolki only, who alone understand the mountain’s magic.

  The blanket of black fell on E.T., plunging him in a darkness so dense it was palpable, like a sea of ink. E.T. felt the blackness seeping into his brain, confusing and drowning his consciousness.

  “Beating as directed . . . crackle beep . . .”

  The menacing shadow snapped in the air, struck like a rug on a clothes line by the robot. “Swift strokes to get the dust out . . . bricccckle . . . breep.” The massed shadow of the Urumolki fell to the ground, flattened, itself unconscious now, and there it lay, perfectly still.

  “A picnic cloth . . . bleeep . . . apparently that was the intention, to make a nice place on the ground for us. Pity we have no food and a thermos of lubricating oil.”

  The peak of the mountain was broad, and they stood upon it with the majesty of the constellations above them, calling them on. E.T. gazed at the bowl of stars, and whispered to Elliott, that nothing could separate them, neither distance nor time.

  Dark clouds had moved past the moon and the wind had joined them, blowing hard across the mountain-top. Only the light from the robot’s eye beams shone, leading the way.

  E.T. was searching with his own most sensitive band, feeling in his brow all that moved and dwelt upon the mountain. The power of Dagon Sabad was here, for it was sending out its quiet current, quiet but unlike anything he’d felt before.

  “Dormant energy,” said the robot, his digital display flashing. “Highest grade.”

  The Flopglopple suddenly started slithering along the ground, all four-hundred of his spinal vertebrae tingling.

  E.T. shuffled around, his toes receiving a vibration of subtle intent. “The mountaintop is its field.”

  “High molecular activity . . . beep . . . nascent . . . now slightly surging . . .”

  The robot’s arms were angled out, receiving the energy flow and computing it inwardly, a length of tape shooting like a serpent’s tongue from his chin slot and flapping in the wind.

  Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating the dark clouds and the mountaintop, rock ledges momentarily flooded with a ghostly hue. E.T. felt his mind leap into its cosmic mode, a vision of the aged universe in its beginnings flooding his thought.

  The Flopglopple rolled around, vertebrae snapping ecstatically, as if manipulated by four-hundred electric hands.

  The robot’s eye beams began a stroboscopic pulsing, intensely bright. “. . . briiiickitttaaa . . . rrrrmttt . . . increasing voltage, becoming immeasurable.” The top of his head opened and two glowing rods shot out, tips red with incandescence.

  The lightning answered, splitting the sky with a jagged tongue of flame. E.T. saw the mountain in its entirety, ash white, a hulking wraith of the night.

  And circling above it, caught in the flash, were the ominous shadows of the Urumolki.

  “They’ve forgotten us,” said t
he Flopglopple. “They’re assimilating power.”

  The dark creatures whipped madly in the lightning tongues, a vein-like pattern crackling in their outspread cloak forms. Homage, cried their spirits, homage to Dagon Sabad, who quickened the Cosmic Egg!

  Flaps opened on both sides of the robot’s head and four more glowing rods shot out, and electricity began jumping from rod to rod around his head. “. . . rrrrrrkkkkkk . . . zzzzzzzz . . . charging batteries . . . dee—licious.”

  E.T. continued searching from rock to rock. The mountain was bare, but he’d seen plants growing in stone before, with splendid tenacity. Plants were the masters of the world, from the depths to the heights.

  And they liked being talked to.

  “Dagon Sabad, who draws lightning from the clouds—” He shuffled along, speaking quietly. The plant would hear, sensitive to the slightest change in vibration. “—Sabad, who stirred the primal atoms, giving birth to the galaxies, and to Reese’s Pieces.”

  The robot clanked along beside E.T., the rods on his head webbed with buzzing light. He held up one metal finger, and the electricity jumped to it, and he drew it out in a line, spiraled it, and wrapped it up his arm in a coil. “. . . breekle . . . biiizzz . . . charge of a lifetime . . . good for the next six-hundred years.”

  The Flopglopple snapped along over the ground, a limp lightning-charged noodle, his snaps carrying him to the unseen edge of the cliff, off which he suddenly found himself hanging by two fingers. He extended one of them, elongating it beyond his previous world record, a full five-tenths of a meter, and wrapped it around a jagged pinnacle of rock. He released his other hand from the cliff edge and hung, happily, by just one finger, singing to himself.

  E.T. continued his shuffling step. “Dagon Sabad, ruler of all plants, possibly greater than even Antum Tadana—”

  Possibly greater?

  Lightning splintered the dark, and its downward pointing tip hovered, momentarily sizzling the shadowy tip of a small and nearly invisible shoot of vegetation. And then the lightning seemed to be drawn down, swallowed in the shoot itself.