E.T. The Book of the Green Planet

by William Kotzwinkle

  Antum Tadana would perish here, in a little pile of burnt breakfast flakes.

  The plant became silent then, as if returned to its introspection, on cosmic matters, concerning the demise of the present universe and the beginning of the next.

  The robot stood beside E.T., eye beams pointed toward the lightning charged reed; his head was wreathed as if with sparklers. “. . . criiickit . . . reeeeep . . . planetary power source. Directly ahead. Incalculable emission . . . beyond outmoded computer’s power to analyze.”

  E.T. took a step forward, and felt his toes suddenly freeze, imprisoned in place by a magnetic force rising up through the stones, and the robot froze beside him.

  “. . . malfunction in my extremities. Ground grippers locked in the joints. Oiling recommended.”

  The Flopglopple pulled himself up by his finger and rushed across the mountaintop toward E.T. and the robot, only to find his feet suddenly glued in place and the rest of his body elongating forward and then snapping back like a rubber band.

  Thus the exploration party stood, fastened in the stones before the altar of Dagon Sabad, and E.T. knew this power gripping them could hold them for days, nights, weeks, ages.

  He leaned toward the shadowy reed in the rock. “I bring greetings from Botanicus.”

  Ah yes, my foremost student.

  “He—that is—I—seek a cutting from your shoot.”

  Certainly, certainly, said the plant, but E.T. sensed that nothing now was certain.

  But his feet were released, the binding power withdrawing back into the stones with a faint hiss. He stepped toward the crevice in the rock, where the shoot was bedded, and the robot shone his eye beams into it.

  E.T. reached down to it, and his healing finger glowed, for he must anesthetize the plant first; then with tender care, he broke it off.

  A sheet of fire sprang out of it, rising like a geyser, high above the mountain peak. He was knocked backward with the roar, as a fountain of radiance lit the sky, thousands of times brighter than the lights of Lucidulum when a Lord of Wisdom is crowned in primal radiance. This was the planetary crown, rising higher and wider, into a blazing wheel. The heavens shook, and E.T. lay on the ground, trembling in the wake of the surge he had released and seeing his past and the past of the world, and its future dreams undreamt, brooded upon by Dagon Sabad. Systems of flame revolved, as the universe-to-be appeared in shadow form amidst the flames, all of it flowing from the mouth of a plant no bigger than E.T.’s little finger. He whispered his thanks to the mother reed and slowly backed away, the cutting clutched in his hand.

  “Stellar magma . . . blip . . .” The robot was pointing to the blazing spectacle overhead.

  “Come on,” said E.T., “let’s beat it.”

  The robot’s rugbeater came out.

  “No,” said E.T., “I mean, we must leave.”

  As he backed away, his eyes met another surge of light, from the horizon where Lucidulum lay. Intermediate cruisers had blasted off, and were streaking toward the mountain, for its eruption had illuminated the night sky in all directions.

  “Hurry,” said E.T., though it was he whose legs were shortest and slowest, rocking in little steps across the mountaintop. The Flopglopple and the robot lifted him between them, and hauled him quickly along over the plateau. “Beep beep . . . maximum acceleration,” said the robot.

  They sped across the rough peak and dove down a rocky incline as the cruisers of Lucidulum shot by, and circled, round the eruption of Dagon Sabad, whose fiery breath still shot in the air, as if from the heart of a volcano.

  “Owch, owch, owch.” E.T. tumbled along between the robot and the Flopglopple, but his fingers were still clutched tight around the cutting of Dagon Sabad. The tip was glowing with the brilliance of a diamond, like the wand of a magician in his hand.

  Then the mountainside was suddenly lit with enormous search beams from the cruisers, and the robot clicked his own eye beams off, and the Flopglopple fell forward, crying, “I can’t see the path!”

  Infra-red filters popped on in the robot’s eyes, and he took the lead, down the dark turnings of the slope.

  The cruisers swept by, beams searching all along the slope. “We must get round that corner before the lights find us.” The robot hurried forward, down the narrow ledge, E.T. and the Flopglopple following.

  bounce bounce bounce

  Roots, branches, leaves came sailing at them, and they flattened out, as the mountain Jumpum bounced blithely over them, on its return journey up the path.

  A cruiser beam burst directly ahead of them, and E.T.’s mental receptor felt the brain wave of the crew of the cruiser, certain of capturing someone, possibly a short, unconventional botanist, demoted, First Class.

  “Look,” said the robot, turning the other way, and pointing, to where the mountain Jumpum was bouncing—a right angle bounce, into a crevice in the cliff-side, where it disappeared.

  E.T., the robot, and the Flopglopple scrambled after the Jumpum, through a huge fissure in the rock. They heard the Jumpum’s bounces echoing down, down, down.

  bou-ounce bou-ounce bou-ounce

  The robot’s bright eye beams clicked on, down a long jagged tunnel in the mountain.

  C H A P T E R

  2 0

  Elliott rode his bike along through the last shadows of the evening. Ordinarily this was the hour he devoted to blowing his allowance at the video arcade, shouting and screaming with Tyler, Greg, and other of his distinguished friends. After which they’d proceed, broke, to a number of interesting street corners and discuss philosophy (girls), their future (girls), sporting events (girls), and the latest movies (girls).

  So far, he was the only one among his friends to do more than discuss the subject. He’d actually taken Julie bowling. And tonight he was going to join her in babysitting. Of course, there was nothing really between them. He’d never even kissed her.

  He’d thought about it, deeply.

  But it wasn’t something you rush into.

  It required planning.

  He pedaled along into her neighborhood, and found the house where she was sitting. He rode on by it, indifferently, with his ears burning, his throat tight, and his palms sweating.

  He rode to the end of the block and circled beneath the streetlamp. Darkness had fallen now, and his bike cast a long shadow on the pavement, then vanished into the blackness as he pedaled out of the light and back up the block. Among the houses ahead of him there was one with the porch light burning.

  He steered toward it, hopped off his bike and rolled it into the backyard. He put the kickstand down, settled the bike into place for a quick getaway, and then walked up the back porch steps and scratched like a rat on the door.

  He listened as soft footsteps approached from within, and then the door swung open and there she was, looking soft and sweet and beautiful. Her T-shirt said Pineapple, and she was wearing faded jeans with red hearts sewn on both pockets.

  “Nobody’s home, are they?” he asked in a fearful whisper.

  “No,” said Julie, “they’re gone.”

  The house belonged to the Zontack family, and Mr. Zontack was well-known for throwing babysitters’ boyfriends out through the side door with a foot implanted in their designer jeans. He was a large man, ran a meatpacking plant, and was reputed to have underworld connections, though this was probably a vicious rumor begun by someone he’d kicked out the side door.

  “You’re sure Mr. Zontack’s not gonna check back?”

  “No, they went out to dinner and then they’ll be going to the movies, so they won’t be back for hours.” Julie led him toward the living room.

  “Ever been here when he—caught somebody?”

  “Elliott, he’s not a policeman.”

  “Yeah, sure, I was just wondering.” Elliott looked around. Front door there, open window here, back door where I just came from.

  “Looking for someone?”

  “Nice table,” he said, running a hand along it as he che
cked the side door.

  “Want to watch TV?”

  “Naw, we should keep it quiet, right? So we can hear somebody drive up?”

  “You are afraid of Mr. Zontack.”

  “Well, he hung Tyler out a window upside-down.”

  “That’s because Tyler’s a creep.”

  “He was helping to babysit.”

  “He was raiding the refrigerator.”

  “I won’t go near it,” said Elliott, quickly.

  “Well, Mrs. Zontack left sandwiches.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Elliott, you’re so nervous.”

  “Me? Nervous?” He unknotted his fingers and watched Julie sit down on the couch. She patted the seat alongside her, and opened a book on her lap. “You can help me with my BASIC. You know all about computers.”

  Elliott took a few hesitant steps toward the couch, and eased himself onto it, leaving a whole cushion between them.

  “Can you see from there?” asked Julie.

  He looked at her smooth skin, and her silky ponytail. A faint smell of perfume came to him. Julie pushed the book aside. “Well, if you don’t want to help me—” She leaned over to the hi-fi set and switched it on. The easy listening station was tuned in, and he heard trumpet and violins, playing a slow soft song that went through him in a delicious current from head to heart.

  “So how’ve you been?” he asked. He’d seen her at school just a few hours ago, but it didn’t hurt to check.

  “Fine,” she said quietly, and slipped nearer to him on the couch. “Are you afraid of Mr. Zontack—” She blinked her long lashes. “—or of me?”

  The sound of an approaching car stiffened him on the couch. He snapped his head, listening. “Is that him?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Zontack.”

  “I told you—he’s at the movies.”

  “Maybe he didn’t like it. Maybe they walked out.” Elliott got up and crept to the window. He pulled the curtain slowly aside, and watched the car roll past through the darkness.

  “Other people live around here too, you know,” said Julie.

  Elliott looked around the living room. On the wall was a picture of Mr. Zontack, with a large shark hanging beside him at the end of a pier. Mr. Zontack appeared to have punched it to death.

  “Candy?” asked Julie, opening the box of chocolates on the coffee table.

  Elliott took one, chewed it thoughtfully. On top of the TV set was another framed photo of Mr. Zontack, at the amateur arm wrestling championships. It was an action shot, with the veins bulging out of his head. A victory cup stood beside it.

  Another wave of insecurity passed over Elliott, the strange feeling of being in somebody else’s house, somebody else’s life, with somebody else’s babysitter. It was alien and unnerving. And then, for no reason at all, he felt E.T., somewhere far away, but signaling him somehow, telling him never to be afraid of anything, to always remember he was connected to the stars.

  Elliott opened the curtain again, and saw a flickering red light over the houses, just like the one he’d seen at the bowling alley. It was sailing around confusedly, up and down the block, and then crash-dived into a dish antenna in somebody’s yard. Elliott opened the door and ran outside. “E.T.!” he shouted. “E.T.!”

  But the light had died out with a little hissing sound, and now the street was silent.

  Except for the sound of an approaching automobile.

  Elliott leapt into the darkness between the houses and pressed himself against the side of the building. The car slowed, and pulled to a stop, and Mr. Zontack got out, along with Mrs. Zontack.

  “So don’t take me to the movies,” Mrs. Zontack was saying.

  “That’s right,” growled Mr. Zontack, “I won’t.” He yanked his keys from his pocket and looked around suspiciously. “Somebody’s been here.”

  “Would you please calm down?”

  “I can always tell when some young punk comes around. Eating everything in the refrigerator. Snooping.”

  “Don’t you go scaring Julie, you monster.”

  Elliott crept silently away from the family quarrel, slipped onto his bike and rolled it out of the backyard. He pushed it past a few houses, then brought it back up through the yards, onto the street, right in front of the dish antenna. “Thank you, E.T.,” he said softly, and rode away.

  E.T.’s headquarters were now in the cave they’d discovered in the mountain. The Jumpum family transported his turnip there, to the mouth of the cave, where it blocked the door, looking like just another vine-covered boulder.

  “Security patrols overhead,” said the robot, within the cave, his circuits clicking with the contact.

  The Flopglopple peeked out past the boulder. The air was indeed alive with Security ships, searching for their lost equipment.

  “Nothing but trees down there,” said one of the pilots, who would have been interested to know that the missing equipment was clamped firmly inside the roots of those trees.

  The Flopglopple watched the patrol fly on over the mountain, and then he turned back into the cave.

  The cutting of Dagon Sabad had rooted, spread, and flowered. Lighted by hundreds of Lumens clinging to the cave walls, it now filled many pots. Its leaves were plain and the flowers simple.

  It had a marked affinity for the Fusion Blooms, toward which its tendrils crept; most of the Fusions were embedded in the wall of the turnip, but the robot brought one of them in a pot and set it next to Dagon Sabad. The tiny flower of Dagon Sabad quivered and a spark of its sleeping power leapt into the mouth of the Fusion Bloom. The Bloom expanded, a jet of blazing plasma shot from it, and it sailed out of the cave, pot and all, and streaked away.

  “You lost this, Doctor?” Botanicus appeared at the mouth of the cave, the Fusion flowerpot in his gnarled hand.

  E.T. gazed at his teacher, trying to fathom his intent, but the eyes of Botanicus were not easily read, their expression like that of the moons, distant, serene, and inscrutable.

  Botanicus set the pot down gingerly, and fluffed out the leaves. His lizard crept in behind him, and waddled around the cave, stopping beside the rows of Dagon Sabad. Its eyes closed to slits and its body grew still, as it listened to the internal roaring of the plant, a level lizards are adept at reaching. E.T. himself had heard the roar once or twice lately, sounding deep in his mind, as if Dagon Sabad were rooting there as well as in the row of tiny pots. It was the roar of worlds being born; it was the voice of the cosmic dragon.

  Botanicus peered out of the cave door. “A great many Security ships up there,” he said, nodding to the sky, where the reconnaissance pattern continued to be flown. He patted the side of the vine-covered turnip at the mouth of the cave. “But you’re well hidden. So—” He turned back to E.T. “I shall leave you to your work.”

  E.T. stepped with him to the mouth of the cave. “Why have you helped me?”

  “A culture such as ours, whose evolution is complete, needs a shock now and then. How shall I put it—it needs—”

  “—a bug in its ear?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Exactly. It needs a bug in its ear.” Botanicus walked out into the open, but he was visible for no more than a moment, for the entire forest seemed to move to camouflage him as he walked, leaves forming a canopy over his head. A bug in its ear, he reflected as he walked. Very handy, these Earth expressions.

  The robot went to a nearby Jumpum tree. “Lift up, please.” The Jumpum lifted a long root, revealing the hiding place of a number of high intensity tools. “Thank you.” The robot carried a laser torch back to the cave. He pointed it at the turnip. “Kitchen duty. Preparing vegetable.”

  The thick toughened skin slowly yielded and a doorshaped wedge was cut out of the turnip’s face. The robot’s metal fingers retracted and were replaced by a pair of pointed digging tools. “Emergency service items. Entrenchment orders, briizz.”

  And he hollowed out the turnip.

  In the cover of darkness, E.T. stepped outsid
e and examined the surface of the turnip. The Fusion Blooms had now grown deeply into the turnip’s flesh, only their petals showing on the surface, from which their warm breath was expelled. He ran his hand over a few of the Blooms, murmuring softly to them, and then went back into the cave.

  The door in the turnip faced into the cave, and he circled around to it, and entered the giant vegetable. The robot was at work inside, exposing the inner mouth of the buried Fusion Blooms, thereby connecting inside with outside through the hollow body of the Blooms.

  “A most interesting display,” said the robot, as he worked. “And they’ve embedded themselves so symmetrically, as if—they think. And why not?” he asked himself. “If I, an arrangement of wires and chips, can think, can search for something so elusive as truth, why then surely these highly evolved specimens of the highly evolved Green Planet can do as much—can think, and grow, and—”

  He paused and looked at the network of breathing mouths his digging tool was gently exposing. “—and much else might they do, these Fusion Blooms of ours.”

  E.T. turned to his Flopglopple, who was dancing with his shadow in the back of the cave, where a few Lumens burned for him. “Turn and step . . . one two . . .” The Flopglopple reached out, actually embraced and gripped his shadow, hand to hand, as E.T. watched in amazement.

  “Flopglopple, you are astounding.”

  The shadow melted from the Flopglopple’s grip, as he seemed to wake in his dancing from some deep spell. “Did you—did you speak?”

  “We must now bring Dagon Sabad near to our Fusion Blooms. Rings—” E.T. pointed, indicating that a skeletal sphere within the turnip must be built to support Dagon Sabad.

  “What material shall I use for these rings?” asked the Flopglopple.

  “Gather the Rakoor Ram, vine of pliable grace. We can shape it here, strengthen it with Antum Tadana and bend it to our needs.”

  The Flopglopple drew back one leg, poising himself for a streaking dash. A final word from E.T. cautioned him: