Harvey, in the manner of a wet mop, quickly tongued up the spilled batter, while Elliott managed to get the rest of it into the waffle iron. “There, see? It’s cooking.”
The old monster’s nose twitched and he waddled over to the waffle iron. It smelled delicious, like a large M&M.
Elliott removed the finished waffle and opened other cupboards and drawers. “. . . syrup, butter, canned fruit, and how about a little whipped cream to top it off?”
The monster jumped as the ozone moved and the boy’s hand erupted in a white stream.
“Don’t be afraid, this is a good dish.” Elliott put an M&M atop the whipped cream and handed the waffle to the hoary old time traveler. “And here’s a fork. You know how to use one of these?”
The aged scientist looked at its sparkling tines. It was the best piece of machinery he’d seen so far in the house. Soft lights came to his mind. Yes, an object with four prongs . . . attached . . . to what? For an instant he felt his escape mechanism flash, deep in his mind, where its image was slowly forming.
“Hey, you eat with it. See? Like this, like I’m doing . . .”
The scientist fumbled, but managed to scoop up the M&M. He ate it and proceeded to the white cream below, tasting astounding chemical arrangements, crossed and crisscrossed, their formulas signaling him as he forked on, like eating one’s way through a cloud. Excellent, excellent stuff . . .
“How about some milk? Here, have a glass.”
The fluid danced about, jumping out on his fingers, and his lip arrangement did not easily admit the shape of the glass, so he poured most of it on his chest, in a stream that ran over his heart-light area.
“Boy, you don’t know anything, do you?”
The old voyager stared at the fork again, while spearing pieces of the crusty food. Four tines, sounding, click, click, click . . .
“What’s the matter? You make me feel so sad all of a sudden.”
Elliott’s whole body swayed, caught in the high, powerful wave that had spilled over him; emotions he couldn’t comprehend filled him up to the brim, as if he’d lost something incredibly wonderful that should have been his, always.
Click, click, click . . .
The aged creature had his own eyes closed in contemplation of the heights. Might there be an ear, immense distances away, listening to the song of four tines? But how? How could the universe be crossed by this small instrument? The elderly botanist wished he’d paid more attention to the talk of the navigators and communication crew, for they knew more of these subjects than he.
“We’re going to have fun,” said Elliott, shaking off the sadness and taking hold of the old monster’s hand. “Come on . . .”
The long, rootlike fingers entwined with his, and Elliott felt he was leading a child younger than himself, but then the rippling wave washed over him again, bearing star-secrets and cosmic law, and he knew the creature was older than he was, by a great deal. Something altered inside Elliott, turning just slightly, like a gyroscope that mysteriously rights itself; he blinked, amazed at the feeling, the feeling that he was a child of the stars too, and had never done anything to hurt anybody, ever.
He led the waddling monster back to the staircase. Harvey followed, dog-dish in his teeth, in case any loose kibble might be discovered along the way.
Elliott led the parade into the bathroom and over to the mirror, for he wondered if the creature had ever seen himself that way, in a looking glass. “See? That’s you.”
The venerable star-rover looked at his image in the crude reflective glass of Earth. His higher communication patterns were not visible, could not be seen rainbowing above his head in brilliant, subtle waves. The handsomest part of his visage was gone.
“Okay, this is a hand . . .” Elliott held up the appendage. The space fossil followed suit, lifting his own in an elementary movement of the higher category, his fingers twinkling formulas of high-speed rocketry, interstellar shortcuts, and cosmic prophecy.
“Boy, have you got weird fingers . . .” The child blinked, in slow Earth fashion, studying the digits themselves instead of their subtle signaling. Ah, me, sighed the star-wizard, he is dumber than a cucumber.
“This is where our water comes from,” said Elliott, turning the faucets. “See, hot. Cold. How about that. Do you have running water where you come from?”
The old being took a handful of water and raised it to his face. His eyes shifted into microfocus and he tracked for a moment out of habit, into the world of tiny aquatic forms.
“You like water, huh? Look at this, this is great.”
Elliott turned on the faucets in the bathtub and motioned the extraterrestrial to get in. “Go on, it won’t kill you.”
The archaic wanderer leaned over the tub, which was much like the study-tanks on the Great Ship, where a scientist might recline and explore the inner aquatic universe. In a fit of melancholy, he entered the tub.
A bell sounded. The scientist jumped in his bath, great feet splashing. Was he being secretly monitored by the water? Was this the laboratory, then, in which his own waves were to be measured?
“Relax, it’s just the telephone . . .”
Elliott left the room and the creature submerged himself in the tub of water, calmed by its flow, comforted by the dance of its microorganisms. He closed down his breathing apparatus to the standby system and stretched out, completely underwater. He entered atomic focus and began reviewing the water molecule, watching its latent heat force. Could he use it somehow to aid himself?
Harvey the dog edged cautiously toward the tub. Some of his worst moments had been in there, during the annual flea-bath; he peered over the edge at the present occupant of the tub, who seemed to have more liking for it. Harvey was reminded of a large old snapping turtle he’d once attempted to mug; that meeting had turned out badly, a terrible bite on the nose being the final outcome. Thus the dog’s reluctance to do more than just gaze at the submerged guest. Was Elliott going to shampoo him?
Elliott returned, looked down, and yanked the creature up. “Hey, you can drown doing that sort of thing!”
Harvey saw there’d be no shampooing. The guest apparently had no fleas.
“Are you part aquatic elf?” asked Elliott.
As long as he’s not part snapping turtle, thought Harvey, and placed a paw gingerly over his own nose, just in case.
“Here’s a towel, you know how to use one? Towel?”
The veteran of the supernova stared stupidly at the item, his own skin having a water-repellent sheath. He took the towel, looked at it, looked at the boy.
“Here, dry yourself off, dumbbell . . .”
The boy’s hands touched him. Earthly fingers tinged with healing components entered his aching back. Thank you, young man, that is very kind of you.
“See, we each have our own towel. That’s mine—” Elliott pointed “—that’s Michael’s, that’s Gertie’s, that’s Mom’s. That one used to be Dad’s. He’s down in Mexico. You ever fly there?”
The monster blinked, receiving a sad wave of feeling from the boy’s communication band. The boy stepped closer, and spread his arms like wings. “You fly all kinds of places in your ship, right? You have a ship?”
The Ship, shining softly, appeared in the space being’s mind, lavender light beaming around its hull where the ancient inscriptions were carved. His own light, of the heart, gave a tiny glow in response, and now the boy’s sadness was his own.
“You keep that towel,” said Elliott. “That’s yours. We’ll mark it E.T., for extraterrestrial.” He touched the monster again, amazed by the texture of the skin. Another wave went through Elliott and he knew that the creature was older than Methuselah, older than old. “You’re something like a snake too, aren’t you. Boy, you are really weird.”
The scientist felt the boy’s energy going doop-doop-doop down his inner channels; most interesting, these Earth forces, crude but kindly, if you gave them half a chance.
The monster signaled back with his
own fingers, explaining the structure of the atom, the love of the stars, and the origin of the universe.
“You hungry again? How about some Oreo cookies?”
Harvey nodded and wagged his tail. Oreos were fine by him—not his favorite food, but a dog who eats the ends off brooms is not fussy. He toothed his dish and held it out to Elliott, who walked on by, leading the monster.
All right, thought Harvey, I’ll just tag along.
He followed them down the hall to Elliott’s room, where cookies were dispensed to the goblin. Harvey growled and thumped his dish.
“You’re too fat, Harvey.”
Fat? The dog turned in profile, to show his ribs. But his ability to con Elliott was slipping; the monster was Elliott’s pet now. Harvey sought what nutrition remained in one of Elliott’s hiking boots.
Across the room, Elliott was opening the closet door and addressing the monster. “We’ve got to fix you a place in the closet. Make it like the space shuttle, okay? With everything you need.”
But the elderly interstellular was staring up at the skylight of the room. Stretched across it was a painted dragon, wings spread outward and soft shafts of sunlight shining through it.
“You like that? Here, here are some more.” Elliott opened a book on the floor, and he and the monster looked at it.
“These are goblins . . . these are gnomes . . .”
The monster’s eyes went through a series of focusing arrangements, including one that revealed the origin of the fibers composing the paper and back out again, to the painted, potbellied little creature, not altogether unlike himself, staring up from the page.
Had other travelers been stranded here, long ago?
Elliott left the creature to look at pictures, and began arranging the closet with pillows and blankets. He had not stopped to ask himself why he was harboring the monster, or what it meant; he’d been flying on automatic pilot, without questions, without doubling back on himself, without trying to duck out. He knew this thing had been handed to him from the stars, and he had to follow or—or die.
“You’ll like it in here,” he called through the door. His mind and body moved almost without effort, signals pulsing inside him. He couldn’t know that a cosmic law had touched him, gyrating him in a new direction; he only knew he felt better than he’d ever felt before.
Harvey the dog did not feel the same metamorphosis of being; gnawing on boot heels did little for his soul, still less for his stomach. He contented himself with the thought of biting the mailman on the ankle, an event scheduled for midmorning.
Elliott went down the hall and came back with a bowl of water, which gave Harvey momentary hope, but the bowl was placed in the closet, with instructions to the goblin. “That’s for you, and the whole thing is your command module.”
Elliott lined up a number of stuffed animals at the mouth of the door. “That’s protective camouflage. You stay in line with them, nobody’ll know the difference.”
The bewildered old super-being stared dumbly at the arrangements.
Harvey stared too, a faint desire moving in him, to gnaw the head off a teddy bear.
Elliott stepped forward with a desk lamp. “Light. See?”
He switched it on, and the harsh glare of its crude interior assaulted the voyager’s supersensitive eyes. He backed up, into a record player, his arm scraping the needle across the record. In spite of the unpleasant scratching sound, soft lights went off inside him, and again he was filled with developing blueprints for escape—using a fork, and—and something that turns, like this thing I’ve just bumped into. It will turn, and it will scratch . . . a message . . .
He gazed at the record player, seeking his solution there, as his own inner wheels turned, bearing all that he knew of communication devices.
He stumbled around, looking for other bits of hardware. He opened the desk drawer, tumbled its contents on his feet.
“Hey,” said Elliott, “take it easy. I’m supposed to keep this place neat.”
The wanderer explored other parts of the room, dumping, tossing, seeking. He must examine it all, and it was all so strange, from this primitive planet’s groping creativity. Where was he to find his inspiration?
He stared up at a poster tacked to the wall, of a half-naked Martian space-princess, clad in loose bits of shining metal.
Hmmmmmmm . . .
He contemplated her for some moments, her ray-gun, her helmet, her electric boots.
“You like her?” asked Elliott.
The old voyager slowly lowered his hands, in, then out again, describing the more classic form of beauty, the downward-sloping pear-shape.
“We don’t have too many like that around here,” said Elliott. Then he put his hand to the old monster’s elbow and led him gently toward the closet. “You stay in there, okay? Stay . . .”
The time-worn traveler shuffled into the little enclosure. He who had once supervised the plant life in the grandest mansions of space was being closeted with a skateboard.
He slumped down. Where was his Ship, the Wonder of the Universe, now that he needed her?
He received the sudden light of a beacon, deep in space, sweeping toward him, searching Earth from incalculable ranges.
“See,” said Elliott, “there’s even a little window in here.”
He pointed to the small square of glass above the monster’s head. “And here’s your reading lamp.” He switched it on. “Okay, I’ll see you later. I’m gonna buy some more cookies and things.”
The closet door shut. The voyager squinted at the harsh light from the lamp, then took a red handkerchief from the closet shelf and placed it over the lampshade. The light softened to a pastel pink, a glow like that of the Mother Ship.
He must signal it, must let his crewmates know that he lived.
The image of the fork came into his brain again, four tines trailing in a circle, click, click, click.
C H A P T E R
5
Mary pulled the car into the drive, fender lightly brushing the ashcans and sending them into an overturned pile. What did it matter, she was home. She turned off the ignition and just sat for a moment behind the wheel, mind and body exhausted. Maybe she needed ginseng. Or maybe just gin.
She opened the door and crawled out. Her gaze traveled up to Elliott’s closet window, where he’d placed one of his stuffed goblins.
The things they make for children these days are enough to cause hallucinations.
She continued up the walk and onto the porch. Harvey met her at the door, bowl in his mouth.
“Don’t give me that look, Harvey, I have enough guilt.”
She pushed on past the pleading beast, to the mail table.
Any letters from secret admirers? Wandering Monsters?
Nothing, just junk, bills, overdue bills, long-overdue bills, and a letter from a collection agency. Let them break her kneecaps.
She tossed the mail in the conveniently situated wastepaper basket, and removed her shoes.
She called to her tribe. “Anybody home?” he received no answer, except from Harvey. “Take that bowl out of your mouth.”
She remained in the hall chair, too tired to proceed further. A fly buzzed around her forehead and she brushed it away, then brushed it away again, then saw there wasn’t any fly, and the buzzing was—in her head.
Next it’d be bells, and then—voices.
“Well, no time for a nervous breakdown today.” She got up and proceeded to the kitchen, where she saw that Elliott had cooked a healthy breakfast for himself, on the floor. She cleaned off the cupboards, the doors, and then made herself a cup of strong coffee.
She sat with it for a long time, contemplating her feet. Tired feet. Feet that wanted to go on strike. “Hey, anybody home?”
They didn’t answer her, of course. They were deep in secret projects; maybe they were plotting to overthrow the government.
So long as they do it quietly.
The back door banged open with the sound of a cann
on and Michael came in, as if mounted on an elephant. “Hi, Mom, how was your day?”
“Good, how was yours?”
Michael shrugged, indicating she knew not what. “I’m going to play some football now,” he added, indicating that nothing, but nothing, should stand in his way.
“Fine,” she said. “Have fun. Trample on.” She gave a flick of her hand, as if giving permission, which hadn’t been asked for. She resumed staring into her coffee cup and regrouping her energy. If a strange man was waiting upstairs in bed for her, he’d simply have to amuse himself until she had the strength to climb the stairs.
Michael put on his shoulder pads and grabbed his helmet; he was feeling violent today, he was moving. In two strides he was in the upstairs hallway, but Elliott stood there, blocking his way.
“Michael—”
“How you doin’, faker . . .” Michael pushed on past.
“I’ve got something really important to tell you.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Remember the goblin?”
“Goblin? Hey, get outa the way—”
“Wait a second, Michael, this is serious. He came back.”
“Elliott—” Michael had little or no use for his younger brother. Elliott was a sort of weasel with nasty little moves, like the ones he usually made in Parcheesi. “Back off.”
“I’m gonna show him to you, but he belongs to me.”
Michael hesitated. “Well, make it fast.”
“Swear first. The most excellent promise you can make.”
“Okay, okay, let me see. What is it, a skunk or something? Do you have it in your room? Mom’ll kill you.”
Elliott led Michael down the hall. “Take off your shoulder pads,” he said as they entered the room. “You might scare him.”
“Don’t push it, Elliott.”
Elliott led him over to the closet. “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, will you, Michael?”
Within the closet, the elderly being was reviewing everything he knew about communication devices, which he must somehow build. He heard the two cabbage-heads come into the room, but ignored their approach, more intent on searching his brain for transmitter blueprints. The closet door suddenly opened.
E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial in His Adventure on Earth Page 5
