“A planet of great truth and even greater beauty!”
E.T. opened his equipment chest, lifting out tubes, trays, slides, and his many cutting and digging tools. “. . . yes, yes . . .”
The ship was dropping quickly, already in the atmosphere of Mar’kinga Banda, the planet looming ever larger on the screen, the first details of its jungles appearing, bearing a roof of gigantic petals, from whose center sublime thought-waves beamed and sweet perfumes poured, strong enough to bring starships to narcosis and bend their trajectories to the land, for Mar’kinga Banda wanted the pollen of the stars crossed with its own.
The ship sought its landing site and E.T. rushed with his colleague to the door leading from the Botanical Wing. His colleague stepped through, but when E.T. tried to follow, a Micro Tech intervened.
“Confined to quarters,” smirked the superior little Tech, and began hooking up a weave of impassable light, bars of it, across the door.
E.T. gazed out through the bars, then turned and trudged back into the depths of the botanical chamber. He had a bunk on one of the flower tiers, and he climbed up into it now, and pulled the blanket over his head. Counting backward, he employed the hypnotic code and put himself into a deep sleep.
There he dreamed of the good times he’d had on Earth, living in a closet, eating candy, drinking beer, and wearing a wig. He saw Elliott and Michael, Mary, Gertie, and Harvey the dog, and he stayed asleep across the numberless eternities, dreaming of his friends as his ship went about its many missions and finally—returned home.
C H A P T E R
2
Home—causing all the heart-lights on shipboard to glow. The corridors were as if filled with roses, the color of love streaming everywhere. E.T. woke from his long dream, heart glowing up through his blanket, and suddenly it seemed to him as if Earth had been just that and only that—a dream—for here was his own world, calling to him and filling his heart. He threw off his blanket and went to the porthole. Yes, there it was—home, planet of many names, named by many ages—Vomestra, Brodo Asogi, Od-Di-Pa 5, Turn Lux O-ty, Alata Zerka, all of which translated to—the Green Planet. As Earth was called the Blue Planet for its waters, so E.T.’s home was called the Green Planet for its plant life, which flourished here as on no other planet in the world.
“Home, home, home.” He paced about happily, chanting his favorite Earth word.
Other crew members looked in, heard him, and wondered what he was saying. Their word for home was yammsoro, meaning Exalted Organism, or more simply, One House For All. And the thought of it filled them with happiness.
But E.T. was no less happy, though he phrased his joy in an alien tongue. “Home, home, home.” And he thought that maybe there’d even be a little band playing for him when he got off—for while he might be in the soup as far as the captain of the ship was concerned, the higher officials of the planet would certainly appreciate what he’d done—would recognize how important it was that he’d lived for weeks in a human closet.
“Home, home, home.” He switched on the viewing screen, and there it was, floating below—the Green Planet, greater even than Mar’kinga Banda, for its plantlife was more evolved, husbanded over countless ages and bearing transplants from thousands of other planets. It was the great botanical garden of the cosmos, the breeding ground and storehouse for all known vegetal life. He himself had brought cuttings from far systems and planted them here, and tended them, in order to produce these immense gardens of loveliness, without equal in the world.
“Home, home, home.” Plants of unparalleled powers and beauty—wise, sinister, flying, floating—masters of masquerade and allure, living embodiments of remote stellar forces, plants of mystery, plants untamed, plants of noble aspiration, godlike, immortal.
The ship swept downward. It would no doubt land in one of the great capital cities and there the high lords would greet him; there the beings of light, far older than he, would make a party in his honor, for his achievements on Earth. He’d give a lecture on Earth morphology, language, social structure and science, unveiling all his advanced mind had gathered and synthesized; also he’d show everyone how you had to have paper hats and whistles for a proper Earth party.
“Home, home, home.” He saw a precious sight—the glow of one of the capitals, great Crystellum, whose gardens were perhaps the most beautiful of all. He’d certainly enjoy an assignment there, tending its decorative blossoms. The jeweled symmetrical splendor of Crystellum grew brighter, its supreme technology apparent everywhere, but bounded and interlaced with gardens of wonder. Yes, he’d be very happy working there, as befitted his rank, Doctor of Botany, First Class.
But the ship arced away from Crystellum, and sped on. Hapnod Illum, the second capital, appeared, but the ship also arced on over it, and it too fell behind. And then another and another, until the last great center, Lucidulum, was passed.
“They’re taking you back,” said the other old botanist, shuffling through the door.
“Back?”
“To the Farm.”
The glow of Lucidulum faded, and the ship circled in over vast agricultural ranges, where the planet’s food was grown. Here E.T. had worked the soil for hundreds of years, learning its secrets as a simple farmer. He began to recognize the terrain, from which he’d graduated long ago, after enormous struggle and very hard exams, following which he’d earned rank and joined a flight crew, and become a full-fledged intergalactical Doctor of Botany. And now—
“Demoted,” said his colleague.
“To the bush league,” said E.T., remembering how they would shout this on Earth TV each Saturn Day, when the man waving a stick too often missed the white sphere—send him back to the bush league. Also to be heard was the cry, Send him to the showers! He’d been sent to the showers on Earth, and it had almost killed him, lying there with Elliott, water running over him. That was when he’d been so sick, and he sincerely hoped he’d never be sent to the showers again.
“The ship sinks lower,” said his colleague.
“My spirits sink with it.”
Then a Micro Tech appeared at the door, and his thousand little fingers unhooked the electric bars. The signal for landing filled the ship, and a moment later it settled down, in the bush.
E.T. picked up his geranium, and his checkerboard.
“Goodbye,” said the other botanist.
E.T.’s heart began to glow with his own goodbye, to this colleague with whom he’d shared the millions of miles on the River of Stars, and who had been the only one in the troubled days of confinement to show E.T. special kindness. The glow in E.T.’s chest intensified, and a tiny core glowed most brightly, in the center of E.T.’s heart. It grew in intensity, then suddenly became an agitated whirl of light shaped like a jumping bean.
This bean contained the Tenth Symbol Code of the Flower, a special field of inquiry E.T. alone had mastered, of all the botanical crew. It was concerned with the inner purpose of the Flower Soul, the part not seen by the eye, the ethereal portion—latent and hidden until flowering; this was the deepest of all botanical study, concerned with the archetypal forms of the Universal Seed, and E.T. was an Adept in it. His colleague was not, had studied other matters.
But the bean jumped, from E.T.’s heart into his colleague’s. And all of E.T.’s work went with it, the whole of his study, all. It would have constituted an increase in rank for E.T., and honors, and more; but he gave it away now, to his colleague.
The other old botanist felt the bean of concentrated knowledge jump into his own heart, along an arc of light, which spread quite suddenly through his own body, and within moments he’d glimpsed and understood the spiritual significance of seed and chalice, of calyx, carpel, and corolla. He was dumbfounded at the gift, for a thousand years of work was in it, and more. Now it was his decoration, his wisdom, his honor, bestowed by a bean in a single flash. “Thank you, thank you,” was all he could say, as tears of joy trickled down his cheeks, the great illumination flooding his nature. He t
urned toward the garden of the ship, a garden he now comprehended as never before. So this, he thought to himself, is who my colleague has been.
E.T., that colleague, now turned the other way, toward the door. He stepped into the corridor. It was empty, not even a Micro Tech around to wish him farewell. The outer hatch opened automatically, and he went down the gangplank, onto the soil of the Green Planet.
The starship closed up its gangplank, and he stared at it, confused, hardly able to believe that once more he was being left behind—and this time not by accident.
The ship lifted off, and he stepped backward, away from its radiance. At the porthole of the Botanical Wing, he saw a face—that of his colleague, waving sadly. E.T. waved back, his fingertip glowing with a feeble light.
And then the ship gained altitude, and withdrew, and he watched it go into the air and over the horizon, a last bit of light reflecting off its surface before it vanished.
He turned, disoriented. Which way was he to go? He began to walk, not caring where his footsteps took him. But before he’d gone far, a small local range cruiser came hurtling through the sky toward him. A moment later it was hovering before him, and the metallic petals of its hatchway opened. “Enter,” came the command from within.
He entered, and the petals immediately closed behind him. He was enclosed in a cubicle room. One of its walls opened, and a smaller cube rolled out on wheels; twin antennae emerged from its top surface, and a bank of lights flashed across its face. “Explain,” said a mechanical voice from within it.
“I tried to b. good,” said E.T.
“Not good enough.” The interrogation machine wheeled around him, antennae quivering, as if examining him from all sides.
“I met the people of Earth,” said E.T.
“We know. Please make your report.” The voice of the machine was remote, superior, and E.T. knew it had been programmed by someone high in the planetary command. Would they try to confuse him, to be sure he wasn’t making anything up? He looked down into his geranium and tried to collect his thoughts. Where could he possibly begin?
“Come, come,” said the machine. “Describe their culture.”
“They have an important celebration called Hollow Bean. Everyone carves faces in fruit squashes and dresses up in sheets. I myself dressed in one.”
“Who holds this celebration?”
“The children, who actually rule the Blue Planet of Earth. They are much more intelligent and sensitive than the older people and outrun them on bicycles.” E.T. nodded into his geranium. He was getting the facts straight, and the high command would learn much from his report, for inclusion in the Galactical Encyclopedia.
The machine circled around him again. “And what is the purpose of this celebration?”
“To collect the all-important food, which is candy.”
“Candy?”
“D. licious,” said E.T.
The machine paused, an odd buzzing sound coming from inside it, as if it was having difficulty assimilating information. Finally, its voice resumed: “Did you meet the ruler of Earth?”
“Elliott.”
“Elliott is the ruler? How old is he? Has he ten-thousand years?”
“He’s ten.”
“Ten? And he rules?”
“With his brother Michael who is also called Penis Breath.”
The machine’s lights blinked violently, and this was followed by more static buzzing. Then: “And did this Earth ruler, Elliott, and his associate Penis Breath, treat you with respect? Did they acknowledge the advanced nature of your intellect?”
“They kept me in what is called a closet, where the most prized possessions are kept, among them Kermit the Frog, and a collection of illustrated works on the life of the great Flash Gourd On.”
E.T. began to breathe more easily. The interview was going well, without confusion.
“And what form of enlightenment did you give these young rulers?”
“We drank beer and stole things. The police chased us and many objects in our way got creamed.”
“Creamed?”
“A special Earth word,” said E.T., in his rough, gravelly voice. “I know many such now.”
The machine buzzed with confusion again, rolled forward, then backward, then bumped into a wall. It rotated slowly toward him. “Depart.”
The hatchway opened and E.T. shuffled back out, holding his geranium. He felt the debriefing had been very successful and now that they saw how much valuable information about Earth he’d brought, they’d call him back up from the league of bushes.
The petal hatchway of the cruiser closed, and the vessel rose up, and sped away, leaving him deep in the outer agricultural ranges, alone, to figure things out, which he did, immediately.
“Creamed,” he said to himself, and began to walk along, toward the old Farm.
The path ran over hills and through forests. The trees were mostly Jumpums, of great vigor, having evolved from a time of terrible drought on the Green Planet, when their desperate search for water had caused them to lift themselves out of the soil, roots and all, and move on; the movement had evolved through the ages until now the entire family of Jumpum trees took short hops every so often, and then dug their roots like frenzied claws deep into the soil. This meant that no path in a Jumpum forest was ever in one place for very long, for Jumpums could obliterate it in a minute or so, and frequently did, jumping all over it.
E.T. opened his mental band into the telepathic mode, to help him find his way to friendly and familiar surroundings; he was tracking with some success, though a bunch of Jumpums jumping all around you, if you’re not used to them, can be upsetting, and he scolded a few of them for jumping almost on top of him, their roots pinning his long toes in place. “B. good.”
They looked at him sadly, their leaves drooping to the ground as they backed off, for he was a distinguished botanist and they were just silly young Jumpums.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and jumped around with them for a while to make them feel better; his short legs did not get him far in the jumping category but the Jumpums didn’t care, and jumped merrily. He left them as they started to organize a jumping contest, which was much too strenuous for anyone but a Jumpum. He walked on, carrying his geranium.
The colors of the day—rich gold and red in the clouds—showed that afternoon was ending. Shadows began to fall in the forest as he walked. A stream of water, deep purple in hue, flowed beside him, and ancient lizards basked on its banks.
E.T.’s brain, in rapport with the lizards, picked up their dark reflections, mostly magical and coldly calculating, but the lizards had many sound ideas and were revered for their philosophical insight. Listening to them as he walked, E.T.’s mind, an extraterrestrial organ quite unlike anything on Earth, resumed its old perceptions. He began to think once again in terms of millennia, rather than months or years; again he felt the slow pulse of the unfolding universal ages, mastery of which was the birthright of the Green Planet. His cosmic memory, recently suppressed, flowered again and he was once more able to effortlessly contemplate things in the whole—the universe as entity, all parts related.
Beneath his feet silvery mosses yielded, leaving luminescent threads upon his toes; feathery fronds hanging low brushed his brow, reminding him of all he’d so recently forgotten—that home was a world of mental delicacies, where the solar mind had strongly focused, supported by twin moons, one near and one far, to produce cosmic thinkers, Mind Holders, as the elite of the flight crews were called. He was a candidate for such honors, of great mental transcendence, somewhere distant in time. As a child of the Green Planet, he was heir to that.
“Home,” he said to himself once again, as he stepped through a pool of liquid jade, fed by nephrite streams, cool and gleaming; it flowed around his ankles and rippled past, whispering its own secret of antiquity here, on the planet of paradise. He waded slowly out, absorbing the forgotten dream. All this was his, forever.
His telepathic receiver suddenly p
roduced an image of someone ahead, of his own intelligence. He was approaching the edge of the great agricultural domain. A few more steps brought him out of the forest, and into a field. In it a solitary figure worked, bent over a long cultivated row. He looked much like E.T. but his neck did not seem able to raise itself as high.
“A youngster,” said E.T. to himself. “Only several hundred years old. Doing the work I once did.”
The youthful creature was tending a crop of legumes called Igios Atra, or as they were more affectionately known—Beeperbeans, which gave off a sharp beeping sound when their blossoms opened. As it was springtime, there was considerable beeping going on, and the worker had corks in his ears.
I’ll just give him a little surprise . . .
E.T. was beside the youngster before he knew it, and when the little fellow turned, a cry sprang from his lips and the corks popped out of his ears.
“Excuse me, Doctor,” he said, addressing E.T. by his proper title. “I didn’t know—beep—you were—beep beep—making your rounds—beep”
“Proceed,” said E.T., not wanting to admit to this mere child that he’d soon be tending Beeperbeans himself, and hear beeps in his sleep, and talk in beeps, and nearly be a beep, before spring was complete.
But then he paused, and said to the youngster, “Let me show you a trick with the Beeperbean, one that will reduce your discomfort. The Beeperbean, you see, can be influenced so as to confine its beeping to early morning only. I discovered this quite by accident—” And shall have to make use of it myself once again, he added to himself, as he took the youngster to the nearby wood and pointed out an herb called Noorf-og-inki, or Essence of Pure Silence. “Nothing can completely subdue a Beeperbean, of course, for they are so exuberant, but a few pinches of this in the nutrient flow will save your eardrums.”
“My deep-beep-est gratitude, Doctor,” said the student botanist. “It will save my eardrums and . . . beep beep . . . my sanity . . . beep. For I confess to beep-being half-crazed and beep-becoming worse every hour.”