“Yes, well, I also suggest . . . beep . . . suggest you discard the corks from your ears and use beep-beeswax instead. It’s much beep-beep-better.”
“Thank you, Doctor, for beep-befriending.”
“Not at all. But now I must beep-be leaving you. So, b.beep good.”
The youngster began preparing the Essence of Pure Silence for the nutrient bath, and E.T. strolled the length of the row, and the next, and then crossed a little footbridge over the irrigation canal, where blue fluid waited to be cycled through the entire root system of the field. Stepping from the bridge, he entered a grove of Fluteroots, which were grown near Beeperbeans to provide psychological relief from the incessant beeping. The Fluteroots swayed in the breeze, and the breeze moved through their hollow stalks, playing melodies of delicate beauty.
“The charm of the Fluteroots is good,” said E.T., addressing them respectfully in the language of plants, which he, as a master botanist, knew in all its varying shades. He closed his eyes and swayed with the plants, as their pure flowing sound moved all through him.
“Memories of my youth are returning to me,” he said with a sigh, and the Fluteroots tooted sweetly in response. Longer shadows of evening fell in the grove, and still he swayed, forgetful of time and season, and of his recent demotion and disgrace. But as the giant sun set, turning the sky to bronze, he woke, and remembered.
“Let me go now,” he said, and the Fluteroots played more softly, releasing him from their spell. He left the grove, and entered the next field, and the next, going through the rows as of old, when at sunset one would look upon the work and be glad, and amazed, by the perfect symmetry of it. Except for the excessive beeping, it was a most satisfying place.
He climbed a gentle slope, whose face was covered with more luminous moss, a cultivated crop with a mixture of many colors, rainbow-like and almost as mysterious, the little mosses under the ministrations of the moons, whose soft glow they had absorbed and which robed them now. He crested the hill and a vast patchwork of fields appeared before him in the reddish bronze of evening.
“Nowhere in the countless worlds are there such gardens as these,” he said aloud, “gardens whose purity and power sustain an immortal race.”
The squares below him, where the plants were now folding inward toward rest, were the result of cultivation spanning eons; the locks of longevity had been opened, by keys the plants themselves had provided. “—for you are wise,” said E.T., “in your quiet way, far wiser than the restless creatures who feed upon you in this world.”
He crossed the spine of the hill, and saw another familiar sight—one of the pocket villages used by the workers who attended the surrounding fields.
The village, like the fields, was an organic thing, a hybrid—for the cottages of the agriculturalists had not been built, but grown. A little biochemistry and some saturated nutrients had produced a species of gourd called Chemon Xrus, meaning Big Enough To Live In. Such a gourd was four-chambered, waterproof, and sweet-smelling. Once dried, it was hard as a super alloy, and yet always gave the feeling of being enclosed in an entity connected to the force of nature, a most secure and comfortable aspect, conducive to advanced introspection.
E.T. hurried down the slope toward the ring of giant gourds. Herb gardens surrounded them, lined with huge rough crystals, by which the herbs were stimulated, the crystals glittering in the red glow of evening, drawing in the concentrated solar force, their clear latticed interiors shot with streaks of red. Villages like this were found everywhere in the agricultural province, but this particular one was special to E.T.
He hurried through the herbal ring, along a green gravel path, his heart-light glowing. From one of the gourds, an answering light came from a window, which grew rose-bright, so bright the light splashed down the wrinkled sides of the gourd, and onto E.T.’s own wrinkled face. Panting, racing, he ran up the path to the gourd, the door of which was now glowing all around the edges.
It swung open before E.T., and he entered.
Standing within was a creature like E.T., but tall and stately, having entered the late second growth stage, in which the mental stature produces a sudden acceleration of the physique, resulting in such an elegantly slender being as now stood before E.T. The creature’s heart-light was brilliant, ablaze with solar wisdom.
“Parent,” said E.T. softly, and approached with hesitant step.
The glow of their natures merged, ruby light filling the cottage. E.T. closed his eyes and felt the ineffable flowing of the ancestral force—a parade appearing in his mind, in which thousands moved, including those most early forebears, the Magicians, whose practice in nature had produced the race of scientists to which he himself belonged.
As he was contemplating all this, and feeling the arc of the ages, the voice of the Parent spoke above him in the ancient and exalted language of the planet, softly rasping and so expressive. “Well, child, you certainly made a mess of things.”
E.T. opened his eyes. The great Parent was sighing, with a slow shake of its noble head; but then a long arm reached out and embraced E.T. Hearts merged still more deeply, saying things for which there are no words; this Parent, sole creator of E.T.’s form out of its own nature, was both father and mother to him, and E.T. was bathed in the healing force of this, and in its stern judgment.
“Come, let us talk.”
He was led into that chamber of the gourd used for visits. It was furnished with objects that, like the gourd, had been biochemically engineered—a couch of velvety texture, made of mosses grown upon a shelf of the gourd’s own sculpted interior; a chair of the same soft design; and a deliberately stunted table-tree, gnarled roots embedded in the floor, upper surface a fine mesh of tightly woven leaves. Pitcher plant blossoms, lacquered and polished, served as cups and bowls.
E.T. set his geranium on the table, in the soft light of the visiting chamber.
“That is a most beautiful plant,” said the Parent, and just the sound of the Parent’s subtly modulated voice and the attention of its sensitive gaze, caused the little geranium to stir, and the flush of its petals deepened in the richness of their color.
The chamber was lit by Lumens, a species of large phosphorescent grub, perfectly domesticated, which clung to the walls of the gourd and dined on minute organisms living there, which made it convenient for all concerned, as the organisms were happier within the grubs, attending to the grub’s digestion and producing light thereby. Five or six Lumens gave quite enough light to read by, a nice even glow falling all around.
“So,” said the Parent, when they were seated facing each other in the chamber, “what exactly did you do on Earth?”
“Peeked in windows.”
“Peeked in windows? You? A Botanist of the Capital, First Class?”
E.T. swung his feet back and forth nervously. Now was the time for an eloquent explanation, drawing upon his full powers. “I felt a compelling scientific need to study the alien habitat more closely—to observe the hominid beings within their social sphere—”
The Parent frowned, a frown that meant, speak more clearly.
“I goofed,” said E.T. “The quick tongue of Earth tells it better.”
“And now what?”
“Farmed out.”
They sat in silence then, as night fell. In the soft glow of the Lumens, E.T. studied the Parent’s face, whose eyes were deep with manifold insights gained over immensities of time. All experience seemed to reside there, with the possible exception of peeking in windows, which distinction, thought E.T., is reserved for me.
“In all the history of the planet there is no one who has goofed as badly as I have.”
“You always were too curious,” said the Parent.
“True, too true.”
The Parent sighed again. “You traveled from one end of the universe to the other, you saw a thousand worlds, worlds few creatures are privileged to see—great, unexplainable systems of astounding beauty, teeming with amazing sights to behold—and you
had to go peek in a window.”
E.T. put his head in his hands. He had no excuse. He’d made a mess of his career, had disgraced the Parent, and was in deep soup all around.
Later, when all was quiet in the gourd, and the Parent was sleeping, E.T. went out into the forest and picked those night-blooming herbs that he alone knew how to combine—into a scent that would soothe a troubled mind. It was an herbal packet only masters of botany could manage, for the moment of picking was crucial and the moons were involved. He labored all night, through the shadows of the forest, from glade to glade, until he had the packet he wanted, one whose special powers of tranquility were unsurpassed.
“A very strong packet is required,” he reminded himself, and added yet a few more ingredients, so that he had the very quintessence of that which is soothing, which erases recent disagreeable incident, and neutralizes disappointment. A sachet of this sort, left within a sleeper’s room, would rearrange the elements in the mind into higher patterns, so that what seemed at first to be discord would be seen as a secret sort of harmony.
“At least I hope so,” he said to himself, and returned to the gourd. He crept to the Parent’s bedside, where he placed the soothing packet of herb magic on the pillow beside the Parent’s head.
“Do your work,” he whispered to the sachet, “for my dear progenitor has had a lot to put up with of late, as regards a certain member of the family.”
E.T. watched for a moment, and when he saw a frown line soften on the Parent’s head, and a troubled pressure around the eyes release, he knew he had succeeded. And he crept from the room as if he were the spirit of the herb called Silence.
C H A P T E R
3
He’s back, he’s back!
This one thought was racing through the head of a creature known scientifically as the Igigi Gyrum Hadahadeba, meaning Six-hundred Vertebrae In The Spine. But everyone on the Green Planet just called them Flopglopples, for one of their modes of travel was to flop around like a long gloppy length of something, with a tripodial arrangement of feet at the bottom. Of all things, they perhaps resembled most closely a pile of gray floppy socks. They were very fast, very agile, very stupid, and very loving. And this particular one was devoted to E.T.
“Back, he’s back in our system of reference so we can now say he is here now whereas before we couldn’t say he was anywhere now because he was thirty-eight light-years away quite beyond the now.”
There are some Green Planet scientists who say that Flopglopples are old and very wise. However, this has never been proven, as Flopglopples enjoy giving silly answers on intelligence tests.
In any case, the Flopglopple was hurrying along, flopping in sidewinder fashion, so fast that little but dust could be seen—sailing over the hilltop and flopping down the other side of it, toward the agricultural village.
“He’s been gone such a long time but time is an impalpable thing. And I’m rushing along though it is futile to speak of the motion of a single body.”
Thus, the Flopglopple.
A moment more and he was speeding through the village, green gravel flying out from underneath his tripod of flopping feet. He raced past the sign saying Flopglopples Slow Down, and sent gravel up against a number of window panes.
He skidded to a stop in front of E.T.’s cottage, ran around it excitedly, and finally flopped in over a windowsill, as it was open and the door was not, and Flopglopples believe in expediency. A millisecond later he was flopped around E.T.’s shoulders, draped like a stole and hugging him devotedly.
“B. good,” said E.T., as the Flopglopple hung upside down, looking him in the eyes with a smile.
“Let us dine,” said the Parent, and poured from the pitcher plant beaker, into the blossom cups. The liquid was ambrosial, with all needed nutrients, and was served with biscuits similarly constituted, but E.T. could not help thinking the repast was not in the same class as a handful of Reese’s Pieces and a bottle of beer. However, he thanked the Parent, gave some ambrosia and biscuit to the Flopglopple, and sat back on the couch, gazing out at the lighted village. In many ways, it beat living in a closet. But still, there was a tug within him.
El-li-ott, he said softly to himself, and a telepathic wave went out from between his brows, pierced the roof of the gourd, and then streaked on its way.
He’d taken the obligatory navigational courses for telepathic senders, but had cut most of the classes in order to continue his more interesting botanical researches, and go swimming in the nephrite streams. Therefore, his thought-wave entered the space-time vector two degrees off course, the result being his little telepathic replicant arrived on Earth in the middle of a shopping mall, specifically on the fast food counter, and the tiny telepathic replicant, in every way resembling E.T., landed in the mustard bowl. He climbed out, and was struck by a plastic tray, which knocked him down the counter into the cash register. It opened with a bang behind him and sent him flying into the ice cream blender.
As he was whirling around in the cream, the little tele-replicant got the feeling that someone he knew was near.
In fact, Elliott’s mother, Mary, was seated at the counter on her lunch hour, wondering: “Why am I about to eat a hamburger, two hot dogs, a double order of french fries, a milk shake, and a cupcake covered with dyed candy sprinkles?”
It’s part of the Doctor Debauchee Eat-everything-you-possibly-can Diet, she reflected. Tomorrow I’ll take up speed walking.
“Here you go, ma’am,” said the counterboy, handing her the gross offering.
“Thank you so much,” said Mary, staring at what she’d ordered. She’d have to eat it as quickly as she could before anyone recognized her.
She carried the tray to one of the tables set up in the central hallway of the mall, which gave her the pleasant feeling of eating in the lobby of an insane asylum.
“Lunch hour is so important for the working woman,” she said to herself as she lifted her hot dog, “especially when shared with someone magnetic and interesting.” The mall janitor, whose stomach might benefit from a forklift to carry it, began emptying the adjacent trash basket.
His arm, observed Mary, is covered with scrambled egg. Now he’s getting some ketchup on his elbow. He’s hard-working but what would we talk about in the evenings?
She set down her hot dog and picked up her hamburger. No, I need someone more sensitive, who can say things with his eyes.
She looked into her milk shake and saw, fleetingly, a little wrinkled being, floating in the foam.
I’m hallucinating.
What did they put in this relish? She looked at the trailing edge of her hamburger.
Then she looked down at her cupcake, where the tiny candy sprinkles were arranging themselves and spelling M A R Y.
I’m simply undergoing computer shock, too many hours in the typing pool, watching little letters dance around on the green screen.
She tapped the janitor on the back. “Sir, would you please tell me what’s written on this cupcake?” She held it up to him.
“You’ve been shoppin’ too long, lady. I seen it before. Go home, relax.” He moved on to the next trash can.
She stared after him. He’s awfully nice. But would we find the weekends too long?
She laid the cupcake back on her tray, upside-down. Whatever it said, it was only another sign of the divorced, early middle-aged woman wishing for a call from someone. Even a cupcake.
She turned and saw Elliott coming down the hallway of the mall. How unfortunate that he was going to see his own mother stuffing herself with the very foods she tried to pretend she never ate. Oh well, that was the mother business—to be always caught offguard, humiliated, and finally disgraced.
“Hi, Mom,” he said. “Pigging out?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Mom, did you see any friends of mine around? I just had the funniest feeling that somebody I knew was here.”
“Sorry, Elliott, I haven’t seen anyone.”
“I keep having
the feeling I told someone I’d meet them here at the fast food place.”
“Well, did you?”
“No.” He looked at her cupcake. “I’d better help you out, Mom,” he said, and grabbed it from her plate. She thought of grabbing it back but decided a mother should not be seen fighting with her son over pastry in a public place. And in any case, Elliott didn’t even give her the chance. He was already moving off down the hallway of the mall, following a pretty little girl with a rhinestoned ponytail.
C H A P T E R
4
“You should report to the fields,” said the Parent.
E.T. nodded. It was morning in the gourd and he was an agriculturalist once more. The faithful Flopglopple went out of his gourd with him, onto the gravel path. The great solar body hung before them, and the dawn sky was copper, metallically brilliant streaks of light pouring through atmospheric veils of neon, argon, and zyonidon.
“This way,” said E.T., taking a back path. “I don’t want to meet anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m in disgrace.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said the Flopglopple. “I’m always in disgrace for racing through villages and otherwise acting up.”
“It’s nothing for you, because it is your nature,” said E.T. “But I’m a scholar, a scientist.”
“And I am like light,” said the Flopglopple, zigging back and forth on the path. “I cannot be brought to rest. At birth I begin accelerating and steadily increase my velocity!”
The Flopglopple gave a display of his swiftness and dexterity, weaving in and out of the trees in a blur, and E.T. suddenly recalled how he himself had flown on Earth. At first, when everyone was chasing him, he hadn’t known he could do it, but then suddenly he’d discovered the thing. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I surprised the Flopglopple and flew right over him?”
He lifted one leg, bent it back, took a flying leap, and sank down in a heap some 25 centimeters away. Jumpum trees all around him bounced out, clapping their branches and lifting him up.