As for the aforementioned Brussels sprout, he had begun to notice that certain children were peeking in other people’s windows. He tugged at Michael’s sleeve and indicated his wishes.
They crept across a lawn, and peeked in a window. A man was walking around in his undershirt, a can of beer in his hand, a cigar in his teeth. The aged space-creature smiled to himself, chin on the windowsill. If he could go out with his friends and peek in windows every night, life on Earth would be worth living.
“Come on, E.T.” whispered Gertie. “Come on with me . . .”
She led him quietly around the house, onto the front porch, and across to the door. They pressed the doorbell and ran.
His furry bedroom slippers flapped, one of them fell off, and he lost his cowboy hat. He cried out with joy. He was living now—he was a regular Earth person.
“Faster, faster,” called Gertie, and they ducked around some bushes, panting, mist coming out of E.T.’s toes. The old voyager was so excited his fingers worked all by themselves, making cosmic oversigns dealing with the innermost secrets of evolution in the universe. The entire row of bushes swooned, and then bloomed. But the grand old botanist was already gone, to the next house, to soap the windows.
In this way they moved from neighborhood to neighborhood. In the excitement, much candy was devoured and the elderly Halloweener indicated his desire to collect some more.
“Okay,” said Elliott. “Let’s try that house over there.”
Elliott led them up the sidewalk, confident now that the outrageous figure shuffling beside him would be thought of as just another kid in a rubber costume. As for E.T., he no longer felt strange looking. He’d begun to think of his other-worldly form as just something he’d donned for the evening. Inside he was a human being, eating candy, ringing doorbells, shouting trick-or-treat, and rotating his nose.
But as the door ahead of them opened, his eyes clicked in fear, for the first time all evening, for on the other side of the door was a red-haired little runt he knew at once had to be Lance, about whom he’d always been suspicious.
Lance, for his own part, was very suspicious of E.T. “Who’s this?” he asked, not assuming that these long arms, this bowling-ball stomach on the doorstep, were made of rubber.
“It’s—it’s my cousin,” stammered Elliott, ready to kick himself for not recognizing Lance’s house, where they were now trapped, Lance advancing on them.
“He’s plenty weird,” said Lance, taking another step closer, drawn by some force he couldn’t understand, but deeply in tune with the freakish voyager.
This boy, thought the ancient cosmologist, is a nerd.
He backed up, Elliott backing with him. Lance continued to advance as they retreated, and hopped on his bike as they hopped on theirs.
“Spell fast,” said E.T., and Elliott pumped for all he was worth, angry with himself now for being so confident, for showing E.T. off to the world. But how can you keep a secret like E.T. from the world? You want to show him off, want to see people’s jaws drop open.
But you shouldn’t show him to a nerdy kid like Lance, because nerds can’t be fooled. A nerd knows a spaceman when he sees one.
E.T. rode in the bicycle basket, head down, but feet sticking out. What would Lance do? Go to the authorities? Will I, he wondered, be stuffed after all?
Elliott turned and looked over his shoulder, back into the darkness. There was no sign of Lance, who probably couldn’t pedal a bike very fast.
“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ve lost him.”
But they had not lost him. By shortcuts known only to nerds, Lance sped along through the night, ever in touch with his quarry. How did he know just when to turn, and how sharp to cut it? Something was drawing him telepathically. He was tuned, he was in touch with E.T.’s system; he rode like a maniac, faster than the ordinary nerd ever dreams. Red hair pressed flat, jug-ears sticking out, he wheeled like crazy in the moonlight, block after block, on Elliott’s trail.
His bicycle light was off, only his reflectors spun patterns in the dark, but no one saw them. Lance felt hot, and cool, and with it, for the first time. In his brief life as a nerdish youth, things never really turned out right, and he’d just shuffled around and played electronic games with himself. But tonight—tonight his bike was boiling with power, he was skidding through turns like a professional rider. His buck teeth clicked with excitement. The wind blew over his cowlick. The night was kind to him.
He bounced over a curbstone, came down squealing his wheels, caught sight of Elliott up ahead, Elliott’s tail reflector caught in the glow of a streetlamp near the edge of town.
He’s heading for the hills, thought Lance, and smiled to himself as his own bike zoomed beneath the streetlamp, swift and silent, commanded by a cycler who couldn’t miss the trail if he tried; he was beaming in, his whole forehead buzzing now.
He leaned over the handlebars, feet spinning the pedals. Deep thoughts of space were appearing in his brain, and he felt he could almost glide into the sky. He smiled again; the kids all laughed at him because he only ate Swiss cheese. But so what? What did that matter now, now that he was floating in this incredible power?
He left the last streetlamp behind and took the high road into the hills.
Elliott looked back over his shoulder but could not see his pursuer. He steered the bike off the highway, onto the fire road, and pedaled up it.
The space-wayfarer bounced in the basket, stomach pressed against the wire, fingers wrapped around it. Now that he was so close to the old landing site, his mind was racing. He must set up his communicator, and begin signaling. Space was vast and time endless; not another moment must be lost. But how slowly Elliott went now, barely moving the bike along.
“Elliott—”
“Yeah?”
“Spell hang on.” The space-wanderer moved his fingers, releasing a low-level anti-gravity formula, and the bicycle lifted off the ground.
It skimmed the bushes, then the treetops, and sailed on, over the forest.
Better, much better, thought the old voyager, and settled back in his basket.
Elliott was frozen to the handlebars, mouth open, hair standing up. The bike wheels spun slowly in the wind, but his mind spun more quickly as he stared at the forest below. He could see the fire road and the paths through the trees. And above and behind him, the moon, gliding among silver clouds.
Below, an owl was waking up and lazily stretching its wings. It smacked its beak, thinking of mice, or possibly a bat, to munch on. It lifted off into the air and flapped upward nonchalantly. Suddenly its big eyes popped, and it went into a fiercely banking dive.
What in the world—
Elliott and his bike, with a space-goblin in the basket, sailed on by the careening owl, who collapsed his wings and dove to the ground, where he crouched dumbfounded. At that moment, Lance came tearing toward him, and the owl spun around, nearly run down by the advancing nerd.
What’s happening to this forest? wondered the bewildered bird, but Lance had no time to answer; he was shooting onward, bike bouncing over roots, stones, branches. His head was filled with electronic beeps, echoing faintly, and he knew where to go, homing in on a secret signal. The forest received him, its pathways opening gently, and the nerd glided through places trained foresters might have gotten jammed in. But where was Elliott?
The moonlight came in webs through the canopy of leaves, above which Elliott sailed, hidden from Lance and the world, sensed only by shocked, squeaking bats on the wing, who darted and dove as the bicycle flew through their domain. Elliott’s feet worked the pedals slowly, nervously, the chain clicking in space. He’d always known in his heart that his bike could fly, had sometimes felt it as he crested a hill, but the final touch of magic had always been missing until tonight. E.T. was that magic, and his magic was a science of space so evolved that only the ancient could know it. It assisted their great Ships, and it certainly could carry a mere bicycle a mile or so—to the landing site.
&nb
sp; The ancient fugitive peered from his wire basket as the bicycle dropped toward the clearing. He controlled the descent with his delicate touch, and the bicycle slipped in over the grass and touched gently down, spilling only at the last moment when the elderly voyager’s long toe got caught in the spokes.
“Ufff . . .”
The bicycle slid on its side, finally stopping on top of E.T. He climbed out of his basket, toe aching, but too excited to care. Elliott was picking himself up, and now began unpacking the communicator.
The ancient voyager turned away for a moment and scanned the clearing, to see if any of those who had pursued him that first night were still lurking about.
His sensitive inner radar moved along, over the face of the forest; it came to Lance and blipped right over him. Why? Because the nerd’s emanation was now not unlike E.T.’s own—that of an outcast, a loner, a misfit—and E.T. just swept on by him, feeling no threat.
He turned back to Elliott and signaled that they should begin setting up the transmitter.
The circular saw blade turned like an enchanted dish, beside which knife and fork danced, advancing the teeth of the blade. What caused the enchanted turning? An armature, with spring attached, had been roped into a slender tree. As the wind bent the tree, the rope went taut, lifting the knife-and-fork ratchet; the teeth advanced, spinning the saw blade across which the bobby pins tracked, activating the Speak and Spell program. What powered Speak and Spell? Hundreds of wires, which the ancient botanist had taken into the trees; these wires were now in the veins of leaves, in branches, in roots, tapping the electricity of life; how it was done, only the old botanist knew. But Elliott could feel the life of the forest traveling through the wires, converging, powering the communicator.
The overturned umbrella, lined with tin foil, shone in the moonlight. But more than moonlight was reflected there. The Fuzz Busting microwave signal, driven by the UHF tuner, was beaming out of the parabolic shape, into space.
. . . gleeple doople zwak-zwak snafn olg mnnnnin . . .
. . . approximately. The true sound coming from the device was far more elegant, but our alphabet cannot convey the subtlety of those sounds E.T. had wrested from the Speak and Spell.
Elliott stood in the flow of the signal, hoping for its success, but it seemed so small, such a feeble thing searching up there in the immensity.
The extraterrestrial, seeing his doubts, touched the boy’s shoulder. “We have found a window.”
“We have?”
“Our frequency is that window. It will reach Them.”
They stood with their transmitter for a long time, both of them silent. The stars seemed to listen too—and of course, the nerd in the bushes was listening.
Mary, meanwhile, was trying to hold her own against the droves of little goblins who were visiting her.
“Yes, yes, come in. My, what a scary bunch this is . . .”
They sang for her, they did little dances. Gooey gumdrops popped out of their mouths in the middle of tunes and were mashed into the rug; tuneful gesturing caused wet lollipops to be pressed into her textured wallpaper, peeling off the texture when they were removed. Harvey bit one of the little goblins. While the fearless watchdog was engaged in this molestation of an innocent child, upstairs a window was being opened in Mary’s room, and a government agent was entering with an electronic device, whose flickering light and wavering needle led him down the hall.
The device began to grow excited as it entered Elliott’s room, and went quite wild when it was taken into E.T.’s closet. After a few passes, the agent seemed satisfied, and crept back along the hall and out Mary’s window, making a safe exit, while downstairs Harvey was having his snout tied with a handkerchief, and the screaming child was being plied with chocolates.
. . . gleeple doople zwak-zwak . . .
Elliott and E.T. sat beside the communicator, listening, and watching the night sky, while Lance the nerd watched them. The sky was silent and did not respond.
After many hours, Elliott fell asleep, and Lance had to be home by nine o’clock, so the old voyager was alone with his device.
He tracked the signal as it spread out and out, into the darkness.
He did not feel so well. Had he eaten too much candy?
He strolled off into the forest, and visited with the plants. His footstep seemed a little heavy to him, heavier than usual. Perhaps it was from all the soaping of windows and running amok. He wasn’t used to it.
He walked until he came to a little stream, and he sat down beside it. The sound of the water was enchanting, and he put his head into it. He stayed this way for hours, listening, listening to the artery of Earth’s blood running. He fell asleep finally, head underwater.
“I guess he’s about four foot or so,” said Mary to the policeman. “A small person, dressed as a hunchback.”
She began to weep. “He’s eaten a razor blade,” she said. “I know it.”
“Now, now . . .” said the policeman. “Lots of kids get lost on Halloween. I’m sure Elliott is fine.”
Gray dawn had come to the neighborhood. Gertie and Michael had been home since ten o’clock. Elliott’s bed was empty. Mary’s mind was in shreds, once again. She stared at the policeman through her tears. “I’ve been treating him terribly lately. I made him clean his room.”
“That’s not unreasonable,” said the policeman.
Harvey tried to signal, but his snout was still tied shut. He put his paws on the door and made muffled whimpering noises.
“Elliott!” Mary leapt up. Elliott was coming across the back lawn. In gratitude she took off Harvey’s muzzle, and the dog yowled with relief, working his jaws up and down.
“Is this our missing person?” smiled the policeman. He folded his notebook, put it away, and left the family to their reunion.
“You’ve got to find him, Mike. In the forest. Somewhere near the clearing . . .”
Mary had confined Elliott to bed. And E.T. was the missing person now. Michael went to the garage and took out his bike. In a few minutes he was pedaling down the street, and a car was following him.
Looking back over his shoulder, he saw three figures seated in it, all of them looking intently at him. He cut sharply into a narrow passageway between two houses, shook the car, and headed for the hills.
He found E.T. head-down in the stream. The old voyager did not look good, but he insisted that he was fine, he’d only been listening.
He gestured at the stream, at the sky, and at many things, but to Michael he seemed pale, and his footstep slow and heavy.
C H A P T E R
1 0
“It’s only been working a little while,” said Michael. “You’ve got to think positively.”
‘Tell him that,” said Elliott, nodding toward the closet, where E.T. sat brooding.
The space-elder knew it was absurd to expect immediate results, or perhaps any results at all. But he couldn’t help himself. He’d been dreaming of the Great Ship; as soon as he closed his eyes he saw it, the beautiful ornament descending. But when he woke, he was still alone with nothing but a half-eaten box of Oreos and a stupid, staring Muppet.
Elsewhere in the house, Mary was going about her chores, wondering if life had any answer besides children’s sneakers turning up in the refrigerator. Wearily she ran her sweeper, picking up bits of guitar strings and strange-looking seeds that she worried might be from marijuana. Elliott and Michael had been acting very strange lately, and so had Gertie. Was her whole family turning on?
She daydreamed of their father, the irrepressible bum. Gone. To Mexico.
She thought about taking aerobic dancing.
Anyway, buy a new pair of shoes.
But were there any surprises left in life for her?
Wasn’t everything pretty much the way it was going to be, except wrinkles would be added, and she’d have to buy even more expensive creams to fight them off, made out of placentas or something?
Switching off the vacuum cleaner, she r
ealized the doorbell was ringing.
For some strange reason, her hopes soared. It was crazy, she knew, but the whole house seemed crazy these days. She went toward the door, caught in the idea that her charming bum of a husband would be there, for old time’s sake. Or maybe somebody else, for new time’s sake. Somebody tall, dark, and devastating.
She opened the door.
It was someone short, red-haired, and nerdish.
“Is Elliott home?”
“Just a minute, Lance . . .” She sighed, turned, and climbed the stairs toward Elliott’s room, which was locked, as usual. What were they doing in there? What horrible things to cause her to buy placenta cream before her time . . .
She knocked. “Elliott, that boy Lance is here.”
“He’s a nerd. Tell him to get lost.”
“I can’t do that, Elliott. I’m going to tell him he can come up.”
She descended the stairs, feeling they were the treadmill her life had gotten onto. Wouldn’t anything new come into her situation?
“Thank you,” said the nerd, passing her on the stairs. Something incredibly new had come into his situation, and he was tracking it, upwards, to the source. His jug-handle ears, which his mother taped down at night, now seemed to swivel still further forward, defeating all of a mother’s hopes. He knocked on Elliott’s door.
“Let me in.”
“Go away . . .”
“I want to see the E.T.”
He smiled, greatly satisfied by the effect he could feel his words were having in the suddenly silent room beyond the door.
The door swung open. He stepped, nerd-fashion, intrusively inward. “Listen, let me state my position from the beginning. I admit I was wrong. I do believe in spacemen. I saw one last night, out in the forest, with you.”
“I told you,” said Elliott, “that was my cousin.”
“You have an incredibly ugly family, then. I saw him, Elliott, with my own eyes.”