Chapter 2

"Why a bathroom is called the head!"

MRS. Henrietta Higgambotham-Smythington was in her garden, the love of her life, doing the chores she felt were necessary to grow prize-winning flowers, such as Azaleas, not to mention Rhododendrens.

She had finished her winter mulch chore, three-inches-high of mulch around each tree, two-inches-high over the garden beds. For the trees she used the big chunk-chip mulch, but for her precious, prize-winning garden beds only the smaller, fine-chip mulch would do.

She preferred chip mulch to the more common shredded mulch. Shredded mulch, she believed, and she would know, smothered plants, made watering less effective, and even though it cost less than the chips kind, gave a haven to the bad bugs and other insects that were a gardener's bane. And, to her at least, it smelled funny as it rotted out. Ms. aitch hyphen ess knew gardening, you betcha.

She was on her knees, a bulb planter tool in her right hand. She'd punch a hole in the soil, drop some bulb fertilizer into it, and plop in a bulb, pointy side up, you betcha.

Then she'd cover it back up with soil. It was hard work and she perspired, for sure, but it was a work of love to her that went back many, many decades.

Whoever says gardening is relaxing has never tried to plant six hundred bulbs, one hundred each of Tulips, Crocuses, Anemones (Blanda type), Lilies of the Valley, Fritillarias, and Chionodoxas (Glory-of-the-Snow), each specie fussy about its planting depth.

Relaxing? You betcha! If having your hands covered in calluses while sweat pours down your back is your idea of relaxation.

And strangely enough, or maybe not, if anyone now saw our sweet, dear Ms. Henrietta Higgambotham-Smythington, all callused up and sweaty, on her knees punching one hole after another, smiling like an idiot, constantly wiped her brow. humming an unknown melody, with a happier-than-a-pig-in-shit look on her face, they might guess her ideas on the matter of what constitutes relaxation and what doesn't.

And, also strangely enough, she was being watched by someone. Because her wide-brimmed straw hat blocked out the sun, and most of her view, she saw only the person's lower trouser legs and shoes.

Now, normally, our beloved Henrietta was a trust-all-souls type of gardener, but the pervert-in-the-bathroom-window episode had unnerved her and she was, one could say, just a wee bit antsy. The trousers and shoes, being covered in only-God-knows-what, made her gasp as she looked up. She said fearfully, "Wh... What do you want?"

The man, if he was a man under all that only-God-knows-what, just stood there and blinked at her, a where am I? look on his messy face that only lost souls can muster up. On his chest, untouched as it were by the any of the slop that covered him, were two white letters: M E.

Taking in the full spectrum of him, our sweet, bulb-planting gardener, for reasons probably known only to a Mother Teresa or perhaps anyone with a maternal instinct, felt no fear of the stranger. He looked so pitiful. Like something the cat dragged in and forgot to kill. He blinked some more. Then in a croaky voice that sounded as if it hadn't been used much lately, he said, "Do I live here, Ma'am?"

"No!" she said harshly. "This is my house! I live here." She stood up and found she was a bit taller than this dishevelled creature. "What on earth happened to you, young man! What's your name?" She said this so unfearfully and so forcefully, the man snapped to attention.

He answered the second question first, "I'm Bertram Burlappe Balliwick, Ma'am." He saluted her with a drill sargeant's dream salute. "And Ma'am," he held the salute firmly and unshakingly,"I can't remember what happened to me!" He finished the salute with a drill sargeant's snap. "Tsk, tsk, tsk." was all she said.

Sometimes in real life, a lot of conversation is unnecessary and trust-all-souls type of people know their duty, know what must be done, when confronted with forlorn creatures covered in only-God-knows-what.

This whole exchange, as brief as it was, had the effect of bringing out Ms. Henrietta Higgambotham-Smythington's best Mother Teresa-style of maternal instinct. She took him by the arm, turned him around and steered him toward the house, her house, the only house in the world with a bathroom window, and a bathroom, that he remembered as being home.

"You're going to get a right proper bath, young man," she said emphatically. "And a right proper clothes washing. Then after a right proper meal, we'll get to the bottom of this, mark my words!" He blinked again and said, right properly, "Yes'm."

She marched him, right properly, into the house and right into the bathroom. She stoppered the tub, turned on the water and looked him squarely in the eyes.

"Give me your clothes and I'll put them in the washer!" She just stood there.

Bertam Burlappe Balliwick didn't even hesitate. "Yes'm!" was all he said as he stripped down right there in front of her, shyness never a part of the equation.

Naked now, he handed her his clothes, which didn't add up to much: A tee shirt, trousers, shorts, the briefs type, and socks. As he undressed, he missed the looking-at-it-way-too-long glance she had given to his very large, very thick--even though flaccid-- male appendage. All he did was blink a few times, like a deer caught in headlights. Naughty, naughty, Henrietta! Twinge! Twinge!

She ordered him to get into the tub, this naked young man with the bigger-than-most-men's wee wee. She ordered him to soap up and stay put until she could get back to give him a proper wash up, mark her words. She ordered. He obeyed. Master and slave. Does it get any sweeter? Not for a sixty-six year old widow lady who hasn't had it in decades, you betcha!

Now if the Guinness Book of World Records cared to time it, they'd have a new speed winner in the Get-The-Wash-Started-And-Get-Back-To-The-Naked-Man-With-The-Huge-Penis-In-My-Tub classification.

To say she was horny doesn't cover it. She was smokin'! Just the sight of that oh-so-unreal large, male member had aroused in our dear, sweet Henrietta the primordial lust of the ages. It was as if God had answered a spinster's prayers and had dropped a large-pricked plum right into her lap. And lordy, lordy, was she ever hungry! And she just loved plums. Especially the large-endowed ones served on top of nuts. You betcha!

She returned to the bathroom, in record time for sure, and saw that he hadn't gotten too far with the soaping up. Goody-goody! The tub's water was now gore-colored and it looked as if he was sitting in a tub of blood. Which, you could say, he was.

"Now Bertram," she said, "You just sit there while I change this water and get you fresh. OK?" He nodded as the water started to drain out.

His penis area, Goody-goody! soon became visible to her old widow's eyes. My, my! was all she thought, as new, fresh water started to refill the tub. My, my! My, my!

She took the soap in hand and scrubbed him all over, right properly, she did, including a scrubbing-it-way-too-long action around the plum with nuts area, which, if truth be told, had the usual and expected effect on one Bertram Burlappe Balliwick.

It grew and it grew! Then grew some more! My, my! In full anger, it reached well over ten inches. Ten and a quarter inches, if accuracy is your goal. Collectors of pornographic films would easily be reminded of Jeff Stryker, at his peak. My, my! Its girth was as thick around as a woman's wrist. The bulbous head, with a wide, flared ridge was--you--guessed it!--plum shaped. My, my! The member stood straight up, pointed at the ceiling and was half exposed above the now clean, clear water. It looked very similar to those photos that show the Loch Ness monster. My, my!

For sure, our heroine had never seen anything like this in her entire life, not that she had much experience for comparison. Her now dead husband, on his best day, and at full mast, had half the length of the magnificent piece of manhood she now beheld--or more like, ogled.

And her husband's Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am-Gotta-Snore-Now attitude sure didn't add to her sexual fantasies. Nor did his Only-Need-It-Once-A-Month posture. If she had known, as a young woman, that men with things like this existed, she sure as Hell, Heavens-to-Betsy, would have thought differently about accepting the marrriage proposal of one Wellington Frobisher Higgambotham-Smythington, Esq.

Girlishly now, and with soapy fingers, she reached down and proceeded to wash the plum-like head. Twinge! Twinge! The thought of using a wash cloth for this task never occurred to her. Fingers do a much better job anyway, dontcha know?Twinge! Twinge!

Balliwick moaned. He had a dream-like look on his face. His eyes merely blinked. He was now totally enraptured by his first--was it? Can't remember! Don't care, either!--male-female encounter.

That the female was almost three times his age, old enough to be his grandmother, and not what anyone, drunk or sober, would call a beauty, didn't matter to him, either. For now, anyway, his Nessie monster was in control.

So here was our hero, clean as a whistle and hung like a horse, ready to be towelled off. She ordered him to step out of the tub. He did, and stood before her, buck naked, all wet and glisteny. His beady little male eyes brimmed with male lust and his ten and one quarter inch woody, big around as a woman's wrist, pointed in her direction. In a bathroom that, sure as shit, seemed very familiar to him.

She ordered him to towel off his top part. She'd see to his bottom part, she told him as she handed him a big, fluffy, terry-like towel. He dried his top. She dried his legs. His stomach. His cute bubble-like ass. Twinge! Twinge! My, My!

Then gently, so gently, she dried his scrotum and his large member swayed mere inches from her face over the top of the towel. Then, for reasons probably only known to a Monica-of-the-oval-office type female, she kissed the tip of his penis. Smooch! Balliwick moaned, so she did it again. Smooch! And one more, to grow on, and for good luck. Smooch! Balliwick became a moan-fool, he did, with each gently planted kiss. Smooch! Smooch! Smooch!

If old Welly, she thought, could only see me now! He'd do a double spin in his grave, that's for sure! This thought so invigorated her, that she decided, right there, right in her very own bathroom, all decorated in blues, her favorite color, to do to Bertram Burlappe Balliwick something only very, very--very bad girls did with men.

She took his engorge penis into her hot--oh so hot--sixty-six year old widow's mouth! How's them apples, Mister Wellington Higgambotham-Smythington, Esq.? she thought as she went farther along the shaft. Her mouth crossed the bumpy ridge--what some folks kiddingly refer to as a speedbump for the lips--and slowly continued downward.

Balliwick let out his loudest moan yet. This so emboldened her that she started going up and down feverishly. Her tongue swirled around. She clamped her lips here and there and changed the pace, slow, then fast, then slow, then fast. Her head bobbed up and down as she sucked to beat the band. Her saliva ran down her chin. Her heart beat faster and lustfully, lost in the task at hand--her first ever blowjob.

His too, but he didn't know it. The little shit didn't care, either, if truth be told. Anyone for a cold shower at this point in our little tale? If not, proceed at your own risk! And those who consider this section too vulgar may skip to the next story section. Or burn this book right now. Take your pick. You have been warned.

Balliwick reached down and put both hands into her white, granny-like hair. He held her fast this way while he methodically sawed in and out of her mouth. He moaned a good one and picked up the pace.

One inward plunge hit the back of her throat and animated the gag reflex. She let out a gurgle and almost upchucked, right there on her blue bathroom rug. He sensed this, and being the gentleman he was at this particular moment, made his plunges shallower. A whole lot shallower.

She read this as some form of rejection, which it certainly was not. Thus our sweet Henrietta decided to take the--uh--plunge, so to speak.

After all, she thought, how difficult could it be? So, slowly, very slowly, she pushed her mouth farther down the shaft and took quarter inch by quarter inch. When the plump plum head nuzzled her gag reflex again, she chose to simply ignore the urge to regurgitate.

Mind over matter, she thought to herself, that's all it is. Five inches! Then six! Then Seven! God, she thought, does this darn thing have an end?

It was right about here, at six or seven inches, that a buried thought entered her mind:

Thank goodness he's not Rasputin the Monk!

Long ago, when old Welly was still capable of bitchin' about the weather, she had read in one of those fact books on people, places, and things, that Rasputin was said, or rumored, to have thirteen manly longer-than-should-exist inches. Even the czarina of all the Russias, Alexandra, was said to have sampled the lengthy pole. Just how many times is unknown, but her undertaker could not remove the smile from her face. So it's rumored.

Well, Henrietta had trouble picturing a thirteen inch schlong in her mind, so she promptly went to her sewing room and got out her wooden yardstick. As she held it out in front of her, with fingers at both ends of thirteen inches, she let out a gasp.

My God, she thought, that damn thing would go in one of my ends and come straight out the other! That thought gave her a few girlish twinges, no doubt, fantasies being what they are and all. But let us not leave Balliwick... uh... hanging. OK?

With her now nearing the eight inch mark, this buried thought insinuated itself a tad more. She thought: This one still might come out my other end! She felt an involuntary shudder in her anus area.

Eight inches swallowed! Then Nine! Tears were in her eyes as she fought off the gag reflexes natural inclinations to dislodge the massive invader.

And Balliwick wasn't just moaning now. He was A-MOANIN'! if you get the drift, and his legs shook like a rubber goose's. They had started this involuntary wobble when she had reached inch five on the penis-shaft scale, in case you're interested and must know everything.

When her lips pressed against his curly pubic hairs, at exactly ten and one quarter inches--remember?--he let out a "Sooey!" that would have called any hog, even a stone-deaf one, down to dinner! It felt so good he did it again. "Sooey!"

So there they were, this mismatched pair, doing what is being done in millions of bedrooms every night of the week. Yeah, you wish.

He moaned and "Sooeyed" as she worked at what her late husband considered sick, depraved, unnatural--icky-poo!-- and a sin in the eyes of God. You watching this, old Welly? she thought, You seeing your old Henny in a new light?

With this thought in mind, she moved her mouth back up to the speedbump and without so much as a bye-your-leave, took the plunge again, going right down, as some say, to the fur, in less time than it takes to say Welly. Balliwick yelled, "Sooey! Sooey!" Spin, spin, spin.

When his climax came, it came with a deluge. Balliwick held her head fast and withdrew his penis to where only the plum-like head remained in her mouth. He then let out another "Sooey" that was probably heard in all neighboring counties, and he unloaded.

His first spurt hit the back of her throat with enough force to remind her she still had a gag reflex. Many spurts soon followed and flooded her mouth with sperm as thick and lumpy as yogurt--no fruit on the bottom though.

She swallowed audibly, and more spurts refilled her. She swallowed again. And, as she felt the throbs that took place under the thumb she held at the base of his penis, she knew more was on its way. And more was. Jiminy Cricket, she thought, it's like being force-fed from a damn fire hose!

She swallowed again--Refill please! Thank you!-- then she swallowed for the fourth and last time. Her Bertie, it seemed, was now fully drained. Finally, thank you. Spin, spin, spin!

He withdrew his penis from her mouth and, to her utter amazement, and very unlike old Welly, he was still hard, erect, woodified, call it what you will. The damn thing still looked ready for more action. My, my!

"Ma'am," said Balliwick, a moon-eyed look on his puss. "That was unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! So unbelievable! Thank you, Ma'am. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Ma'am! Unbelievable!" He looked dreamy-eyed at her, having left no unbelievables or thank you's for anyone else's future use.

Still on her knees, with her hand at the base of his unWelly-like pole, she looked up at him.

"You may not believe this, young man," she said. "But that was my first time ever doing that." she paused and ran her tongue lasciviously over her lips. "And my first time ever tasting sperm, mark my words! Very Strange taste it has, it does." She licked her lips again.

"Sorta reminds me of salty onions!" she said. Then they looked directly into each other's eyes and laughed. That sweet, gentle kind of laugh, the kind shared by lovers everywhere. Spin! Spin! Spin! And Henrietta now added salty onions to the very short list of her favorite things. Right up there with large-pricked plums and hairy nuts.

"Now," she said. "How's about I rustle you up something real good to eat?" She stood up and gave his--amazingly, my, my!--still hard penis a playful squeeze. He moaned.

"And my sweet Bertie, I want you to show me later just how well you can use this precious thing of yours... in the normal way," She bent over and planted a smooch right smack dab on his indented little, inny-like pee hole. "OK?"

"Your wish," he said, "is my command!" He gave her one of those drill sargeant's dream salutes, the kind with a right smart snap on its tail end...

"Look! Up in the sky!"

"CHIEF, accept it or not," the FBI agent, Tom Bookem said, "but, you've been invaded! How long... we don't know yet, but as you can tell by these printouts supplied by our space agency, NASA, the coordinates lead right to this general area." He handed Melrose three NASA printouts.

The Chief gave the photos a cursory glance and slapped each one, in turn, onto his desk. Two photos were similar. Each showed a blob-like, silvery thing as it streaked across the sky. Each silvery blob had a long, thin smoke-like tail that trailed behind. The third photo depicted a grid of some sort with green criss-crossed grid lines, an inch apart, on a glossy black background.

On this grid was a streak of blobby grayish white that ran diagonally from left to right and reminded the Chief of the first two photos. It also reminded him, with its long thin trail tail, of sperm.

He looked back up at Bookem, a quizzical look on his face. "Flying saucers, is it?" His voice was tinged with doubt.

"Not really," the agent responded. "It's more... cigar shaped. That was to be expected." He reached down and pushed the green-grid photo toward Melrose.

"As you can easily see, Chief... where this cigar-shaped object crosses the Y longitudinal axis here... , " he pointed at it, "and the X latitudinal axis here... , " he pointed that out, too, "this baby is smack dab in your bailiwick... somewhere." The agent awaited the Chief's response to this plainly obvious and simple fact.

Melrose asked incredulously, "You've seen these before?" He stared down at the green-grid photo. All he still saw was a long-tailed blob of sperm.

The Chief looked up at Bookem as Moldon picked up one of the sky photos and studied it. Moldon rotated it as if he was having trouble deciding which end was supposed to be up. The Agent shot Moldon a look as if he had just discovered the missing link. He then looked back at Melrose.

"No," the Agent acknowledged. "Not an actual sighting anyway, but NASA feels certain that, for the distance this object had to cover, the obvious shape would be cigar. Or, at the very least, become a cigar shape as it attained high speed. Earth's atmospheric pressures being what they are, you see."

Chief Melrose didn't see, nor did he have any inclinations to begin now. He was an experienced senior officer and knew he would have to throw his full weight into the situation. With caution, he thought as he looked at the cock-sure young man sitting across from him. "I see," he said. "Interesting, most interesting."

He turned toward Moldon. "Moldy? What do you make of those photos?" Moldon thought a bit then picked up one of the photos.

He looked puzzled. "Chief, this one here?... the one of the grid?... Looks like a picture of a large sperm to me." The Chief smiled and nodded his head slightly. Bookem just sighed and glanced at the ceiling. Moldon grinned at the Chief, not realizing how funny he had just been.

The FBI man was thinking: Why me? And why haven't I heard from London by now. Shouldn't they be on this as well? Why did the Americans always do things first? Why is Chief Melrose the dullest pencil in the box? Why am I surrounded by dumb hicks!

It piqued him, but he let the thoughts die, for now at least. He instructed his assigned aide, an elderly man three times his age to, "Be Mother, please." Where he came from, this simply meant to pour more tea. No sugar, slice of lemon, please.

This was the beginning of real trouble for the planet Earth.

Almost simultaneously, but several hundred light years away, there was also trouble. At least for one Groinkian. And this particular Groinkian really hated trouble. Even more than Ms. Higgambotham's-Smythington's hated food wraps that refused to hold their cling and just let her food go and slop out all over her nice, clean counters...

"Was it good for you, too?"

BALLIWICK had had a high old time in his favorite-color bathroom. He hadn't a regret in the world, but if truth be told, guilt was another matter. As he watched the old woman walk away, she kinda, sorta, somehow maybe, reminded him of his mother, though his sweet Momma had long since passed this veil of tears.

But that night, with his guilt forgotten, Balliwick made love to her, to use the term extremely loosely, four--not rushed, mind you--times, in four different positions (which are here left to the reader's lurid imagination), and gave her numerous, way-beyond-counting, mind-numbing, toe-curling, Who's ya daddy?, out-of-this-world, I've-died-and-gone-to-Heaven orgasms. Of the kind most women know about, dream about, but few ever experience. Discounting those hand-held devices, of course.

And the way he made love! So passionately, so heatedly, so very out-of-control. It reminded her of those two sweaty rutting hogs she had seen go at it, full bore, when she was a young girl on vacation at a farm retreat. That had sure changed her dreams from then on, too.

Why, hadn't her Bertie actually hollered out, at the top of his lungs "Oink pig! Oink! Oink! Oink!? More than once, you betcha. Spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, Spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin! You getting dizzy, old Welly? Spin, spin, spin, spin, spin!

Yessiree Bob and make no doubts about it, she had an animal on her hands. A rutting, mind-blown, oink-yelling, sex-crazy animal was her Bertie, mark her words. He also had never tired--bless his youth--and never went soft, either. If you have to know.

He had wanted a fifth ride on the Henrietta love train, but she was AFO (All-Fucked-Out for those of you not in the lingo loop) and had unwillingly declined. But--hey!--there's always tomorrow. And tomorrow would take care of itself, as it always did. Oink pig! Oink! Oink! Oink!

They slept, spoon-style, her butt fitted into his gotta-lose-this-one-day Buddha belly, with her hand reaching back and encircling his now--finally, thank you God!--flaccid, burning-hunk-of-love manhood. And they dreamed:

Balliwick dreamt he was being hotly pursued by evil-looking creatures with pig-like faces whose hot breath he could feel on the back of his neck, while trying to escape on wobbly, rubber-goosey-like legs, in slow motion, mind you, his clothing covered in gore, with the letters M E blinking brightly on and off, neon sign-like, on his chest, giving the vile creatures his exact position and location--in true GPS fashion, it could be said.

Our dear sweet, but certainly no longer innocent, Henrietta, had visions of large-penised plums, with nuts on the side, mind you, riding her hard and putting her away wet--oh, so wet!--while she watched old Welly, at six feet under, you betcha, spinning like a top on steroids, with both his eyeballs popping out of his Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am-Gotta-Snore-Now face like some damn-fool cartoon frog drawn by a truly demented artist. "Theo! Did you get my ear-mail?"

So, sweet dreams, Henrietta. And better dreams, Bertie. For something wicked this way comes...

"They all look alike to me!"

I DON'T BELIEVE IT! I don't fucking believe it!" he said as he took four more stomping steps.

This was said by the Supreme Commander, the top Groinkian in all respects. He answered to no one as there was no one higher. On a whim, only his whim to be sure, he could make any law a law merely by saying it's now the law.

He did not need popular approval, or committee approval, or any other approval for such action. And he held the post until his death, usually twelve thousand years as Groinkian longevity goes. Further, he-- and it was always a he--was not elected to the post as much as he was born into it.

Upon his death, a replacement would be found from the one or two male Groinkians born, every thousand years or so, with the white glixizza that sprouted from the top of his head. Because all other Groinkians were born totally bald, and stayed that way until their death, he was fairly easy to pick out. And, so far at least, no female has ever been born with the glixizza.

At birth, the glixizza is a mere six inches long. Its thousands of stark white, stiff bristly-like hairs, that grow fountain-like on the newborn's head, would easily remind one of an albino porcupine.

Over time, the glixizza attains a length of two to three feet, splayed out magnificently all around the head, the white bristles arcing upward and outward in fountain-like fashion. At the tip of each bristle is a silvery, star-shaped formation. The casual observer would be reminded of a dandelion's flower head that had its bottom portion blown away by a make-a-wish breath.

Any Groinkians with the glixizza who are not made the Supreme Commander, automatically become High Commanders in the Groinkian military. They assume this post at aged fourteen and are ranked as High Commander, Junior Grade. From then on they are educated and trained for eighty-six years, at which time they are assigned a Power Level.

Those born with the glixizza are known to be, and testing has proved it out, approximately five thousand times smarter, or more intelligent, or logical, take your pick, than the average Groinkian. This particular Supreme Commander, when aged two, had invented the Golix-Girgit, a food converter capable of turning any food into any other food in seconds. Don't enjoy meatloaf? Poof! Filet mignon!

The Supreme Commander, it should also be noted, has no name other than Supreme Commander, though if hearing anyone talking to him, the name Sir!, with the exclamation point fully pronounced, would come to mind. It also goes without saying that displaying even the slightest disrespect, whether by accident or design, means kaputsville for the displayer.

And now, as this Supreme Commander stomped back and forth as childishly as any spoiled brat would, everyone within his vision trembled in fear. Afraid to stay and more afraid to leave.

His glixizza moved swishingly through the air as it followed him around the foyer of the Grand Hall. The staging area from where he was just about to make a most important speech.

He was to address the top echelon in Groinkian society, plus every ambassador that had been recalled just for this moment. His speech was to cover the diabolical plan that his High Commanders had so craftily created. The plan to bring back the jewel in the crown, so to speak, the Earthlings. As a food stuff and as slaves.

Time was of the essence. And he was being made to waste it on some nonsense, someone's mistake. Heads will roll, he thought, mark my words. He had made heads roll before, thousands of them. Just ask any Groinkian whose minor mistake had come to the attention of the Supreme Commander. If you can contact the afterlife, that is.

He thought back to the meeting that had taken place just this morning, which in Earth time would be about seven weeks ago. There he had witnessed the key element in their plan, the transformutations that had resulted in the pig-like creatures now roaming the Earth planet.