Free Tomy and the Planet of Lies by Erich von Däniken Page B

long journey, Marc had also wanted to know whether Tomy was something special on his home planet: maybe rich or highly respected. What did it look like there and did they have traffic problems or environmental issues? Which political system did they prefer and how did love work? Was there war or injustices of distribution; what sort of clothes did they wear and which weapon systems had they developed?
    The disillusionment was major. There was none of any of that on Tomy’s home world. Neither love nor sex; neither weapons nor traffic systems; neither politics nor clothing. Tomy’s planet was a place populated by bodiless entities. The only forms of life were the “intelligent energies.”
    â€œSo you don’t really exist?” asked Marc incredulously.
    â€œOf course we exist. As individuals, too. We all have personalities—but no bodies.”
    â€œI can’t really imagine it,” mused Marc aloud. “You have to be born and die sometime, and in between is a life full of excitement. Where does your ‘intelligent energy’ come from?”
    Before Tomy—who was again behind the wheel—could answer Marc’s question, he had to brake sharply. Oil barrels had been laid across the road in a kind of makeshift roadblock. Vehicles of all kinds, from semi-trailer trucks to jeeps, stood with open doors, trunks, or trailer doors in two queues. Everywhere, drivers were gesticulating, and in cars women sat silently, wrapped from head to toe in dark material. It seemed to be a particularly thorough check, for the men were completely unpacking their cars and opening up every case, bag or tied up package. Worried, I looked for our passports and for anything that looked like a document that we could use for Tomy. In the end, we chose Marc’s driving license.
    Two men in black uniforms carrying machine pistols sat in a small truck, which was parked to one side. Behind them, on the opposite side of the road were another two. It took ten minutes until we reached the front of the queue. A young officer, speaking in halting English, demanded to see our travel documents. I showed him only my passport to start with, repeating over and over again that we were tourists. In those days, Swiss passports were issued in all four of the country’s official languages: German, French, Italian, and Romansh. The officer seemed not to be able to understand any one of them. He leafed through the passport until he reached the visa, which was in writing that he could understand. Without returning it, he indicated Marc, who was sat in back on a case. Marc pretended to be searching for something and then reached out his driving license. The officer frowned, shook his head, and asked: “Your visa?” I had a sense of foreboding. Marc gave him his passport—Tomy was next. Suddenly we heard a loud whistle being blown. Somebody somewhere called out something.
    Our officer strode off towards a dark Mercedes, our passports and Marc’s driving license still in his hand. He was clutching them firmly in his fingers, almost as if they were trophies. We weren’t in a position to drive off anyway, because of the column in front of us and the vehicles now queued up behind us didn’t give us any room to maneuver—that was without forgetting the soldiers with the machine pistols. Oh, God! What would happen if they plucked apart the Range Rover and found our pistol? I remembered “Ali’s” business card and starting rifling through bags, desperately trying to find it. But to no avail. I broke out in a sweat. Would Tomy be able to help us out of this one?
    Suddenly the officer strode back towards our vehicle, a very serious expression on his face. He pressed our passes and Marc’s driving license into my hand, barked out a series of orders, and the small truck in front of us pulled out of the way. Then he began waving his arms around like some kind of traffic cop. Tomy understood