Smart Hay
by Duane Dunkerson
The aliens landed while they were looking for a human
and a being. They found Persnit. Actually it was
Persnit in his shack. They got so close to the shack
that he couldn't get out. The door would only crack a
few inches. Persnit persisted in pushing the door, then
launching himself at it - to no avail. He snaked a hand
out and around the door and touched nothing but he felt
heat, nearly painful, the further his hand went around
the door. So no go.
Then the questions began. The same questions in a
series. The series were repeated three times as Persnit
remained mute. On the fourth go around, Persnit answered
the questions. There was a long pause. Persnit looked
toward his door. Last chance, he felt. Going to the
farthest reach of the shack, Persnit then got into a
half crouch like a distance runner waiting for the
starting gun. Persnit responded to such an imaginary gun
and hit the door with good effect. The door flew on its
hinges hard left and Persnit went out and down hard into
the dirt on his hands and knees. From this position, he
slowly turned to the left, then the right. All looked as
it should be. But then what was directly behind him? He
got to his feet and slowly he turned - all OK. Whatever
that had been, was gone. He looked carefully at all the
normality. No way he could go back, just yet, into the
shack. So he headed down the valley toward the
observatory.
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I could sometimes find Persnit traversing that shallow
valley going to or from the club observatory. More
often, for whatever reason, I would run into him outside
the SuperMart. Like today, for example. Here he comes
with the usual sack of day old to week old to dented to
broken foods and their containers. He was at the side
door in the smaller parking lot. I had come from the
retro five and dime next door. Lots of trinkets left
over from a long ago Japanese consignment. Back then
what was cheap in price was cheap. Whatever would have
become of the much more than trinkets we buy today if a
third bomb had dropped? I am often given to speculation
about alternative histories. But as for Persnit, being
the only one he is, it is hard to think through
different scenarios for him. Alternativeness finds its
forte in the manipulation of millions.
Persnit, on the other hand, was one in a million. He
was now shifting from one foot to the other, sack in his
left hand, his right hand was doing aimless doodles in
the air. But he listened, polite in the short run, as
always, to whatever I might say so long as I didn't
overdo it. The state of being overdone was determined by
Persnit, limited by the allotment of politeness in the
short form.
I didn't ask Persnit about the aliens, not again after
the Night of Nine. That night was the alien response to
the answers Persnit gave on the day of the landing. His
answers certainly had been truthful and how should he
know to what use they would be put? He wanted out. And
they gave plenty of warning anyway. Since they could do
something like that, Persnit didn't mention them, except
for that one time he told me at public night at the
observatory about the "door jam" he had overcome.
I could see at the top of the sack there were bakery
cinnamon rolls, reminding me of the hay bales, like
cinnamon rolls, resting now in the valley's main field.
No doubt Persnit wanted to get those rolls of the sack
to the shack soon enough and then walk down through
those other rolls to the observatory. Persnit started to
go. I shut up. Off he went.
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I was at the rest stop that sits up on one east
shoulder of the valley. I got there via the Interstate
that cuts the valley into a northern third and a
southern two thirds. Persnit's shack was in the upper
third. I had forgotten my binocs but any one coming from
the south up the valley at noontime would be him. He
would walk through the cow herd or sheep on the flanks
of the valley or the corn field or hay bales. Now it was
hay bales. No one around here would be out at noon. Noon
was for dinner. So Persnit could walk from the
observatory to his shack unobserved except by city
slickers at the rest stop.
I was the rest stop exception. I was on a mission in
any event since I had gotten my letter like most others
of the civilized world. Our letters, as all knew, were
from the aliens. It was widely regarded as a prelude to
an intelligence test. We were notified that we would
soon receive questions that they wanted us to answer to
the best of our ability. Some were doing crash courses
in knowledge aquisition. Some boned up on trivia. Some
reviewed old high school or college textbooks. Still
others decided to sit tight and wait. I would do so
except I wanted to talk to Persnit. So without binocs I
awaited his approach. He was a no show.
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My letter from the aliens had arrived. The instructions
said to answer the enclosed immediately and leave it on
your doorstep or windowsill or some such. I had given a
lot of thought as to what I would be asked and what I
would answer. I, like most, felt it was an intelligence
test. No knowledge survey would be done this way by
them. They had enough knowledge and power to pull off
the Night of Nine. I remained convinced they were out to
rank us by intelligence. Did you want to be found smart
or dumb by the aliens? Which way should you go? And if
we went for dumb, then wouldn't some be dumber than
others? So if you were of the genius class? Buddies with
the aliens or subject to a leveling program? How about
good old "a little above average"? Ok, but how little is
little? And who is going to make the curve? So my
parents were dumb, do I have to be penalized for that?
Or that I attended the local CC - so did I get a good
prep for this test? The test is their business not ours.
Their intelligence or ours?
I opened the letter and I was asked - "Should God
exist? If so, why?" These questions I answered and then
I went on to the other pages. All remaining pages were
blank. Misprint? An alien screwup? No, not likely. This
was an intelligence test? A joke?
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I went back to the rest stop. After I parked, I whipped
out the binocs and saw Persnit down in the valley among
the hay bales. He was standing, leaning as if to hear
well. There was nothing there but the hay. He looked at
one bale, then another. Back and forth his attention
went like for a short tennis match. Persnit then quickly
straightened his back and headed toward the observatory.
No way was I going into the valley after him.
Two days later, after hard searching for Persnit, I saw
him in the valley. Noontime. Heading north to his shack.
No hay bales were in the valley. I started to run.
Persnit had some more questions coming. As I closed on
him, he waved. His walking and my running disturbed
strands of hay remaining from the bale removal. The
strands were up into clouds at our backs.
He was smiling and slowly waving. I thought not to beat
about the bush :
- So what's with the alien questions?
- Did you respond as you thought you should?
- Yeah, but to two questions?
- It's what they wanted to know, our answers to those
questions.
Persnit gestured to where the hay bales had been.
- How can any measure of intelligence be gotten from
those questions, I asked.
- Who said it was for IQ?
- Oh come on! What else could it be?
-
Persnit smiled even more.
- OK, big guy, how did you answer, I asked.
- They had me pick from 26 answers.
- What! Hey, that's cheating! Come on, no fair!
- Easy, easy. I didn't use any of the answers.
- So what was the answer?
- None of the 26.
- Isn't that what I just asked? So what was number 27?
Persnit now began to chuckle. Quite rare for him.
- No, no, the correct answer was "none of the 26", he
said.
Persnit was going on now, looking back, softly waving a
polite goodbye.
- Hey. Hey! What kind of answer is that?
- The answer they wanted.
- So OK Mr. Insider. What about the rest of us?
- What has changed?
- Huh?
- Got to go. Be seeing you.
- Persnit! Persnit! Come back here! I don't get it. I do
not get it! I want a real answer.
You've got to go to the SuperMart some day. Don't you
forget it.
Now I was alone in the valley field, a slight wind was
stirring the bits of hay. Some of the hay fragments were
sticking to me. The wind was picking up. More hay might
stick. No thanks. I wasn't going to talk to the hay.
Leave that to Persnit. I hightailed it out of there. And
despite what I said to Persnit, I think I'll try not to
find him for a few weeks. Serve him right.