My New Neighbor From Outer Space
by Charles C. Cole
Curd Gottlieb had decamped from civilization. The national politics of “Us Versus Them” had become too much; guests to his home argued intensely over dinner. He’d retired to a farmhouse, surrounded by two-hundred acres, a short hike east of the White Mountains.
After an amicable divorce (his wife had declined to leave her city friends), he was content to dabble with his childhood passion of nature photography, work on his memoirs and improve his whittling.
Curd considered himself a gentleman farmer. For the third year, he’d contracted with a neighbor a short tractor ride away to cultivate and plant his fields for a small percentage of the crops.
One evening about bedtime, a bright flash lit the sky briefly, without thunder. A meteorite, perhaps. The sky on a cloudless night was always busy here, so distant from urban light pollution.
In the glare of a sunny morning, Curd was astounded to find a crop circle in his cornfield, and the brazen vandal still there, along with the proverbial silver saucer, maybe 100 feet in diameter.
Curd advanced. He wasn’t scared as much as angry. His corn was flattened. He squatted down and picked up a handful of rocks, tossing them at the shiny saucer. On the fourth PING, a door opened and a ramp lowered.
An alien two-thirds Curd’s height, wearing a shiny metallic suit, approached. With a thin black helmet, face and hands exposed, the new arrival looked surprisingly human. He even appeared excited to communicate with an indigenous life form.
“Hello, neighbor! I am Six from planet Blahdnervillosix. I am the first colonist to settle in this area and hope we will borrow a cup of each other’s sugar for innumerous milleniums.”
“I take it you’re not from these parts.”
“I am from off-world, but I have studied the local language and appear anthropomorphic for your de-discomfort.”
“Did you, by chance, study our local laws and customs?”
“We understand these vary by community, and so I hoped to ‘burn the ropes’ after landing. Perhaps you will upskill me. I am sure to possess naanspech to award you.”
“Rule 1: my property is not your property.”
“A male human’s house is his castle. I have heard. But not always literally. Your kind speaks in beautiful, if confusing, symbology. Your compressed domicile hardly qualifies as an enviable palace.”
“My property, Six, includes my land.”
“Yes, where you store your combustible-engine vehicle and hang your swinging tire. With a container of sand for the juveniles of your species.”
“And where I grow my food, like corn. You know what corn is?”
Six closed his eyes to remotely access his ship’s database. “A food of the Thanksgiving holiday. Yellow.”
“You landed on top of it.”
Six looked about at the stalks, most vertical but many horizontal. “Vesterbruun! I have killed the corn!”
“Now you’re catching on.”
“I will splint the faltering food. It was night when I landed. I see no corn by the pond. I will relocate.”
“Still my property.”
“Yes? But you live and die inside the cubelike hive with many rectangular portholes.”
“Sometimes I take walks outside, enjoying the soothing quiet, knowing nobody will intrude on my thoughts.”
“Ah, I know and despise such telepathic beings, but rest sure I am not one,” said Six. “Worry none. I will not invade your innerscape. What shall I call you, Earthling?”
For the moment, Curd gave up getting his point across. “Curd.”
“Thank you, Curd, for welcoming me to your planet. I am honored. Is it customary to throw rocks in greeting?”
“I didn’t know where the doorbell was.” A hint of a smile.
“Ah, humor. Another beautiful, if sometimes confusing, mode of communicating. I will learn so much and one day share with my people. We will spend many rotations together, like two bees in a pod, nailed at the hip.”
There was something disarming about the spaceman’s overearnest, awkward attempts to be instantly human. Talk about a vulnerable illegal alien. “One step at a time, Pinocchio,” said Curd. “First, remove the flying machine.”
“To the pond?”
“For now. I’ll meet you on the front porch. My coffee’s calling.”
“The morning milkshake made from roasted seeds?!” Six slapped his forehead enthusiastically. “None for me, gratefully, but I would volsh to record the odor for my records. We have all heard of its magical transformative properties.”
“And, Six,” began Curd, “does the universe-hopping fried egg have a less shiny skin, like a camouflage mode? I don’t want anyone coming by or flying over with questions I can’t answer.”
Six squinted. “My presence makes you uncomfortable?”
“Not you. For your own protection. Hell, I’m still a fish out of water myself.”
“You are a fish?”
“I arrived to these parts only a few years ago, from away like you, but this planet. I mean: I know what it’s like to be the new guy.”
“Ah, I am today’s newest waterless fish.”
“Exactly. Three quick questions: Are your people planning on conquering us?”
“No, Curd. They want nothing to do with here. Though fun to watch from afar, you are much too unpredictable and messy.”
“Why my property?”
“I followed the closest thing to a straight line.”
“Can I tell others about you?”
“After I have made you an expert. I know your government would rather ask you about me than ask me about me. You are one of them and can therefore be trusted.” Six looked at the damaged corn. “All my sedulous preparation ravaged by one navigational mistake!”
Six dropped to his knees with his open palms together, mumbled in his native language, and stood.
“Were you praying?” asked Curd.
“You know this? Our Department of Transgalactic Travel said this is rarely practiced here.”
“It varies by community.”
“You are not offended? I know earthlings think highestly of themselves.”
“On the contrary, Six, I think we’re going to get along just fine. Maybe even better than some of the locals.”
Copyright © 2017 by Charles C. Cole
