passing in and out barely noticed them. They got off and went through, a door marked "Bureau of Immigration."
Before a desk, behind which sat a middle-aged gentleman with gray hair, they stopped. One of their escorts began to tell Staunton's version of the arrival of the rocket. Congreve's annoyance returned at the continued use of the word "foreigners." "I beg your pardon, sir," he cut in, "but I'd like to inform you that we are not foreigners. We are loyal, tax-paying American citizens—as much so as you."
The gray-haired Immigration Authority
looked at him quizzically
and remarked, "I don't doubt that
you are Americans, but that is hardly
the point. It isn't what continent
you are from, but what nation. Now,
where is your home city and residence?
In what state or province do
you pay taxes?"
Congreve smiled. "I was born and have my home in Salt Lake City, Utah. Naturally I pay taxes in that state, as well as to the U. S. Government."
The man behind the desk nodded, "Now we are getting to facts. You admit to being a citizen of the Mormon Republic of Utah and paying taxes to a 'U. S.' government. I presume that means Utah State. Since you are quite apparently in Federated States without a passport, we shall have to contact your Consulate here."
Congreve opened his mouth in amazement. Consulate! Mormon Republic! Federated States! He was about to request further illumination, but his questioner held up his hand as he dialed a number on the telephone. The man spoke to someone about Congreve a moment, concluding with, "Yes, please send the Consul over. This is most unusual."
Hanging up, he announced, "Your Consul will be here shortly and take care of you." A hand waved the lanky Westerner to a chair.
"Now you, Mr. Mitchell. Where were you born and what do you do?"
Mitchell glared at him a moment, then replied, "I was born in the good old American city of New Orleans and have lived for the past twenty years right here in New York City."
The Immigration Officer frowned. "Have you ever been naturalized?"
Congreve thought Mitchell was going to burst an artery. "What! Naturalized! What do you think I am? I'm a citizen of the U. S. A. and was in the war. Me naturalized? I should say not!"
"Ah!" Everyone leaned forward, staring at Mitchell. "You admit having lived here for the past twenty years, un-naturalized, thus retaining your allegiance to the Empire of Louisiana. You even boast about having fought on their side in the late war. You realize that virtually makes you guilty of espionage?" The inquisitor looked exceedingly grave.
The short man was taken back completely. "Me a spy! Certainly not!"
The Immigration Officer leaned back in his chair, looking at Mitchell. Then he looked up at the policemen. "Take the prisoner away and hold him for court martial." Mitchell jumped as an officer placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"In the name of his Majesty James X., King of Britton and Dominions Overseas, I place you under arrest. Come along!"
They dragged the protesting astronaut out shouting as he went, "You can't do this to me! I'm an American, I tell you? American!"
