out the very land itself; this whole piece of property is worthless."
"My dear sir." Congreve said quietly. "I assure you that all such damages will be recompensed for in one way or another. My name, since you do not seem to recognize me, is Congreve—Charles Congreve of Salt-Lake City, Utah." He waited to see what effect this name would have. Considering the uproar the two space fliers had received in the press and radio all over the planet, this final revelation should be the "Open Sesame" to the estate owner. He was astonished that the man had not recognized him before now. But Staunton's answer was to astonish him further.
"Ahah! Foreigners to boot! Think you can trample over the King's good territory just because you're protect-ed by a passport. Why, I'll bet you haven't got a passport!" Burleigh stepped up beside Staunton now, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let me handle this," he whispered, "it may be more serious."
"Now, Mr. Congreve, I am sure
this can all be settled peacefully.
My friend is a little perturbed
over the loss of his flower beds."
"A little perturbed!" snorted
Mitchell. "Wonder what he's like
when he's angry." The look which all
three of them cast silenced him.
"If you two," continued Burleigh, "can show me your passports and flying permits, there will be no need to call the constabulary."
"Passports!" This time Congreve was taken aback. "Why we're as good Americans as you, or any other citizen of this country. Why passports?" "Sir, it seems you do not realize that you are no longer in Mormon lands; you are in the Appalachian country, now. Haven't you a passport?" Burleigh was a bit puzzled by the stupidity of these foreign aviators.
"What the deuce difference does it make what section of the nation we're in? As far as that goes, we took off from just outside Newark Airport where our vessel was built," the lanky American answered, becoming ruffled at last.
Burleigh seemed a bit puzzled. If they built their ship in Newark, they must possess legal rights to traverse the Appalachian country. "I imagine, then," he said, "you have some sort of flying permits or leave of stay from the New Jersey officials?"
Congreve glared a second, stupefied. "Yes," he finally managed to sputter, "we have flying licenses." He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out his papers, thrust them into the two men's faces.
Burleigh took them, examining them carefully. Gradually his face became more and more puzzled. "These aren't Appalachian papers," he announced. "They're from some federation called the United States of America—nothing to do with the British Commonwealth of Nations. They seem to be in perfect order, but I must confess I have never heard of this United States of America. Come, come, man; if you haven't F. A. S. papers, say so."
Mitchell edged over to the pilot. "I think they're both bats. We'd better humor them till we get a cop." Congreve thought so too, but an idea just occurred to him. He whis-pered back to his friend. "It just came to me that time may be wrong out there in space. We think three months have passed; perhaps we are wrong. Perhaps decades, centuries have gone by." He addressed the two men in front of him. "Excuse me,
