Jasper left the office. The interview had gone well, but it had ended with frustrating suddenness. He wished he had had the chance to ask how soon he would hear. But he was a supplicant: no one was worried about how he felt.

He returned to the radio station. While he was at the interview, his job had been done by the secretary who regularly relieved him at lunchtime. Now he thanked her and took over. He took off his jacket, and remembered the mail in his pocket. He put on his headphones and sat at the little desk. On the radio, a sports reporter was previewing a ball game. Jasper took out his letters and opened the one with the typewritten address.

It was from the president of the United States.

It was a form letter, with his name handwritten in a box.

It read:

Greeting:

You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States

Jasper said aloud: “What?”

and to report at the address below on January 20, 1966, at 7 A.M. for forwarding to an Armed Forces Induction Station.

Jasper fought down panic. This was obviously a bureaucratic foul-up. He was British: the U.S. Army surely would not conscript foreign citizens.

But he needed to get this sorted out as soon as possible. American bureaucrats were as maddeningly incompetent as any, and equally capable of causing endless unnecessary trouble. You had to pretend to take them seriously, like a red light at a deserted crossroads.

The reporting station was just a few blocks from the radio station. When the secretary came back to relieve him for lunch, he put on his jacket and topcoat and walked out of the building.

He turned up his collar against the cold New York wind and hurried through the streets to the federal building. There he entered an army office on the third floor and found a man in a captain’s uniform sitting at a desk. The short-back-and-sides haircut looked more ridiculous than ever, now that even middle-aged men were growing their hair longer. “Help you?” said the captain.

“I’m pretty sure this letter has been sent to me in error,” Jasper said, and he handed over the envelope.

The captain scanned it. “You know there’s a lottery system?” he said. “The number of men liable for service is greater than the number of soldiers required, so the recruits are selected randomly.” He handed the letter back.

Jasper smiled. “I don’t think I’m eligible for service, do you?”

“And why would that be?”

Perhaps the captain had not noticed his accent. “I’m not an American citizen,” Jasper said. “I’m British.”

“What are you doing in the United States?”

“I’m a journalist. I work for a radio station.”

“And you have a work permit, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a resident alien.”

“Exactly.”

“Then you are liable to be drafted.”

“But I’m not American!”

“Makes no difference.”

This was becoming exasperating. The army had screwed up, Jasper was almost certain. The captain, like many petty officials, was simply unwilling to admit a mistake. “Are you telling me that the United States army conscripts foreigners?”