"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's
no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you
want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one
of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a
policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their
checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got
something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.
Do you know where I can exchange it?"
* * * * *
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident
interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of
America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I--uh--got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further
than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you
must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know
about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak
Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the
United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where
they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You
got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.