“Zebutons rarely visit Earth,” said the broker, scrolling through my application. “Which makes it even stranger that so many of them want to buy US citizenship.”

 

The paperwork had been surprisingly easy, easier than canceling my monthly subscription to the Times. Come to think of it, the Times still owed me money for that last billing period.

 

The office was hardly anything at all. Just a storefront on 87th Street. Sad. I thought of Penelope. Where was she now? In love with someone else already? Already? I asked myself. She left a year ago.

 

“Okay,” the broker hit a key on his keyboard and swung his monitor around. “Today’s market price for US citizenship is $51,432. Minus commission, as you see here, you get $43,740 in cash or, if you prefer credit, I can give you $46,123.”

 

I told him I needed the cash.

 

“Cash it is.” He twisted his monitor back.

 

“You see, I have debts,” I said.

 

“Of course, sir,” he said flatly as he swept his mouse from one check box to the next. I looked him over. Young as he was, time was nevertheless accumulating fast around his belly and his thighs. He seemed nice.

 

“That’s why I need the cash,” I added. “To pay off the debts.”

 

“I understand,” he smiled sympathetically at his monitor. A printer spit out a form. “Now all I need you to do is sign this and we’ll deposit the money in your account.”

 

I took the form and looked it over. While I read, the broker cleared his throat.

 

“Have you given any thought to alternative national belonging? We do have some nice offers today.”

 

As a matter of fact, I had not given it any thought. Once I paid off the debt, I calculated that I’d have about seven thousand dollars left. I planned to bank it. But the broker looked so open, so eager. I had an unreasoning urge to touch him. I suppressed it.

 

I leaned back and casually crossed one leg over the other to give the false impression that I did business things all the time. I furrowed my brow.

 

“What’s good today?”

 

“Happy you asked,” said the broker, and there was real warmth in his voice. “Pelau has a special offer for $1,500. And Eritrea is a steal at $700. I don’t know how much longer that will last before it shoots up again.”

 

I tapped the pen he had given me against my chin.

 

The broker eyed me. “But honestly, I’d like to see you in something a little more solid, a little more stable. Today we have a deal on Paraguayan citizenship. It’s pricier, $3,850, but that way you don’t have to walk out the door stateless. That’s a country that knows how to care for its people, not that you’d benefit so much from that up here. But with Paraguayan papers folded in your pocket you can keep things in this hemisphere, should deportation proceedings ever be acted against you.”

 

I knew it was stupid, but I asked anyway: “What about Zebutonian? Mars isn’t exactly close, but I hear—”

 

“Oh me oh my. Zebutonian citizenship never falls below $150,000. Blue chip.”

 

I sighed.

 

“Strange, for a species of computers,” I said. “Do you…” the broker inclined a friendly ear toward me. I continued. “Do you really think we made them? The Zebutonians?”

 

“Human-made algorithms that became sentient and offworlded themselves? Who knows. There was that dating app. It came out a year or two before the Zebutonians made first contact.”

 

“Exactly,” I said. “It had the same name. That’s how I met my wife. I mean, my ex-wife. We matched on Zebuton.”

 

The broker nodded politely. “Well, wherever they came from, they’re making a killing. Whenever anything US comes onto our books they snap it up. They’re bundling them and spinning out all kinds of derivatives. It’s too bad. There are a lot of non-algorithmic entities out there who could use American citizenship. Human people, I mean, fleeing one disaster or another. If more of it was available at a more reasonable price, people could move here and have a crack at the American dream and everything.”

 

I thought it over. It really would be better not to leave the broker’s office a stateless person.

 

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it. I’ll take the Paraguayan.”

 

“Great!” said the broker, and in twenty minutes I had a new social security number and a shiny new passport and no debt. The broker incinerated my old passport in front of me.

 

As I left, I felt a sense of release. The debt was finally gone, gone, gone. Just like Penelope.

 

I wondered what Penelope would say if she ever found out.