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May 18, 2023

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The call came in at ten minutes to five on a Friday. I'd been hoping to leave work on time so I could wet a fly on the way home, but I answered the phone anyway.

 

"This is Richard Farragut, of the law firm of Stevens, Quirm, Rhrodic, and Farragut. One of my clients was hoping to do some trout fishing in your state starting tomorrow morning, but due to a *ahem* unique difficulty, he finds himself unable of meeting the identification requirements for your online system. He's a... uh, non-resident alien, a diplomat of sorts, here in... uh, an unofficial capacity, let us say."

 

"Normally, his embassy—" I began.

 

"We tried that; the trouble is, they don't exist yet, which is why he's here. It seems he read a lot of our fiction on the way over, as a way to get to know our culture, and he found out about West Virginia trout from a Rex Stout novel and is dying to catch and eat them. Frankly, we never expected to run into this sort of trouble, and the time factor is critical."

 

So much for my evening's fishing. Ah, well.

 

* * *

 

I did my best; I really did. The trouble is, I can't break the law, not even for a good reason. I told him as much, and apparently his client (who was in the room with him) agreed.

 

"Right," said the lawyer. "I'll level with you, but first I need you to guarantee absolute privacy."

 

I was annoyed at that. "Sir, I'll have you know, we're fully FISMA-compliant. All application information is kept strictly private, and in all my thirty-four years with the department, I've never once been tempted—"

 

"All right; all right! I believe you. You understand, though: I had to ask. The reason State can't get involved is," and here the lawyer paused and lowered his voice, "he's actually here from outer space. He's that kind of alien."

 

I admit, I was caught off guard for a moment, but I rallied. Maybe he was lying, maybe not, but either way I had a job to do. "Surely, if he's here for diplomatic reasons, he must have brought some sort of documentation."

 

"Oh, he did; we'll even send you a copy of his passport."

 

I was quite startled to see it appear on my desk as if by magic. The thing was blue and oblong, and if I couldn't prove it was a passport at least I couldn't prove it wasn't.

 

His lawyer was still talking. "...but if you check your manual, you'll see he needs an I-94 from State, and he can't get one because our government hasn't recognized his yet. It's in another solar system, and these things take time."

 

I nodded. "Our regulations would let us accept direct authorization from the office of governor, if that would help."

 

"Hm. Let me see... No, it won't work. He'd have to issue an official proclamation, and we don't want to get swarmed by tourists."

 

I turned to the section on immigrants and refugees. "I don't suppose he's got a Social Security card...?"

 

"Nope. What else can we try?"

 

I sighed. "Nothing. There is no other way to get a license."

 

"That's... not optimal. Okay; how's this: There are people who don't need licenses, right?"

 

"That might work." I checked. "Sure. That's... let's see. West Virginia Code, §20-2-28. Well, if he buys the land..."

 

"No, because if a warden stopped him he'd still need to identify himself in order to prove it."

 

"Hmm... not in the armed forces... or a veteran... Is he blind, by chance?"

 

"No."

 

I kept looking, and then... "Aha! I think I've got it! Paragraph (i)!" I read it to him, and the lawyer agreed it had possibilities. He thanked me and hung up.

 

Turns out I still managed to catch one on the way home after all. There's always time for one more cast.

 

* * *

 

I confess, it's unprofessional, but after that call I was too curious to resist. The next morning, I drove up from Charleston to the rental cabins up past Seneca Rocks. It was a beautiful day for it, and the sun was just cresting the high ridge as I turned into the gravel drive.

 

Sure enough, up ahead was a cordon of Secret Service agents, and several black S.U.V.s were blocking the driveway. I parked, strolled up, and presented my credentials. After a bit, a pudgy fellow in a pinstriped three-piece trotted over. It was the lawyer, Farragut; I introduced myself, and we shook hands.

 

"I suppose you've come to see our... uh, distinguished visitor?"

 

I nodded. "I hate to bother him while he's fishing, though. But I did want to make sure you had no trouble with the paperwork."

 

The lawyer beamed. "No trouble at all! Turns out the director of the Weston Sanatarium was only too delighted to help. He did quibble a bit about admitting the fellow as a patient, even after we offered to endow a new wing..."

 

I could tell he was dying for me to ask, so I did. "How'd you manage to convince him?"

 

The lawyer turned a pair of perfectly frank, innocent eyes on me. "I just said that my client honestly believes he's an alien from another planet. After that it was easy."

 

By then we'd rounded the last S.U.V., and could see him. There he was, big as life, dressed head to toe in a silvery space suit, casting dry flies like he'd been born to it.

 

"Oh, darn," I said.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"Well, I was so excited to get here..." I sighed. "I forgot to bring my rod."

 

WVC §20-2-28(i) Any resident or inpatient in any state mental health, health or benevolent institution or facility may fish in this state, under proper supervision of the institution involved, without obtaining a fishing license...

Copyright 2023 - SFS Publishing LLC

Non Resident Fishing License

The trout fishing really is out of this world

J. Millard Simpson

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