'In the unlikely event that such an agreement were ever ratified,' Lucien Perrault said slowly, his dark brooding eyes fixed upon Howden, 'it would, of course, have a specific term.'

'The period suggested is twenty-five years,' the Prime Minister said. 'There would, however, be a clause that the Act of Union could be dissolved by mutual agreement, though not by one country acting alone. As to the point about taking good deal on trust – yes, we would certainly have to do that. The question is: where would you prefer your trust to be – in a vain hope that war may not occur, or in the pledged word of a neighbour and ally whose concept of international ethics is somewhat as our own''

'But the country!' Cawston said. 'Could you ever convince the country?'

'Yes,' Howden responded. 'I believe we could.' He proceeded to tell them why: the approach he had devised; the opposition to be expected; the election on the issue which they must fight and win. The talk moved on. An hour passed, two hours, two and a half. Coffee had been brought in, but except for a brief moment discussion had not stopped. The paper napkins with the coffee had a design of holly, Howden noticed. It seemed a strange reminder – that Christmas was only hours away. The birthday of Christ. What he taught us was so simple, Howden thought: that love is the only worth-while emotion – a teaching sane and logical, whether you believed in Christ the Son of God, or Jesus, a saintly mortal man. But the human animal had never believed in love – pure love – and never really would. He had corrupted the word of Christ with prejudice, and his churches had obfuscated it; and so we are here, Howden thought, doing what we are on Christmas Eve.

Stuart Cawston was refilling his pipe for what was probably the tenth time. Perrault had run out of cigars and was smoking Douglas Martening's cigarettes. Arthur Lexington – like the Prime Minister a non-smoker – had opened a window behind them for a while, but later had shut it because of the draught. A pall of smoke hung over the oval table, and, like the smoke, a sense of unreality. What was happening, it seemed, was impossible; it could not be true. And yet, slowly, James Howden could feel reality taking hold, conviction settling on the others as it had settled upon himself.

Lexington was with him; to the External Affairs Minister none of this was new. Cawston was wavering. Adrian Nesbit-son had been mostly silent, but the old man didn't count. Douglas Martening had seemed shocked at first, but after all he was a civil servant and eventually would do as he was told. Lucien Perrault remained – his opposition to be expected, but so far undeclared.

The Clerk of the Privy Council said, 'There would be several constitutional problems. Prime Minister' His voice was disapproving, but mildly so, as if objecting to some minor procedural change.

'Then we will solve them,' Howden said decisively. 'I, for one, do not propose to accept annihilation because certain courses are closed off in the rule book.'

'Quebec,' Cawston said. 'We'd never carry Quebec'

The moment had come.

James Howden said quietly, 'I will admit that the thought had already occurred to me.'

Slowly the eyes of the others swung round to Lucien Perrault – Perrault, the chosen; the idol and spokesman of French Canada. As others had before him – Laurier, Lapointe, St Laurent – he alone in two elections past had swung the strength of Quebec behind the Howden government. And behind Perrault were three hundred years of history: New France, Champlain, the Royal Government of Louis XIV, the British conquest – and French Canadians' hatred of their conquerors. Hatred had gone in time, but mistrust – two-sided -had never vanished. Twice, in twentieth-century wars involving Canada, their disputations had divided the country. Compromise and moderation had salvaged uneasy unity. But now…

'There would appear no need to speak,' Perrault said dourly. 'It seems that you, my colleagues, have a pipeline to my mind.'

'It's hard to ignore facts,' Cawston said. 'Or history either.' 'History,' Perrault said softly, then slammed down his hand. The table shook. His voice boomed angrily. 'Has no one told you that history moves; that minds progress and change; that divisions do not last for ever? Or have you slept – slept while better minds matured?'

The change in the room was electric. The startling words had come like a thunderclap., 'How do you consider us – we of Quebec?' Perrault raged. 'For ever as peasants, fools, illiterates? Are we unknowing; blind and oblivious to a changing world? No, my friends, we are saner than you, and less bemused by what is past. If this must be done, it will be done with anguish. But anguish is not new to French Canada; or realism either.'

'Well,' Stuart Cawston said quietly, 'you can never tell which way the cat will jump.'

It was all that was needed. Tension, as if by magic, dissolved in a howl of laughter. Chairs scraped back. Perrault, tears of mirth streaming, cuffed Cawston vigorously across the shoulders. We are a strange people, Howden thought: an unpredictable admixture of mediocrity and genius, with now and then a flash of greatness.

'Perhaps it will be the end of me.' Lucien Perrault shrugged, a Gallic gesture of indifference. 'But I will support the Prime Minister, and perhaps I can persuade others.' It was a masterpiece of understatement and Howden felt a surging gratitude.

Adrian Nesbitson alone had remained silent in the last exchange. Now/his voice surprisingly strong, the Defence Minister said, 'If that's the way you feel, why stop at half" measures? Why not sell out to the United States completely?' Simultaneously five heads had turned towards him.

The old man flushed but continued doggedly, 'I say we should maintain our independence – at whatever cost.'

'To the point, no doubt, of repelling a nuclear invasion,' James Howden said icily. Coming after Perrault, Nesbitson's words had seemed like a dismal, chilling shower. Now, with controlled anger, Howden added, 'Or perhaps the Defence

Minister has some means of doing so that we have not yet heard about.'

Bitterly, in his mind, Howden reminded himself that this was a sample of the unseeing, obtuse stupidity he would have to face in the weeks immediately ahead. For an instant he pictured the other Nesbitsons still to come: the cardboard warriors with aged, faded pennants, a Blimplike cavalcade marching blindly to oblivion. It was ironic, he reflected, that he must expend his own intellect in convincing fools like Nesbitson of the need to save themselves.

There was an uneasy silence. It was no secret in Cabinet that lately the Prime Minister had been dissatisfied with his Minister of Defence.

Now Howden continued, his hawklike face bleak, pointedly addressing his words to Adrian Nesbitson. 'In the past this Government has been amply concerned with maintenance of our national independence. And my own feeling in that area has been demonstrated time and time again.' There was a murmur of assent. 'The personal decision I have now reached has not been easy and I think I may say it has required a modicum of courage. The easy way is the reckless way, which some might think of as courage but, in the end, would be the greater cowardice.' At the word 'cowardice' General Nesbitson flushed crimson, but the Prime Minister had not finished. "There is one more thing. Whatever our discussions in the weeks ahead, I shall not expect to encounter, among members of this Government, political gutter phrases like "selling out to the United States".'

Howden had always ridden his Cabinet hard, tongue-lashing ministers at times, and not always in private. But never before had his anger been quite so pointed.

Uncomfortably the others watched Adrian Nesbitson.

At first it seemed as if the old warrior might strike back. He had moved forward in his chair, his face suffused angrily. He started to speak. Then, suddenly, like a worn mainspring run down, he visibly subsided, becoming once again the old man, insecure and floundering among problems far removed from his own experience. Muttering something about, 'Perhaps misunderstood… unfortunate phrase,' he receded into his seat, plainly wishing the focus of attention to move on from himself.