As if in sympathy, Stuart Cawston said hastily, 'Customs union would have a large attraction from our point of view since we would have most to gain.' As the others turned to him, the Finance Minister paused, his astute mind plainly assessing possibilities. Now he continued, 'But any agreement should go considerably further than that. After all, it's their own defence as well as ours that the Americans are buying. There must be guarantees for manufacturing here, enlargement of our industries…'

'Our demands will not be light and I intend to make that clear in Washington,' Howden said. 'In whatever time is left we must strengthen our economy so that after a war we can emerge stronger than either of the principal contenders.'

Cawston said softly, 'It could work that way. In the end it really could.'

'There is something else,' Howden said. 'Another demand -the biggest of all – that I intend to make.'

There was a silence which Lucien Perrault broke. 'We are listening attentively. Prime Minister. You spoke of another demand.'

Arthur Lexington was toying with a pencil, his expression thoughtful.

He dare not tell them, Howden decided. At least, not yet. The concept was too big, too bold, and in a way preposterous. He remembered Lexington's reaction yesterday during their private talk, when the Prime Minister had revealed his thoughts. The External Affairs Minister had demurred: 'The Americans would never agree. Never.' And James Howden had answered slowly, 'If they were desperate enough, I think they might.'

Now, determinedly, he faced the others. 'I cannot tell you,' he said decisively, 'except that if the demand is met it will be the greatest achievement for Canada in this century. Beyond that, until after the White House meeting, you must trust me.' Raising his voice he said commandingly, 'You have trusted me before. I demand your trust again.'

Slowly, around the table, there was a succession of nods.

Watching, Howden felt the beginning of a new exultation. They were with him, he knew. By persuasion, logic, and force of leadership he had carried the argument here and gained support. It had been the first test, and what he had done once could be done elsewhere.

Only Adrian Nesbitson remained unmoving and silent, eyes downcast, his lined face sombre. Glancing down the table Howden felt a resurgence of anger. Even though Nesbitson might be a fool, as Minister of Defence his token support was necessary. Then the anger subsided. The old man could be disposed of quickly, and once dismissed would be bothersome no more.

The Vancouver Post, a newspaper not given to decorous pussyfooting, had accorded full human-interest treatment to Dan Orliffe's report on the would-be immigrant, Henri Duval. The story ran at the top left on page one through all Christmas Eve editions, taking second place only to a day-old sex slaying which led the paper. A four-column head proclaimed:

Homeless Ocean Waif

Faces Bleak, Lone Yule

Below, also across four columns, and forty lines deep, was a close-up picture of the young stowaway, his back to a ship's boat. Unusually for a press photograph, the camera had caught a depth of expression which coarse newsprint etching had not entirely lost; it combined a suggestion of yearning and something close to innocence.

The effect of story and picture was such that the managing editor scribbled upon a proof copy, 'Good, let's keep this hot,' and sent it to the city desk. The city editor, phoning Dan Orliffe at home, said, 'Try to find a forward angle for Thursday, Dan, and see what you can get out of the Immigration people besides bull. Looks like this thing may rouse a lot of interest.'

Locally the interest began at a high point and sustained itself over the Christmas holiday. Across the city and its environs the Vastervik's stowaway was a major topic of conversation in homes, clubs, and bars. Some who discussed the young man's plight were moved to pity, others angrily referred to 'damned officialdom' and 'bureaucratic inhumanity'. Thirty-seven phone calls, beginning an hour after publication, commended the Post for its initiative in bringing the matter to public attention. As usual on such occasions, all calls were carefully logged so that, afterwards, advertisers could be shown just how much impact there had been from a typical Post newsbeat.

There were other signs. Five local disc jockeys referred sympathetically to the item on the air, one of their number dedicating a platter of 'Silent Night' to Henri Duval 'in case our" friend from the seven seas is tuned to Vancouver's most listened-to station'. In Chinatown, amid applause, a night-club stripper dedicated her next uncovering to 'that lonely little guy on the ship'. And in pulpits, at least eight Christmas sermons had been hastily revised to include a topical reference to the 'Stranger that is within thy gates'.

Fifteen people were sufficiently moved to compose letters to the editor, fourteen of which were subsequently printed. The fifteenth, largely incoherent, exposed the incident as part of an infiltration plot from outer space, with Duval a Martian agent. Apart from the last, most letter writers were agreed that something should be done by somebody, but were not clear as to what way or by whom.

A handful did practical things. A Salvation Army officer and a Catholic priest made notes to visit Henri Duval and subsequently did. The mink-weighted widow of a one-time gold prospector personally gift-wrapped a parcel of food and cigarettes and dispatched it, via her uniformed chauffeur and white Cadillac, to the Vastervik. As an afterthought she also sent a bottle of her late husband's favourite whisky. At first the chauffeur had considered stealing this, but en route, discovering it to be of a kind much inferior to the brand he favoured himself, he rewrapped the bottle and delivered it as instructed.

An electrical-appliance dealer, desperately harried by impending bankruptcy, took a new portable radio from his stock and, without quite knowing why, addressed the carton to Duval and delivered it to the ship's side. An age-bent railroad pensioner, eking out his years on a monthly sum which would have been just adequate if the cost of living had stayed at 1940 levels, put two dollars in an envelope and mailed it to the Post for transmission to the stowaway. A group of bus drivers, reading the Post report before going on duty, passed around a uniform cap and collected seven dollars and thirty cents. The cap owner took it to Duval in person on Christmas morning.

The ripples went beyond Vancouver.

The first news story appeared in the Post's Mainland edition at 10 AM, December 24th. By 10.10 Canadian Press wire service had rewritten and condensed the item, then fed it out to press and radio stations in the West. Another wire carried the news to Eastern papers, and CP in Toronto rerouted it to AP and Reuters in New York. The American agencies, news-starved over the Christmas holiday, capsuled the piece some more and fanned it out across the world.

The Johannesburg Star gave the item an inch and the Stockholm Europa Press a quarter of a column. The London Daily Mail allowed four lines and the Times of India delivered itself of an editorial. The Melbourne Herald used a paragraph, as did the Buenos Aires La Prensa. In Moscow, Pravda quoted the incident as an example of 'capitalist hypocrisy'.

In New York the UN Peruvian delegate learned of the story and resolved to ask the General Assembly if something couldn't be done. In Washington the British Ambassador heard the report and frowned.

'The news got to Ottawa by early afternoon in time for the late editions of the capital's two evening newspapers. The