'Young and green, I think you said, my boy.' The Senator paused, chuckling again, his waistline heaving quietly. 'Well, you may be young, but certainly not green. What's your opinion, Sharon?'

'I'd say you got caught out, Granddaddy.' Alan was aware that Sharon was looking at him with respect.

'And so I did, my dear; indeed I did. This is a smart young man you have found.'

Somehow, Alan realized, the situation had changed, though he was not sure in which way. The only thing he was certain of was that Senator Deveraux was a man of many facets.

'Very well; so all our cards are face up on the table.' The Senator's tone had changed softly; it was less ponderous, more as if directed to an equal. 'Let us suppose that everything you allege is true. Is this young man on the ship still not entitled to legal help? Is he to be denied an aiding hand because the motives of an individual, to wit, myself, happen to be mixed? If you were drowning, my boy, would you care if the one who swam to save you did so because he considered you might be of use to him alive?'

'No,' Alan said. 'I don't suppose I would.'

'What, then, is the difference? – if there is a difference.' Senator Deveraux leaned forward in his chair. 'Allow me to ask you something. You believe, I assume, in the correction of injustice.'

'Of course.'

'Of course.' The Senator nodded sagely. 'Let us consider, then, this young man on the ship. He has no legal rights, we are told. He is not a Canadian, or a bona fide immigrant, nor even a transient who has landed and will leave soon. In the law's eyes he is not even present. Therefore, even though he may wish to appeal to the law – to plead in court for admittance to this or any other country – he cannot do so. Is that correct?'

'I wouldn't put it quite in those terms,' Alan said, 'but in substance that's correct.'

'In other words, yes.'

Alan smiled wryly. 'Yes.'

'And yet supposing tonight, on the ship in Vancouver Harbour, this same man committed murder or arson. What would happen to him?'

Alan nodded. He could see the question's point. 'He'd be taken ashore and tried.'

'Exactly, my boy. And if guilty he would be punished, and never mind his status or the lack of it. So that way, you see, the law can reach Henri Duval, even though he cannot reach the law.'

It was a neatly packaged argument. Not surprisingly, Alan reflected, the old man had a smooth debater's skill.

But skilful or not, the point he made was sound. Why should the law work only one way – against a man and not for him? And even though Senator Deveraux's motives were political, nothing changed the essential fact he had pointed out: that an individual, present in the community, was being denied a basic human right.

Alan pondered. What could the law do for the man on the ship? Anything or nothing? And if nothing – why?

Alan Maitland had no callow illusions about the law. New as he was in its service, he was aware that justice was neither automatic nor impartial, and that sometimes injustice triumphed over right. He knew that social status had a good deal to do with crime and punishment, and that the well-heeled who could afford to make use of all the law's processes were less likely to suffer direly for sinning than those, less wealthy, who could not. The law's slowness, he was sure, at times denied the innocent their rights, and some who deserved redress failed to seek it because of the high cost of a day in court. And at the other end of the scale were the case-loaded magistrates' courts, dispensing pressure-cooker justice, often without proper care for the rights of an accused.

He had come to know these things in much the same way that all students and young lawyers gradually and inevitably become informed of them. At times they pained him deeply, as they pained many of his elder colleagues whose idealism had not rubbed off through their years at the bar.

But with all the law's faults it had one great virtue. It was there.

It existed. Its greatest merit was its availability.

Existence of the law was an acknowledgement that equality of human rights was a worth-while goal. As to its defects, in time reform would come; it always has, though it lagged behind the need. Meanwhile, to the humblest and greatest – if they chose – the courtroom door was always open as, beyond it, were the chambers of appeal.

Except, it seemed, to a man named Henri Duval.

Alan was aware of the Senator watching him expectantly. Sharon's face had the slightest of frowns.

'Senator Deveraux,' Alan said, 'if I were to take this case -assuming the man on the ship is willing to be represented – he himself would be my client. Is that true?'

'I suppose you could put it that way.'

Alan smiled. 'In other words – yes.'

The Senator threw back his head, guffawing. 'I'm beginning to like you, my boy. Please proceed.'

'Even though you are in the background. Senator,' Alan said carefully, 'any action taken on my client's behalf would be decided solely by my client and myself without consultation with any third party.'

The older man regarded Alan shrewdly. 'Don't you consider that he who pays the piper…'

'No, sir; not in this instance. If I have a client, I want to do what's best for him, not what's the cagiest thing politically.'

The Senator's smile had gone and now his voice held a distinct coolness. 'I might remind you that this is an opportunity which many young lawyers would be glad to accept.'

Alan stood up. 'Then I suggest you look in the yellow pages, sir.' He turned to Sharon. 'I'm sorry if I've let you down.'

'Just a moment!' It was the Senator. He had risen also and faced Alan directly. Now he boomed, 'I want to tell you, my boy, that I consider you impatient, impertinent, ungrateful -and I accept your terms.'

They shook hands on the agreement then, and afterwards Alan declined an invitation from the Senator to remain for lunch. 'I'd better get down to the ship today,' he said. 'There may not be too much time because of sailing.'

Sharon showed him to the door. Pulling on his coat, he was aware of her closeness and a faint perfume.

A little awkwardly he said, 'It was good seeing you, Sharon.'

She smiled. 'I thought so too.' Once more the dimple came and went. 'And even though you won't report to Granddaddy, do come to see us again.'

'The thing that puzzles me,' Alan said cheerfully, 'is how I stayed away so long.'

The previous night's rain had left pools of water on the dock-side, and Alan Maitland skirted them warily, occasionally glancing upward and ahead at the line of ships silhouetted drearily against a grey low-stratus sky. A one-armed watchman with a mongrel dog – the only person he had encountered in the silent, deserted dock-yard – had directed him here and now, reading the names on the moored vessels, he could see the Vastervik, second down the line.

A thin column of smoke, dissipated by the wind as quickly as it climbed, was the sole sign of life aboard. Around the ship the sounds were faint: a lapping of water and the creak of wood somewhere below; and above, the melancholy cry of herring gulls in flight. Harbour sounds are lonely sounds, Alan thought, and wondered in how many other harbours the man he had come to see had heard them also.

He wondered too what kind of a person the stowaway Henri Duval would prove to be. It was true the newspaper story had portrayed him sympathetically, but newspapers so often were off base in what they published. More than likely, Alan thought, the man was the worst kind of ocean drifter whom no one wanted, and with good reason.

He reached the ship's iron gangway and swung on to it from the dock. By the time he had climbed to the top his hands were stained with rust.

Across the entry to the deck a chain barred the way. Hanging from the chain was a piece of plywood, crudely lettered.