Despite his earlier determination to ignore it, Edgar Kramer could feel the pressure on his bladder growing. He was also angered at the assumption he might fall for an old and elementary lawyer's trick. He answered sharply, 'I'm perfectly aware what you're asking for, Mr Maitland. You're asking the department to recognize this man officially, and then reject him officially, so that afterwards.you can begin legal steps. Then, when you're going through all the procedures of appeal – as slowly as possible, no doubt – the ship will sail, with your so-called client left here. Isn't that the sort of thing you have in mind?'

'To tell you the truth,' Alan said, 'it was.' He grinned. The strategy was one which he and Tom Lewis had planned together. But now that it was in the open there seemed no point in denying it.

'Exactly!' Kramer snapped. 'You were prepared to indulge in cheap legal trickery!' He ignored the friendly grin as well as an inner voice which cautioned him he was handling this badly.

'Just for the record,' Alan Maitland said quietly, 'I don't happen to agree that it was either cheap or trickery. However, I've just one question. Why did you refer to my "so-called client"?'

It was too much. The gnawing physical discomfort, the anxiety of weeks, and nights of accumulated tiredness, combined to produce a retort which at any other time Edgar Kramer, tactful and trained in diplomacy, would never have considered making. He was also acutely aware of the youthful, glowing health of the young man who faced him. He observed acidly, 'The answer should be perfectly obvious, just as it is obvious to me that you have accepted this absurd and hopeless case for one purpose only – the publicity and attention you expect to gain from it.'

For the span of several seconds there was silence in the small square room.

Alan Maitland felt a flush of blood suffuse his face angrily. For an insane instant he considered reaching across the desk to strike the older man.

The charge had been utterly false. Far from courting publicity, he had already discussed with Tom Lewis how it could be avoided, since both had been convinced that too much press attention might hamper legal action on Henri Duval's behalf. This was one reason he had come quietly to the Department of Immigration. He had been prepared to suggest that no statement to the Press should be issued for the time being…

His eyes met Edgar Kramer's. The civil servant's had a fierce, oddly pleading intensity.

'Thank you, Mr Kramer,' Alan said slowly. Standing, he picked up his topcoat, tucked the briefcase under his arm. 'Thank you very much for suggesting what I now intend to do.'

For three days after the Christmas holiday the Vancouver Pos(had kept the story of Henri Duval – the man without a country – alive in its news pages. To a lesser extent, so had the other two papers in the city – the rival afternoon Colonist and the more sedate morning Globe – though with hints of scepticism, since the Post had uncovered the incident first.

But now the story was about to die.

'We've run the gamut, Dan, and all we've got is a lot of interest but no action. So let's forget it until the ship leaves in a few days, then you can do a nostalgic piece about the sad little guy sailing into the sunset.'

It was 7.45 AM in the Post newsroom. The speaker was Charles Woolfendt, day city editor, his listener Dan Orliffe. Arranging the day's assignments, Woolfendt, scholarly and quiet spoken but with a mind which, some said, worked like an IBM machine, had beckoned Dan over to the city desk.

'Whatever you say. Chuck.' Orliffe shrugged. 'All the same, I wish we could give it one more day.'

Woolfendt regarded the other searchingly. He respected Orliffe's judgement as a seasoned hand, but there were other problems to be weighed. Today a new local story was in progress which would lead the afternoon edition and for which he needed several more reporters. A woman hiker had disappeared on Mount Seymour, just outside the city, and an intensive search had failed to locate her. All three newspapers were covering the search closely, and there was growing suspicion of foul play by the woman's husband. The managing editor had already sent Woolfendt a note this morning which read: 'Did Daisy fall or was she pushed? If alive, let's get to her before the old man.' Dan Orliffe, Woolfendt reflected, would be a good man to have on the mountain.

'If we could be sure of something important happening on the stowaway story, I'd go along,' Woolfendt said. 'But I don't mean just another angle.'

'I know,' Dan agreed. 'It needs some fresh human interest with impact. I wish I could guarantee it.'

'K you could, I'd give you the extra day,' Woolfendt said. 'Otherwise I can use you on this search deal.'

'Go ahead,' Dan countered. He knew that Woolfendt, for whom he had worked a long time, was sounding him out. 'You're the boss, but the other could still be a better story.'

Around them, as others of the day shift came in, the newsroom was coming to life. The assistant managing editor moved into his place beside the city desk. Across at the main news desk, copy had begun to flow through the slot to Composing and Makeup three floors below. Already there was a subdued, steady tempo which would rise to a succession of peaks as the day's deadlines came and went.

'I'm disappointed too,' the city editor said thoughtfully. 'I really thought there'd be more happen to that stowaway of yours than has.' He ticked off points on his fingers. 'We've covered the man himself, the ship, public reaction, the Immigration people – no dice; we've made overseas checks – no results; we've wired the UN – they'll look into it, but God knows when, and meanwhile I've a paper to get out. What else?'

'I was hoping,' Dan said, 'that somebody who mattered might come forward to help him.'

A hurrying copy boy put ink-wet proofs of early closed pages on the city desk.

Woolfendt paused. Behind the domed forehead his incisive mind clicked pros and cons. Then, decisively, 'All right,' he announced, 'I'll give you another twenty-four hours. That means one clear day to find a guy on a white horse.'

'Thanks, Chuck.' Dan Orliffe grinned, turning away. Over his shoulder he called, 'It would have been cold on that mountain.'

With nothing specific in mind he had gone home then for a late breakfast with his wife Nancy and afterwards driven Patty, their six-year-old daughter, to school. By the time he returned downtown and had parked outside the Immigration Building it was close to ten o'clock.

He had no special reason for coming here, having interviewed Edgar Kramer the day before and gained nothing beyond a colourless official statement. But it seemed a logical place to start.

'I'm looking for a man on a white horse,' he told the young girl who was doing duty as Edgar Kramer's secretary.

'He went that way,' she said pointing. 'Right through to the padded cell.'

'I've often wondered,' Dan observed, 'how it is that girls nowadays can be sexy and yet so intelligent.'

'My hormones have a high IQ,' she told him. 'And my husband taught me a lot of answers.'

Dan sighed.

'If you're through with the comic dialogue,' the girl said, 'you're a newspaper reporter, and you'd like to see Mr Kramer, but right now he's busy.'

'I didn't think you'd remember me.'

'I didn't,' the girl said pertly. 'It's just that you can pick reporters out. They're usually a little gone.'

'This one hasn't yet,' Dan said. 'In fact, if you don't mind, I'll wait.'

The girl smiled. 'It won't be long,-from the sound of it.' She nodded towards the closed door of Edgar Kramer's office.

Dan could hear raised, sharp voices. His acute hearing caught the word 'Duval'. A few minutes later Alan Maitland strode out, his face flushed.