'I already did,' the assistant responded crisply. He was a lean, brash youth, at times almost offensively alert. 'And I figured you'd want law books, so I said so.'

'Christ!' the managing editor snorted. 'You ambitious bastards wear me down. How'm I gonna give orders around here if you birds think of everything first?' Grumblingly he retreated to his office as the Mainland edition closed.

A few minutes later, before copies of the Post had reached the street, the gist of Dan Orliffe's report was on the national CP wire.

Alan Maitland, in the late morning, was unaware of the extent to which his name would shortly become known.

Leaving Dan Orliffe, he had returned to the modest office on the fringe of the downtown business district which he and Tom Lewis shared. Located over a block of stores and an Italian restaurant from which the odour of pizza and spaghetti frequently wafted up, it consisted of two glass-panelled cubicles with a tiny waiting room holding two chairs and a stenographer's desk. Three mornings a week the latter was occupied by a grandmotherly widow who, for a modest sum, did the small amount of typing necessary.

At the moment Tom Lewis was at the outside desk, his short chunky figure hunched over the second-hand Underwood they had bought cheaply a few months earlier. 'I'm drafting my will,' he said cheerfully, looking up. 'I've decided to leave my brain to science.'

Alan slipped off his coat and hung it in his own cubicle. 'Be sure to send yourself a bill and remember I'm entitled to half.'

'Why not sue me, just for practice?' Tom Lewis swung away from the typewriter. 'How'd you make out?'

'Negatively.' Tersely Alan related the substance of his interview at Immigration headquarters.

Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'This man Kramer is no lame-brain. Not if he saw through the delay gambit.'

'I guess the idea wasn't all that original,' Alan said ruefully. 'Other people have probably tried it.'

'In law,' Tom said, 'there are no original ideas. Only endless mutations of old ones. Well, what now? Is it Plan Two?'

'Don't dignify it as a plan. It's the longest long shot, and we both know it.'

'But you'll give it a whirl?'

'Yes, I will.' Alan nodded slowly. 'Even if for no other reason than to displease Mr Smugly-Smiling Kramer.' He added softly, 'Oh, how I'd love to beat that bastard in court!'

'That's the attitude!' Tom Lewis grinned. 'Nothing leavens life like a little good-natured hatred.' He wrinkled his nose and sniffed. 'Man alive! – do you dig that spaghetti sauce?'

'I smell it,' Alan said. 'And if you go on eating that stuff at lunchtime just because we work near it, you'll be a fat pig in two years.'

'It's part of my plan to stop just short of that,' Tom announced. 'What I really want is oversize jowls and three chins, like lawyers in the movies. It'll impress clients no end.'

The outer door opened without benefit of knocking and a cigar came in, followed by a sharp-chinned stocky man, wearing a suede windbreaker and battered fedora, tilted back. He carried a camera, with a leather satchel over one shoulder. Speaking around the cigar he asked, 'Whicha you guys is Maitland?'

'I am,' Alan said.

'Wanta pitcher, gotta rushit, needit fora final.' The photographer began putting his equipment together. 'Backup againsta law books, Maitland.'

'Pardon me for asking,' Tom inquired. 'But what the hell is this?'

'Oh yes,' Alan said. 'I was about to tell you. I spilled the beans, and I guess you could call it Plan Three.'

Captain Jaabeck was sitting down to lunch when Alan Maitland was shown into the master's cabin aboard the Vastervik. As on the previous occasion, the cabin was orderly and comfortable, its mahogany panelling polished and brasswork gleaming. A small square table had been moved out from one wall and on a white linen cloth with gleaming silverware a place was set for one, at which Captain Jaabeck was serving himself from a large open dish of what appeared to be shredded green vegetables. As Alan came in he put down the servers and stood up courteously. Today he was wearing a brown serge suit but still the old-fashioned carpet slippers.

'I beg your pardon,' Alan said. 'I didn't know you were at lunch.'

'Please, I do not mind, Mr Maitland.' Captain Jaabeck gestured Alan to a green leather armchair and resumed his own seat at the table. 'If you have not yourself had lunch…'

'I did, thank you.' Alan had declined Tom Lewis' suggestion of midday spaghetti, settling instead for a hastily consumed sandwich and milk en route to the ship.

'It is perhaps as well.' The captain gestured to the central dish. 'A young man such as you might find a vegetarian meal unsatisfying.'

Surprised, Alan said, 'You're a vegetarian. Captain?'

'For many years. Some think it a…' He stopped. 'What is the English word?'

'A fad,' Alan said, then wished he had spoken less quickly.

Captain Jaabeck smiled. 'That is what is sometimes said. But untruly. You do not mind, if I continue…' 'Oh yes, please do.'

The captain munched several forkfuls of the mixture steadily. Then, pausing, 'The vegetarian belief, I expect you know, Mr Maitland, is older than Christianity.'

'No,' Alan said, 'I didn't.'

The captain nodded. 'By many centuries. The true follower holds that life is sacred. Therefore all living creatures should have the right to enjoy it without fear.'

'Do you believe that yourself?'

'Yes, Mr Maitland, I do.' The captain helped himself once more. He appeared to consider. 'The entire matter, you see, is very simple. Mankind will never live in peace until we overcome the savagery existing within us all. It is this savagery which causes us to kill other creatures, which we eat, and the same savage instinct propels us into quarrels, wars, and perhaps, in the end, our own destruction.'

'It is an interesting theory,' Alan said. He found himself being constantly surprised by this Norwegian shipmaster. He began to see why Henri Duval had received more kindness aboard the Vastervik than anywhere else.

'As you say, a theory.' The captain selected a date from several on a side plate. 'But, alas, it holds a flaw like all theories.'

Alan asked curiously, 'What kind of a flaw?' 'It is a fact, scientists now inform us, that plant life, too, has a form of understanding and feeling.' Captain Jaabeck chewed on the date, then wiped his fingers and mouth fastidiously with a linen napkin. 'A machine exists, I am told, Mr Maitland, so sensitive it can hear the death screams of a peach when plucked and skinned. Thus, in the end, perhaps, the vegetarian achieves nothing, being as cruel to the defenceless cabbage as the meat eater to the cow and pig.' The captain smiled, and Alan wondered if his leg were being gently pulled.

More briskly the captain said, 'Now, Mr Maitland, what can we do?'

'There are one or two more points I'd like to talk over,' Alan told him. 'But I wonder if my client could be present.'

'Certainly.' Captain Jaabeck crossed the cabin to a wall telephone, depressed a button, and spoke briskly. Returning, he said dryly, 'I am told that your client is helping to scour our bilges. But he will come.'

A few minutes later there was a hesitant knock and Henri Duval entered. He was in grease-stained coveralls and a strong odour of fuel oil clung to him. There were black grease marks on his face, extending into his hair which was matted and disordered. He stood diffidently, youthful, both hands clasped around a knitted woollen cap.

'Good day, Henri,' Alan said.

The young stowaway smiled uncertainly. He glanced self-consciously at his filthy clothing.

'Do not be nervous,' the captain instructed him, 'nor ashamed of the signs of honest work.' He added, for Alan's benefit, 'Sometimes, I fear, advantage is taken of Henri's good nature by giving him tasks which others do not choose. But he does them willingly and well.'