Brian Richardson had whistled softly as he read. Now he looked up, his expression stunned, his eyes showing disbelief.

'Jesus!' he breathed; 'Jesus Christ!'

The Supreme Court of the Province of British Columbia closed the ponderous oak doors of its Vancouver Registry office promptly each day at 4 PM.

At ten minutes to four on the day following his second shipboard interview with Captain Jaabeck and Henri Duval (and at approximately the same time – ten to seven in Washington, DC – that the Prime Minister and Margaret Howden were dressing for the White House state dinner) Alan Maitland entered the courthouse Registry, briefcase in hand.

Inside the Registry, Alan hesitated, surveying the long, high-ceilinged room with one wall occupied entirely by file cabinets, and a polished wood counter top running most of its length. Then he approached the counter, opened the briefcase, and removed the papers inside. As he did, he was aware that the palms of his hands were more than usually moist.

An elderly clerk, the Registry's only occupant, came forward. He was a frail gnome-like man, stooped as though years of closeness to the law had set a weight upon his shoulders. He inquired courteously, 'Yes, Mr…?'

'Maitland,' Alan said. He passed across a set of the papers he had prepared. 'I've these for filing, and I'd like to be taken to the chamber judge, please.'

The clerk said patiently, 'Judge's chambers are at 10.30 AM and today's list is finished, Mr Maitland.'

'If you'll excuse me' – Alan pointed to the documents he had handed over – 'this is a matter of the liberty of the subject. I believe I'm entitled to have it brought on immediately.' On this point at least, he was sure of his ground. In any proceedings involving human liberty and illegal detention the law brooked no delay and, if necessary, a judge would be summoned from his bed in dead of night.

The clerk took rimless glasses from a case, adjusted them, and bent to read. He had an attitude of incuriosity, as if nothing surprised him. After a moment he lifted his head. 'I beg your pardon, Mr Maitland. You're quite right, of course.' He pulled a cloth-bound ledger towards him. 'It isn't every day we get an application for habeas corpus.'

When he had completed the ledger entry the clerk took a black gown from a peg and shrugged it around his shoulders. 'Come this way, please.'

He preceded Alan out of the Registry, along a panelled corridor, through double swing doors, and into the courthouse hallway where a wide stone staircase led to the upper floor. The building was quiet, their footsteps echoing. At this time of day most of the courts had risen and some of the building's lights were already turned out.

As they climbed the stairs, treading sedately one step at a time, an unaccustomed nervousness gripped Alan tautly. He subdued a childish impulse to turn and run. Earlier, in considering the arguments he intended to present, they had appeared plausible, even if some of the legal ground was shaky. But now, abruptly, the structure of his case seemed witless and naive. Was he about to make a fool of himself in the august presence of a Supreme Court judge? And if he did, what of the consequences? Judges were not to be trifled with, or special hearings demanded without good reason.

In a way he wished he had chosen another time of day, with the courthouse busy, as it usually was in the morning and early afternoon. The sight of other people might have been reassuring. But he had chosen this time carefully, to avoid attention and any more publicity which at this point might prove harmful. Most of the newspaper court reporters would have gone home by now, he hoped, and he had been careful to give other newspapermen who had phoned him several times today no hint of what was planned.

'It's Mr Justice Willis in chambers today,' the clerk said. 'Do you know him, Mr Maitland?'

'I've heard his name,' Alan said, 'but that's all.' He was aware that the roster of chamber judges changed regularly, each justice of the Supreme Court taking his turn to be available in chambers outside regular court hours. Therefore whichever judge one drew was mainly a matter of chance.

The clerk appeared about to speak, then changed his mind. Alan prompted him, 'Was there something you were going to tell me?'

'Well, sir, just a suggestion – if it isn't presumptuous.'

'Please go ahead,' Alan urged.

They had come to the head of the stairway and turned down a darkened corridor. 'Well, Mr Maitland' – the clerk lowered his voice – 'his lordship is a fine gentleman. But he's very strict about procedure and especially interruptions. Take as long as you like over your argument and he'll give you all the time you need. But once he's begun to talk himself he doesn't like anyone to speak, not even to ask questions, until he's finished. He can get very annoyed when that happens.'

'Thanks,' Alan said gratefully, 'I'll remember.'

Stopping at a heavy door, marked with the one word PRIVATE, the clerk rapped twice, his head cocked forward to listen. Faintly from inside a voice called 'Come!' The clerk opened the door, ushering Alan in.

It was a large, panelled room, Alan saw, carpeted, and with a tiled fireplace. In front of the fireplace a portable electric fire had two of its elements turned on. A mahogany desk, piled with files and books, occupied the room's centre, with more books and papers on a table behind. Brown velvet draperies were drawn back from leaded windows, revealing dusk outside, with lights of the city and harbour beginning to wink on. Within the room a single desk lamp burned, providing a pool of light. Outside the lamp's radius an erect lean figure had been putting on an overcoat and hat, preparing to leave, as the clerk and Alan entered.

'My lord,' the clerk said, 'Mr Maitland has an application for habeas corpus.'

'Indeed.' The one word, gruffly spoken, was the sole response. As the clerk and Alan waited, Mr Justice Stanley Willis carefully removed the coat and hat, replacing both on a stand behind him. Then, moving into the circle of light by the desk and seating himself, he instructed sharply, 'Come forward, Mr Maitland.'

His lordship, Alan judged, was a man of sixty or sixty-two, white-haired and sparely built, but with wide bony shoulders and a ramrod posture which made him seem taller than he was. His face was long and angular with a dominant jutting chin, bushy white eyebrows, and mouth set firmly in an even line. His eyes were penetrating and alert, yet unrevealing of themselves. The habit of authority sat naturally upon him.

Still nervously, despite his own inner reasoning, Alan Maitland approached the desk, the clerk remaining in the room as protocol required. From the briefcase Alan produced typed ribbon copies of the application and affidavit he had filed in Registry. Clearing his throat, he announced, 'My lord, here is my material and these are my submissions.'

Mr Justice Willis accepted the documents with a curt nod, moved closer to the light, and began to read. As the other two stood silently, the only sound was the rustle of pages turning.

When he had completed reading, the judge looked up, his expression noncommittal. Gruffly as before he asked; 'Do you intend to make an oral submission?'

'If Your Lordship pleases.'

Again a nod. 'Proceed.'

'The facts of the matter, my lord, are these.' In sequence, as he had memorized earlier, Alan described the situation of Henri Duval aboard the Vastervik, the refusal of the ship's captain on two occasions to bring the stowaway before immigration authorities ashore, and Alan's own submission – supported by his personal affidavit – that Duval was being illegally imprisoned in violation of basic human rights.