Darkness, which had spread damply across the harbour and city of Vancouver, still found lights burning in the superintendent's office of the water-front Immigration Building.

Edgar S. Kramer, though punctilious about beginning each day precisely on time, rarely bothered to end his own working day at prescribed office hours. Whether in Ottawa, Vancouver, or elsewhere, he usually remained for at least an hour after the rest of the staff had gone, partly to disassociate himself from the usual eager exodus, and partly to avoid any accumulation of paper on his desk. A habit of getting things done and prompt handling of paper work were two reasons Edgar Kramer had been a conspicuous success as a career civil servant. Over the years of his progress upward there had been plenty of people who disliked him personally and a few whose antagonisms went deeper. But no one, even in enmity, could reasonably accuse him either of laziness or procrastination,

A good example of Kramer promptitude had been the decision taken today and described in a memorandum with the unlikely subject heading 'Pigeon Guano'. Edgar Kramer had dictated the memo earlier and now, reading over the typed copies which tomorrow would go to the building supervisor and others concerned, he nodded approvingly at his own resourcefulness.

The problem had come to his attention yesterday. Examining the proposed annual budget of the Immigration Department's West Coast Headquarters, he had queried a number of expenses for building maintenance, including an item of $750 – apparently recurring each year – for 'cleaning eavestrough and downpipes'.

Edgar Kramer had summoned the building supervisor – a bull-necked, loud-spoken man, happier behind a broom than a desk – who responded forcefully. 'Hell, Mr Kramer, sure it's too much money to spend, but it's all that pigeon shit.' Prompted further he had crossed to the office window and gestured. 'Look at the bastards!' Outside, as they watched, the air was thick with thousands of pigeons which nested, flew, and scavenged in the water-front area.

'Shittin', shittin' twenty-four hours a day, like they got the permanent runs,' the supervisor grumbled. 'And if one of 'em wants the can, they fly up to our roof. That's why we have to steam out the eavestroughs and downpipes six times a year -they're full of pigeon shit. Costs money, Mr Kramer.'

'I understand the problem,' Kramer said. 'Has anything been done to reduce the numbers of pigeons – by killing some?'

'Tried shootin' the bastards once,' the building supervisor answered gloomily, 'and there was all hell to pay. Humane Society people down here an' all. They say there's a bylaw in Vancouver says you can't. Tell you what, though: we could try putting poison on the roof. Then when they go there for a…'

Edgar Kramer said sharply, 'The word is guano – pigeon guano.'

The supervisor said, 'In my book it's all…'

'And furthermore,' Kramer interjected firmly, 'if the pigeons are protected by law, then the law will be observed.' He mused. 'We must find some other way.'

He had dismissed the other man and, once alone, considered the problem carefully. One thing was certain: the wasteful $750 expense each year must be eliminated.

Eventually, after several false starts and a number of sketches, he had devised a scheme based on a half-remembered idea. In essence the plan was to string piano wires at six inch intervals across the Immigration Building roof, with each strand supported on several short poles six inches high. The theory was that a pigeon could pass its feet through the strands of wire, but not its wings. Therefore, when a bird alighted, the wire would prevent folding of its wings and it would fly off at once.

This morning Edgar Kramer had had a small experimental section made and installed on the roof. The device worked perfectly. Now the memorandum he had approved was an instruction to put the full scheme into effect. Although the initial cost would be a thousand dollars, it should eliminate permanently the annual $750 expense – a saving to the country's taxpayers, although few would ever know about it.

The thought pleased Edgar Kramer, as his own conscientiousness always did. There was another satisfaction too: the local bylaw had been observed, with even the pigeons treated justly and according to regulations.

It had been (Edgar Kramer- decided) a most satisfactory day. Not least among the matters pleasing him was that his frequency of urination seemed definitely less. He checked his watch. It had been close to an hour since the last occasion and he was confident he could wait longer, even though a slight warning pressure…

There was a tap on the door and Alan Maitland walked in. 'Good evening,' he said coolly, and laid a folded paper on the table.

The young lawyer's appearance had been sudden and startling. Edgar Kramer asked abruptly, 'What's all this about?'

'It's an order nisi, Mr Kramer,' Alan announced calmly. 'I believe you'll find it self-explanatory.'

Opening the folded page Kramer read quickly. His face flushed angrily. He spluttered, 'What the devil do you mean by this?' At the same time he was aware that the mild pressure on his bladder of a moment before had suddenly become intense.

Alan was tempted to reply caustically, then decided not. After all, he had merely gained a partial victory and the next round might easily go the other way. Therefore, politely enough, he answered, 'You did turn me down, you know, when I asked for a special inquiry into the case of Henri Duval.'

Momentarily Edgar Kramer wondered at his own fierce resentment of this callow youthful lawyer. 'Of course I turned you down,' he snapped. 'There was no earthly reason one should be held.'

'It just happens that I don't share your opinion,' Alan observed mildly. He pointed to the order nisi. 'This is to see which view – yours or mine – a court of law will take.'

The pressure was becoming agonizing. Holding himself in, Kramer fumed, 'This is solely a matter for department ruling. No court has any business interfering.'

Alan Maitland's face was serious. 'If you care for some advice,' he said quietly, 'if I were you I wouldn't tell that to the judge.'

From the window of Blair House library James Howden examined the view across Pennsylvania Avenue. It was 10 AM on the second day in Washington, and the meeting between himself, the President, Arthur Lexington, and the President's chief of staff was scheduled to begin in an hour's time.

A fresh soft breeze stirred the filmy curtains beside him at the open window. Outside, the weather was Washington at its best: balmy and springlike with warm bright sunshine. Across the avenue the Prime Minister could see the trim White House lawns and glimpse the Executive Mansion, sun streaked, beyond.

Turning towards Arthur Lexington, Howden asked, 'What's your feeling about everything so far?'

The External Affairs Minister, wearing a comfortable Harris tweed jacket instead of the suit coat he would put on later, straightened up from the colour TV with which he had been experimenting. Turning the set off, he paused, considering.

'Put in its crudest terms,' Lexington said, 'I'd say we're in a seller's market. The concessions we have to offer, the United States needs, and needs desperately. What's more, they're very much aware of it here.'

The two had breakfasted separately, the Prime Minister with Margaret in their private suite, Arthur Lexington with others of the delegation downstairs. The Canadians were the only guests in the President's spacious guest house, to which they had returned last night after the White House state dinner.