In High Places

I'm always telling him so. Sometimes it goes for weeks without being used.'

'Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,' Tom told her airily. 'I'm just sorry I've never thought of it myself. Only the day before yesterday I was caught in a shower downtown with just a drugstore to go into.'

Sharon laughed again. At the foot of the stairs they halted.

For an instant Tom Lewis switched his glance between the faces of the other two: Sharon, lighthearted, unself-conscious;

Alan, at the moment serious, thoughtful, with a part of his mind still back in the courtroom where this morning's hearing had been held. And yet for all the outward difference, Tom Lewis thought, there was a warm affinity between the two. He suspected they could care about the same things. He wondered if they were aware of it yet.

Remembering his wife at home, pregnant, Tom gave an inward nostalgic sigh for carefree, single days.

'I'd love to come,' Alan said, meaning it. He took Sharon's arm. 'But do you mind if we hurry a bit? I have to be at that inquiry this afternoon.' There was just enough time, he decided – as a matter of courtesy – to fill Senator Deveraux in on the background of events so far.

Sharon asked, 'You'll join us as well, Mr Lewis, won't you?'

Tom shook his head. 'Thanks all the same, but this isn't my show. I'll walk to the hotel with you, though.'

With Alan and Tom on either side of the Senator's granddaughter, they left the echoing lobby of the Supreme Court Building by the Hornby Street side door. The cold of the narrow cavernous street outside was a sharp, biting contrast to the building's warm interior. A bitter blast of wind caught, and for a moment held them, and Sharon pulled her sable-trimmed coat tightly around her. She had a sense of pleasure at Alan's nearness.

'The weather's from the sea,' Tom said. There was a sidewalk excavation ahead and he led the way, jaywalking through traffic, to the northwest side of Hornby, turning towards West Georgia. 'It must be the coldest day of winter.'

With one hand Sharon was holding her impractical hat tightly. She told Alan, 'Every time I think of the sea I think of our stowaway, and what it must be like never going ashore. Is the ship as bad as the newspapers say?' He answered curtly, 'Worse, if anything.' 'Shall you mind very much – I mean really mind – if you don't win?'

With a vehemence that surprised himself Alan answered, 'I shall mind like hell. I shall wonder what kind of rotten, stinking country I belong to which can turn away someone homeless like this: a good man, young, who'd be an asset…'

Tom Lewis asked quietly, 'Are you sure about being an asset?'

'Yes.' Alan sounded surprised. 'Aren't you?'

'No,' Tom said. 'I don't think I am.'

'Why?' It was Sharon's question. They had come to West Georgia Street, waited for the lights, then crossed on green. 'Tell me why,' Sharon insisted. 'I don't know,' Tom said. They re-crossed Hornby, reached the Georgia Hotel and stopped, sheltering a little from the wind by the front entrance door. There was a dampness in the air which spoke of rain to come. 'I don't know,' Tom repeated. 'It isn't something you can put a finger on. A sort of instinct, I guess.'

Alan asked abruptly, 'What makes you feel that way?'

'When I served the captain's order nisi I talked to Duval. I asked you if I could meet him, remember?'

Alan nodded. 'Well, I did, and tried to like him. But I had a feeing there was a flaw somewhere; a weakness. It was almost as if he had a crack down the middle – maybe not his own fault, maybe something his background put there.' 'What kind of a crack?' Alan frowned. 'I told you it wasn't something I could be specific about.

But I had a feeling that if we get him ashore and make him an immigrant, he'll come apart in pieces.'

Sharon said, 'Isn't that all rather vague?' She had a feeling of defensiveness, as if something Alan cared about were being assailed.

'Yes,' Tom answered. 'It's why I haven't mentioned it till now.'

'I don't think you're right,' Alan said shortly. 'But even if you are it doesn't change the legal situation – his rights and all the rest.'

'I know,' Tom Lewis said. 'That's what I keep telling myself.' He pulled his coat collar tighter, preparing to turn away. 'Anyhow, good luck this afternoon!'

Chapter 3

The substantial double doors of the twelfth-floor hotel suite were open as Alan and Sharon approached, along a carpeted corridor, from the elevator. All the way up, from the moment they had left Tom Lewis in the street below, he had had an exciting awareness of their closeness to each other. It still persisted as, through the doorway of the suite, Alan could see an elderly uniformed waiter transferring the contents of a room-service trolley – apparently a buffet luncheon – to a white-clothed table in the room's centre.

Senator Deveraux was seated in an upholstered wing chair, his back to the doorway, facing the harbour view which the centre window of the suite's living-room commanded. At the sound of Sharon's and Alan's entry he turned his head without rising.

'Well, Sharon my dear, my compliments to you for successfully ensnaring the hero of the hour.' The Senator offered Alan his hand. 'Allow me to congratulate you, my boy, on a most remarkable success.'

Alan took the proffered hand. Momentarily he was shocked to see how much frailer and aged the Senator appeared than at their last meeting. The old man's face had a marked pallor, its earlier ruddiness gone, and his voice, by comparison, was weak.

"There hasn't been a success by any means,' Alan said uncomfortably. 'Not even much of a dent, I'm afraid.'

'Nonsense, my boy! – even though your modesty becomes you. Why, a moment ago I was listening to a paean of praise about you on the radio news.'

'What did they say?' Sharon asked. 'It was described as a clear-cut victory for the forces of humanity against the monstrous tyranny of our existing Government.'

Alan asked doubtfully, 'Did they actually use those words?'

The Senator waved a hand airily. 'I may have paraphrased a little, but that was the gist of it all. And Alan Maitland, that young upstanding lawyer, justly armed, was described as having routed the opposing forces.'

'If someone really said that, they may have some fancy backtracking to do.' The elderly waiter was hovering beside them and Alan slipped off his overcoat, handing it to the man, who hung it in a closet, then discreetly left. Sharon disappeared through an adjoining door. Alan's eyes followed her, then he moved to a window seat and sat facing the Senator. 'We gained a temporary advantage, it's true. But through a piece of stupidity I managed to lose part of it.' He related what happened at judge's chambers and his own final outwitting by A.

R. Butler.

Senator Deveraux nodded sagely. 'Even so, I would say your efforts have produced a splendid outcome.'

'So they did,' Sharon said, returning to join them. She had taken off her outdoor clothes, revealing a soft woollen dress.

'Alan was simply magnificent.'

Alan smiled resignedly. It seemed useless to protest. 'All the same,' he said, 'we're a long way from getting Henri Duval admitted here as a landed immigrant.'

The older man made no immediate answer, his eyes returning to the waterfront and harbour spread beneath them. Turning his head, Alan could see Burrard Inlet, spume flecked from the streaming wind, the North Shore whipped by spray. A ship was leaving port – a grain boat, low in the water, laden; from the markings it looked Japanese. A Vancouver Island ferry headed in, cutting white water through the First Narrows, beginning a wide starboard turn towards the CPR pier. Elsewhere were other arrivals, departures: of ships and men, cargoes, commerce, the weft and warp of a busy deep-sea port.

At length the Senator said, 'Well, of course, in the end we may not achieve that final objective of landing our stowaway. One can win battles and lose a war. But never underestimate the importance of the battles, my boy, particularly, in political affairs.'