Adrian Nesbitson spoke for the first time. 'But it isn't philanthropy,' the old man said gruffly. 'The Americans will defend Canada because they've got to, to defend themselves. We're under no compulsion to be grateful.'
'There is never any compulsion about gratitude,' James Howden responded sharply. 'Though I will admit at times to thanking Providence that honourable friends, not enemies, adjoin our borders.'
'Hear, hear!' It was Lucien Perrault, his teeth clamped on a cigar pointed jauntily upwards. Now he put down the cigar and clapped his paw of a hand on the shoulders of Adrian Nesbitson next to him. 'Never mind, old friend, I will be grateful for the two of us.'
The interjection, and its source, had surprised Howden. Traditionally he had assumed that the greatest opposition to his own immediate plans would come from French Canada, whose spokesman was Lucien Perrault: French Canada, with its ancient fear of encroachment; its deep-rooted, historic mistrust of alien influence and ties. Could he have misjudged? Perhaps not; it was early yet to tell. But for the first time he wondered.
'Let me remind you of some facts.' Once again, Howden's voice was firm and commanding. 'We are all familiar with the possible effects of a nuclear war. After such a war, survival will depend on food, and food production. The nation whose food-producing areas have been contaminated by radioactive fallout will already have lost the battle for survival.'
'More than food would be wiped out,' Stuart Cawston said. His customary smile was absent.
'But food production is the single thing that matters most.' Howden's voice rose. 'The cities can be blasted to rubble, and a good many will be. But if, afterwards, there's clean land, uncontaminated; land to grow food, then whoever is left can come out of the rubble and begin again. Food and the land to grow it in – that's what will really count. We come from the land and we'll go back to it. That's the way survival lies! The only way!'
On the wall of the Privy Council chamber a map of North America had been hung. James Howden crossed to it, the heads of the others turning with him. 'The Government of the United States,' he said, 'is well aware that food areas must be protected first. Their plan, at all costs, is to safeguard their own.' His hand raced across the map. 'The dairy lands -northern New York, Wisconsin, Minnesota; the mixed farming of Pennsylvania; the wheat belt – the Dakotas and Montana; Iowa corn; Wyoming livestock; the speciality crops -Idaho, northern Utah, and to the south; and all the rest.' Howden's arm dropped. 'These will be protected first, the cities secondarily.'
'With no provisions for Canadian land,' Lucien Perrault said softly.
'You're wrong,' James Howden said. 'There is provision for Canadian land. It's reserved for the battleground.'
Again he turned to the map. With the index finger of his right hand he stubbed a series of points directly to the south of Canada, moving inward from the Atlantic seaboard. 'Here is the line of United States missile sites – the launching sites for defensive and intercontinental missiles – with which the US will protect its food-producing areas. You know them as well as I know them, as well as every junior in Russian Intelligence knows them.' Arthur Lexington murmured softly, 'Buffalo, Plattsburg,
Presque Isle…'
'Exactly,' Howden said. 'These points represent the spearhead of American defence and, as such, they will form the first prime target of a Soviet attack. If that attack – by Russian missiles – is repelled by interception, the intercept will occur directly over Canada.' Dramatically he swept the palm of his hand across the Canadian segment of the map. 'There is the battleground! There, in the scheme of things now, is where war will be fought.' Eyes followed where the hand had moved. Its path of travel had been a broad swathe north of the border, bisecting the grain-growing West and the East's industrial heartland. In its path were the cities – Winnipeg, Fort William, Hamilton, Toronto, Montreal, the smaller communities in between. 'Fallout will be heaviest here,' Howden said. 'In the first few days of war we could expect our cities to go and our food areas to become poisoned and useless.'
Outside, the Peace Tower carillon announced the quarter-hour. Within the room only Adrian Nesbitson's heavy breathing broke the silence, and the rustle of paper as the official reporter turned a page of his notebook. Howden wondered what the man was thinking, if he was thinking; and if he was, unless conditioned in advance, could any mind grasp truly the portent of what was being said?, For that matter could any of them really understand, until it happened, the sequence of events to come?
The basic pattern, of course, was appallingly simple. Unless there were an accident of some sort, or a false warning, the Russians almost certainly would be the first to fire. When they did, the trajectory of their missiles would lie directly over Canada. If the joint warning systems worked efficiently, the American command would have several minutes warning of attack – time enough to launch their own defensive, short-range missiles. The initial series of intercepts would occur, at best guess, somewhere north of the Great Lakes, in southern Ontario and Quebec. The American short-range weapons would not have nuclear warheads, but the Soviet missiles would be nuclear armed and contact-fused. Therefore the result of each successful intercept would be a hydrogen blast which would make the atom bombing of Hiroshima squib-like and archaic by comparison. And beneath each blast – it was too much to hope that there would be merely two, Howden thought – would be five thousand square miles of devastation,and radioactivity.
Swiftly, in terse crisp sentences, he transposed the pictures into words. 'As you must see,' he concluded, 'the possibilities of our survival as a functioning nation are not extraordinary.'
Again the silence. This time Stuart Cawston broke it, speaking softly, 'I've known all this. I suppose we all have. And yet one never truly faces… you put things off; other things distract… perhaps because we want them to…'
'We've all been guilty of that,' Howden said. 'The point is: can we face it now?'
'There is an "unless" in what you have said, is there not?' This time Lucien Perrault, his deep eyes searching.
'Yes,' Howden acknowledged. 'There is an "unless".' He glanced at the others, then faced Perrault squarely. His voice was strong. 'All that I have described will occur inevitably unless we choose, without delay, to merge our nationhood and sovereignty with the nationhood of the United States.'
Reaction came swiftly.
Adrian Nesbitson was struggling to his feet. 'Never! Never! Never!' His face brick-red, the old man spluttered angrily.
Cawston's expression was shocked. 'The country would throw us out!'
Douglas Martening, startled into response, said, 'Prime Minister, have you seriously…' The sentence was never finished.
'Silence!' The hamlike fist of Lucien Perrault smashed down upon the table. Startled, the other voices stopped. Nesbitson subsided. Below his black locks, Perrault's face scowled. Well, Howden thought, I've lost Perrault and with him goes any hope I had of national unity. Now Quebec – French Canada – would stand alone. It had before. Quebec was a rock – sharp-edged, immovable – on which other governments had foundered in the past.
He could carry the others today, or most of them; that much he still believed. Anglo-Saxon logic in the end would see what had to be seen, and afterwards English-speaking Canada alone might still provide the strength he needed. But division would be deep, with bitterness and strife, and scars which would never heal. He waited for Lucien Perrault to walk out.