Stanton St. John sat quietly at the table in the lounge of the Elgin Hotel. Outside, the weather had turned cold and snow was in the air. But inside, not far from the fireplace that dominated the room, he was quite comfortable. His tie was slightly loosened, and askew, as if he were not expecting to go back to the office, at least not for a while. He looked discontentedly at the glass Czechoslovakian Pilsner. It was perhaps a mistake to order beer, casting his mind to a cocktail that might be more appropriate.

I am afraid I am not at liberty to disclose his exact function within the Civil Service – in fact, even Patrick was vague. He was one of those people who seemed to be in the room, or close by when weighty decisions were made, especially when those decisions involved that part of the Dominion of Canada above the sixtieth parallel. More so under the previous St. Laurent government, than since the recent arrival of John Diefenbaker and the western delegation from the Conservative Party.

Patrick entered the room, looked around and spotted his acquaintance at his accustomed table. Had this simply been a casual lunch to catch up, or, thinking back about what Becky had said about Tracy – was someone keeping an eye on his career with interest?  He sat down at the table. The two exchanged pleasantries and looked at the menu. Stanton ordered a sandwich, only half convinced solid food was required, and only because Patrick was hungry enough to order a Plowman’s Lunch.

Patrick’s Pilsner arrived – he had grown up thinking of beer as a poor man’s drink, but had gotten past the novelty of the European flavours and began to develop an appreciation of his own. He looked at the cut of Stanton’s jacket. Despite a certain casual disarray from sitting alone in the lounge, you could see the tailoring work was impeccable. Up to the same standard that a newly appointed Cabinet Minister would be expected to wear. The tie, narrow with angled stripes, was knotted with a deft hand, a double Windsor, something Patrick never mastered.

“Did I hear you say you went to Montreal and watched a Canadiens game recently?” Patrick asked, realizing it was up to him to open up the conversation. “How was the game?”

Stanton relaxed, approving of this as an opening topic for discussion. “Yes, I was on business; I stayed for a few nights at the Queen Elizabeth.”

“Did Maurice Richard play?”

Stanton looked somewhat dismissive, as if that was not a fruitful line of inquiry. “Yes, yes. It’s always a pleasure to see him play, of course. He’s slowing down these years. It’s not so easy for us older folk to keep up with you of the youthful set.”  He sipped away at his Pilsner, wondering if he could signal a change of order to the waiter.

“Did they win?”

“Yes. It was against the Red Wings. There was something interesting in the game, now that you’re asking me about it. In hockey, things happen so quickly, you’re almost not sure if you saw something or not. It was something Gordie Howe did. Everyone was of course cheering for the home team, but he really is quite an extraordinary player in his own right.” He looked at the table, as if there might be enough salt and pepper shakers for him to use as an illustration, but there wasn’t. “He was carrying the puck across the blue line, just him and two men back. But instead of going towards the goal, as say Richard might be expected to, he did the oddest thing. He gave the puck to the opposing defenceman. Just gave it to him. The defenceman was so stunned, he didn’t know what to do with it for a moment, but then proceeded to skate around Howe. The only thing was, Howe knew where he was going to go, headed him off, checked him off the puck and took it back. By now, his own linesman had moved into position. He passed it to him, who now had a clear shot, because the other defenceman was out of position.”  Stanton looked into the air, as if not quite trusting the memory that was still fresh in his imagination.

“They say he’s a very crafty player.”

“But surely that can’t be a winning strategy. Not in the long run. Not to simply give the puck to your opponent. It defies all logic.”

“Howe’s just a back-alley thug. Nobody who plays the game likes him.”

The waiter arrived with the sandwiches, giving Stanton time to point to an empty spot on the table and say “Rye and ginger.” – say Seagram’s and be sure. The interruption in the conversation gave Patrick a moment to reflect on whether there was a purpose to his being summoned. Almost as if a casual afterthought, Stanton asked, “Have you been to Goose Bay?”

Patrick shook his head, but needed a few seconds to wash down the heavier bread that made up his sandwich. “No. I’ve been to Gander. ‘Twas a summer term during undergrad. Mostly sending up balloons and trying to talk the poor guy stationed on the Funk Islands from flinging himself into the ocean.”

“But I remember you saying you were up north?”

“I was: a stint in Coppermine, in the North West Territories. Research into radio interference and the Northern Lights. There had been several papers linking the interference to swings in the magnetic compass readings; the National Research Council wanted confirmations. Fascinating stuff. There should be more work coming out in the papers from the Geophysical Year.”

“How did you like living up there?”

“’Twas stupefyingly cold. I arrived in what I expected would be autumn. Instead, I near died of exposure walking from the plane to the terminal. Luckily they had a parka ready for me. The landscape is bleak, in a haunting way. Much like people describe the feeling of being in deserts. You feel cut off. Like that poor guy on the Funks.”  Patrick took another bite of his sandwich, which gave him a moment to reflect that the question about Goose Bay was probably not an idle question. “Anything particular about Goose Bay I should know?”

“No, no. It’s just I had remembered you were somewhere up north and I couldn’t remember where.”  Stanton pushed the empty Pilsner glass away, letting his hand rest on the tumbler beside it. He was weighing whether he needed to go back to the office, or whether he could settle into this spot for the afternoon. “How do you feel your career prospects are doing, here in Ottawa?”

Alison settled a sheet of paper into her typewriter and began to roll it into position. Not that she had a clear idea for a story, but they always started with blank sheets of paper. The arrival of an interoffice envelope interrupted her concentration, which at the present was preoccupied with the foot traffic on Sparks Street outside the office window. She unwound the cord fastening the envelope, pulled out its contents, and with an air of dejection looked at the note attached to her Sputnik photograph with a paper clip. Interesting photograph. It will not reproduce well enough to run. We’ll go with the article you filed on apple bobbing at the fall fair. The next piece should be on accessories for the coming winter season. Start with Linda at Simpsons. Alison set the photograph aside, and after a moment of reflection, reached for her Rolodex. Simpsons. MacFarlane, Linda – Buyer, Ladies’ Outerwear. She reached for her phone, lifting it from the receiver and placing her finger in the dial. But then stopped, changing her mind, she reached for her purse, took out an address book and searched for a different name. She placed her finger into the dial, now self-conscious that she had to be careful of her fingernail. She always considered long nails an affectation – they were completely impractical around the farm, but they were also essential in the fashion circles she now moved. The ringing stopped; a familiar voice answered at the other end. “Juan?  It’s Ali. Is the meeting still on Thursday evening?”

Patrick sat back, letting the direct question settle into his thoughts. How did he feel his career was going?  It touched a nerve, that not even Patrick realized was raw before this moment. He looked searchingly at Stanton, wondering where this line of questioning was meant to lead. Stanton had a casual air, as if it was a question he routinely asked of younger men that came into his purview. “Well, ‘tis queer you ask. I’ve had a vague sense of being betrayed, or perhaps duped.”  He touched at the remainder of the food in front of him, but wasn’t in the mood to finish it. “I had an open career path at McGill and good contacts in Montreal. But for some reason, I seemed to be lured to Ottawa, as if I was being courted. Both a full-time position at the Ministry and tenure at the University were on the table. But then, without anyone saying anything, or even hinting why, both seemed to be off the table. Or maybe it was all just a sales pitch; they never were on the table. Either way, I’m left puzzled exactly why I’m here.”

“Of course,” Stanton said trying to sound reassuring, “we’re all feeling like we’re walking on eggshells since the change of government. Patronage is like a warm blanket: you suddenly feel the chill when it’s removed.”

“But my position is scientific. It can’t be as subject to political whim as other positions.”  The statement sounded naïve to Patrick, even as he said it. “No, seriously, what are they going to do, reach into their duffle bag and pull out an atmospheric scientist from Saskatchewan?”  But he remembered warnings that change in governments can suddenly leave entire ministries gutted, or at least suffering from benign neglect.

“I can tell you, Dief is extremely suspicious of anything military, and anything American.”

“Well, I can hardly be on Diefenbaker’s radar.”

“I want you to tell me more about Andrei.”  Stanton was still trying to sound like the conversation was casual, but Patrick suspected the change in tack was not haphazard.

“He and I were collaborators at McGill. We worked together on our doctoral work. He was lured to Ottawa on much the same pretenses I was.”

“He’s Russian, right?”

“Polish.”  Patrick noted the dismissive nod from Stanton’s head, as if the distinction was of no account. “You’re not saying I’m somehow blacklisted because he’s under suspicion as being a communist?”  Stanton looked noncommittally at his glass, studying how much of the ice cubes had melted, and whether it needed freshening. “I mean, that’s preposterous. I can assure you, there’s no love lost betwixt his family and the communists.”

“You two were at an academic conference in Italy not long ago?”

“Ravenna?  Yes, what of it?”

“There was a Russian there as well?”

“Probably. They attend a lot of the Geophysical conferences as well. Their science programme is almost as developed as the American. I mean, they can’t think Andrei was suddenly passing on state secrets?  We’re atmospheric scientists, not nuclear physicists!”  Patrick became aware that he should be talking in a much more hushed tone in the restaurant, which was now much quieter after the exodus of the lunch-hour crowd.

“I can only caution you, that a close association with this Andrei can only hinder your promotional prospects.”

Patrick felt he would be betraying a friend and colleague, if not leaving this unchallenged. “There can’t be one shred of evidence that Andrei would be in possession of secrets that would be worth selling, let alone actively trafficking them. Tell me if there is, but I can’t accept vague suspicion and innuendo.”

“Well, I can tell you that this Russian from the conference is known to associate with homosexuals.”

Patrick was going to jump to another line of defence, but hesitated, betraying a lack of evidence to the contrary. He slouched with momentary resignation. “Oh, I see how these things work. Little notes jump from one file to another: associates with known homosexuals. Associates with associates of known homosexuals. By inference, then…”

Stanton didn’t let Patrick complete the syllogism. “Let me just say, with all due interest in your future job prospects, that you’re at an age and stage in your career where you don’t need to be in Ottawa. Someone who is willing to spend time in the North can render valuable service, and bring back valuable insight and perspective. It’s your time up north that drew the interest in the first place. Play that the way you would a long and strong suit.”  He sipped at his drink. “I can also tell you that being married is a more important career asset that someone your age may realize.”