A shouted question. “What position are you going to take on the vote on the ultimatum?” It was the same question he had declined the day before.
“That is not a question I wish to answer at this time. When I come to wind up the debate in the Commons this afternoon I shall make my position absolutely clear. By then, too, we should have the results of the national telephone poll that is now going on. Before I state my position, I want to know what response there has been from the people.”
“It’s been fantastic,” a reporter shouted.
“Good!” said the Prime Minister. “Now if you will all be kind enough to let me and my football team through, I’ll get the briefing under way.”
The crowd of reporters opened up easily to let Robert Porter and his escort through. When they reached the foyer to the House of Commons the Prime Minister left the escort behind and proceeded directly into the government lobby. It was crowded with members of his party hurrying to their seats. Porter acknowledged the greetings as he walked down the long room towards the curtained entrance to the aisle which led directly to his place on the front bench.
As the curtain fell behind him and he started down the incline of steps towards his seat, he was startled by a thundering noise, a tremendous pounding of the desks by members of every party and a burst of applause from the galleries and from the senators seated on the floor of the House. It was an unusual sound, and the Prime Minister was profoundly moved by it.
As he walked slowly down the steps toward his seat, his eyes swept across the vast chamber from left to right. They took in an impressive and most unusual sight, one that he would never forget. Nor would he forget the atmosphere of apprehension and excitement that would inevitably mount as the events of that day moved inexorably forward, building up wave upon wave to the crest of decision which was to come shortly after five o’clock.
He stopped halfway down the aisle to acknowledge the rare tribute being paid to him. He knew that actually the applause was not for him but for the position he held as the First Minister of Canada. Nevertheless, he was deeply impressed by this sign that all present were united in a strong feeling for their country.
He turned to the left and saw the faces of his own members, sitting at their seats thumping away vigorously. He could see the vacant Speaker’s Chair, that small elegant throne from which the “chairman” of Parliament presided over the battles and debates, an ornate, carved dais which the Speaker would ascend that afternoon after the Speech from the Throne had been read in the Senate Chamber.
Overhead, the Press Gallery was crowded with the men and women who reported to the nation the happenings in the House. In the Visitors’ Gallery immediately opposite were many familiar faces — ambassadors, friends — and in a special section the provincial premiers, together with the two Commissioners of the territories, Jones of the Yukon and Nellie Vladm of the Northwest Territories.
The Spectators’ Gallery was jammed. Everyone who could possibly be squeezed in was there. There were even people sitting in the aisles. At the opposite end of the chamber, two television cameras which were now fixtures in the Commons Chamber, were trained on him.
This was Canada. Canada was in this room, and the eyes of all Canadians were upon Parliament and upon him.
As he resumed his walk down the aisle to his seat, he reminded himself that this was not a session of Parliament but only a briefing. Informality would have to prevail. The Speaker would not be in the chair. He himself would be chairman and general controller of the session.
In front of the Speaker’s Chair a large projection screen had been placed. To the left of the screen was a long table on which sat a lectern with a set of microphones mounted on it. The Prime Minister could see the Minister for External Affairs, his deputy and two other staff members seated at the table, ready to begin the briefing.
The Prime Minister arrived at his seat and remained standing. He nodded and half bowed to the Leader of the Opposition and to all sides of the House, while the banging of desks and applause kept on. Finally, with a gesture he had had to use twice with the press in the last few hours, he raised his hands to ask that the meeting might come to order and the proceedings begin.
As the din began to subside, he took out his glasses and ran his eyes over the points he had prepared in his notebook.
The Chamber had fallen silent. There was the odd cough and clearing of throat here and there and some activity in the Press Gallery. As the Prime Minister began to speak, even the small noises died down and his voice filled the vast chamber.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “we are at the opening of what may well be the most important and momentous day of decision in the history of Canada.”
Byam Channel / 5:59 a.m., CDT
The Polar Gas helicopter levelled off at two hundred feet as it moved away from the base camp bound for the main dome in mid-channel between Melville and Byam Martin Islands. Across the twelve-mile stretch of snow, bathed in the Arctic dawn sunlight, the President could make out patches of turquoise-coloured ice — pure, hard, deep ice. Stretched out across the channel like beads on an invisible thread were the beet-red domes that covered each of the sealhole stations over the pipelines.
Magnusson, sitting behind the President, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the right. “That’s the pumping station, sir. The compressors will start at 6:10 sharp. We’ll be at the master sealhole in about three minutes, about two minutes after six, which will give us just enough time.”
Ahead of the aircraft the President saw the broad sweep of Byam Martin Island, a brownish, treeless tundra, rising to heights above the level of the swift-moving helicopter. Then out to his right beyond the southern tips of both Melville and Byam Martin, the broad expanse of whiteness disappeared into the horizon. High above, his eye caught the vapour trail of a high-flying jet leaving its impermanent white mark on the crystal blue of the cloudless Arctic sky.
The President turned to Magnusson and asked above the noise of the helicopter, “Get any polar bears in these parts?”
“Sure do, Mr. President. We don’t let our people get away from the domes on the ice any distance at all. The bears are mean creatures and, man, are they fast! Had a fellow killed over at Panarctic’s base camp last year, so we treat them with great respect.”
The helicopter pilot set the small machine down gently just a few feet from the red dome of the master sealhole and cut off his power. He would wait to fly the President back to the Polar Gas base camp and the Hercules transport which would take him to Resolute.
The President and Magnusson entered the dome through the entrance chamber which trapped the cold air like an igloo and then through another door into the dome itself. In the centre was the 10-foot wide sealhole that Magnusson had described to him, the water sitting just about two feet below the level of the ice. The ice surface inside the dome had been covered with plastic material to give a secure footing and also to minimize the heating required to maintain the interior of the dome at an acceptable working temperature of 60°.
In the sealhole a ladder had been attached to the lip of the ice so the divers could get in and out of the water. Mounted on a double A-frame rig directly over the hole was a cable drum carrying the cables from the television sets and pressure gauges mounted on the main control console to the cameras and sensors underwater. One of Magnusson’s men was at the pressure gauges checking them for readings prior to the start-up of pressurization. Magnusson introduced him to the President.
Near the sealhole was a rack from which two heavily-insulated diving wetsuits hung. Oxygen tanks, masks, flippers and gloves were neatly piled on the floor next to the rack.
The interior of the dome was bathed in a soft white light from the brilliant, rapidly rising sun, which filtered through two opaque panels in the centre of the dome.
Magnusson moved toward the hole, and the President followed