Irritated, he loosed his tie.  He hated suits too.  Another of those damnable side effects to respectability.  The one consolation was that he was still involved with the business he knew best.  The company, which he ran with his long-time associate and friend Chris Faber, was ostensibly a security firm.  Much of the work they received was simple strongholding for various buildings and businesses in and around Seattle, but although the war had been over for eight months now, there were enough government commissions for routing out resistance pockets of Visitor troops who had not agreed with their Leader's withdrawal from the offensive.  Tyler wondered occasionally what he'd do for excitement once those pockets were eradicated or made to surrender, but he was certain something would show up.  It usually did.

The intercom on his desk buzzed for his attention, and grateful for the distraction he answered it.

"Yup?"

Miss Setchel, the secretary/receptionist, was used to Tyler's taciturn ways and simply announced:  "There's someone here to see you, sir.  A Ms. Tash Petersen.  She has no appointment, but she's rather insistent.  Should I send her away?"

Tyler considered the small hill of paperwork littering his desk, and decided any excuse for putting it off was a good one.

"No.  Send her in."  He glanced up, remembering to straighten his tie, as the door opened and a stringy young woman strode into the office and positioned herself commandingly at his desk.  Tyler relaxed back in his chair, appraising her coolly.  "Yes?"

"I'm looking for work," she said.

His gaze raked her from head to foot.  She was clad somberly in black and navy, a well-worn combat jacket pulled over the top -- The attire was obviously more functional than decorative.  Physically, she was wiry, no doubt very fit, her posture one of wariness combined oddly with defiance.  She was no older than twenty five, at a guess, but there was a hardness to the angular lines of her face, a dispassionate gleam in the pale blue eyes which both challenged and denied familiarity, that gave the impression of someone much older.

"I already have a secretary," Tyler explained carefully.

"I'm looking for security work."

"What qualifications do you have?"  He was still reclined in the chair, hands folded across his middle, regarding her with an air of mockery.  To her credit, and Tyler's satisfaction, she continued to ignore his calculated slights.  Instead, the corner of her mouth quirked in a humourless smile.

"I survived the war."

"So did thousands of others.  Having the good fortune not to be eaten doesn't count for much."

"I was with the resistance on the Oregon/Washington border," she elaborated, "In David Minowa's group."

Tyler inclined his head in acknowledgement of the name.  Minowa had led a small, but infamously effective, band of fighters in a nomadic trail along the borders of the two states, both in the first confrontation and again a year later.

"Follow me," he said, rising from the chair and heading out into the foyer.  Wordlessly, she obeyed.  Miss Setchel regarded them both with asperity as they passed.  She did not exactly approve of Mr. Tyler's staff, or indeed of Mr. Tyler himself, but any job these days was a good one, and she had not been hired to give her approval in any case.  Mr. Tyler had burned her once or twice about that in the past.

Tyler took the girl down to the office basement which he had converted to a small, sound-proofed firing range at some expense, and handed her a headset and a Colt .45.

"Try to hit the target," he said drily, indicating the end of the range.

She lifted an eyebrow at his scepticism, but donned the headset, levelled the revolver at the target, and emptied the clip into its red centre.  She removed the headset and turned to him for his comment.

"Not bad," he admitted.  "Petersen, is it?"

She nodded.

"Be here tomorrow at seven," he instructed curtly, and showed her out.
 
 

"She ran rings around me," Faber admitted wryly, "She's a deal shot, and real hard to take by surprise.  Climbs trees like a monkey too."

"Explosives?"

"Okay.  She won't blow up the campus by accident."

"Hand to hand?"

Chris shook his head, giving a short laugh.  "She's a strong little thing, real quick too.  I'll probably have the bruises for a week."

Tyler grinned at his rueful colleague.  "You're showing your age."

"Don't you laugh," warned Chris, "You're not far behind."

"I've worn better," Tyler promised, and thumbed the intercom.

"Send Ms. Petersen in, will you?"

"Certainly sir."

Both men deliberately sobered their expressions before their new recruit entered the room.

"You start tomorrow," said Tyler at her enquiring glance, "Nine o'clock."  With that, he turned back to the despised paperwork on his desk, and Faber showed her out.

Petersen strode past the secretary, whose sour face was hard to miss, and out into the street.  She felt curiously relaxed for the first time since the armistice.  The gruelling test run at the company grounds had been purging in its thoroughness -- for the first time in months she had felt at ease in her actions.  Civilian life was something alien to her now.  It felt good to be back in the field.

There would be other benefits too, reflected Petersen as she headed towards Puget Sound.  Once she was drawing pay she wouldn't have to sleep on park benches or in dockyard sheds anymore.
 
 

"Kay... not the suit... damn... down!!  SIT!!!"  There was a clatter and a thud, followed by a startled oath.  "ALEX!!"

Grinning in anticipation, Alex strolled out to the hallway.  "Did you have a nice day at the office dear?"

Ham, sitting on the floor beneath two exuberant German Shepherd dogs, tried to maintain his irritation, but it was difficult to hand onto the facade when a long pink tongue was lapping his face.  He smiled wryly.

"I thought you said you were going to train these dogs," he said, disengaging himself from long canine legs and dusting down his suit.

"What can I say?  They missed you."  Her expression was positively roguish, an effect that was emphasized by the black eyepatch she wore on her right eye.  Ham grimaced at her, then relented and kissed her.

"I ought to get you a parrot," he commented, shedding the uncomfortable layers of his respectability until he stood in his trousers and shirt alone.  The jacket, vest and tie he draped aesthetically over the entryway sideboard, and he disappeared into the living room.

"I don't feel like cooking tonight..." began Alex, calling out from the kitchen.

"Good."

"I heard that!"  Silence followed, and Alex grinned.  "I thought you mightn't feel like it either," she continued, "So I made a booking at that new place in town -- Diana's Bar and Grill."

He came out and leaned in the kitchen doorway.   "Are you serious?"

"Actually... yes."  Tyler pulled a face.  "Would you prefer I cooked?"

The grimace became a shudder.  "What time are we booked?"
 
 

"Relax," insisted Alex, "It's only named after her.  I'm sure she's not nailed to a wall anywhere."  She smiled disarmingly, but it was echoed only faintly.  "What is it?"

Tyler shrugged, putting the glass back on the table.  "Hired a new kid today."

"Aha -- work."  She edged closer to him in the booth, "This is after hours remember."  A hand wandered casually under the table to rest on his knee.  He smiled.

"Yeah..."  Then the expression faded a little,  "It's just... they keep getting younger."

"Oh, so now it's your age that's getting to you!"  He eyed her sharply, but that hand was wandering mischievously up his thigh, and it was impossible to take the comment seriously.  He chuckled.

"Just a minute -- I'll pay the bill."
 
 

Shortly, a Visitor shuttle set down on the green turf and a sealed hatch popped open.  A number of uniformed Visitors rushed forward and began to unload armaments and packages of medical equipment from the small hold.  The procedure was completed swiftly and efficiently, and in moments the shuttle lifted off with barely a ten minute interruption in its schedule.

The commander issued his orders in the harsh tongue of his own people and the supplies were loaded onto a waiting ground vehicle.  That done, the vehicle rumbled away, taking its cargo to other rendezvous points for redistribution.  As always, there would not be enough to meet the needs of all those who were scattered about the countryside, but it would suffice, at least until their new Leader could move openly against the Betrayer, who sat in council with Earth's own leaders even now.

It would not be easy holding out till such a time, but the commander could take heart in the knowledge that they were not without support; the new Leader sent to his people what he could, and this time he had even risked discovery to send them a laser cannon.  Only a small one, it was true, but it was more firepower than his own group had had in a long time.  With it, these puny Earthers would suffer at least a little for denigrating his home planet with their 'peaceful victory'.

Breaking from his reverie, the alien called for a message to be sent to West Base One to acknowledge the safe arrival of the supplies.  "Tell Lawrence we will make a strike soon," he added, "Somewhere here in Washington."
 
 

"One, from..." the woman glanced down at the notepad, "Mr. Hathaway, from Canton Sports Supplies."

"Tell him I'm out of town," he headed for the lift.

"Mr. Tyler, he's expecting to see you today, about the store's security.  He says..."

"I know what he says," Tyler keyed for the lift, "Tell him I'm out of town... no, wait.  Tell him to see Faber."  With a malicious smile, he stepped into the lift, then, catching Setchel's disapproving frown, gave her his most impressive scowl.  Suitably cowed, she set about her own business.

The elevator deposited him in the basement, which not only housed the small firing range but a storage section for the limited array of armaments that were kept on the premises.  Petersen was inside, supposedly checking stores, but when he walked in she was in the middle of a smooth, swift drill.  Tyler watched the very professional execution of the procedure until it's completion, then made his presence known.

"Petersen!"

Startled, the girl half swung towards him, lowering into a tense battle crouch, but on seeing him she relaxed, ejecting the bullet from the rifle chamber.

"Sir?"

"You were told to check stores."

There was little sign that she had been irritated by the task, but sign enough for Tyler to read.  He waited for her answer.

"Stores checked sir.  I've made a list of ammunition and arms that need resupplying."  She glanced at the rifle still in her hands, "I was making a random inspection of the stores."

Tyler ignored the explanation and motioned for her to follow him.

"I found another job for you," he said, taking them into the lift and up to the second floor, which housed the communications centre.  Chris Faber was there, referring to a map that lay spread across a table, and muttering to himself.  He looked up with a disgruntled frown at the intrusion, then went back to the problem at hand.

"You know how to work a radio?" Tyler asked of Petersen.  She nodded curtly.  "Then you're on station six.  It's just routine stuff, status reports coming in from the coast.  But don't miss anything," he added with a glare.

The implied insult to her skills went unnoticed, something which Tyler found more satisfactory every time she failed to rise to his deliberate barbs.  She was level-headed, this one, cool.  If she proved capable in the office tasks, and trustworthy, then she could be on the field in a month or two.  He regarded her with a closed expression as she took the chair, adjusted the headset and got right down to work.

"What's up?"

Tyler glanced up at Chris as the large man strode over to him.  He nodded at the girl.

"How old do you think she is?" he asked.

"Twenty three... I asked her yesterday on the test field."  Then abruptly the subject was changed.  "Look at this," Chris turned back to the troublesome map, "Last time we heard from Jeffries he was here," he jabbed a finger at Silver Lake, "That was twelve hours ago.  The last transmission said they were going to head east along the south fork of Toutle River, and we haven't heard from them since."

Tyler frowned.  "Get Barrett in Longview, tell him to take out a team -- recon only," he emphasized, "I want to know what it looks like out there."

Chris nodded.  "I got them on standby -- won't be long."

The report was on Tyler's desk the following morning, a clear indication that Chris thought it was very important.  Tyler scanned the pages, forehead creasing in a scowl.  Brett Jeffries and his strike force of fifteen had been found scattered about the shores of Silver Lake, three of them wounded, the rest of them dead, including Jeffries.  Their objective of locating and capturing a renegade band of Visitors had turned against them, leaving their party decimated and forcing the Visitors back into hiding.  It might be weeks before the aliens resurfaced, and all he had to show for it was the death of twelve operatives.

The intercom buzzed and he answered it curtly.

"Mr. Tyler -- Mr. Hathaway called again this morning, and I've made an appointment for him to meet you tomorrow afternoon.  Also, Governor Worthingham called and wants to see you about an incident at Silver Lake."

"Just what I need," muttered Tyler.  The 'mopping up' procedures with which he, and other similar companies, were involved in were government sponsored, and any apparent setback in the scheme usually had the Governor of Washington on his back demanding an explanation.

"Anything else?"

"There was another of those... people... here today," her distaste was obvious, "Expecting work from us.  I told him we didn't have any positions available."

"You WHAT?!"

"He was disgusting," Setchel said feelingly over the intercom, "I'd swear he hadn't washed in weeks..."

"What was his name?"

"Tutt, I think... quite revolting..."

"Tutt?!"  Tyler rose from his chair as he said it and stalked furiously to the doorway.  Setchel involuntarily drew back as Tyler bore down on her with a thunderous expression.

"Samuel Tutt," he growled, "was a former colleague of mine.  I invited him to work with me."  Every word meant another step, and Setchel was forced to vacate her chair to maintain the distance between them.  "He is also a little off the wall, and I can now scratch any chance I had of him joining the firm."  He stalked around the desk, cutting off the woman's avenue of escape and towered over her while she made a grab for her purse.

"You're fired.  Get out."  With that, he stood back and she slunk past him, making for the front door with all haste.  He dispassionately watched her leave, then caught sight of the 'In' file on her desk.  He compared it with his own, and realized that he had just dismissed the only safety valve he had for all that damned paperwork.  It would take a day or two to find a replacement, not long really, but the volume of paperwork to be done would not diminish to allow for it.  Particularly with three new accounts requiring processing today, four old accounts needing updating, Hathaway's agreement to be amended and now the work associated with the Silver Lake mission to be gone over, plus all the attendant correspondence and filing.  It just wouldn't wait two days, unless he did it all himself, or...

"Chris," he switched the reception desk intercom through to the communications room, "Send me Petersen."

Tash Petersen obeyed the command with alacrity.  Ham Tyler was not a boss one kept waiting, she had been told, and if the reputation which preceded him was at all accurate she could believe it.  That reputation, actually, had become quite a matter of discussion amongst the junior staff as it was speculated just how tough this middle-aged mercenary was -- not, of course, that such speculations were ever voiced near the man.  Even if he had lost the edge, Ham Tyler commanded respect.

Perhaps at last she would be assigned a real job, one more suited to her capabilities, reflected Petersen, as opposed to the drudge work like stock-taking and monitoring routine radio waves.  That wasn't the reason she had come to Tyler-Faber Enterprises for employment.

She rapped briefly on the door, stepping inside at his command.  "Sir?"

He glanced up from his desk.  "Can you type?"

Pale blue eyes regarded him noncommittally.  "Yes."

"Good."  He rose again and opened the door.  "Miss Setchel left us this morning.  You're her replacement until we can find someone permanent."

Petersen stiffened indignantly, her posture one of defiance, but she inclined her head slightly to affirm the order and strode out to the foyer desk.  The chair was still warm, and the indication was that Miss Setchel had left in something of a hurry.  Petersen sat with a scowl.  "Son of a bitch," she muttered angrily.

"What was that?"  Tyler, his compact, broad-chested physique framed by the doorway, was menacing even in non-action.  Setchel had been easily silenced by the sheer charisma of it, but Petersen was a person who had faced things more frightening than a mere employer, even if the employer in question was the infamous Ham Tyler.

"Do you do this to all the new staff, or is this personal?"

Tyler eyed her coldly, offering no justification, and she bristled.

"I'm not a clerk.  If I was I'd have joined the public service."

"Maybe that's exactly what you should do."  His distinctively deep voice carried an underlying threat.  He was getting close to firing two secretaries in one day, but insubordination he tolerated from no-one, and tantrums of any kind were even less acceptable.

"Maybe you should join me," she challenged, standing so that their gazes were level.  "I hear that's where all the burned-out heroes are going these days."

There was only a slight hardening of his already stony expression to acknowledge the barb.  He had, of course, heard the lunch-room gossip that the hard-hitting, ultra-tough Ham Tyler had lost his edge, that for all his reputation he was nothing more now than an impressive scowl and a deep voice.  Being desk-bound was not his ideal state of existence, and it irritated him to know his hard-won infamy was suffering because of it.

"Burned out, huh?" was all he said.

"Nothing personal," she replied, although her expression didn't budge either.  "But age catches up sometime."

He could, he thought, fire her on the spot, but in the end that would serve no useful purpose.  What he did have in mind, however, would keep Petersen in line, and bolster his fading reputation.

"I want you at the test field in half an hour," he snapped, "You'll be there, or you're out."  With that, he strode past her and out into the parking lot to his dark blue BMW.  Petersen watched him leave, vaguely incredulous at the unexpected action, but she phoned for a cab and walked outside to meet it.
 
 

"Sit!"

Alex heard the harsh tone and emerged from the surgery to see Jay-nine and Kay-nine, for once in their short lives, doing exactly as Ham told them.  Tyler was stalking through the house, peeling off layers of suit, and emerged from the bedroom minutes later in jeans, pullover and worn leather jacket.

"Anything in particular?" Alex raised an eyebrow at him as he got back in the car and slammed the door shut, "Or is the suit just getting to you?"

"Ask me later," was all he said, and the BMW backed down the small hill and disappeared.

Alex shrugged at the puzzled dogs.  "Don't ask me," she said, ambling back to the surgery and a porcupine with malnutrition and a skin rash, "I only married the man."

Petersen was waiting when he pulled up, and he wasted no time in petty explanations, heading straight for the shooting range.  It consisted of a mock street, complete with shopfronts, parked cars and varying obstructions.  The targets were programmed to slip into view in a random pattern, and could be either 'the enemy', denoted by ugly faces and black hats (Tyler sometimes wondered at the mentality of the person who'd designed it), or 'innocent bystanders' -- generally women and children.  Controlled as it was by electronic circuitry, Tyler had arranged for this range to have an extra feature -- the rate at which the target boards popped into view correlated to the speed at which they were shot down.  The faster one hit the target, the faster the next one came up.  It was a test of speed as well as skill, which were considered equally important by Tyler.

"Here," he tossed her an Armalite and nodded at the set up.

"I've done this already."

"You're doing it again."

She hefted the weapon into her hands, making a swift, professional inspection, then shifted it to a proper firing hold.

Tyler threw the switch and the first target snapped up.  With a completely natural motion borne of habit she crouched, whirled and fired almost in the one action.  That flowed into the next turn, scoring against the second target, and she walked through the range.  In two minutes she completed the run, feeling justifiably pleased with the result.  She'd missed only one 'enemy' target, and hit only one 'civilian'.

Tyler grinned wolfishly at her.  "My turn."

The automatic was gripped and held comfortably at waist level.  The lever dropped, the first target came up, and The Fixer swung into action.  He was fast -- always had been -- and he completed his run in one minute, eighteen seconds.  All enemies dead, no civilian casualties.  He let the results speak for themselves and ejected the used clip.

"Let's see how you are in hand to hand."

He chose a clear section of ground for this -- the object was not, after all, to knock her unconscious on sundry obstacles.  He discarded the leather jacket, pushed the sleeves of his pullover to his elbows and stood ready for battle.  It struck him suddenly that this ws no way to prove his reputation, by creaming a young girl in a fist fight.  Chris said she was good, but he had probably been too easy on her, giving her the advantage.   These were liberated times, however, Ham reminded himself, and he recalled a few women who had been every bit as dangerous in the field as himself.

Well, even if this fight did nothing for his reputation, at least it might keep Petersen, and her potential as a field-operative, in line.

"You first," he invited coolly.  She took him at his word, and came in low and fast, and he only just managed to avoid the full impact of the blow to his diaphragm.  Rule number one, he hastily added to his previous ruminations, was never to underestimate an opponent, even if she was a skinny girl of twenty three.

He was ready the next time she came at him, and sidestepped the blow, snatching her arm and twisting it up behind her.  Petersen fell back against him, forcing both of them to the ground, and rolled free.  Before she had a chance to press her advantage, he was on his feet again, and swinging out to sweep hers from under her.  She dodged the manoeuvre, and they backed off a moment, eyeing one another warily.

Rule number two, thought Ham:  believe your partner when he says the girl's quick.  Don't make the mistake of thinking because you have the advantage of muscle, agility won't count for anything.

She made the next move, darting in and under his fist, but he was ready for that and caught her with a solid swipe that disoriented her for only a moment, as she swept out with her feet and brought him to the ground beside her.  She scrambled on top of him, prepared to do harm, and had to tuck into a roll as he threw her bodily over his head.  Then they were standing again, circling one another like a couple of bristling dogs.

Tyler made the first strike this time, Petersen not quite evading the power behind it, and she whirled, swinging a vicious elbow back into his face before completing the turn to face him again.

It took him twelve minutes against a much younger and more agile body, but in the end he managed to prove his point.  He stood back at last, arms folded, waiting for her to crawl back to her feet.  She did so, matching his gaze with wariness, but also a more generous amount of respect.

"You're good," she admitted slowly, wiping the blood from a split lip.

"Make sure it gets around," he said and, collecting his leather jacket, he strode back to the car.
 
 

There was a quiet splash, followed by silence, and Alex crept into the bathroom to see her husband reclining in a tub of steaming water, pain and relief vying for room on his face.  He sported a dark bruise down his left cheekbone, a cut over his eyebrow, and a series of purple-grey discolorations along his ribcage.

"Did you and Chris have another 'disagreement on policy'?" she asked drily.  He opened one eye at her -- the other was swollen shut -- and his expression was not one of amusement.

"Disciplinary matter," he explained, closing the eye again.  "It's sorted out."

"Who won?"  She stepped onto the tiles and stood, hands on hips, critically inspecting the results of the said 'disciplinary matter'.  Other company heads, she was certain, didn't look like this after dealing with their staff.

"I did," he answered, somewhat indignant that she'd had to ask at all.  Eyes still closed, he heard a soft chuckle and a hand slide across his shoulder, gently kneading the tensed muscles there.

"Ai!!  Careful... ouch... Alex, no... just... " He tried to pull away from her, and let out a muffled grunt of pain.  "Christ, how did I get this badly outta shape?"

Her hand mercifully abandoned his shoulder and ran lightly down his chest.  "All that playing and no work," she reminded him cheekily, "Tends to dull the fine edge of combat."

The one eye opened again, this time regarding her with something of a challenge.  "Not tough enough for you, huh?"

"Oh, tough enough for me, mister -- but I like 'em with stamina..."  The teasing note degenerated into a yelp of startlement as one strong arm erupted from the water and wrapped itself around her waist.

"Ham... no!!"

Too late.  Alex Tyler, lab coat and all, toppled into the tub atop her husband, and for a moment she stayed there, stunned.

"Alex..."

"Cute, Ham.  Real cute."

Alex... could you just... move."

She cocked an eyebrow at him, but made no attempt to disengage herself from him.  Instead, she manoeuvred herself around to face him, and she grinned wickedly.  "What now, Superman?"

Tyler tried to smile, but gave up.  "Alex... my back is killing me..."

Alex rolled her eyes.  "You should have thought of that before you pulled me into the bath."  She fastened her lips to his and kissed him thoroughly before finally drawing back, and their one-eyed gazes met.

"Okay," he relented pitifully.  "But be gentle with me."

"You really are a mess, aren't you?"

"You noticed."

Showing pity at last, Alex clambered out of the bath -- an action accompanied by several restrained moans of pain from the hapless Tyler -- and stripped off her wet gear.  A giant towel soon clad her diminutive frame and she crouched by the tub.

"Ham?"

That eye opened again, with much more effort.  "Hmm?"

"The other guy looks worse, right?" she asked hopefully.

"Yeah.  Right."  He wished his dearly beloved wife would just go a long way away and let him sleep.

"I'll send out for dinner tonight."

"Hmph."

Tyler was drifting off to sleep and, smiling, Alex closed the bathroom door behind her as she left.
 
 

He pushed open one of the smoked glass double doors leading into the foyer and forced a natural rhythm to his stride.  Petersen was in already, strolling easily from the lift to her appointed place at the reception desk.

"These need your signature... sir."  She passed him the relevant papers, "And Mr. Hathaway called again, about today's appointment."

"I'll deal with that.  Thank you."  He disappeared into his office, still with that casual gait, until the door closed and he sank gratefully into his chair.  He really was getting old -- he'd given Petersen one hell of a going over yesterday, and apart from the obvious bruises, it didn't seem to have affected her.  He started on his fitness programme today.

Out in the foyer, Petersen lowered herself gingerly into the chair and released a slow breath.  Tyler the Man more than lived up to Tyler the Reputation -- after their vigorous and less than gentle bout on the training field she was battered from head to toe, and stiff as a board, yet he'd come strolling in as if it had been nothing more than a nice game of chess.  She would have to make a point of not judging by appearance or gossip; and certainly she'd have to make a point of not crossing him more often than absolutely necessary.

Tyler emerged from his office only once during the day, to consult with Faber in the communications room about the Silver Lake incident, and as soon as the door opened the charade of glowing good health began again for both of them.  He returned an hour later for a repeat performance, then cloistered himself with the paperwork for the afternoon.

Mid-afternoon brought an unexpected caller to the office of Tyler-Faber Enterprises.  Petersen looked up as a tall, muscular man strode into the foyer with the confidence of a rooster in its prime.  He was clean-shaven with sandy, wind-blown hair and an almost tangible air of arrogance.  He came straight over to the reception desk, leaning on the benchtop with wanton familiarity, and smiled his best at her.

"Is Ham Tyler in?  The name's Mike Donovan."

"Just a moment," she responded cagily.  "I'll see."

Donovan shrugged easily and stood back a little while the girl keyed the intercom.  He couldn't help but notice the split lip, swollen black eye and the closed expression that was so identifiable with his old colleague Tyler.  He knew Tyler would employ a rough bunch, but even his secretary was a chip-spitting guerilla.

"He's in," she announced curtly.  "That way."

Donovan strode into Tyler's office, and the first thing that struck him was that the purple, swollen bruise on Tyler's face was a perfect match for the one decorating the receptionist's face.  His expression conveyed his unwholesome, and very much amused, suspicions, and Tyler scowled.  The last thing he was going to do was favour Gooder with an explanation.

"What brings you to Seattle?" he asked, refusing to rise to greet Donovan -- an action which would betray his physical condition in any case.

"Actually," with that same air of familiarity Donovan perched himself on the edge of the giant desk, "I've come to ask a favour of you."  Tyler merely lifted a dubious eyebrow.  Donovan shrugged.  "There's been a bit of a kickback against the Visitors in LA -- even the Fifth Columnists are getting some flak..."

"So?"

"So -- I've brought Willie and his wife Thelma to Seattle.  I thought you might be able to find Willie a job."

"You did, did you?"

Donovan smiled broadly and reached across to slap a comradely hand down on Tyler's shoulder.  It was all the mercenary could do to maintain his painless facade.  "Come on Ham -- you know Willie's a good worker, and he's finding it real tough back home right now."

"I'll think about it."

"Knew you would."  Another hearty slap, and Tyler gritted his teeth.  "Hey, how's Alex?"

"Fine."

Donovan eyed Tyler with exasperation, then gave up.  "Look, Julie's not here in Seattle with me, but I want to take you two out to dinner anyway.  And Chris.  Willie wants Thelma to meet everyone too, so how about it?"

It was very tempting, actually.  He didn't much feel like cooking tonight, and no man in his condition should have to suffer defrosted TV dinners, or worse, Alex's sorry attempts at 'real' cooking.

"Okay," he agreed at last, "Where should we meet you?"

"The Linden Palace," beamed Donovan.  "Seven o'clock okay?"

"Yeah."  In truth, Tyler didn't care so long as Donovan left him alone NOW.

"Great.  See you then."  For a horrible moment it seemed as though he was about to slap Tyler's abused shoulder again, but mercifully he did not, simply waving as he walked out again.  He paused for a moment at the reception desk, looking at the girl's bruised face, then in the direction of Tyler's office, then back at the girl.  "Who won?" he asked.

Petersen dealt him a cold glare worthy of Tyler himself, and Donovan wisely decided to let the matter rest.
 
 

Alex, however, had not wholly forgotten the suspicion and coolness with which she and Ham had been treated until their marriage soon after the armistice.  Taking the commitment as a sign of her innocence was pretty ignorant, Alex had thought, but she accepted it in the spirit intended.  Ham, she remembered, had ignored both suspicions and absolution, his only comment at the time being that it had taken them a long time to conclude the obvious.

Chris arrived later, but gave Willie a boisterously affectionate greeting before squeezing in between Thelma and Donovan.

"Sorry I'm late," he apologized to everyone in general.  "Hold up at work."

Ham looked like asking what kind of hold up, but Alex nudged him under the table.  "After hours, remember," she insisted.

"Hey, like the eyepatch Alex," noted Chris, diving for a breadroll and nodding at the black-sequinned eyepatch she had bought for 'special occasions'.

"You're looking quite smart yourself," she acknowledged with a smile.

"Yeah," Donovan grinned at the large man as he downed the roll and started hawking around for a waitress, "Hungry as ever."

Chris just grinned.  "Ham makes sure I'm busy so I gotta keep my strength up."  He cast a meaningful glance at his friend, who ignored it.  Apart from Alex, only Chris had seen what a wreck their new recruit had made of him.

A waitress finally responded to Faber's searching expression, and she took the orders with apprehensive glances at the unlikely group.  There was a cocky, cheerful blonde man; a huge incarnation of a bear; a thin, quiet fellow who wanted a green salad and his equally quiet wife who wanted a steak, very rare; a stock individual with a scar and a black eye; and a little brunette with an eyepatch.  They were a disconcerting party, at the very least, though none of them seemed to be aware of it.

"Willie and Thelma have decided to adopt a surname," announced Donovan, "since they're going to be living on Earth from now on."

"Really?" Chris eyed Willie questioningly, and the little alien nodded.

"Yes... Green."

"Willie and Thelma GREEN?" asked Tyler with a disbelieving laugh.

Willie nodded.  "It was Mike's idea."

"Should've guessed."  Donovan only grinned.

"Well, how are things with you both?" Alex wanted to know.  The alien smiled readily, putting an arm around Thelma's waist.

"Fine, thank you Alex.  It has been a little... troubled... in Los Angeles, but we are hoping to find work here in Seattle somewhere."  He still spoke with that slightly hesitant tone, making sure he was choosing the right words and conveying his meaning without offending anyone.

"Ham told me about that."

Tyler shrugged.  "I looked into it, but there's not a lot going on right now," his eyes lit up for a moment, "Unless you can type?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't Mr. Ham... but Thelma," he nodded proudly at his wife, who smiled sheepishly, "speaks very good English, and she can write it too."

Tyler lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

"I was working for a while for Julie," she admitted, "Typing and things."

"I've got an opening for a secretary if you want to take it," Tyler looked to Chris for confirmation.

"Yeah," said the big man, turning to face Thelma, "The one we got now isn't really suited to it."

"Is that why you gave her a black eye?" asked Donovan innocently, looking at Ham.  Tyler glared at Donovan, and Alex glared at her husband.

"You gave your SECRETARY a black eye?" she demanded ominously.

Donovan started to chuckle, which did even less for Tyler's sense of humour than Alex's challenging stare.

"A disciplinary matter," said Tyler in a clipped tone, indicating 'end of conversation'.

"And she was 'the other guy', huh?" continued Alex, ignoring the warning.

"Yes," he gritted.

"Ha!" she said disparagingly, eyeing the bruised face beside her before turning away.

"So," Tyler went on doggedly, fiercely ignoring the preceding comments, "Do you want the job?"

"I... uh... yes.  Yes, I would like the job, very much."

"Done!" announced Chris, much relieved that the exchange between Ham and Alex seemed to have diffused, "Now -- to you Willie."

Alex, whose one good eye had been appraising her husband with a sardonic lift of the brow, shook her head in wonder at him and faced Willie again, giving Tyler's hand an 'I forgive you' pat under the table.

"How are you with animals, Willie?" she asked unexpectantly.  Willie considered for a moment.

"All right," he said finally.  "I think they know I'm a vetin... no... VEGetarian," he smiled, rather pleased with himself for getting it right.

"Well, I could use some help in the surgery," explained Alex, "Sometimes two hands and one eye just aren't enough.  Would you like to work for me?"

"Oh, yes Alex..." he paused, glancing at Tyler, "If Mr. Ham doesn't mind."

"Mr. Ham," stated Alex emphatically, "has nothing to do with my surgery."

"Oh..."  Willie wasn't entirely convinced, so Ham nodded unobtrusively, and the alien beamed.  "Yes, I would like to work for you."

"Good," Alex took up her glass in a toast, "It's settled.  To Willie and Thelma Green..."

"May they both survive the experience!"  Donovan grinned, winked and drank the wine.  Chris chuckled, and even Tyler finally relented and allowed his lips to quirk in amusement.

Willie laughed, just a touch worriedly.  "We hoe so too, Mike."

"Just what do you mean by that?" Tyler asked, but there was a glimmer in his eye that belied the gruff tone of his voice.

"Nothing," Willie assured him, but the joke was not lost on him, and he smiled.

The rest of the evening went well, Donovan and Chris providing most of the entertainment with anecdotes from their colourful pasts.  Thelma was a little embarrassed by the very rare steak she had with a serving of salad, as she had not quite gotten used to being a vegetarian yet, and compromised by eating only dead meat.  Thankfully, no-one commented, not even Donovan, though the newsman was tempted at one point to give the red meat to Tyler for his purple and black face.

At eleven thirty, Chris reluctantly rose to leave.  "Got a busy day tomorrow," he explained, "See you in the morning, Ham.  Thanks for dinner, Mike.  Give my love to Julie."

"Will do."

The goodbyes were said, and Chris departed, leaving Donovan to wonder what to do next.

"I think we had better leave too, Mike," suggested Willie, "Especially if Thelma and I are to start work tomorrow."

"Oh, I almost forgot," Alex grabbed a napkin, commandeered a pen from Donovan, and hastily wrote on the paper.  "Here, that's the address.  If you come around eleven I can show you around, give you an idea of the work you'll be doing."

Tyler reached into his leather jacket -- his good one, which Alex had bought for him to make up for the one she'd washed, as opposed to the one he wore to the testing field -- and passed a business card to Thelma.  "About ten will be fine," he said, "I'll get Petersen to show you the ropes."

"But don't ask her about the eye," warned Donovan good-naturedly, "She a bit touchy about it."

Thelma nodded, taking it all very seriously, but Tyler raised his eyebrows.

"Just what did she say to you?" he wanted to know.

"Oh..." he was about to make some cute comment, but saw the look on Tyler's face and restrained himself.  "Nothing.  She just gave me a dirty look -- a lot like the one on your face right now Ham -- and pointed out the exit."

Tyler jerked a thumb towards the restaurant doors.  "Exit's there, Gooder."

"Fine.  I can take a hint..."  Donovan rose, grinning, and bid goodnight to the Tylers.  "See you around!"  He waved and left, followed closely by Willie and Thelma.

"Not if I see you coming," muttered Ham.  Alex laughed and leaned towards him.

"Let's go home, Superman.  You have to rally your strength to break in your new secretary."

Tyler grunted at her, not too sure if she was making a joke or just making fun of him.  The answer was probably both.  With a small sigh of resignation he got to his feet, clenching his teeth as his stiffened muscles protested.

"At least," said Alex kindly, leading him to the door, "Your new secretary won't be inclined to beat you up so badly."

"YOU don't know what I'm like to work for," he warned her, and limped into his car.
 

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