All of this, of course, had doubled the workload -- particularly in view of the paperwork.  Faber himself had brought home five folders full of comments relevant to the case, and a virtual tome had been sent home with Tash Petersen.  Some government department was doing a statistical study on Visitor activity since the war, and their company had been one of the lucky ones chosen by the state to add to it.  So, Petersen was putting her already overworked shoulder to the wheel, and getting that organized for Ham and himself to add their own comments.

Tash Petersen.  Now there was a real trooper.  Hard working, clever, capable, and not a bad looker when she took the time to do something with herself, as witnessed by her appearance at the ball.  Though she claimed to be unable to dance, she had appreciated the music, proving there was a slightly more refined character under the soldier's exterior.  More and more, she reminded him of Ham Tyler.

Chris chuckled, fetching a beer from the ice box and flopping down onto the sofa.  Tyler probably hadn't noticed it, but that girl was as steadfastly loyal to him as a leader as was Chris himself, for much the same reasons except, Faber guessed, this little lady had a slight tendency to deify the legendary Ham Tyler.  He doubted even Tash had noticed it, but he worked closely with both of them and the signs were a little clearer from where he stood.

Taking a thirst-quenching mouthful of beer, Chris reached across to the remote control on the crowded coffee table beside him and activated the television set, then made the whole exercise pointless by having to get up to remove a shirt that had been flung across the set.  That accomplished, he dropped back into the sofa with a sigh, reclaimed his beer and sat back to watch the news.

First was the regular report on the progress of the continuing peace negotiations: The Visitor ambassadors to be going to the world capitals, the arrangement for water production for their alien world, and at long last the delivery of that promised cure for cancer.  There was footage of Elizabeth Maxwell, sitting at the Leader's right hand at the world conference, talking earnestly with him about some point or other in the proceedings.  The report was followed then by a story on the renegade Visitors who, nine months after the cessation of hostilities, were still holding out in their pockets of the world.  A guerilla group in South Africa had launched an attack on Makwassie, southwest of Johannesburg, causing widespread damage and over three hundred deaths.  Similar incidents had occurred in Europe, Asia, Australia, and in the United States.  The incident at the Governor's Residence was cited, along with the good news that the assault had been thwarted, accompanied by the sadder news that the tiny town of Candy Springs in Nebraska had been decimated by a renegade Visitor attack.

The story ended and the mood was lightened somewhat by the confirmation of the predicted baby boom taking place now, and the newsreader commented wryly that the names of Charles and Diana were not on the list of Favourite Baby Names this year.  Chris did not even register the black humour as his lips pursed in contemplation.  It had been a good length of time since the ending of the war, and one of the first things the Leader had done was to denounce all those of his people who had disobeyed the cease fire.  The predicted pattern in the circumstances should have been the gradual decrease of renegade hostilities, but the opposite seemed to in fact be happening.  Incidents of attacks were increasing all the time, and were getting more and more ambitious.

Logistically, it simply should not have been happening.  By now those groups should have been running low on weapons, medical supplies, and morale, cut off as they were from the support of their own army.  The fact that they were not indicated there was something seriously amiss.

Chris heaved out of his seat and grabbed the telephone, dialling Petersen's number.

"Petersen."

"Tash.  Chris here.  Listen, do you have those government stat sheets we were supposed to be working on?"

"Sure.  I was just doing some work on them.  Does the government really have to know all that stuff?"

"Gives 'em something to read in the john, I guess," Chris shrugged the matter away.  "Look, I need to see a few things.  Could you meet me at Ham's place?  And bring those statistics with you."

"Gotcha."  The line clicked dead and Faber called his partner's home.

"Ham?"

"Yup.  What is it, Chris?"

"I got a real bad feelin' about somethin'.  Tash is on her way over right now with some papers I want you to look at.  I'll be right over."

"Right."

Chris dropped the receiver back in its cradle, snatched his jacket up from the floor, dug for his car keys and hurried outside into his Cortina, putting the accelerator to the floor with absolutely no regard for the traffic laws.

Ham had already started reading the statistical report when he arrived, and Chris directed him to the relevant sections.  Tyler's expression hardened perceptibly, as he came swiftly to the same conclusion that Chris had reached a scant fifteen minutes before.

"Someone's financing these lizards," gritted Tyler, his tone promising extreme unfriendliness for somebody.

Chris nodded grimly.  "It looks like they're all still using the laser guns too, sometimes the cannons.  I'd say their own army was still supplying."

"They'd have to be," interrupted Tash, her expression almost the twin of Tyler.  "They must be getting medical supplies too, and no-one on Earth would be able to give them that."

"Makes sense," agreed Tyler, scooping a startled porcupine off the lounge and depositing it unceremoniously onto the floor.  He spread the stats sheets out on the coffee table and grabbed a notepad and pen from a side table.  "Let's see what we've got," he said, and with Chris and Petersen ranged either side of him, they started the groundwork.

Alex, who had withdrawn to the surgery on Petersen's arrival, returned to the house at 11:45pm to find the intense conference still in progress.  She took in the scene from the dining room -- Ham sitting on the lounge leaning forward over a table covered in notes, sketches and printed pages.  Chris was perched up beside him, disagreeing about some point that had been made, and on the floor sat Tash Petersen, listening closely to every word.  It struck Alex that the girl was like a disciple, attending to the sermons of the head priests in order to 'spread the faith'.  The image was an absurd one, and Alex disappeared into the kitchen to amuse herself with the possibilities of it while she made coffee for the engrossed evangelists.

The discussion seemed to have wound down to an extent when she brought in the tray of mugs and set it down on the table.

"You all looked kind of busy," explained Alex, "And I thought you might be in need of caffeine."

Tash accepted the cup with a brief smile, much more relaxed now than when she and Alex had first met, and returned her attention to the discussion.  Alex sat herself down on the floor by the lounge, deciding she was curious about this mysterious discussion.  She sipped at the hot brew and tried to make sense of what they were saying.  She wasn't terribly successful -- the three of them weren't entirely sure of their ground, and they had neglected to inform her of the necessary background details.  All that got through to her were some garbled speculations on Visitor tenacity and a hint of something bad.  She did ask what was going on, only to be told in an off-hand manner:

"Nothing we can be sure of.  Maybe nothing at all."

It was far from satisfactory, but in a room full of soldiers, she was the odd one out, and they excluded her.  Unconsciously, perhaps, but very definitely.  In the end, Alex tired of the conspiracy to ignore her, and retired for the evening.

The three of them were still there when Alex got up for her six a.m. rounds.  A collection of empty coffee cups now littered the room, along with scrunched up balls of paper (which Goliath was making great sport of ) and Chris' fatigue jacket.  Petersen was stretched out on the floor, her back resting on the leg of the coffee table, tapping a pen thoughtfully on a map which, Alex realized, had been torn from the atlas which used to sit on the top shelf of the bookcase.  Kay-nine was sprawled on the floor beside her, snout on paws and brown eyes rolled beseechingly at Petersen, who absently patted the animal's head.  Ham, both feet braced against the coffee table, had another sheet of the dismembered book and Jay-nine on the lounge beside him.  Chris was propped up against a wall with more sheets of the atlas and a trusting squirrel cuddled into his lap.

"I don't know, Ham," the big man was saying, throwing the maps to one side, "It'd be a damned complex operation."

"Perhaps.  But it is possible."

The theory was that someone in the Visitor hierarchy was no more pleased with  the armistice than the original renegade groups had been and was conspiring to support them in a last ditch attack on Earth.  Half the night had been spent discussing and rejecting various known Visitor commanders.  Diana was immediately disqualified, on account of her having been publicly executed at the end of the war when the full extent of her treachery had been discovered.  Her attempt to assassinate the Leader and Elizabeth had killed only one of the shuttle's occupants -- Kyle Bates.  Having stowed away on the ship, he discovered the explosive device bare moments before it was due to detonate.  It had been a heavy contraption, and he'd had to carry it into the airlock, an action which left no time for him to retreat to safety before ejecting it into space.  He had opened the airlock and fallen into the void with it as it detonated.  Kyle had been celebrated as a martyr to the cause of peace; Diana and James had been summarily executed without trial and with much publicity.  Alien justice was swift and final.

Hours of talking, however, had still not produced the name of a suspect, though his, or her (or its, as Petersen insisted) location had been more or less pin-pointed.

On declaring the war over, the Leader had sent most of his fleet homeward, leaving only two ships in Earth's proximity.  One was stationed in Earth's orbit and the other, as a standard procedure, was out towards Saturn.  It served as back-up for the first Mothership should any crisis occur, but was positioned far enough out to make the justifiably nervous inhabitants of Sol III feel a bit more comfortable.

It was on this second ship, in Saturn's orbital path, that the surmised conspirator was conducting the subversive war.  The other was too close to Earth, and the Leader's jurisdiction, to be too heavily involved in the operation on the command scale, though there would obviously be sympathizers.

The point Chris Faber had been debating with his partner was the method by which arms and medical supplies were being delivered to the scattered, but apparently very organized, renegades.  Such a volume of goods could not have been dispensed from the Earth-based mothership without someone loyal to the Leader noticing, so it stood to reason that the second ship was fulfilling the renegades' needs.

Tyler had made a number of unwelcome calls in the middle of the night to various contacts in the government, and had found out that as part of the current agreement with the Leader, the aliens were permitted to make a reconnaissance of Earth themselves, which they did every week in order to assure themselves that no great armies were being amassed against them.

It was logical that a shuttle would be sent from the Saturn orbit to Earth at least as often for debriefings and conferences, and that was the crux of the supply problem.  Every few weeks the Saturn shuttle would carry not only ranking members of the Visitor army, but enough supplies for one or two major groups of renegades.  That shuttle would be met in orbit by the Earth recon shuttle, where the illegal cargo would be transferred from one to the other, and both would carry on their way.  The Earth shuttle would then make its deliveries to prearranged drop points for the groups most in need during its run.  Searching for the most likely drop points was, in fact, the reason for the sadly dismembered atlas.

"It's possible," admitted Chris sceptically, "But I still think it's a hard way to go about it."

"Subversion is never simple," Tyler reminded him, "Besides, I can't think how they'd do it differently, and not be found out by their Leader."

"Unless he's in on it," said Petersen darkly.

Tyler shook his head.  "No.  All he'd have to do is recall his recall and start the war again.  A guerilla war doesn't benefit him in any way, and as long as Elizabeth's with him I'm inclined to think he's sincere about the peace talks."

Petersen shrugged, but accepted Tyler at his word.  "How can we stop it?" she asked.

"Ah -- there's the tricky bit."  Tyler leaned back and put out his feet on the coffee table again.  Jay-nine made a point of resting his chin on his master's thigh, and Tyler patted the dog absently, allowing Chris to explain the comment.

"We've got no evidence, see," Chris told Petersen, "So far we've just been guessing."

"But the attacks have been increasing, and that's against pattern; and we've worked out their Method of Operation," protested Petersen reasonably.

"If we tell 'em that, we'll just get a lecture about how aliens think differently to us, and a heap of other crap.  The M.O. won't convince 'em -- it's just guesswork.  The situation's still too touchy to risk upsettin' the Leader.  We can't expect to be taken seriously until we've got names and places, and witnesses to back it."

"That's ridiculous."

"That's politics."

Tyler snorted derisively.  In the old days, someone rich would have hired him at great expense to arrange an accident; end of problem.  Being respectable had its definite drawbacks.

"Okay Petersen," Tyler set his feet on the floor again, pushing Jay-nine away.  "I want you to get home and get some sleep.  We'll work on a way to get that evidence when we're awake."

Petersen nodded, climbed to her feet and with a brief nod to each of them, and a farewell pat for Kay-nine, obeyed orders.

Alex came back from her morning rounds with Willie at ten to find Chris Faber collapsed against the wall, snoring loudly and nursing a contented squirrel.  Ham was similarly reclined on the lounge, filling Chris' silences with quiet snores of his own, Jay-nine curled up beside him.  Alex toyed with the idea of taking a photo of the thoroughly endearing scene, but decided Ham would promptly make her eat the negative and took Willie out to the surgery.

Midday saw them both inside, fixing a conservative lunch of salad, mayonnaise and fruit juice.  Somehow, even without the distinctive odours of hot food, Chris was roused from his slumber and he ambled into the kitchen to disembowel the fridge, like a bear after hibernation.

"Good afternoon Chris," said Alex, quite used to Chris' devastating forays into the icebox.

"Uh-huh," was all Chris replied, and Alex thought the bear analogy was a particularly apt one.  One paw wielding a rapidly diminishing carton of milk, Chris grabbed a frying pan and deposited three eggs and four rashers of bacon into it.  Four slices of bread were slapped under the griller and an apple vanished in under two minutes while he waited for it all to cook.

Eventually, the smell of brunch drew Tyler into the kitchen as well, and he eyed the stove wantonly.  "I didn't think it was Alex," he commented, earning a glare from his wife.

"Here," Chris tossed a couple of raw eggs across the room, which Tyler deftly caught, as Alex and Willie looked on in fascinated horror.  Faber slapped his own breakfast onto a plate and went to the table to demolish it while Tyler saw to his own needs.

"Morning Alex," said Ham without much enthusiasm.

"Afternoon Ham," she responded, "Are you going to the office at all today, or is Thelma going to do all your work?"

"Ah, Jesus."  Ham grabbed the phone, called the office and told Thelma to cancel any appointments for today and reschedule them.  "Just get Cooper to call me if anything important comes up," he added, then had to rush back to the stove to rescue his eggs, which were sizzling ominously.

"How're things going Willie?" Chris finally got around to asking.  Willie contemplated the question for a moment before replying.

"I am doing well, I think.  Except sometimes the little animals are frightened of me.  Alex says it's their in... ins..." He groped for the right word, "Instincts!" he finished triumphantly, then glanced to Alex to see if he really had got it right.  Though he still occasionally stumbled over an unfamiliar word, his English had improved a great deal since he's first landed in America, and with Alex's tuition while they worked together, he was making fewer mistakes than ever.

Tyler, halfway through his mea, suddenly seemed to come to life for the first time, his piercing brown eyes regarding Willie with distracting intensity.  Willie blinked, wondering what he could have possibly said to cause such a reaction, and moved back a little as a knife was pointed in his direction.

"You might know," said Tyler, at last breaking the puzzled silence, "Who commands the Saturn mothership?"

"Uh... Kahlil, I think," answered Willie uncertainly.  "He was from the Arabian mothership originally.  I was supposed to have been assigned there, but..." he shrugged, not needing to complete the sentence.

Tyler waved the point of the knife at Chris.  "See what you can find out about Kahlil.  If he runs the mothership he should know about any missing supplies, and if he's not telling, then he's in on it."  With that, he returned his full attention to the bacon and eggs in front of him.

"I know a little about him," offered Willie.  Tyler lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at him.  "He is from an important family on my planet; a long line of career military people.  His family was one of the first to support the Leader when it was decided to come to Earth.  He is a very powerful person, and very effluential..."

"I think you mean 'influential'," corrected Tyler, deadpan.

"Ah, yes," Willie nodded, "Influential."

"Hmm.  What do you think Chris?"

Chris scratched his beard thoughtfully.  "Could be he doesn't like the way things are going down here, since he was all for the invasion, but he doesn't want to be too openly against the Leader till he knows what kind of support he's got."

"Just what I was thinking."

"Do you mind if I ask what the hell this is all about?" demanded Alex, somewhat disgruntled at being on the outside of this conversation.

"Later, later," he promised, rising.  "We've got some work to do.  Come on Chris, I want to see the governor."  He turned to give Alex a quick kiss.  "I'm not sure when we'll get back, so don't wait up for me."

"Do I ever?"

"No," he admitted, "See you later Willie."  He strode out, Faber following with another apple in his hand.

"Catch you later!"

Alex glared ineffectively at them as they took off, then shook her head.

"Earthlings!" said Willie, rolling his eyes heavenward, and she had to laugh.
 
 

In his office, Ham and Chris compared notes and were gratified to learn that at least the flight plan coincided with the probable drop points they had spent half the previous night deciding on.  It was all still guesswork, however, and both of them knew collecting evidence wouldn't be that easy.

"It's a pity we can't just go up there and blow those suckers right out of the sky," said Chris wistfully.

"Yeah.  Well, we might get a chance to at least watch it happening we can prove Kahlil's the brains behind all this."

Chris sighed.  "It's not the same."

Tyler just laughed at his partner.  The intercom buzzed and he answered it, still smiling.

"Mr. Tyler?" came Thelma's voice, "I have Mr. Drysedale on the phone -- he says someone was supposed to have been to his warehouse today to give him a quote, and no-one's arrived.  What shall I tell him?"

Tyler looked vaguely puzzled.  Petersen was due to make that call and, to his knowledge, she had never missed an appointment.

"Tell him our agent probably got held up in traffic."

"I told him that, Mr. Tyler.  He says it's an hour past the original appointment time."

"Then tell him... damn.  Switch him through to me."

He handled the call brusquely, saying that the said agent would have a good reason for the non-arrival and would later today be all right.  Drysedale grudgingly agreed, and Tyler hung up disgustedly.  He paused a moment, then rose and strode out to the foyer.

"Thelma, has Petersen reported in this morning?"

"No Mr. Tyler, though the telephone wires weren't working for a while earlier this morning.  A traffic accident, I believe."

"Let me know if she gets here," he said, his irritation obvious.  Right on cue, the main doors swung open and Petersen came in, her expression perhaps more sombre than usual.  Tyler glared at her as Chris came up behind him.

"You're late, Petersen, and you missed a call.  If it happens again, you'll be back to stocktaking and Radio 6.  Got it?"

"Sir."  Her tone and body movements were clipped, military fashion, and focused not on him, but on the wall just past him, like a good junior lieutenant.  Illogically, that irritated Ham too.

"You got a reason for this?" Chris demanded.  His tone betrayed nothing except annoyance, but he was a little surprised that Tash would have been so careless.  It wasn't her style.

"Sir."

Both men waited for her to continue, and reluctantly she did so.

"The Family Reunion Plan called yesterday.  They found my parents.  I went to the airport to pick them up this morning.  I tried to call sir, but I couldn't get through."

Her employers were taken aback by this confession -- everyone knew the Family Reunion Plan's function, and it figured that Petersen had not seen her family in at least a year, probably much longer, and as an excuse for tardiness it was one that even Tyler could understand.  But the girl seemed to be treating it as just one more piece of information: there was no hint of emotion behind the stony face.

"All right," said Tyler after a moment, "You can make that call with Drysedale now.  Then you can take the rest of the day off, if it's clear with Mr. Faber."

"Right with me," Chris affirmed.

"That won't be necessary, sir."

"Fine... dismissed."  Tyler almost expected her to salute as she turned on her heel and left.  He and Chris exchanged a look -- Petersen was behaving very oddly indeed -- but they pushed the disturbing encounter from their thoughts and returned to work.
 
 

She gave a small sigh.  Her brother had been taken along with her parents while she herself had been away in university as a first year law student.  He had not been located, and it was doubted that he ever would be.  Tash found herself unable to mourn for his passing; she had done that when her family had first been taken.  Besides, in the end, Adrian was just another casualty of war, and she had long ago ceased to grieve for those.

The chill of the carpark started to get to her, and she finally dismounted her bike and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor.

Eileen Petersen was busying herself in the kitchen when Tash walked in.

"Hello dear."

"Hi mom." Tash managed a small smile, but it was more for her mother's benefit than actually sincere.  "Dad."  She dutifully nodded to him as she walked on through to the bathroom to wash up.

The Petersens had not been treated kindly by their long confinement in cryogenic suspension.  Both were pale and thin, and the traumatic effects of emerging into a world five years older was reflected in their uncertain movements and nervous silences.  Their world had been radically altered, from the loss of their home, to the death of their son, to the seemingly inexplicable changes in their daughter.  To their memories, it had been only weeks since they had last seen her -- a bubbly nineteen year old, excited about her upcoming year at university and her prospects as a lawyer at the end of the course.  No trace of that girl appeared in the tacit, introspective twenty-three year old who had greeted them this morning at the airport.  At first she had seemed pleased to see them, but before long she had fallen silent, closing herself off emotionally and leaving them with the feeling that they were travelling with a stranger.

"How was work today?" asked Henry Petersen as his daughter emerged from the bathroom.

"Fine."  Tash walked past him and into the small kitchen.  "Let me do that, mom."

"I don't mind," Eileen assured her, tending to the steaming vegetables.  "It's nice to be doing it again."

Tash shrugged and dropped the matter.

"Where did you say you worked?" her father looked at her from where he sat on the couch wrapped in a woollen blanket.

"Tyler-Faber Enterprises."  She would have left it at that, but her father continued to look enquiringly at her and she went on.  "A security firm."

"And you work in the office?"

"No.  On the field."

"Surely that's dangerous!" exclaimed Eileen, and the woman did not like the sudden lupine smile that came to Tash's lips.

"Yes, it is.  Sometimes."

"Have you thought about going back to university?" Henry wanted to know, trying hard to keep the failing conversation in motion.

"Tried that in the year between invasions," shrugged Tash, reaching into the fridge for a fruit juice, "Failed every subject."

"You could try working somewhere else," suggested her mother worriedly.  "As a secretary or..."

"I like it where I work," Tash insisted coldly, and Eileen got angry.

"Your boss wouldn't even let you have a day off to spend with your family!  What kind of man would do that?  Let alone let a young woman involve herself in such dangerous work.  It's disgusting!"

There was a glimmer in the girl's eye that even one or two Visitors had dared not challenge, but Eileen did not recognize it.

"You should get yourself a proper job," the woman snapped, "Something suitable, and not with a... a... hired killer."  She spat the words.

"Ham Tyler," gritted Tash slowly, "Is a damned fine soldier and a good man to work for.  If it wasn't for him I'd be slumming it in an alley with the stray cats and winos by now."

"If it wasn't for him, you wouldn't be behaving like a murdering slut!"

"My job is MY business.  If you don't like it, shove it."

The older woman's hand came up in anger to slap down the disrespect in that cold voice, and was halted mid-movement as a strong, harsh grip encircled her bony wrist.  Tash glared at her mother.

"Natasha... you're hurting me..."  Eileen was more shocked than in pain, but she could not tell what her daughter was feeling as she released the wrist and strode to the doorway.

Eileen Petersen began to cry as the door slammed shut, and her husband pulled the blanket to his chin, shivering.
 
 

There was a gaping chasm between them -- the parents not only expecting but demanding their daughter to be the sam person they had left; the daughter hardened by a war where being hard was the only way she'd survived, unable to comply.

She came upon a park, black and foreboding in the darkness, and felt the sudden urge to run, to expend all the frustration and anger in one violent burst of action, a remedy that had worked often in the past.  But in those days, the problems had been more tangible ones of war.  She ran until her lungs ached, stopping at last to lean, gasping, against a tree.  It helped a little, but not much.

Suddenly feeling the cold, Tash hugged herself for warmth and walked back to the apartment.
 
 

Seeing that the pup was settled she walked out of the infirmary to the waiting room where Willie sat chatting amiably to the dog's owners.  They were looking a touch wary that a Visitor should be working so closely with small animals, but Willie seemed oblivious.

"How's Tubbs?" asked the young girl anxiously, rising to greet the vet.  Alex bit back a sharp reply.

"He should be fine, with lots of care and attention.  I want to keep him here for a few days though, just to make sure."

"Don't worry," Willie assured the girl, with an encouraging smile, "We will take very good care of him."

The girl's father glared at him suspiciously.  "You'd better."

"Willie is excellent with the animals," Alex told the man coldly, "Kindly don't be rude to my staff."

The man glared at her, but held his peace.  "Come on, Kerry," he took his daughter's shoulders and steered her towards the door.

"But I want to see Tubbs!" Kerry protested.

"He's sedated," Alex told her.  "Come see him tomorrow."

She nodded, still not pleased with the arrangement, but her father seemed to be in a hurry to leave.  Alex watched the door close, and sighed.

"Last one for the day, thank God.  Let's close shop and have a break, eh?"

Willie nodded, closing and locking the main door and following Alex through to the house.

"Tubbs will be all right, won't he?" he asked in great concern, "Kerry was very upset."

"He'll probably have a bit of a limp, but apart from that he'll be fine," Alex assured him, and he relaxed a little.  She smiled.  Willie really was very good with the animals -- he was constantly concerned for their welfare, and could often be found in the infirmary petting them and making sure they were completely comfortable.  If only more humans were like that.

Sitting down in the kitchen for coffee and fruit juice, they heard the front door open and the dogs, as usual, went berserk.  Alex held a finger to her lips to shush Willie as they heard the shout of protest and the command to sit, which both Shepherds cheerfully ignored.

"All right, all right!  Just..."  Alex heard the briefcase drop and a friendly chuckle as Ham greeted the dogs.  "Is that better?  Hmph.  Why don't you ever do this to Alex, huh?"  A moment later, he strode into the kitchen, suit jacket slung over one shoulder.

"Evening Willie.   You're working late today."

"Tubbs got run over," Willie reported solemnly, "Alex had to fix him."

"Ah.  I see."  Ham had no idea who or what Tubbs was, but with Willie it was best to take it all very seriously, before he started to explain it.

"Coffee?" offered Alex, rising to get her homecoming kiss.  The phone rang, interrupting her. "I'll get it," she said, "You make the coffee -- I'll have another one, while you're at it."

Ham proceeded towards the kettle while Alex picked up the receiver and spoke cheerfully into it.  "Hello, Tyler-Bailey residence."

"Mrs. Tyler," the nervous voice of an older woman answered her, "My name is Eileen Petersen.  My daughter Natasha works for your husband."

"Yes, Mrs. Petersen.  What can I do for you?"

"I... ah..." the woman was flustered, and had to force herself to go on, "I think... I suspect that my daughter and your husband are having an affair."

The accusation was met with stunned silence, and Ham wondered why Alex was giving him that funny look.

"What makes you say that?" she asked at length.

"It's just... the way she talks about him, and she's never home, and..."

"Did Mike Donovan put you up to this?"

"Who?... No, no... Mrs. Tyler, I know it's not really my business but... but I don't like Mr. Tyler or the effect he's having on my daughter.  I don't want her near him, so I'm telling you so you can put a stop to it!"

Alex was trying to suppress a grin now, her green eyes regarding Ham mischievously.  "I think I can assure you that nothing is going on," Alex told Mrs. Petersen, "I can guarantee it, in fact.  Good day."  She hung up, dissolving into a giggle, all the while staring at Ham.

"What was that all about?" he wanted to know, putting down his coffee.

"That was Mrs. Petersen," she said, a broad smile plastered across her face, "She says you and Tash Petersen are having an affair."

Ham made a derisive sound and picked up his coffee again.  "Who's got the time?"

"Ha!" Alex was indignant.

"Besides," continued Ham, regarding her with a smile, "She works with Chris, not me."

"But if she did work with you it might be different, huh?"  Her tone was bantering.

"Oh... could be."

"Them's fightin' words, mister!"

"Ah..."  Willie hastily vacated his seat, "I had better go.  I will see you tomorrow Alex.  Mr. Ham."  He was gone in a moment.  It wasn't that he feared an argument -- he recognized the playful tones of Alex's voice and thought it best to depart before anyone had a chance to be embarrassed.

Alex laughed, sitting down in Ham's lap as Willie's station wagon took off into the growing darkness.

"I've been told to win back my man," she informed him wickedly, "Mrs. Petersen doesn't fancy you at all."

"She doesn't do a lot for me either," admitted Ham, putting down his coffee to get a better grip on his wife.

"What about Tash?  You have been spending an awful lot of time with her lately..."

"That's just business," he assured her distractedly, nibbling at her earlobe.

"Yeah, about that," Alex wriggled away from him, "What's it all about?"

"Just a little problem.  We're working on it."

Further conversation was brought to a halt by an intense kiss which, if Mrs. Petersen had been witness to it, would have dispelled any doubts as to Ham Tyler's fidelity.
 
 

There was a knock at his door,and Lawrence glanced up.  The door opened and one of his assistants walked in to stand at his desk.

"What is it?" he asked in his own language.

"You have read the report, sir?" asked the minion in kind.

"I have.  The raid on the Governor's residence was a complete failure.  Half of our force dead, the cannon and ground vehicle confiscated, and not a single human life taken,"  Lawrence made a sound of disgust, "It's disgraceful."

"We've found out who was responsible for the security measures -- an organization called 'Tyler-Faber Enterprises'."

"Tyler...?"  That name was familiar.

"Ham Tyler, yes, and his partner Faber.  They were stationed in Los Angeles, and later in Chicago and Canada during the war."

"Well, it makes our failure a little more understandable," Lawrence's gruff tones carried some admiration, "Ham Tyler has a reputation for excellence.  It is a great shame that he is a human."

"We have reason to believe he was also responsible for the massacre of the 8th Unit six weeks ago, at Spirit Lake."

The alien commander leaned back in his chair, pondering that information.  "Do you think he is aware of our co-ordinative efforts?" he asked at last.

"I wouldn't say so, sir.  At least, anything he has concluded would be on the basis of conjecture.  None of our soldiers have been taken prisoner, and no shipment have been intercepted.  He will have no evidence."

"Hmm. I want you to keep an eye on him just the same.  We cannot afford to allow the extent of our organization to be known yet, and he may present a threat."

"Sir."  The Visitor saluted smartly and departed the austere office.  Lawrence stared at the closed door for a moment, then with a sharp movement changed tracks of thought, and went back to his work.
 
 

The BMW pulled up outside the house and Tyler went inside, intending only to pick up his combat gear and gun and to say goodbye to Alex before meeting Chris, Petersen and their small team at the training field.  He stepped over the threshold and came to a sudden halt as Alex threw his leather jacket forcefully at him.

He caught it and stood looking at his wife in puzzlement.  She was glaring at him, and holding his unloaded Armalite in one hand.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked coldly.

Tyler regarded her impassively.  "I told you on the phone.  We have to go to Oregon.  A renegade group's been..."

"That's not what I mean."  Her jaw was firmly set and the eyepatch, instead of humourly detracting from the effect, served to make her look possibly angrier than she already was.

"What did you mean?" Tyler asked drily.

"All night conferences, sudden visits with the governor, secretive planning, and going on missions not in your jurisdiction.  I want to know what the hell is going on."

"I thought the agreement was you'd stick to your business and I'll stick to mine."

"So I'm supposed to sit at home like nothing's happening while you go on 'business' to the war front?"

"You knew what you were in for when you married me."

"If you're taking so much trouble to put yourself on the firing line, at least I have the right to know why!"

"We have work to do," Tyler slipped into his jacket.

"By 'we' I suppose you mean you and Chris."

"And Petersen.  And a few others."

At Petersen's name, Alex stiffened, her fury mounting.

"Christ, Ham, she's only a child..."

"She's adult enough."

"She shouldn't be fighting your wars."

"I can't help what the Visitors did to her."

"You're certainly not helping her get over it."

"What do you expect from me?  I'm not much of a councillor -- by the time I was her age I'd been fighting 'Nam for five years and was lining up for the next war."  Tyler's voice was still quiet, but he spoke with a hard edge that warned her off.  Alex either didn't notice or didn't care.  She pitched the gun at him, her glare still challenging.

"Before you go off to play with your friends," she said contemptuously, "Are you going to tell me why?"

Tyler checked the gun, and held out his hand for the ammunition.  She picked it up from the sideboard and slammed it into this palm.

"There's a Visitor conspiring to start the war again," he explained tersely as he loaded the weapon, "We have to get one of these renegades alive to prove it."

"Your confidence is appreciated."

Tyler matched unyielding gazes with her.  "Anytime."  He turned his back on her and returned to the car.  Alex listened as the engine faded into the distance, and with a cry of fury slapped her hand into the wall.
 

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