[*]

The alert light flashed while he was showering, in the Middleman locker room. Green light – not an emergency. Clarence welcomed the chance at some action. He took a few extra seconds to make his new uniform inspection-ready as he dressed. Especially with the 'gun,' if that was the right word, that the Middleman had given him three days into his training. It was angular and light and not at all based on gunpowder firing lead pellets. On the indoor range, on the 'training' setting, it fired blue beams of light that made robot targets convulse and fall. He wasn't sure about the 'live fire' setting. He handled it with at least as much care as an ordinary gun.

"Hi, kid," the Middleman greeted him in the control room. "Just a little chore. At 4:47 p.m. – that gives us two hours – we go to 451 Bradbury Way on the east end of town. There's a mixed-breed black dog, registered name "Scruffy," resident at the address. We catch the dog, take it back to the homeowners, and tell them they've got a hole in their fence."

Animals again. "If the dog's already out, why wait two hours?"

"On past performance, I'd say the dog isn't out yet."

"Why do we – why do our bosses care?"

"I don't know."

"How do they know the dog's about to make a break for it?"

"I don't know."

"What if we just call animal control?"

The Middleman held up a sheet of paper. "Orders. May I remind you, you thought there were no such things as werewolves."

A definite point. "I'm not against it. I just want to understand the parameters."

"Maybe if we talk slower and use little words," Ida suggested.

He ignored her. "Does this make any sense to you? Sir?"

"For highly specialized definitions of sense," the Middleman said. "You get used to it."

[*]

Their orders took them to a suburban neighborhood high in the hills, long winding streets with here and there a view out over the city. The house they'd targeted was part of a cookie-cutter development, not very different from the houses to either side or across the street. The Middleman cruised past it at low speed, pulled around the next corner to wait. "First time you've been out of HQ since Tuesday, if I remember right," he said to Clarence. "It doesn't have to be that way. Just because we're on call all the time doesn't put us on duty all the time. It's California, summer's coming. Hit the beach, stare at the girls. Go to the library, even. Or wait for nightfall and find a friendly bar; I assure you this town has them."

"I don't need anything else," Clarence said. "I'm keeping busy."

"Being the Middleman is a calling, not a prison."

"I haven't seen you out chasing … social contact either. Sir," Clarence retorted.

The Middleman shrugged. "I'm a respectable widower set in my ways; you're young. It's a fine line to walk. The temptation's there to draw back, be something less than part of the world while defending the world. What we know, what we do, sets us apart. But we can't give in to that isolation. Serving the people of Earth takes more than dedication. It takes compassion – and if we draw back too far, we risk losing that. Plenty of Middlemen have been married; had families, even. Don't go by me."

"I don't see how that could be possible," Clarence said. "Keeping that many secrets from someone you loved."

"You were a SEAL. You didn't talk off duty about classified missions, but that didn't have to make you a celibate."

"No. No, it didn't." Not the honorable, mission-critical secrets of his military career. The older one, stinking of death and dishonor, that had sent him to the Navy seeking rebirth and redemption in the first place.

For all the things he'd lost when he got himself thrown out of the SEALs and the Navy, Tamara wasn't one of them. He'd lost her months sooner, and with less justification. He'd done that to himself.

Women liked his looks, and the SEAL mystique was a powerful thing. He had never had trouble getting dates. Tamara had started out no different, a barroom pickup. He'd heard her exuberant laugh halfway across the room, and been curious. She was Navy too, support staff in the base hospital. Hardly more than a civilian in their hierarchical world, but she was deeply invested in her career. And her friends, and in him when he passed into that charmed circle. She was, he thought, probably the most emotionally balanced person he'd ever met.

Tamara's complex extended family was a time zone away, in South Texas, but they were the heart of her happy stability. Hardly a week went by without a phone call from one of her relatives. Hardly a day without an e-mail laden with pictures. She shared it all with him as warmly as she shared herself.

Then-Clarence had nothing to share in return. The only child of two only children, he genuinely lacked a similar network to offer her. What he did have, he spoke about sparsely and reluctantly. Every conversational thread seemed dangerous. Something as simple as 'tell me about your dad' had the wrongdoing that had sent him into exile looming on its path. He considered telling her outright, but his courage failed him. Tamara was a strong woman with a deep well of self-respect. Violence against another woman, however ineffective, was not something she'd ever excuse. He put it off, day to day, telling himself that they needed to know each other better. Clarence lived in the present as intensely as he could manage. For a while, Tamara was willing to join him there. As he felt more secure he expanded his focus to include the future; not just the next mission or the next deployment, but a lifetime's worth with Tamara beside him.

They were already living together in off-base housing. He proposed, one night in bed, and she accepted with tears of joy. If they'd been able to stay in bed, just the two of them, it might have lasted forever. But the very health and stability of Tamara's family worked against them. Not that they set out to break up the couple. They welcomed Clarence with open arms. He was included in the long telephone conversations. Every e-mail asked after him or included a friendly message. He began memorizing networks of cousins and nieces and stepsisters against the inevitable visit. He and Tamara were able to get leave at the same time several weeks after their engagement. They went to Texas to induct him into the huge, affectionate clan; disaster followed.

The complex extended family covered a wide range of skin tones, from Tamara's very dark to nearly as pale as Clarence's. He had no trouble spotting the highest ranking member. Tamara's grandmother was ninety-seven and still living in her own house with intermittent help from a retired daughter. She had cataracts and hearing aids and had given up driving a car when she reached seventy. She didn't go to family reunions. Family reunions came to her, so she could reign over them. Her youngest granddaughter was the apple of her eye, and genealogy her passion.

Clarence's transparent affection for Tamara and habit of saying "ma'am" won Grandma Tarlow's heart. She cleared a great-nephew out of the chair closest to her, in the small quilt-decorated living room, and began to draw Clarence out. His gratitude for the welcome quickly gave way to nerves. Grandma asked more questions about his past, or his family's, in two minutes than Tamara herself had in months. He placated her for a while with more distant ancestors. A three-times-great-grandfather he'd heard of as fighting in the Civil War was a real help. But the shrewd old woman kept the conversation moving closer and closer to the present, and she didn't miss a single sign of Clarence's growing discomfort.

He placated her with stories about Navy friends and unclassified missions. Then with stories from his earlier life that even Tamara hadn't heard. He had to step more and more carefully as he reached the danger zone; the chaotic few months after high school, before the Navy. His answers trailed off to monosyllables and long pauses. Finally, fatally, she drawled "For the good Lord's sake, boy, what are you so ashamed of?"

It was only in Clarence's imagination that the crowded room fell silent and every single soul stared at him. To most of the family, the hitch in the conversation passed unnoticed. But Tamara, beside him, went still and thoughtful. He avoided her eyes and asked Grandma a question about some commemorative plates on the far wall.

Nothing was the same, after that. As soon as they were alone, in the guest room at Tamara's parents' house, she gave him a chance to open up. Went on giving him chances, on the trip back to the base, in their shared apartment, in bed. The more she asked, the more silent Clarence became. He was unfailingly considerate, hoping actions would speak louder than words. He did everything he could think of to keep Tamara happy. Except what she wanted from him. He'd faced suicide bombers; he couldn't face her. Couldn't make himself speak the words to ruin her image of him.

When Tamara stopped asking, he was happier for a while. He thought they'd come to an unspoken understanding about leaving the past in the past. His training schedule was growing ever more intense, ramping up to a new deployment in the Gulf. Under the pressure of work he took a while to notice her own growing silences, her unhappiness. He tried to make it up to her in bed, but his touch was less and less welcome. The more her eyes accused him, the more he was afraid of the prospect of telling the truth. His only hope was that her affection, her trust in him would make excuses for the crimes of the past. Yet his own silence had eroded that faith and trust. One morning he woke up and knew it was too late. He'd broken their relationship past mending, even with the truth. Especially that truth.

When Tamara transferred to a base in Hawaii, not long before his last deployment, it was only a grace note. He'd been living on the couch for weeks. For a long time he wore her engagement ring threaded on his dogtag chain. Then he stopped, and left it behind in a storage box that didn't make the final move from Navy storage to his civilian disgrace.

He wondered what she'd say about this job, if she still loved him. She'd never have taken it herself. The secrecy, the separation from normal life went against everything she valued. The man she'd wanted to marry wouldn't have done it either. He wasn't that man, maybe never had been. Another failure.

Clarence thought about telling that same truth now, to the man of honor sitting beside him. When I was eighteen, I purposely crashed a car into my ex-girlfriend's house. People could have been killed. She was terrified... He shied away from the image. Ray's easygoing fellowship had become an important part of his life; he couldn't stand to lose that emotional bond. More, he wouldn't be allowed to keep this life. The Middlemen had standards of conduct at least as high as the military, and fewer ways to enforce them. Middlemen answered only to themselves, and each other. They'd never risk giving unrestrained power to someone like him.

"And there's the dog," the Middleman said. Pointed.

They had a good view of the side of 451 Bradbury, where a tall board fence closed off the back yard. Puffs of dust, almost invisible at this distance, appeared under one point on the fence line. One black paw and one white paw followed it, digging furiously; then, as the hole grew, a long black nose.

A frenzy of squirming, and a dog with clear signs of terrier ancestry wormed under the fence to freedom. "We're on." The Middleman started the engine and moved the car toward the dog.

The dog ambled out of his owner's side yard, vigorously sniffing everything that needed sniffing as he passed. His tail was up and waving, dog language for Whee! The Middleman parked at the curb close to the house. Clarence got out. "Here, boy." He made a clicking sound his childhood dog, Captain Sparks, had always liked. This dog opened his mouth, tongue lolling, and danced out of range. Nyah! Can't catch me! When Clarence moved forward, the mutt bounded back a similar distance.

"Kid." Clarence turned back to the car. The Middleman tossed him a small package. "Don't be faster than the dog. Be smarter than the dog." Liver treats.

Clarence held one out, made the clicking sound again. "Here …" he didn't remember the beast's name. "Dog."

The front door of the house opened and a bushy-haired boy about ten years old came out. "Scruffy!" The dog bounced in place, clearly torn between affection and the joy of a game of keep-away. "That's my dog, mister."

"I know." Clarence dropped the treat; the dog didn't let it hit the ground. "We're with... animal control … just happened to be passing by."

The boy looked suspicious – the joys of universal don't-talk-to-strangers training – but relaxed somewhat when Clarence patted the dog. He tossed the treats to the boy. With affection and appetite drawing it the same direction, the dog ran to the boy and began an I-missed-you-so-much dance. Clarence smiled and turned back to the car.

As he touched the door handle another vehicle barreled through the narrow twisting street, a full-sized pickup truck going too fast. It swerved around the Middlemobile with an inch to spare and kept right on going without pausing. The little boy, already taking his dog back to the yard, didn't look up.

Clarence felt chilled. "If we hadn't been here," he said. "The boy would have been chasing the dog, maybe into the street. That truck could have hit him."

"I think so, too," the Middleman said quietly. "Seat belt."

Clarence closed his door and fastened in. "The people we work for ..."

"Whoever they are," the Middleman amended.

"How did they know? How could they possibly know?"

"One of the joys of middle-life," Ray said. "We get orders; we don't get explanations. You see why I mentioned God and time travel as possible theories. Maybe that kid's going to grow up to be a scientist, or a doctor who cures cancer, or a Middleman. Maybe this was just our good deed for the day."

"How do you stand not knowing?" Clarence asked.

"That's a 'we' not a 'you.' We saved a life. Are the details all that important?"

Clarence thought about it. And smiled. "Not really."

[*]