They were purring through the nearly deserted streets, the electric motor barely audible, as Clayne let the orange and blue squad car roll slowly along. An early evening rainstorm had buffed the night air crystal clear, with puddles here and there in the streets and a few droplets still clinging to the clear plastic bubble over their heads. Both windows of the Guardian car were down, and Eric took a deep breath, savoring the cool, moist air.

“Beautiful night,” Clayne said lazily. It was the first they had spoken in over ten minutes, but the silence had been easy, comfortable, with no strain.

“Yes. It reminds me of nights in the valley.”

“Travis said it was a beautiful place.”

“It was.”

“So is Shalev.”

“True,” Eric conceded. “It really is.”

“We love it here.”

Eric turned and gave Clayne a long, searching look. Again there was silence for almost a minute. Then Eric spoke again. “Was your application for the country club accepted?”

Clayne’s head jerked around. “How did you know about that?”

Eric laughed softly. “My dad used to talk about scuttlebutt in the Army. I never really understood what he meant until I started training with the Guardians. Rumors and gossip fly everywhere in that place.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Clayne grumbled.

“So?”

Eric noticed Clayne’s hands tighten on the wheel, but when he spoke his voice was light and nonchalant. “No, our application was deferred. We’ve been put on a waiting list.”

“Uh huh,” Eric said gently. “And what about George Marshall?”

“What about him?” Clayne said, more quickly than he had intended.

“He applied after you, so they say. And he’s been accepted.”

“Who told you that?”

“What? That he applied after you, or that he’s been accepted?”

“That he was accepted.”

“Oh, George told us in the locker room a couple of days ago.”

Clayne grunted, then turned back and stared out the window, concentrating on his driving.

“It’s not the first time, is it.”

“The first time for what?” Clayne snapped, obviously irritated.

“Racial discrimination.”

“Buzz off, Lloyd,” he said, really angry now. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry. I was just wondering.”

“Look, Eric,” Clayne said, pulling the car over to the curb. He shut off the motor, and half turned in his seat. “Why don’t we cut the innocent, wide-eyed, child-wants-to-know routine? What’re you driving at?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re about as subtle as a pack of wolves running down a moose.”

Eric laughed. “I get the feeling you’d be some kind of moose to bring down.” Then, cutting off Clayne’s retort, he added, “and I don’t mean that in just the physical sense.”

Clayne’s dark face held its anger for a moment, then split in a wide grin. “I think physically, too.”