Chapter 2
The rain had slowed when he woke. It was only a hiss and patter against the windows. It was as soothing as a sleep tape. Cal lay still for a moment, reminding himself where he was and struggling to remember why.
He’d dreamed . . . something about flashing lights and a huge black void. The dreams had brought a clammy sweat to his skin and had accelerated his heartbeat. He made a conscious effort to level it.
Pilots had to have a strong and thorough control over their bodies and their emotions. Decisions often had to be made instantly, even instinctively. And the rigors of flight required a disciplined, healthy body.
He was a pilot. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on that. He’d always wanted to fly. He’d been trained. His mouth went dry as he fought to remember . . . anything, any small piece.
The ISF. He closed his hands into fists until his pulse leveled again.
He’d been with the ISF and earned a captaincy.
Captain Hornblower. That was right, he was sure of it.
Captain Caleb Hornblower. Cal. Everyone called him Cal except his mother.
A tall, striking woman with a quick temper and an easy laugh.
A new flood of emotion struck him. He could see her.
Somehow that, more than anything else, gave him a sense of identity.
He had family—not a mate, of that he was sure, but parents and a brother.
His father was a quiet man, steady, dependable.
His brother . . . Jacob. Cal let out a quiet breath as the name and the image formed in his mind.
Jacob was brilliant, impulsive, stubborn.
Because his head was pounding again, he let it go. It was enough.
His eyes opened slowly and he thought of Libby.
Who was she? Not just a beautiful woman with warm brown hair and eyes like a cat.
Being beautiful was easy, even ordinary.
She didn’t strike him as ordinary. Perhaps it was the place.
He frowned at the log walls and the gleaming glass windows.
Nothing was ordinary here. And certainly no woman he had ever known would have chosen to live here, like this. Alone.
Had she really been born in the bed he was now in, or had she been joking? It occurred to Cal that a great deal of her behavior was odd, and perhaps there was a joke somewhere, and he’d missed the punch line.
A cultural anthropologist, he mused. That might explain it.
It was possible he’d dropped down in the middle of some kind of field experiment, a simulation.
For her own reasons, Liberty Stone was living in the fashion of the era she studied.
It was odd, certainly, but as far as he was concerned most scientists were a bit odd.
He could certainly understand looking toward the future, but why anyone would want to dig back into the past was beyond him.
The past was done and couldn’t be changed or fixed, so why study it?
Her business, he supposed.
He owed her. From what he could piece together, he might well have died if she hadn’t come along. He’d have to pay her back as soon as he was working on all thrusters again. It pleased him to know that he was a man who settled debts.
Liberty Stone. Libby. He turned her name over in his mind and smiled.
He liked the sound of her name, the soft sound of it.
Soft, like her eyes. It was one thing to be beautiful; it was another to have gorgeous velvet eyes.
You could change the color of them, the shape, but never the expression.
Maybe it was that that made her so appealing.
Everything she felt seemed to leap right into her eyes.
He’d managed to stir a variety of feelings in her, Cal thought as he pushed himself up in bed. Concern, fear, humor, desire. And she had stirred him. Even through his confusion he’d felt a strong, healthy response, a man-woman response.
He dropped his head into his hands as the room spun.
His system might be churning for Libby Stone, but he was far from ready to do anything about it.
More than a little disgusted, he settled back on the pillows.
A little more rest, he decided. A day or two of letting his body heal should snap his mind and his memory back.
He knew who he was and where he was. The rest would come.
A book on the table beside the bed caught his eye. He’d always liked to read, almost as much as he’d liked to fly. He preferred the written word to tapes or disks. That was another good and solid memory. Pleased with it, Cal picked up the book.
The title puzzled him. Journey to Andromeda seemed a particularly foolish name for a book, especially when it was touted as science fiction.
Anyone with a free weekend could journey to Andromeda—if he liked being bored into a coma.
With a small frown, he started to leaf through the book.
Then his eyes fell on the copyright page.
That was wrong. The clammy sweat was back.
That was ridiculous. The book he was holding was new.
The back hadn’t been broken, and the pages looked as though they’d never been turned.
Some stupid clerical error, he told himself, but his mouth was bone-dry.
It had to be an error. How else could he be holding a book that had been published nearly three centuries ago?
***
Absorbed in her work, Libby ignored the small circle of pain at the center of her back. She knew very well that posture was important when she was writing for several hours at a stretch, but once she lost herself in ancient or primitive civilizations she always forgot everything else.
She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the tea she’d carried up with her was stone-cold.
Her notes and reference books were scattered everywhere, along with clothes she hadn’t yet put away and the stack of newspapers she’d picked up at the store.
She’d toed off her shoes and had her stockinged feet curled around the legs of her chair.
Occasionally she stopped hammering at the keyboard to push her round, black framed glasses back on her nose.
It cannot be argued that the addition of modern implements has a strong and not always positive effect on an isolated culture such as the Kolbari.
The islanders have remained, in the latter years of the twentieth century, at a folk level and do not, as has been implied in the human relations area files, seek integration with the modern industrial societies.
What may be seen by certain factions as offering the convenience of progress, medically, industrially, educationally, is most often—
“Libby.”
“What?” The word came out in a hiss of annoyance before she turned.
“Oh.” She spotted Cal, pale and shaky, with one hand braced on the doorframe and the other wrapped around a paperback.
“What are you doing up, Hornblower? I told you to call if you needed anything.” Annoyed with him and with the interruption, she rose to help him to a chair.
The moment she touched his arm, he jerked away.
“What are you wearing on your face?”
The tone of his voice had her moistening her lips. It was fury, with a touch of fear. A dangerous combination. “Glasses. Reading glasses.”
“I know what they are, damn it. Why are you wearing them?”
Go slow, she warned herself. She took his arm gently and spoke as if she were soothing a wounded lion. “I need them to work.”
“Why haven’t you had them fixed?”
“My glasses?”
He gritted his teeth. “Your eyes. Why haven’t you had your eyes fixed?”
Cautious, she took the glasses off and held them behind her back. “Why don’t you sit down?”
He only shook his head. “I want to know the meaning of this.”
Libby looked at the book in his hand, the one he was shaking in her face. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know the meaning, since I haven’t read it. I imagine my father left it here. He’s into science fiction.”
“That’s not what I—” Patience, he told himself. He had never had an abundance of it, and now was the time to use all he could find. “Open it up to the copyright page.”
“All right. I will if you’ll sit. You’re not looking well.”
He reached the chair in two rocky strides. “Open it. Read the date.”
Head injuries could often cause erratic behavior, Libby thought. She didn’t believe he was dangerous, but all the same she decided it was best to humor him and read the year out loud, then she tried an easy smile. “Hot off the presses,” she added.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“I’m not sure.” He was furious, she realized. And terrified. “Caleb.” She said his name quietly as she crouched beside him.
“Does that book have something to do with your work?”
“My work?” The question threw her off enough to have her frowning at him, then at the computer behind her. “I’m an anthropologist. That means I study—”
“I know what it means.” Patience be damned, he thought. Incensed, he snatched the book from her. “I want to know what this means.”
“It’s just a book. If I know my father, it’s second-rate science fiction about invasions from the planet Kriswold. You know, mutants and ray guns and space warriors. That kind of thing.” She eased it from his hand. “Let me get you back to bed. I’ll make you some soup.”
He looked at her, saw the soft eyes overflowing with concern, the encouraging half smile.
And the nerves. His gaze shifted to where her hand lay almost protectively over his, despite the fact that he had obviously frightened her.
There was a link there. It was absurd to believe that, almost as absurd as it was to believe the date in the book.
“Maybe I’m losing my mind.”
“No.” Her fear forgotten, she lifted her free hand to his face, soothing him as she would have anyone who seemed so utterly lost. “You’re hurt.”
He closed surprisingly strong fingers over her wrist. “Jolted the memory banks? Yeah, maybe. Libby . . .” His eyes were suddenly intense, almost desperate. “What’s the date today?”