Chapter 7 #3
“Studying and interacting are different things.” He didn’t have to touch her to stir her, Libby realized. He only had to look, as he was looking now. “I’m not very outgoing unless I concentrate on it.”
He started to laugh, then realized she believed it. “I think you underestimate Liberty Stone. You took me in and cared for me, and I was a stranger.”
“I could hardly have left you out in the rain.”
“You couldn’t. Others could. History may not be my strong suit, Libby, but I doubt human nature has changed that much. You went out in the storm to find me, brought me into your home, let me stay even when I annoyed you. If I get back to my own time and place it will be because of you.”
She rose then to fix more tea she didn’t want. She didn’t want to think about his leaving, though she knew she would have to. It was wrong to pretend, even for a few hours, that he would stay with her and forget the life he’d left behind.
“I don’t think giving you a bed and some scrambled eggs constitutes a real debt.” She made herself smile as she turned toward him again. “But if you want to be grateful I won’t argue with you.”
He’d said something wrong. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, Cal could tell from the way her eyes had changed. She was smiling at him, but her eyes were dark and sad. “I don’t want to hurt you, Libby.”
Her eyes softened now, and he was relieved. “No, I know that.” She sat down again and poured each of them another full cup. “What do you plan to do? About getting back, I mean.”
“How much do you know about physics?”
“Next to nothing.”
“Then let’s just say I’ll put the ship’s computer to work. The damage was pretty minimal, so that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have to ask you to drive me out to the ship again.”
“Of course.” She felt a bubble of panic and struggled to get past it. “I suppose you’ll want to stay on the ship now, while you work out your calculations and make your repairs.”
It would be more practical, and it would certainly be more convenient. Cal gave it no more than a moment’s consideration. “I was hoping I could stay here. I’ve got my aircycle on board, so I can get back and forth easily enough. If you don’t mind the company.”
“No, of course not.” She said it quickly, too quickly, flustering herself. Then she stopped and backed up. “Your aircycle?”
“If it wasn’t damaged in the crash,” he mused. Then he tossed the possibility aside. “We’ll have a look tomorrow. Are you going to eat the rest of that?”
“What? Oh, no.” She passed him the second half of her sandwich. It was ridiculous, she supposed, but every now and then he said something that made her wonder if she was dreaming again. “Cal,” she began slowly, “it occurs to me that I can never tell anyone about you, or any of this.”
“I’d rather you’d wait until I’d gone.” He finished off the sandwich. “But I don’t mind if you tell anyone.”
“That’s big of you.” She gave him a bland look. “Tell me, do they have padded cells in the twenty-third century?”
“Padded cells?” He took a moment to imagine one. “Is that a joke?”
“Only on me,” she told him as she rose to clear the plates.
“It may be one on me, too. I’ve wondered if, once I get back, anyone will believe me.”
A thought struck her that was both absurd and fascinating. “Maybe I could do a time capsule. I could write everything down, put in a few interesting or pertinent items and seal it up. We could bury it—I don’t know, down by the stream, perhaps. When you got back you could dig it all up.”
“A time capsule.” The idea appealed to him, not just scientifically, but personally.
Wouldn’t it mean he would still have something of her, even when they were separated by centuries?
He would need that, he realized, the solid proof of not only where he had been but that she had existed.
“I can run it through the computer, make sure we don’t put it somewhere that’s going to be covered by a building or a landslide or some such thing. ”
“Good.” She picked up a pad from the counter and began to scribble.
“What are you doing?”
“Making notes.” She squinted at her own writing and wished she had her glasses.
“We’ll need to write everything down, of course, starting with you and your ship.
What else should we put in it?” she wondered, tapping the pencil against the pad.
“A newspaper, I think, and a picture would be good. We may have to drive back into town and find one of those little booths that take pictures. No, I’ll buy a Polaroid camera.
” She scribbled faster. “That way we can take pictures here, in the house or right outside. Then we’ll need some personal things .
. .” She fingered the thin gold chain at her throat. “Maybe some basic household items.”
“You’re being a scientist.” He took her by the waist and drew her slowly, unerringly, against him. “I find that very exciting.”
“That’s silly.”
But it didn’t seem silly at all when he lowered his head and began to nibble at her neck. She felt the floor tilt beneath her feet.
“Cal . . .”
“Hmm?” He journeyed up to a small, vulnerable spot just behind her ear.
“I wanted to . . .” The pad slipped out of her hand and landed on the floor at their feet.
“To what?” Quick and clever, his fingers loosened the knot at her waist. “Tonight you can have anything you want.”
“You.” She sighed as her robe slid off her shoulders. “Just you.”
“That’s the easy part.” More than willing to oblige, he braced her against the counter. A hundred erotic ideas swam through his mind. He was going to see to it that neither of them thought the same way about this cozy little kitchen again. The streaks of pink along her skin stopped him.
“What’s all this?” Curious, he ran a finger over the swell of her breast, then shifted his hand to his chin. “I’ve scratched you.”
“What?” She was already floating an inch off the floor, and she was less than willing to touch down.
“I haven’t shaved in days.” Annoyed with himself, he bent to lightly kiss the skin he’d irritated earlier. “You’re so soft.”
“I didn’t feel a thing.” She reached for him again, but he only kissed her hair.
“There’s only one thing to do.”
“I know.” She ran her hands up his muscled back.
With a laugh, he hugged her tighter. “That’s two things.” He scooped her up again for no other reason than that it felt wonderful.
“You don’t have to carry me.” But she nuzzled into his shoulder. “I can walk to bed.”
“Maybe, but we’d better use the bathroom for this.”
“The bathroom?”
“I’m going to have to deal with that nasty-looking device,” he told her as he started up the stairs. “And you’re going to walk me through it so I don’t cut my throat.”
Nasty-looking device? She tried to put it all together as he carried her upstairs. “Don’t you know how to use a razor?”
“We’re civilized where I come from. All instruments of torture have been outlawed.”
“Is that so?” She waited until he set her down again.
“I suppose that means women don’t wear high heels or control-top panty hose.
Never mind,” she said when he opened his mouth.
“I think this could become a very philosophical discussion, and it’s much too late.
” Opening the linen closet, she took out the razor and the shaving cream. “Here you go.”
“Right.” He looked at the tools in his hand with a kind of resigned dread. What a man did for his woman. “Just how do I go about this?”
“This is all secondhand, as I’ve never shaved my face before, but I believe you spread on the shaving cream, then slide the edge of the razor over your beard.”
“Shaving cream.” He squirted some into his hand, then ran his tongue over his teeth. “Not toothpaste.”
“No, I . . .” It didn’t take her long to get the picture. Leaning back against the sink, she covered her mouth with her hand and tried, unsuccessfully, not to giggle. “Oh, Hornblower, you poor thing.”
Cal studied the can in his hand. As he saw it, he really had no choice. While Libby was bent nearly double, he turned, aimed and fired.