Time and Again

time. He'd experienced both, but they were nothing compared with this. Blindly he reached for her, and his hands slid down her slick skin. Just as their palms met, they leaped over the top together.
    Perfection. Lazily content, Libby cuddled closer, resting her cheek just over Cal's heart, all but purring as he stroked her hair.
    Soothed. Every part of her was content. Body, mind, heart. She wondered how long it was possible for two people to lie curled in bed without food or water. Forever. She smiled to herself. She could almost believe it.
    "My parents have a cat," she murmured. "A fat yellow cat named Marigold. He doesn't have an ounce of ambition."
    "A male cat named Marigold?"
    Still smiling, she ran a hand down his arm. "You met my parents."
    "Right."
    "Anyway, he lies on the windowsill every afternoon. All afternoon. Right this minute I know exactly how he feels." She stretched, only a little, because even that seemed to require too much effort. "I like your bed, Hornblower."
    "I've grown fond of it myself."
    They were silent for a while, drifting. "That music." It was playing in her head now, sweet, almost unbearably romantic. "I keep thinking I should recognize it."
    "Salvadore Simeon."
    "Is he a new composer?"
    "Depends on your point of view. Late twenty-first century."
    "Oh." Her bubble burst. Sometimes forever was a very short time. Holding on one last moment, she turned her head to press her lips to his chest. His heart beat there, strong and steady. "Poetry, classical music and aircycles. An interesting combination."
    "Is it?"
    "Yes, very. I also know you're hooked on soaps and game shows."
    "That's research." He grinned as she pushed herself to a sitting position beside him. "I want to be able to speak intelligently on all popular forms of twentieth-century entertainment." He paused a moment, thinking. "Do you suppose they kept archives? I really want to know if Blake and Eva work things out in spite of Dorian's conniving. Then there's the problem of who's framing Justin for the murder of the evil and despicable Carlton Slade. I vote for the sweet-faced but hard-hearted Vanessa."
    "Hooked," she said again, and drew her knees up to her chest to grin at him. "Don't you have soaps?"
    "Sure. Never took the time to watch. I always figured they were for homeworkers."
    "Homeworkers." She repeated it, liking the precise, genderless phrase. "I haven't asked you all those questions." Libby settled her chin on her knees. "When we get back we should finish writing up everything that's happened to you."
    He flicked a finger down her arm. "Everything?"
    "Everything that applies. While we're doing that, and putting the capsule together, you can fill me in on the future."
    "All right." He climbed out of bed. Maybe it would be best if they stayed busy for the next few hours. He started to reach for his pants, then noticed the Polaroid, which had fallen to the floor. "What's this?"
    "A camera. Self-developing. You can have a picture in about ten seconds."
    "Is that so?" Amused, he turned it over in his hands. He'd been given one for his tenth birthday that could do precisely the same thing-and it had fitted into the palm of his hand. It had also kept the time, reported the temperature and played his favorite music.
    "You've got that superior smirk on your face again, Hornblower."
    "Sorry. What do you do? Push this button?"
    "That's right-No!" But she was too late. He'd already framed her and shot. "Men have been murdered for less."
    "I thought you wanted pictures," he said reasonably as he held the developing image in his hand.
    "I'm not dressed."
    "Yeah." He smiled. "It's not bad," he decided. "One-dimensional, but it gets the point across. A very sexy point across."
    Snatching at the sheet, she scrambled to the foot of the bed and made a grab.
    "You want to see?" He held the print tantalizingly out of reach but turned it so that Libby saw herself, her arms hooked around her bare legs, her hair tousled, her eyes heavy. "God, I love it when you blush, Libby."
    "I'm not blushing." She told herself she wasn't laughing, either, as she tugged on her clothes. Cal set the camera aside and tugged them off her again.
    When they left the ship, the shadows were long. After a brief discussion they decided to strap Cal's cycle to the back of the Land Rover and drive back together.
    "It's a good idea," Libby allowed. "If we had some rope."
    "What for?" Turning a knob under the seat of the cycle, Cal pulled out two thick, hooked