Time and Again

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