Time and Again

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 but 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