They had had their fire and brandy when they had returned to the cabin. Then, because Libby was always one to organize, they had gone up to her machine to finish the report.

They would need three copies. The first for the capsule, the second for the ship—and Cal—and the third for Libby.

He’d had to admire her style when he’d read over what she’d done. There was no doubt in his mind that the scientists of his time would find Libby’s report both concise and fascinating. The rest was largely technical, and though he knew she couldn’t understand the calculations he was feeding her, she typed them out.

They’d spent hours over it, refining, perfecting, taking long periods when she would question him on the social, the political, the cultural climate of his time. She made him think about things he had taken for granted, about others he had casually ignored.

Yes, there was still poverty, but shelters and programs provided the very poor with a roof and a meal. There was still conflict, but all-out war had been avoided for more than 120 years. Politics were still argued over, babies were still cuddled. People complained that the skyways were too crowded. As far as Cal remembered there had been four, or it might have been five, women who had held the office of president.

The more questions he answered, the more she thought of. They fell asleep tangled together in bed in the middle of one of his answers.

They finished the time capsule late the next morning, filling the airtight steel box Libby had bought in town with what seemed most pertinent. One copy of the report was wrapped in plastic before they set it inside. Libby added one of her mother’s woven mats and a clay bowl her father had made when she’d been a baby. They added a newspaper, a popular weekly magazine and, at Cal’s insistence, a wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer. She added one of the two pictures she’d taken of his ship.

“We need more,” Libby muttered.

“I wanted this.” He held up a tube of toothpaste. “And I was hoping for some of your underwear.”

“Yes to the first, no to the second.”

“It’s for science,” he reminded her.

“Not a chance. We need a tool. We’re always very pleased when we find a tool on a dig.” She rummaged through a drawer and came up with a screwdriver, a small ball peen hammer and a pipe wrench. “Take your pick.”

He took the wrench. “How about a book?”

“Terrific.” She dashed into the living room and began combing the shelves. “I want popular fiction, something written in this era. Ah . . . Stephen King.”

“I’ve read him. Terrifying.”