Ryan was silent.

"Will there be a dance?" she asked.

"Maybe."

"I hope there is."

"Why?"

"I—I don't know. Because everyone's so different afterwards, I suppose—so happy, almost."

Ryan looked at her. Starlight lay gently on her child-like face, hiding the thinness of her cheeks, softening the hunger-shadows beneath her eyes. Again he remembered the night he had almost wanted her and he wanted it to be the same again, only all the way this time. He wanted to want to take her in his arms and kiss her lips and hold her tightly to him, and when desire refused to rise in him, shame took its place, and because he couldn't understand the shame, he supplanted it with anger.

"Men have no happiness!" he said savagely.

"They did once—a long time ago."

"You listen too much to the old women's tales."

"I like to listen to them. I like to hear of the time when the ruins were living cities and the earth was green—when there was an abundance of food and water for everyone.... Surely you believe there was such a time. The words of the Dance—"

"I don't know," Ryan said. "Sometimes I think the words of the Dance are lies."

Merium shook her head. "No. The words of the Dance are wisdom. Without them we could not live."

"You talk like an old woman yourself!" Ryan said. Abruptly he stood up. "You are an old woman. An ugly old woman!" He strode across the sand to the fire, leaving her alone by the water.

The tribe had broken up into groups. The old men huddled together in one group, the younger men in another. The women sat by themselves near the wavering perimeter of the firelight, crooning an ancient melody, exchanging an occasional word in low tones.

Ryan stood by the 

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