"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 fire alone. He was the youngest male of the tribe. He and Merium had been the last children to be born. The tribe had numbered in the hundreds then, and the hunting had been good, the dogs still tame and easy to find. There had been other tribes too, wandering over the dust-veiled land. Ryan wondered what had become of them. But he only pretended to wonder. In his heart, he knew.
It was growing colder. He added more driftwood to the fire and watched the flames gorge themselves. Flames were like men, he thought. They ate everything there was in sight, and when there was nothing more to eat, they died.
Suddenly a drum throbbed out and a woman's voice chanted: "What is a tree?"