Crisis by Roger Elwood

Author:Roger Elwood [Elwood, Roger]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0840763743
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 1973-12-31T21:00:00+00:00

The Spacers’ Dance

by Maureen Exter

Melanie is working mindless today, standing over the tub of soaking clothes and staring at times toward the grove where the dance was held and where the trees sheltered the dancers when they wandered away. Her hair needs washing—its copper-colored length hangs lank on her shoulders rather than shining, wirelike, in the strong sunlight. She does not hum an old song or one of the new songs brought by the Spacers; she does not lapse into easy chatter with me.

Melanie has been loaned to me by her mother, who is my youngest daughter and who has several other girls at home to do girls’ work. However, although Melanie’s body works without stint today, she is little company.

“It takes more muscles to frown than smile,” I say to her as I watch her throw steaming clothes over the railing to dry.

She manufactures a smile, and then her gaze travels again. “I’m not lazy,” she says.

It’s true. She’s a healthy young girl, prettier than most, and bursting with enough energy so she could cry all day if she wanted. Which is what she did yesterday after the Spacers left—after her Spacer left, the loud, laughing one with the black hair, the one who was dark as a pirate and wearing an earring in one ear as so many of them did this year.

“There was an expression around when I was young,” I start cautiously.

“It’s still around,” Melanie says, not looking at me. “ ‘Don’t fall in love with a Spacer.’ ” She glances at me again. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”

“Someone else mention it lately?” I ask sweetly.

“Everybody,” she says heavily. Then her lips shut tightly, and she goes after the wash with new vengeance.

In a while I say to her in a carefully offhand manner, “Will Harper said he’d come by later with some honey.”

She acknowledges my statement with a polite “um.” I believe my mentioning Will Harper annoys her, although her expression does not change. I have undoubtedly intruded on her thoughts of the sacred with words about the profane.

However, profane or mundane, Will Harper is the sort of farm boy who makes good husband material, hardworking and unimaginative. He tends to visit me when Melanie is here, and I saw his face when she danced with the Spacer all evening. He had the torments of a thousand devils in his eyes.

“Will Harper’s awfully ordinary,” Melanie says after a moment.

“He’s worth his weight from Earth,” I say easily, referring to his abilities as a colonist.

She tosses her red mane disdainfully. “So’s a tractor.”

She straightens then, wiping her hands very carefully on the front of her apron. Then, turning away from me, she takes the folded soft scarf from her pocket and opens it slowly, fold by fold. It’s large, perhaps a meter in length, and the blue goes from white to inky black. It appears to be infinitely delicate, although I know this artificial cloth to be quite strong. She holds it webbed across her hands.

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