"There's different kinds of happiness," Abner said. "There's the kind that's handed to you, the kind that comes with safety and comfort and familiarity. And there's the kind you've got to fight for, the kind that's wrestled out of the ground, the kind that comes with pride because it's won. What kind did you sign up for?"
"What's it matter to you how I spend my time, Abner Wade?" Constance asked, her eyes flashing over her drawn-up knees.
"It matters," the young man asserted flatly. His blunt features were not naturally expressive, but Constance could see that the muscles of his face were twitching with repressed emotion. "I've got no say, I confess. But do you really want to end up like them?"
He tipped his head in the direction of the grove with the canopy that housed the mysterious sculpture. It wasn't visible from where they were, but she had a clear recollection of having seen it recently, and she was certain that he did too. Roughly half the colonists, along with a handful of Westward crew members, had formed an informal camp just outside the grove, having apparently lost interest in ever being far from it. They took turns communing with the statue and gathering in small groups to discuss their experiences and impressions. Every so often they would all assemble in a meeting, not unlike the mid-week services that had been held back on the ship, sharing revelations and singing songs. The last time Constance was among them, they were singing something new, a song she had never heard before; and yet it possessed a strange familiarity, as if the words were teasing at the back of her mind, just beyond conscious recollection. She had left, frustrated, feeling like an outsider.
"They seem happy," she mumbled.
"There's different kinds of happiness," Abner said. "There's the kind that's handed to you, the kind that comes with safety and comfort and familiarity. And there's the kind you've got to fight for, the kind that's wrestled out of the ground, the kind that comes with pride because it's won. What kind did you sign up for?"
"Don't you lecture me about fighting," Constance warned. "You've got no right."
The stout young man inched closer to her, his voice lowering. "I don't mean to chide, Connie. I know how hard you've scrapped to get here—at least I know some of it. That's why I can't figure what's become of you now."
Constance lowered her knees and crossed her legs, dragging fingers violently through a knot in her hair. "Fighting I can do. It's the waiting I can't abide. First, waiting for the crew to find a world for us. Now, waiting here for them to fix the ship. And why? So we can go back and wait some more. I ain't built for that. My whole life, I never waited for anything to come to me, because if I did that…" She paused, glancing down at Abner's earnest expression before self-consciously averting her eyes again. "…If I did that, nothing ever would," she mumbled.
"Come with me, then," Abner offered. "I've been going down to the landing bay, seeing what I can learn about the other folks that have been here. We could do that for years if need be and never scratch the surface. I'm heading back down in a little while, after I've rested up a bit."
Why not? Constance asked herself.