But there was a real Glora Delar, too.
A blare of cushioning brilliance spilled over the view screen. The
rocket disappeared in a wall of flame; the dome opened; tractor beams
clutched the rocket, tilted it, dropped it gently. The prenavigated
controls combined with receiving facilities to work out the usual
mechanized and perfect routines. The pilot seemed bored. A dolt, Brooks
thought; a man regularly making this flight, unmoved by the grandeur
and wonderment.
As the rocket was gripped in the big robotractor arms and placed atop
a tubular gas duct preparatory to the return take-off, Brooks caught
a brief glimpse of the City of Stars. Just like the ads, the many
publicity shots of background for the Stars, at home, at work, at play.
Wide avenues between smoothly domed buildings, leading off into parks,
residential areas. The grass, the trees, the flowers were strange,
unlike anything on Earth.
Brooks jerked open the door, pressed the neurotube against the pilot's
neck. The pilot turned slowly. His face was unimaginative, white and
twisted with shocked surprise; he stared wide-eyed at Brooks.
* * * * *
"What--" the pilot whispered.
"Shut up!" Brooks warned. "I'm going out there. I want to see; open the
side port doors."
The pilot's eyes looked beyond Brooks.
"The Guard's dead," Brooks said. "I killed him with an electrodrill. I
can keep this neurogun on you until you die too. Open the doors; don't
try to stop me from going out there."
The pilot choked. "I'll not try to stop you. Go ahead. Why should I try
to stop you?"
"You'd better _not_ try to stop me," Brooks said. "Let me tell you
something. Listen, the Sensory Shows are no good. They create an
_illusion_ of happiness for us, like dope. Anything that makes an
illusion of happiness with no basis in reality--that's wrong; it's the
same threat to a man's mind that learning to stop being hungry without
eating would be to your body. Isn't that right?"
The pilot's mouth hung wordlessly open.
"I'll tell you what's wrong." Brooks' voice was loud. "A dream has
to be possible to find in reality, or it's no good. That's where
Personology's wrong. Dreams are no good if they can't come true; what
good are wishes and hopes and ambitions if you can't find them except
in a Sensory Show? Answer me that!"
"I--ah--" the pilot said.
"I'll answer it," Brooks shouted. "They're no good at all; they're
bad. It won't last. People will revolt, or they'll rot sooner or
later. Maybe I'm the first and there'll be more; maybe I'm the last
and everybody'll rot! I'm in love with Glora Delar, see! Really in
love--you understand that? Listen, you stupid dolt, don't tell me she's
your favorite Actress, too! It doesn't mean anything. You don't have
the nerve to do anything about it. The question is: can she ever be in
love with me--a Worker?"
"I ... don't ... know," whispered the pilot.
"You know what the Personologist said to me?" Brooks screamed. "He told
me we'd all be crazy without the Sensory Shows. When you mix dreams
up with reality, he said, that's insanity. What's more insane then
admitting that the work we do is all we'll ever get out of life? That
we can never know anything wonderful, anything we really want, in real
life? Can you tell me what could be more insane than that?"
The pilot shook his head. Sweat ran down his nose.
"Don't move or I'll leave the neurotube on you long enough to kill
you," Brooks shouted. "Because you don't understand."
"I won't move," the pilot whispered. "I won't try to stop you; I won't
say anything. Go back out there and I'll open the door for you. As far
as I'm concerned, I don't know anything; I've never seen you."
"All right; you're a fool, but I think you're honest."
Already the side freight chamber port was open. Robotractors were
unloading and carting the freight onto conveyor belts. Brooks ran
into the exit chamber, shut the airtight. The pilot kept his word; the
outer door opened. Brooks went down the ladder. He ran; he didn't look
back. He didn't have time for that. Somewhere there were a few Guards,
stationed here permanently in an isolated barracks building. They would
learn of his deeds. But he was free, for a while.
He ran down the long silent avenues and through the strangely silent
parks, among the odd unearthly plants and among the alien looking trees
and over the paper-like unreal seeming grass.
Above him, the teflonite dome that held in the synthetic atmosphere was
like a huge white bubble.
* * * * *
Brooks walked like a drugged man through his dreams-come-true. He
stared; his mouth hung open; a warm ecstatic joy filled him. Stars,
stars everywhere. There was Ellan Morlan and Clifford Marlowe gliding
past in a bubble-shaped shiny white gravcar. They passed so close to
Brooks he could see the color of their eyes, the shine of their teeth.
To most women, Clifford Marlowe was the fulfillment of every wish.
Ellan Morlan was second only in popularity to Glora Delar. Beautiful
people, golden-skinned, perfectly proportioned, like gods and goddesses.
Brooks walked slowly, haltingly, taking in the atmosphere like a thing
starved. It was beautiful, here; but there was something wrong. Wrong
with the air. It was the silence. It wasn't peaceful; it was too heavy,
and he couldn't explain it. There was something of fear in the silence.
Nothing moved except the Stars moving across the wide green lawns of
paper-like grass, the Stars whirring along the streets or through the
air, noiselessly. The Stars that made no sound.
There should be noise, somewhere. There--walking toward him--four of
Hollywood II's most demanded supporting players! They were walking
right past him! He could _touch_ them! Michael Thorenson, Mara Rosara,
Greta Moore, Gil Grendon--they brushed against him as they passed.
Brooks stumbled out of their way. He could talk to these people, if he
could work up the courage. Maybe later he would have the courage, after
the initial daze was worn a little. When he found Glora Delar--
But why hadn't they noticed him? They didn't seem to see him, even know
he was here; they would have bumped into him if he hadn't stepped aside.
Now Andy felt lost, terribly small, all at once terribly alone as he
wandered up and down the glamour-shrouded avenues, through the parks,
the wonderfully intricate playgrounds for the Stars' children. Special
beautiful little creatures playing with wonderfully advanced toys--they
would grow up to provide dreams for the Sensory Show millions. But now
they didn't make any noise. That was odd: Kids usually shouted and
laughed when they played. But then Stars' children would be different.
Here everything had a strange silent difference. Andy hadn't expected
quite this much difference. The silence was smothering, suffocating.
Stars, Stars everywhere. The living breathing embodiments of millions
of workers' millions of dreams. But no sounds.
He saw no one else of his own class, though that wasn't surprising.
No Workers; no Guards; no one in the gray utilitarian uniforms. Just
Stars in their beautifully unique, individually styled garments. Just
the silent children playing silently like figures moving in an old
three-dimensional movie.
* * * * *
Dorothy Dillon walked past, tall and lithe and the color of melting
copper, her hair a tingling black cloud around bare shoulders. Andy
could have touched her arm. He started to say something, but he
couldn't; she didn't seem to see him.
He clenched his hands and started to yell something after her, but
managed to control himself. Bitterness and resentment crowded the awed
wonderment. Maybe that was the reason Personology strictly forbade
anyone coming to the Moon. It would break illusions. Maybe the Stars
were really just a lot of superior snobs who held their worshippers in
contempt.
Maybe. But Glora Delar wouldn't be like that; she was different; he
knew. Together, they had shared dream adventures that were his and his
alone. Anghar. The Palace of Anghar, the Armies of Vasca. She would be
different.
A sense of timelessness carried him along. There was no day or night,
by contrast. It was always synthetic day. The bubble overhead, the
smooth domed buildings, the walkways and avenues, all radiated a cold
ever-shining light. He hadn't taken the Guard's watch. How long had he
been walking? He didn't feel hungry or thirsty or tired. There was no
measurement in silence, in cold white unchanging light.
He stood by a lake. The scene was like a three-dimensional photograph,
the grass under him like rustling confetti. The big lake's surface
was like smooth shining glass. Swans glided along the glass like
clock-work. Huge water-lilies trembled with a strange regularity of
motion in a slight breeze that was always the same.
Then he saw her--Glora Delar, walking along the shore, only a few feet
away. A sudden weakness overcame him. His knees gave way and he dropped
on a bench. He half rose, sank down. "Glora," he whispered. "Glora--"
She wasn't alone. A man walked with her. The favorite of millions of
women who for some reason found Clifford Marlowe not quite perfect.
Carl Brittain. In the People's Fan Magazine there had been hints that
Glora Delar and Carl Brittain were more than just friends. Brooks had
figured it as being more propaganda.
* * * * *
Jealousy and hate roiled to muddy fear, fear and self-inadequacy, and
Brooks shrank down against the bench, hoping they wouldn't see him. He
wanted to crawl into a dark corner, hide somewhere. There was no dark
corner; everything was bright and white and blazing white light. Here
no man could hide; no man could sleep where there was no night.
A sharp shrill whistle dug into his brain. He jerked around. Far across
the expanse of park a black skycar came whirring, gliding, sliding
toward him. The ultrasonic whistle sharpened painfully and he knew this
was pursuit.
The pilot hadn't been so honest, maybe. But that made no difference
now. It had never been anything anyway that would have gone on forever.
No matter when the black skycar came for him there would never have
been a place to hide. It didn't matter now, not after seeing Glora
Delar and Brittain together like this.