He ran toward the lake. The skycar was an elongated shadow over the
glassy water, over the glossy mechanically moving leaves of the huge
water-lilies, over the backs of the clock-work swans. The whistle
seemed to split his skull.
"Glora!" he shouted.
He ran toward them. Evidently they didn't hear him; she didn't turn;
Brittain didn't turn. Brooks' shout faded across the lake into the
glowing bubble and died.
He grabbed her arm and spun her around. Carl Brittain walked on, and
Brooks stared into Glora Delar's eyes. A cold shiver went down his
neck. What was the matter? Where was the warmth, the love, the passion,
the worship, the dark deep longing? There was no recognition, and
without that there could never be any of the other things. However
the big psychogenic radial projection screens functioned, the Actors
and Actresses probably were never aware of the individuals they
entertained. They entertained _all_ the Workers.
_All the Workers._
"Glora, look at me! I wrote the letters, thousands of fan letters! You
answered them. They were addressed to me, personally! Me, Andy Brooks!"