The Project Gutenberg eBook of Star bright, by Bryce Walton

Title: Star bright

Author: Bryce Walton

Release Date: April 13, 2023 [eBook #70541]

Language: English

Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

His wife's face was ugly; it was shallow and flat like a broken plate. From the balcony of their apartment in the Communal Worker's Center, Brooks turned his gaze and his hate away from her face. He looked at the moon. The disc of dreams was being blotted out by the sea; there were night shadows on the sea, fringed with the white curving foam of breaking tide.

Like the lost Sea of Anghar beside which he had fought through many Sensory Show adventures for the rewarding love of Glora Delar, the most beautiful actress of Lunarian Studio City.

He moved toward his wife. She backed away until she was standing with her back against the colonnade; below them the Palisades dropped five hundred feet into the sea-foam.

Her voice had an edge to it, a thin, petty whine. "You're sick, Andy; your face looks funny. You scare me."

He stopped. Her grey Worker's uniform did nothing for her body. "You're ugly," he said. "I'm leaving. You hate my face and I hate yours, so I'm getting out."

She stared. "Andy! That's against the Law. Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"You're hearing it, now," Andy said. "I can't stand living here with you any more. I can't stand anything about you, or this beehive, so I'm leaving."

"But—where can you go, Andy? They'll find you. Andy, listen to me: You've been to Personology. They've examined you. You had that bad accident at the take-off port; you made a mistake installing the fuel capsule and there was an explosion. Men were killed. What did they say at Personology?"

Brooks stared at the soft-calling Moon. Glora Delar was there tonight. He whispered, "I wonder if she's as tired of being just an actress for my dreams as I am of just dreaming of her?"

"Andy—what did they say at Personology?"

"Oh, a lot of stuff I didn't understand. What it amounts to is that I'm crazy."

"Crazy?"

"Schizophrenia," Andy said. "Fantasy and reality mixed up—that's what the Personologist Chief said. He said that always leads to inefficiency. Remember the axiom, Brooks, he said: No Worker Makes Mistakes."

"That's right, Andy. There's a place for dreaming; and there's a time for working. You kept on thinking about that Glora Delar, even after you got out of the Sensory Shows. You carried pictures of her. Always re-reading those silly letters she sent you, after you wrote that nonsense love note. Your room is filled with pin-ups of her. So you went and had an accident. See, that proves the Personologist was right. You made a mistake; men were killed."

Brooks looked at the Moon. "Two-hundred and forty thousand miles away," he mused, "is paradise."

"Ha!" His wife said. "She wouldn't use you for a doormat; you're just part of another dream she has to act in, that's all. Why, you little runt, she wouldn't give you a second look. Not even a first look. You're a fool even if you aren't crazy!"

Brooks scarcely heard his wife's shrill voice. He had constructed a dream world of his own named Anghar. On this world, he and the great actress had lived through a thousand glorious adventures. Comparing his wife with Glora Delar made the situation impossible. It was the same with his wife, he knew. She had a Sensory Show hero, Clifford Marlowe, with whom no mortal, least of all Andy Brooks, could ever compare. All right, he had the answer to both of their problems; he was getting out, tonight. He closed his eyes a moment. There was Glora Delar, walking beside the Lost Sea of Anghar. "Come back, my dear. The armies of Vasca are at the Palace Gates and I pray for your return and the strength of your arms and your love."

"Andy! Look at me!"

"I'm tired of looking at you." Andy said and opened his eyes. "And anyway, I have to run away. They're going to give me directed Sensory Shows. They're going to select all my entertainment for me, drive all my own dreams out, drive Glora Delar out, and replace my free choice entertainment with their own. He called it directive therapy. It will cure me, make me an efficient Worker again. But it'll mean I won't love Glora Delar anymore."

"Fool," she cried. "It's crazy to love our Actors and Actresses outside the Sensory Shows!"

"That's what he told me," Andy said. "He said that Sensory Shows were planned and provided for the Workers by Personology, just to keep us sane and efficient. Our Actors and Actresses are for everyone's benefit, he said; he said it was antisocial for me to want to monopolize Glora Delar for myself."

"That's right, Andy; that's right."

"Oh, he was a great talker, the Personologist was. He said Personology had saved the world from destruction. Once everyone was crazy, he said, running around in a daze, with fantasy and reality all mixed up. Made wars and criminals and neurotics, he said. Now we've got planned, legalized fantasy in the Sensory Shows. A man can be a big-shot on an imaginary world; he can have the support of the most beautiful actresses and actors. Now there's a definite time for dreaming, one for Working. Normally, one never overlaps the other."

"That's absolutely right, Andy; you should see that. I do."

"You're a shallow idiot," Andy said; "you're content to dream. I'm not; I'm interested in the real Glora Delar. The dreams aren't enough any more, not for me."

"Andy, you always were different. I could never figure you out, and I'm not interested in trying. But all I've got to say is you're just not using common sense. What if all us Workers who worship the Actors and Actresses up on Hollywood II stormed the Moon? Took a million rockets and all flew to the Moon! You are crazy, Andy. And think how wonderful the Sensory Shows are! Work a few hours a week, and the rest of the time you can live a beautiful life with actors and actresses who are so good they can make you believe anything."

"Not me," Andy said. "If a dream can't come true, it's no good. So I'm going to the moon, to Studio City; I'm going to find Glora Delar, in person."

Her dull eyes bulged incredulously at him. "Andy! That's forbidden! You'd be breaking a Class-A Law, and you know what happens to them that does that?"

"I'm going," Andy said. "I can sneak aboard a moon rocket; I'm going tonight."

"Andy, I'll tell! I'll not let you do it!"

Andy lunged. Her cries gurgled into silence under his fingers. He lifted her shivering body up over the colonnade. "I figured you would," he said. "And then I figured that this way—you wouldn't."

Andy watched the woman fall.

Her body fell into the darkness. Brooks stood there a long time gazing down at the curling white foam of the breakers. It was like ripping open a black hole and pouring the past into it. He closed up the hole and turned. He could never have submitted to directed Sensory Shows, so he had to fight.

In the old days a man could fight for what he loved, even if success was impossible. It was pursuit that counted, the pursuit of happiness that had made men and nations strong—when there had been men and nations. Andy's heart beat wildly as he went down the escalator. He might not succeed, but he would have the pleasure of trying the forbidden and incredible; he would crash the gates of Studio City on the Moon.

The pilot was forward in the cage checking the pre-navigation controls. Brooks slipped into the freight chamber and crawled behind newly loaded packing cases. His skin tingled, and his breathing was rapid.

His audacity had been the big factor in his successfully sneaking aboard the new Moon supply rocket. It was inconceivable that anyone would so much as think of breaking a Class-A Law; the punishment was extreme. Only a few select personnel, other than the Stars, including producers and directors and psycho-genic-radial screen projection artists and the like, ever made the flight. And for them, it was always a one-way trip. Only the pilot and the Security Guard accompanying the flight ever returned from the Moon, and they never left the rocket while on the Moon. The rocket always returned immediately to Earth. A veil of glamorous mystery surrounded the Stars and their fabulous Studio City.

Brooks' familiarity with the take-off field, where he had worked as a mechanic and fuelman until his negligence had caused the big blow-up, his knowledge of its arrangement and schedule had enabled him to don a mechanic's uniform in the locker room, get an electrodrill from the supply house for use as an excuse for boarding the rocket. Boarding, he went unnoticed. Mild confusion always reigned about the rocket prior to take-off; no one had noticed that he had not come out of the rocket. And luckily for him, Personology had removed all personnel who had been employed at the field at the time of the disaster, for therapy. Personology always looked out for the Workers.

So Brooks lay in darkness, shivering with excitement that was partly fear. The muffled thunderous explosion engulfed him; the area around him vibrated smoothly. The rocket was lifting. Even protected as he was by the inflated shock-cushion Andy had dug out of a freight room storage locker, the pressure was intense. He blacked out and he knew he had been out a long time when his own groaning awakened him. He grabbed at the edge of a packing case to pull himself erect. The effort smashed him up into the ceiling. Blood ran down his face. He was weightless now, in space; he moved around a little, careful to hold on to something. Then Andy stared at the dim shadow of the bulkhead door; he licked his lips slowly.

The throbbing of his pulse became thunderous. The emptiness in his stomach turned to nausea. This was real adventure, not a dream. But it would have to end somewhere—sometime. He rubbed his lips and sweat ran down his face. What then? A Class-A Law said no one was to go to the Moon. But why was it so important? What was so wrong about actually seeing the Actors and Actresses? About seeing the big production factories where they acted out one's dreams?

His flesh seemed cold and feverish at once. The penalty made him wince. Condemnation to the Experimental Stations, a fate normally reserved for hereditary and incurable mental defectives. Experiments involving spaceflight which so far no human body had been able to sustain beyond a few million miles; brain surgery; body-structural alterations. There were other experiments not commonly discussed. No one looked forward to breaking a Class-A Law; no one survived the experiments. It was capital punishment that benefited the Order, and therefore it was good.

But not for Andy Brooks. Yet there was no turning back now. Murder was also an infringement of Class-A Law—but that might be considered an accident; anyone could fall from a balcony, or jump.

Andy thought, briefly, of his wife. Very briefly. She was dead. It didn't seem very important whether she was dead or not. She had stood in his way; that had been important. There had never been anything between them anyway but a silent bitter futile hatred for each other's unattractiveness. She loved Clifford Marlowe, the great Actor; he loved Glora Delar, the Actress. No mortal could compare with either of them; no one felt any emotional regard for anyone else. Emotion was confined to the Sensory Shows. A time for emotion and dreaming and wish-fulfillment; a time for Working—the two never got mixed up. That's what Personology had told him.

Brooks was trying to figure out what he would do when the rocket hit the Moon, when it dropped into the depth of Theophilus' 18,000 foot, 65 mile-wide crater and into the City of Stars. He was concentrating on that when the bulkhead door began to open.

Brooks gnawed at his lips as he crouched behind the door. The Security Guard entered, checking probably for possible weight shift. Holstered to the belt of his gray uniform was a neurotube and a meson blastgun. The continuing cold war with the Eastern Alliance necessitated constant preparedness against possible espionage. That's what Personology said.

As the Guard turned to exit, he saw Brooks. His eyes widened remarkably. His hands moved out as though questioning Brooks' reality. Without thinking, Brooks leaped, his breath breaking harshly. The Guard grabbed wildly at Brooks' wrist and they fell back, scrambling and grunting. The fall broke the Guard's hold; Brooks slammed the drill against the Guard's chest and squeezed the trigger release.

The gentle whir of the drill was drowned by the Guard's short, incredulous scream of pain. Blood spilled over the drill and ran down Brooks' arm as the Guard rolled lifelessly against the wall, trembled slightly with the dropping, decelerating motion of the rocket.

Brooks leaned against the wall. The silence was vast. He looked at his fingers as he sensed the rocket settling. It was done, really done now; he could not change it back. His wife's body falling into the blackness had seemed a kind of unreal thing, but this was horribly real. The Guard would never worry any more about dreams, or about reality, either. Maybe he was luckier than most, maybe luckier than Andy Brooks, the mechanic who had stopped machinery no mechanic could repair.

This was murder for which Andy would pay, but that didn't matter. He had broken a Class-A Law when he boarded the moon rocket. There were no degrees of guilt. The thought gave him a kind of freedom inside, a sudden snapping of strings and singing of breaking wires.

He took the neurotube from the Guard. It did things to the nervous system, including paralysis and blackout. Its sustained use could cause death. He didn't take the meson blastgun; it was too lethal, and he was afraid of it. He slipped along the grillmesh corridor and crouched outside the door into the pilot's cage. He stared at the pilot's back, past the pilot into the view screen. The Moon was as big as Earth below, sharp angles of light and shadow, gigantic craters and pools of glaring frozen lava.

The purple-black shadows of Theophilus' walls dropped around the rocket. Far below like a dot of glittering ice was the white-domed brilliance of Studio City. Brooks stared in awed wonderment. Maybe this was a dream, too; it was too fabulous to be real. A Worker—on the Moon! A Worker actually being a part of Hollywood II's legendary marvels! He could see the big production factories where the Stars acted out a man's dreams, where the big psychogenic radial projection screens performed their miraculous function.

On Earth, the millions of ardent fans spent all possible time in the Sensory Shows. A small dark chamber. A beam of light, a whiff of gas, music. You didn't look at it; you were in it. Your wishes took form. Actors and Actresses of your choice supported you. It was touch, taste, action, emotion. It was so real that no Worker cared to dream during Working hours. In the Sensory Show chamber he could be anything, on any one of many possible worlds. He could be a beggar, a King, a soldier, or a god.

And Glora Delar was your wife, mistress, lover—

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.

But before the Guards picked him up—

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!"

She said slowly. "An—dy—Brooks—"

Fifty feet away the skycar settled. Swans glided silently across the lake of glass without noticing anything; water-lilies moved in the unchanging breeze. Glora Delar's eyes were on a level with his.

"Don't you know me?" Brooks shouted wildly. "You've got to! Andy Brooks!"

She repeated his name.

"Yes, yes!" Brooks screamed. "Look at me—Andy Brooks! Remember the Lost World of Anghar! Why dream of each other? Why should we fool ourselves with dreams? I'm here now, I'm real, you're real! I've broken a Class-A Law tripley to come here to you. Glora, you've got to see me, talk to me!"

"An—ghar—"

"Listen to me, Glora! The World of Anghar. The Armies of Vasca. Our dream. I was holding the castle. Vasca's fleets were laying siege. I was guarding the seawall. How could it have gone on so long without you knowing? It was our dream."

"Vas—ca—"

Sobbing frantically, Brooks turned. Two guards were leaping from their skycar. One of them was shouting, "You there, halt! We've orders to kill you if you resist."

"Get back!" Brooks cried. "Stay right there!" He lifted the neurogun. Now he wished he'd brought the blastgun; he'd have blown these Guards and their skycar in a million pieces.

The Guards came slowly toward him along the lake's edge. The swans glided unconcerned. Brooks screamed defiantly. As he fired at one Guard he threw himself to one side. The foremost Guard fell in silent paralysis. Evidently reflex action caused him to accidently discharge the meson blastgun. A blazing lethal flame mushroomed, and the green lawn crackled to black char in a long smoking swath.

Brooks fired again. The other Guard dodged behind an alien looking tree with orange leaves. Brooks ran wildly. "Glora—wait—"

She turned as Brooks ran past her. Her shoulder struck Carl Brittain and the Actor's body toppled into the lake. He went under without a struggle. The water opened and slid over his body again like thick shiny glue. The swans glided over the spot. Brittain didn't come up; there was no movement in the 'water'.

Brooks ran on after Glora who hadn't stopped walking. Behind him, he heard the Guard shouting. He ran past a parked skycar. Beside it, a couple sat shoulder to shoulder looking over the lake. They seemed oblivious to the commotion.

Brooks grabbed Glora's arm and dragged her toward the skycar. "You'll remember," he sobbed. "I'll see that you remember."

He slid the cowling back. As he started to drag the woman into the seat, he hesitated. He stared into her face. The face he had kissed many times in a thousand thousand adventure-dreams in a hundred imagined worlds. It was the same, but somehow, different. Her eyes returned his stare, unblinking, unrecognizing, unconcerned. Her flesh was strangely unresponsive to his hands. No resistance, no compliance, nothing at all.

The Guard was running and he was near. He stopped, leveled the meson blastgun. "I don't want to kill you," he shouted hysterically. "Give yourself up; I've never killed anything, and I don't want to kill you."

Brooks laughed crazily. "You'll kill her, too, if you fire at me. You'll kill the dreams of millions of your fellow Workers if you kill Glora Delar. Get back there now."

"You're too dangerous," the Guard said; "I've orders to kill you if you don't give yourself up, because you're insane."

Andy Brooks laughed. He tried to push Glora Delar into the skycar. He saw the Guard was going to risk a blast. He spun, dropped her body between them. It had flashed through his mind—if she died with him, then in a way, she would be his forever, only his, and she would never be shared with all the other millions of Workers.

A blazing light burned and blinded him. He fell gasping and crumbling with the deep and lasting agony. He lay in burning fog. He tried to get up. He couldn't move. Through a thickening blur he saw the Guard lurching toward him, his face white and contorted with horror.

Brooks' hand fumbled blindly, touched something. "Glora," he whispered. He slowly twisted his head. He had to do that much.

The skycar was a smoking melting pile, unrecognizable. Beside him lay something else, also smoking; a human outline, a framework of wire and metallic joints, bits of cloth and melting fluid, springs, some burned-out vacuum tubes, a condenser, a charred coil, other parts—all running down through a framework, a skeleton of red-hot wire. Charred hair sizzled in blue flame in the fine mesh of a metal skull. Glora Delar—

The Guard stood over Brooks. His face twisted, his voice came through a dense curtain of time and space and pain. "Been here for years, but I never suspected such a thing. I knew something was queer, but this! This is what they give us—puppets! Marionettes—wire and putty and plastic! She was my favorite actress too—my pin-up girl! just a second ago. Ha, ha, ha, funny isn't it? I fought for her a thousand times in the Lost World of Anghar, against the Armies of Vasca. This is what they give us for dreams!"

Brooks managed to turn his head so he wouldn't have to look at what lay beside him. The two pretending lovers still sat shoulder to shoulder by the lake. Beautiful golden people, staring over the water, romantic lovers. They were oblivious to what had happened. The lake was colored glass, unruffled. The clock-work swans glided over the shiny surface. The perfumed wind blew unchanged through dutifully nodding leaves of the water-lilies.

Above him, the great bubble over Studio City seemed to burst in a million bright glittering shards.

"I'll tell everybody!" the Guard was shouting. "I'll tell all the millions so they'll know!"

Then there was no sound but the wild fading cries of the Guard as Brooks closed his eyes to sleep.

... and this is one dream, he thought, that will be my own, my own.