Artificial dreams weren't enough for Andy Brooks.
He was determined to find them in reality!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Science Fiction Quarterly May 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
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 atthe moon. The disc of dreams was being blotted out by the sea; therewere night shadows on the sea, fringed with the white curving foam ofbreaking tide.
Like the lost Sea of Anghar beside which he had fought through manySensory Show adventures for the rewarding love of Glora Delar, the mostbeautiful actress of Lunarian Studio City.
He moved toward his wife. She backed away until she was standing withher back against the colonnade; below them the Palisades dropped fivehundred 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'reugly," he said. "I'm leaving. You hate my face and I hate yours, so I'mgetting out."
She stared. "Andy! That's against the Law. Who ever heard of such athing?"
"You're hearing it, now," Andy said. "I can't stand living here withyou any more. I can't stand anything about you, or this beehive, so I'mleaving."
"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 badaccident at the take-off port; you made a mistake installing the fuelcapsule and there was an explosion. Men were killed. What did theysay 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 formy 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'mcrazy."
"Crazy?"
"Schizophrenia," Andy said. "Fantasy and reality mixed up—that'swhat the Personologist Chief said. He said that always leads toinefficiency. Remember the axiom, Brooks, he said: No Worker MakesMistakes."
"That's right, Andy. There's a place for dreaming; and there's a timefor working. You kept on thinking about that Glora Delar, even afteryou got out of the Sensory Shows. You carried pictures of her. Alwaysre-reading those silly letters she sent you, after you wrote thatnonsense love note. Your room is filled with pin-ups of her. So youwent 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 justpart of another dream she has to act in, that's all. Why, you littlerunt, 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 adream world of his own named Anghar. On this world, he and the greatactress had lived through a thousand glorious adventures. Comparing hiswife with Glora Delar made the situation impossible. It was the samewith 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