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.