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—"