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."