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?"