STAR BRIGHT By Bryce Walton 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 at the moon. The disc of dreams was being blotted out by the sea; there were night shadows on the sea, fringed with the white curving foam of breaking tide. Like the lost Sea of Anghar beside which he had fought through many Sensory Show adventures for the rewarding love of Glora Delar, the most beautiful actress of Lunarian Studio City. He moved toward his wife. She backed away until she was standing with her back against the colonnade; below them the Palisades dropped five hundred 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're ugly," he said. "I'm leaving. You hate my face and I hate yours, so I'm getting out." 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."