He took the neurotube from the Guard. It did things to the nervous system, including paralysis and blackout. Its sustained use could cause death. He didn't take the meson blastgun; it was too lethal, and he was afraid of it. He slipped along the grillmesh corridor and crouched outside the door into the pilot's cage. He stared at the pilot's back, past the pilot into the view screen. The Moon was as big as Earth below, sharp angles of light and shadow, gigantic craters and pools of glaring frozen lava. The purple-black shadows of Theophilus' walls dropped around the rocket. Far below like a dot of glittering ice was the white-domed brilliance of Studio City. Brooks stared in awed wonderment. Maybe this was a dream, too; it was too fabulous to be real. A Worker--on the Moon! A Worker actually being a part of Hollywood II's legendary marvels! He could see the big production factories where the Stars acted out a man's dreams, where the big psychogenic radial projection screens performed their miraculous function. On Earth, the millions of ardent fans spent all possible time in the Sensory Shows. A small dark chamber. A beam of light, a whiff of gas, music. You didn't look at it; you were in it. Your wishes took form. Actors and Actresses of your choice supported you. It was touch, taste, action, emotion. It was so real that no Worker cared to dream during Working hours. In the Sensory Show chamber he could be anything, on any one of many possible worlds. He could be a beggar, a King, a soldier, or a god. And Glora Delar was your wife, mistress, lover-- But there was a real Glora Delar, too. A blare of cushioning brilliance spilled over the view screen. The rocket disappeared in a wall of flame; the dome opened; tractor beams clutched the rocket, tilted it, dropped it gently. The prenavigated controls combined with receiving facilities to work out the usual mechanized and perfect routines. The pilot seemed bored. A dolt, Brooks thought; a man regularly making this flight, unmoved by the grandeur and wonderment. As the rocket was gripped in the big robotractor arms and placed atop a tubular gas duct preparatory to the return take-off, Brooks caught a brief glimpse of the City of Stars. Just like the ads, the many publicity shots of background for the Stars, at home, at work, at play. Wide avenues between smoothly domed buildings, leading off into parks, residential areas. The grass, the trees, the flowers were strange, unlike anything on Earth. Brooks jerked open the door, pressed the neurotube against the pilot's neck. The pilot turned slowly. His face was unimaginative, white and twisted with shocked surprise; he stared wide-eyed at Brooks. * * * * * "What--" the pilot whispered. "Shut up!" Brooks warned. "I'm going out there. I want to see; open the side port doors." The pilot's eyes looked beyond Brooks.