He ran down the long silent avenues and through the strangely silent parks, among the odd unearthly plants and among the alien looking trees and over the paper-like unreal seeming grass. Above him, the teflonite dome that held in the synthetic atmosphere was like a huge white bubble. * * * * * Brooks walked like a drugged man through his dreams-come-true. He stared; his mouth hung open; a warm ecstatic joy filled him. Stars, stars everywhere. There was Ellan Morlan and Clifford Marlowe gliding past in a bubble-shaped shiny white gravcar. They passed so close to Brooks he could see the color of their eyes, the shine of their teeth. To most women, Clifford Marlowe was the fulfillment of every wish. Ellan Morlan was second only in popularity to Glora Delar. Beautiful people, golden-skinned, perfectly proportioned, like gods and goddesses. Brooks walked slowly, haltingly, taking in the atmosphere like a thing starved. It was beautiful, here; but there was something wrong. Wrong with the air. It was the silence. It wasn't peaceful; it was too heavy, and he couldn't explain it. There was something of fear in the silence. Nothing moved except the Stars moving across the wide green lawns of paper-like grass, the Stars whirring along the streets or through the air, noiselessly. The Stars that made no sound. There should be noise, somewhere. There--walking toward him--four of Hollywood II's most demanded supporting players! They were walking right past him! He could _touch_ them! Michael Thorenson, Mara Rosara, Greta Moore, Gil Grendon--they brushed against him as they passed. Brooks stumbled out of their way. He could talk to these people, if he could work up the courage. Maybe later he would have the courage, after the initial daze was worn a little. When he found Glora Delar-- But why hadn't they noticed him? They didn't seem to see him, even know he was here; they would have bumped into him if he hadn't stepped aside. Now Andy felt lost, terribly small, all at once terribly alone as he wandered up and down the glamour-shrouded avenues, through the parks, the wonderfully intricate playgrounds for the Stars' children. Special beautiful little creatures playing with wonderfully advanced toys--they would grow up to provide dreams for the Sensory Show millions. But now they didn't make any noise. That was odd: Kids usually shouted and laughed when they played. But then Stars' children would be different. Here everything had a strange silent difference. Andy hadn't expected quite this much difference. The silence was smothering, suffocating. Stars, Stars everywhere. The living breathing embodiments of millions of workers' millions of dreams. But no sounds.