He saw no one else of his own class, though that wasn't surprising. No Workers; no Guards; no one in the gray utilitarian uniforms. Just Stars in their beautifully unique, individually styled garments. Just the silent children playing silently like figures moving in an old three-dimensional movie. * * * * * Dorothy Dillon walked past, tall and lithe and the color of melting copper, her hair a tingling black cloud around bare shoulders. Andy could have touched her arm. He started to say something, but he couldn't; she didn't seem to see him. He clenched his hands and started to yell something after her, but managed to control himself. Bitterness and resentment crowded the awed wonderment. Maybe that was the reason Personology strictly forbade anyone coming to the Moon. It would break illusions. Maybe the Stars were really just a lot of superior snobs who held their worshippers in contempt. Maybe. But Glora Delar wouldn't be like that; she was different; he knew. Together, they had shared dream adventures that were his and his alone. Anghar. The Palace of Anghar, the Armies of Vasca. She would be different. A sense of timelessness carried him along. There was no day or night, by contrast. It was always synthetic day. The bubble overhead, the smooth domed buildings, the walkways and avenues, all radiated a cold ever-shining light. He hadn't taken the Guard's watch. How long had he been walking? He didn't feel hungry or thirsty or tired. There was no measurement in silence, in cold white unchanging light. He stood by a lake. The scene was like a three-dimensional photograph, the grass under him like rustling confetti. The big lake's surface was like smooth shining glass. Swans glided along the glass like clock-work. Huge water-lilies trembled with a strange regularity of motion in a slight breeze that was always the same. Then he saw her--Glora Delar, walking along the shore, only a few feet away. A sudden weakness overcame him. His knees gave way and he dropped on a bench. He half rose, sank down. "Glora," he whispered. "Glora--" She wasn't alone. A man walked with her. The favorite of millions of women who for some reason found Clifford Marlowe not quite perfect. Carl Brittain. In the People's Fan Magazine there had been hints that Glora Delar and Carl Brittain were more than just friends. Brooks had figured it as being more propaganda. * * * * * Jealousy and hate roiled to muddy fear, fear and self-inadequacy, and Brooks shrank down against the bench, hoping they wouldn't see him. He wanted to crawl into a dark corner, hide somewhere. There was no dark corner; everything was bright and white and blazing white light. Here no man could hide; no man could sleep where there was no night.