Alfred Coppel

“ The little bullet began to move along the rails toward a hinged trap-door in a wall painted to look like clouds.
"Hold my hand, Pete," Glory said breathlessly.
Glory, Glory, he thought. Young and simple and in love with life. Any kind of life. Real or unreal. Glory with a bubbling laughter, a zest, a faith. Maybe it was really for her that he was taking the big flight. If only he could bring back the pot of gold. If only he could tell weary Man that the sky was all his. He thought of the strained, unhappy faces in the streets, the fear-filled eyes. ”

“ Hypothesis. Say that space is not as men imagined it. Say that it is an illusion, without lightyears, without great suns, without huge planets. Say for the sake of argument that it is a shell with holes in it, and light outside, and the Sun itself an illusion of heat and power, and—
Say that this hollow shell is man's new frontier; a fraud, a toy for things outside—
The alarm screamed at him. The ship was plunging toward the blurry light of the stars.
With an icy hand on his heart, Pete Moore turned to look at the telescreen behind him. A misty blue ball swam in musty darkness. ”

“ New frontiers and new dreams for everybody. Up and up.
The girl's eyes met his, and it was Pete who looked away. You don't talk frontiers to pale, worn faces and eyes bleached of color by tinny music and stinks and men. ”