I didn't say aloud that a Changing cosmos is worse than none, but I found myself sending a prayer to the Bonny Dew for my father's repose, that the Change Winds would blow lightly across the lifeline of Anton A. Forzane, professor of physiology, born in Norway and buried in Chicago. Woodlawn Cemetery is a nice gray spot.
"That's all right, Erich," I said. "We Entertainers Got Mittens too."
He scowled around at me suspiciously, as if he were wondering whether I had all my buttons on.
"Mittens?" he said. "What do you mean? I'm not wearing any. Are you trying to say something about Bruce's gloves--which incidentally seem to annoy him for some reason. No, seriously, Greta, why do you Entertainers need mittens?"
"Because we get cold feet sometimes. At least I do. Got Mittens, as I say."
A sickly light dawned in his Prussian puss. He muttered, "Got mittens ... _Gott mit uns_ ... God with us," and roared softly, "Greta, I don't know how I put up with you, the way you murder a great language for cheap laughs."
"You've got to take me as I am," I told him, "mittens and all, thank the Bonny Dew--" and hastily explained, "That's French--_le bon Dieu_--the good God--don't hit me. I'm not going to tell you any more of my secrets."
"Cheer up," I said. "I won't be here forever, and there are worse places than the Place."
He nodded grudgingly, looking around. "You know what, Greta, if you'll promise not to make some dreadful joke out of it: on operations, I pretend I'll soon be going backstage to court the world-famous ballerina Greta Forzane."
He was right about the backstage part. The Place is a regular theater-in-the-round with the Void for an audience, the Void's gray hardly disturbed by the screens masking Surgery (Ugh!), Refresher and Stores. Between the last two are the bar and kitchen and Beau's piano. Between Surgery and the sector where the Door usually appears are the shelves and taborets of the Art Gallery. The control divan is stage center. Spaced around at a fair distance are six big low couches--one with its curtains now shooting up into the gray--and a few small tables. It is like a ballet set and the crazy costumes and characters that turn up don't ruin the illusion. By no means. Diaghilev would have hired most of them for the Ballet Russe on first sight, without even asking them whether they could keep time to music.