As a matter of fact I was nerving myself to ask _her_ all about it direct, though it was going to take some real nerve and maybe be risking broken bones or at least a flayed cheek to break the ice of that characterization, when who should come by calling the Fifteen Minutes but Martin. He looked so downright goofy that it took my mind off Nefer-in-character for all of eight seconds. His levied bottom half still looked like _The Lower Depths_. Martin is Village Stanislavsky rather than Ye Olde English Stage Traditions. But above that ... well, all it really amounted to was that he was stripped to the waist and had shaved off the small high tuft of chest hair and was wearing a black wig that hung down in front of his shoulders in two big braids heavy with silver hoops and pins. But just the same those simple things, along with his tarpaper-solarium tan and habitual poker expression, made him look so like an American Indian that I thought, _Hey Zeus!--he's all set to play Hiawatha, or if he'd just cover up that straight-line chest, a frowny Pocahontas._ And I quick ran through what plays with Indian parts we do and could only come up with _The Fountain_. I mutely goggled my question at him, wiggling my hands like guppy fins, but he brushed me off with a solemn mysterious smile and backed through the curtain. I thought, _nobody can explain this but Siddy_, and I followed Martin. II History does not move in one current, like the wind across bare seas, but in a thousand streams and eddies, like the wind over a broken landscape. --Cary The boys' half of the dressing room (two-thirds really) was bustling. There was the smell of spirit gum and Max Factor and just plain men. Several guys were getting dressed or un-, and Bruce was cussing Bloody-something because he'd just burnt his fingers unwinding from the neck of a hot electric bulb some crepe hair he'd wound there to dry after wetting and stretching it to turn it from crinkly to straight for his Banquo beard. Bruce is always getting to the theater late and trying shortcuts. But I had eyes only for Sid. So help me, as soon as I saw him they bugged again. _Greta_, I told myself, _you're going to have to send Martin out to the drugstore for some anti-bug powder._ "_For the roaches, boy?_" "_No, for the eyes._"