"Oh, Erich, it's all so lousy," I said, touching his hand, reminded that he was one of the unfortunates Resurrected from a point in their lifelines well before their deaths--in his case, because the date of his death had been shifted forward by a Big Change after his Resurrection. And as every Demon finds out, if he can't imagine it beforehand, it is pure hell to remember your future, and the shorter the time between your Resurrection and your death back in the cosmos, the better. Mine, bless Bab-ed-Din, was only an action-packed ten minutes on North Clark Street. Erich put his other hand lightly over mine. "Fortunes of the Change War, _Liebchen_. At least I'm a Soldier and sometimes assigned to future operations--though why we should have this monomania about our future personalities back there, I don't know. Mine is a stupid _Oberst_, thin as paper--and frightfully indignant at the _voyageurs_! But it helps me a little if I see him in perspective and at least I get back to the cosmos pretty regularly, _Gott sei Dank_, so I'm better off than you Entertainers." 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." He laughed feebly, like he was dying. "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."