Sachs was thin, dry-blond, with bulging blue eyes and a mid-western twang. He liked to be overworked and fatigued, and the first impression he gave was of a bone-weary man calling on genius to surmount exhaustion. Later, you imagined you had received the wrong impression, but you really hadn't. It was Sachs who changed. His thyroid began popping and everything else in addition to his eyes bulged. He was slumped in a chair wearing a crushed pin-stripe suit and drinking chicken soup out of a carton when Robin entered. He lifted his head wearily, smiled, then called to his wife. "The song is out. I've just remembered it isn't in the P.D." "The legal department said it is," Mrs. Sachs answered in a discouraged voice. "They're wrong. Oh yes. Make a note. We'll need three extra costumes and a magician. No Mind Acts. They're not televisionwise. I want a different Sawing A Woman In Half. Something fresh." Mrs. Sachs made notes. "Also a dog act. Call the music department and see if we can get a small band arrangement of Piston's 'Incredible Flautist.'" "Why?" Mrs. Sachs asked. "Because it's scored for dog barks," Sachs answered as though that explained everything. Apparently it did. His wife moused out and closed the door. Sachs smiled at Robin. "Always rushed," he said wearily. "This is last night's dinner." He finished the soup, got up and slouched around Robin, examining her sleepily. "Yes. Yes, I see. The Hedda Gabler type." Suddenly he crouched at the desk, yanked out a bottom drawer and threw his handkerchief in. "'_Now I'm burning your child, Thea! Burning it, curly-locks!_' Manuscript into the stove business." He threw in his small change and a pack of cigarettes. "'_Your child and Eilet Lövborg's. I am burning--I am burning your child!_' Slow curtain." Robin gaped at him. Sachs smiled and stood up. "Or Marguerite," he said, stroking her blonde hair. "'_Ich gäb was drum, wenn ich nur wüsst'. Wer heut' der Herr gewesen ist!_' Comb business at the mirror. Which show are you here for?" "You called me down," Robin said. "Don't you know?" "I'm directing four shows." Sachs smiled patiently. "Which are you?" "Who He?" "Oh yes. Yes. I see. You're ... Robin. Lennox gave you the call. It's about the costumes." Sachs hitched a hip onto the corner of the desk, smiled cheerfully, and began flicking the hem of Robin's skirt with his toe. "They were smaller in the early nineteenth century. Much smaller. Have you seen the models in the Dress Museum? We're having trouble with those Philip Nolan costumes. I think we're going to have trouble with you." "With me? How?" Sachs reached back and picked up a printed card. It was the conventional file card actresses send to all offices with pictures, measurements and credits printed on it. This one happened to be Robin's. "I checked your card," Sachs said. "It's the bust that worries me. Thirty-six. I see you weren't exaggerating. Are you married?" "Yes." "Any children?" "No." "Too bad."