Narvik, where he was Recruited by the Spiders. Lifeline
lengthened by a Big Change after his first death and at latest report
Commandant of Toronto, where he maintains extensive baby farms to
provide him with breakfast meat, if you believe the handbills of the
_voyageurs_ underground. At your service."

"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."