ask me why, just don't."

Martin came around and sat on the foot of my cot. My legs were already
doubled up. He straightened out his blue-and-gold skirt and rested a
hand on my black sneakers.

[Illustration]

"Feeling a little wonky, Greta?" he asked. "Don't worry about me.
Banquo's dead and so's his ghost. We've finished the Banquet Scene.
I've got lots of time."

I just looked at him, queerly I guess. Then without lifting my head I
asked him, "Martin, tell me the truth. Does the dressing room move
around?"

I was talking so low that he hitched a little closer, not touching me
anywhere else though.

"The Earth's whipping around the sun at 20 miles a second," he
replied, "and the dressing room goes with it."

I shook my head, my cheek scrubbing the pillow, "I mean ... shifting,"
I said. "By itself."

"How?" he asked.

"Well," I told him, "I've had this idea--it's just a sort of fancy,
remember--that if you wanted to time-travel and, well, do things, you
could hardly pick a more practical machine than a dressing room and
sort of stage and half-theater attached, with actors to man it. Actors
can fit in anywhere. They're used to learning new parts and wearing
strange costumes. Heck, they're even used to traveling a lot. And if
an actor's a bit strange nobody thinks anything of it--he's almost
expected to be foreign, it's an asset to him."

"And a theater, well, a theater can spring up almost anywhere and
nobody ask questions, except the zoning authorities and such and they
can always be squared. Theaters come and go. It happens all the time.
They're transitory. Yet theaters are crossroads, anonymous meeting
places, anybody with a few bucks or sometimes nothing at all can go.
And theaters attract important people, the sort of people you might
want to do something to. Caesar was stabbed in a theater. Lincoln was
shot in one. And...."

My voice trailed off. "A cute idea," he commented.

I reached down to his hand on my shoe and took hold of his middle
finger as a baby might.

"Yeah," I said, "But Martin, is it true?"

He asked me gravely, "What do you think?"

I didn't say anything.

"How would you like to work in a company like that?" he asked
speculatively.

"I don't really know," I said.

* * * * *

He sat up straighter and his voice got brisk. "Well, all fantasy
aside, how'd you like to work in this company?" He asked, lightly
slapping my ankle. "On the stage, I