Miranda pulled out of the ractive, finished tidying up the body stage, and 
left it open so that some other member of the company could come in a few hours 
later and work the gold shift. She ran down the helical gauntlet of plaster 
cherubs, muses, and Trojans, across the lobby where a couple of bleary-eyed 
apprentice ractors were cleaning up the debris from this evening's live 
performance, and out the front doors. There in the street, illuminated by the 
queasy pink-and-purple neon of the marquee, was a half-lane cab with its lights 
on.