C arl Hollywood leaned back against the hard lacquered back of his 
corner seat for the first time in many hours and rubbed his face with both 
hands, scratching himself with his own whiskers. He had been sitting in the 
teahouse for almost
twenty-four hours, consumed twelve pots of tea, and twice called in masseuses 
to unknot his back. The afternoon light coming in the windows behind him 
flickered as the crowd outside began to break up. They had been treated to a 
remarkable free media show, watching over his shoulders for hours as the 
dramaturgical exploits of John Percival Hackworth had played themselves out, in 
several different camera angles, on floating cine windows on Carl Hollywood's 
pages. None of them could read English, and so they had been unable to follow 
the story of Princess Nell's adventures in the land of King Coyote, which had 
been streaming across the pages at the same time, the storyline fluctuating and 
curling in upon itself like a cloud of smoke spun and torn by invisible 
currents.