He merely touched base at his hotel, where he stuffed the pockets of his 
coat with a sheaf of foolscap, a fountain pen, a silver box loaded with cigars 
like rounds in an ammo clip, and some tiny containers of nanosnuff that he 
could use to adjust the functioning of his brain and body. He also hefted a 
heavy walking-stick, a real wizard's staff loaded with security aerostats that 
would shepherd him back to the hotel in the event of a riot. Then he returned 
once more to the streets, shouldering for a mile through the crowd until he 
reached a teahouse where he had passed many long nights during his tenure at 
the Parnasse. Old Mrs. Kwan welcomed him warmly, bowing many times and showing 
him to his favorite corner table where he could look out on the intersection of 
Nanjing Road and a narrow side street jammed with tiny market stalls. All he 
could see now were the backs and buttocks of people in the street, jammed up 
against the glass by the pressure of the crowd. He ordered a big pot of his 
favorite green tea, the most expensive kind, picked in April when the leaves 
were tender and young, and spread out his sheets of foolscap across the table. 
This teahouse was fully
integrated into the worldwide media network, and so the pages automatically 
jacked themselves in. Under Carl Hollywood's murmured commands they began to 
fill themselves with columns of animated text and windows bearing images and 
cine feeds. He took his first sip of tea—always the best 
one—withdrew his big fountain pen from his pocket, removed the lid, and 
touched it to the paper. He began to inscribe commands onto the page, in words 
and drawings. As he finished the words, they were enacted before him, and as he 
drew the lines between the boxes and circles, links were made and information 
flowed.