And the Master's airship did travel to that region of America known as California-named thus despite the fact that it was not ruled by a caliph, but by a governor (see White Nomenclature: the Case Against).

As promised by those who had summoned him, a carriage awaited the Master. The coach was a kind reserved for only the most revered individuals in this nation. Called a limousine, it was, and not even the Master's emperor of the time did have one of these special carriages.

The Master was ushered into this regal chariot and was driven in haste to the preordained meeting place. His destination was a wondrous province of this Caliphless-fornia. A place of magic and wonder, the name of which was known in the four corners of the world. Hollywood it was called, even though no woods of holly were immediately visible to the naked eye (ibid).

When first he had ventured there, this province had presented an enigma to the Master. For though the word studious was trumpeted from every building, no evidence of current study or past education was visible in its inhabitants. Only upon closer inspection did the Master realize that the word was actually studio, which in this tongue was roughly equivalent to the atelier of the French.

Once in the Woods of Holly, the Master's limousine did speed him between the heavy castle gates of Taurus Studios. There he was met by those who had summoned him.

The first was called Hank Bindle, the second Bruce Marmelstein. Makers of magic they were. Illusionists were they. Theurgists of the highest order who did transform paper into moving images.

"Hey, babe. How you doing? Looking good," did the first magician, the one called Bindle, pronounce as the Master alighted from his sleek black chariot.

The prestidigitator Marmelstein, not to be outdone, did intone, "Looking great, but what am I talking? It's got to be-what?-a hundred in the shade out here. I'm sweating my mazurkas off. Let's go up to the office."