One Director was tapping his

  forehead with the eraser end of a pencil, have to adapt, have to adapt; the keynote of an inconclusive "bill of rights" for use of airspace on the "innertubes" had nutcrackered people into thoughts on how, how to condense so much information. 

  Translucent curtains blew gently to and fro hanging in the Industrial Space window opening.  The film critics had been invited into the mishmosh area of screens and monitors and television sets just for sizing.  On the walls, on sheets of textiles were projections, takes and cuts, "save it all," a pianist put a pencil between his teeth and began to just play.

  "Let me check on mine then." 

  A monitor being fed city-cams was clicked off.  Lips pursed. 

  "If what you say is true, I should be able to see MY actress."  A whisp of whispers went round about and out.  "That's the Director."  

  "Our Producer should be here soon, so let's have a look.  We'll be making our decisions about participation later this evening." 

  The one in charge of off/on of the monitor in question as dubious territory in regards ownership was deepbreathing and stifling tears.  "What gives?" Another person smacked him gently on the side of his arm.  He balled up.  Others wheeled the chair out the way.  Turned it on.  Black and white footage of figures, heavily clothed, on a beach or expanse of sand.  "There's yours," someone poked at the monitor screen with a fat pastel chalk.  This generated a burnt orange dot over the head of a figure.  The dot stayed there with the figure, moving closer to directly underfoot from the perspective of the camera up in a building.  Briefcases were put down and shirt sleeves rolled up after dinner jackets and leather coats were taken off and tossed.  People moved closer to see.  

  "Hold your questions," the lawyers clustered in a corner advised. 

  "That one's marked now," someone grumbled.

  Weapons were flashed.  

  "We'll disguise that ant from the other ants." 

  "OH MY GOD, THEY EVEN CALL US INSECTS." 

  "OUT!  GET OUT!" 

  People tried to cling to each other.  Others locked arms.  An attachè took charge.  "ALL CREATIVES NEED TO LEAVE THE AREA IMMEDIATELY."  There was silence down seven floors of stairwell.  Someone blocking the elevators from running called out, "PLEASE REPEAT."

  "That's GINA!  WE CAN TRUST HER." 

  "And, don't forget to get a blood test!" 

  Footsteps turning and shuffling back down.