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The bandwidth is good here, he realizes; and it's not just the bandwidth, it's the whole scene.

Amsterdam is making him feel wanted already, even though he's fresh off the train from Schiphol: He's infected with the dynamic optimism of another time zone, another city.

If the mood holds, someone out there is going to become very rich indeed. * * * Manfred sits on a stool out in the car park at the Brouwerij 't IJ, watching the articulated buses go by and drinking a third of a liter of lip-curlingly sour .

His channels are jabbering away in a corner of his head-up display, throwing compressed infobursts of filtered press releases at him.

They compete for his attention, bickering and rudely waving in front of the scenery.

It's a hot summer Tuesday, and he's standing in the plaza in front of the Centraal Station with his eyeballs powered up and the sunlight jangling off the canal, motor scooters and kamikaze cyclists whizzing past and tourists chattering on every side.

He leans against a shop front, massaging his forehead and eyeballing a display of antique brass doorknockers. "Well, if you hadn't shafted them during the late noughties ...

" Manfred taps his left heel on the pavement, looking round for a way out of this conversation. They're all zero-sum cannibals." A thought occurs to him.

" "Am have been badly burned by viral end-user license agreements.

Have no desire to experiment with patent shell companies held by Chechen infoterrorists.

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