"Okay, do you want a complete grounding in the whole thing, starting with 
Turing machines, or what?" Carl said pleasantly—humoring her. Miranda 
decided not to become indignant. They were in a red vinyl booth at a restaurant 
near the Bund that supposedly simulated an American diner on the eve of the 
Kennedy assassination. Chinese hipsters—classic Coastal Republic types 
in their expensive haircuts and sharp suits—were lined up on the 
rotating stools along the lunch counter, sucking on their root beer floats and 
flashing wicked grins at any young women who came in.