The Cathay Hotel stood in the middle of the Bund, at the intersection 
with Nanjing Road, the Rodeo Drive of the Far East. As far as Miranda could 
see—all the way to Nanjing, maybe—it was lined with Western and 
Nipponese boutiques and department stores, and the airspace above the street 
was besprent with almond-size aerostats, each with its own cine camera and 
pattern-recognition ware to watch for suspicious-looking congregations of young 
men who might be Fist cells.