The shop was densely but tidily packed with small, largely featureless boxes, like old-fashioned TV-top cable units, arrayed on glass shelves. A tall, balding man, about Milgrim’s age, turned and nodded. "You are Milgrim," he said. "I am Voytek." There was a battered plastic pennant behind the counter: AMSTRAD , both the name and the logo unfamiliar.