All Tomorrow's Parties: A gripping, techno-thriller from the bestselling author of Neuromancer

Description

'Writing at flame intensity, Gibson conjures a world that seems just a breath away from the here and now' Salon The Bridge, San Francisco, after the quake- Ex-cop Berry Rydell has been hired by Colin Laney - who is hooked deep into the network of things - to go to San Francisco and act in such a way that he comes to the attention of a certain unspecified individual. This, Laney promises Rydell, could prove life-threatening. And now Rydell's been sent a package. Something that belonged to Laney, something that others with guns, blades and very bad attitudes want. And suddenly Rydell's running, trying get to the old Bridge, the shantytown where a man can get lost, be forgotten and wait for the end of the world - which is the other thing that Laney promised . . . 'With more insight, wit and sheer style than any of his contemporaries Gibson continues to patrol the nebulous zones that separate science fiction, contemporary thrillers and genuine literature' Independent

'Since 1948' Gene Wolfe once said that being an only child whose parents are dead is like being the sole survivor of drowned Atlantis. There was a whole civilization there, an entire continent, but it's gone. And you alone remember. That's my story too, my father having died when I was six, my mother when I was eighteen. Brian Aldiss believes that if you look at the life of any novelist, you'll find an early traumatic break, and mine seems no exception. I was born on the coast of South Carolina, where my parents liked to vacation when there was almost nothing there at all. My father was in some sort of middle management position in a large and growing construction company. They'd built some of the Oak Ridge atomic facilities, and paranoiac legends of 'security' at Oak Ridge were part of our family culture. There was a cigar-box full of strange-looking ID badges he'd worn there. But he'd done well at Oak Ridge, evidently, and so had the company he worked for, and in the postwar South they were busy building entire red brick Levittown-style suburbs. We moved a lot, following these projects, and he was frequently away, scouting for new ones. It was a world of early television, a new Oldsmobile with crazy rocket-ship styling, toys with science fiction themes. Then my father went off on one more business trip. He never came back. He choked on something in a rest