{"product_id":"perdido-street-station-isbn-9780345443021","title":"Perdido Street Station","description":"\u003cb\u003eWINNER OF THE AUGUST DERLETH AND ARTHUR C. CLARKE AWARDS • A masterpiece brimming with scientific splendor, magical intrigue, and fierce characters, from the author who “has reshaped modern fantasy” (\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“[China Miéville’s] fantasy novels, including a trilogy set in and around the magical city-state of New Crobuzon, have the refreshing effect of making Middle-earth seem plodding and flat.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe metropolis of New Crobuzon sprawls at the center of the world. Humans and mutants and arcane races brood in the gloom beneath its chimneys, where the river is sluggish with unnatural effluent and foundries pound into the night. For a thousand years, the Parliament and its brutal militias have ruled over a vast economy of workers and artists, spies and soldiers, magicians, crooks, and junkies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow a stranger has arrived, with a pocketful of gold and an impossible demand. And something unthinkable is released.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe city is gripped by an alien terror. The fate of millions lies with a clutch of renegades. A reckoning is due at the city’s heart, in the vast edifice of brick and wood and steel under the vaults of Perdido Street Station.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is too late to escape.“Primal awe and erudite references have always mingled in Miéville’s work—along with a healthy dose of pulp playfulness.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Flawlessly plotted and relentlessly, stunningly inventive: a conceptual breakthrough of the highest order.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Perdido Street Station is brimming with enchantment. Written in intense, evocative prose, set in Dickensian New Crobuzon, peopled with characters of Boschian demeanor and diversity . . . the book flourishes and shuffles the conventions of science fiction, fantasy, and horror.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTordotcom\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eChina Miéville\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of numerous books, including \u003ci\u003eThis Census-Taker,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eThree Moments of an Explosion, Railsea, Embassytown, Kraken, The City \u0026amp; The City,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003ePerdido Street Station\u003c\/i\u003e. His works have won the World Fantasy Award, the Hugo Award, and the Arthur C. Clarke Award (three times). He lives and works in London.\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A window burst open high above the market. A basket flew from it and  arced towards the oblivious crowd. It spasmed in mid-air, then spun and continued  earthwards at a slower, uneven pace. Dancing precariously as it descended, its wire-mesh  caught and skittered on the building’s rough\u003cbr\u003e hide. It scrabbled at the wall, sending  paint and concrete dust plummeting before it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The sun shone through uneven cloud-cover  with a bright grey light. Below the basket the stalls and barrows lay like untidy  spillage. The city reeked. But today was market day down in Aspic Hole, and the pungent  slick of dung-smell and rot that rolled over New Crobuzon was, in these streets, for these hours, improved with paprika and fresh tomato, hot oil and fish and cinnamon,  cured meat, banana and onion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The food stalls stretched the noisy length of Shadrach  Street. Books and manuscripts and pictures filled up Selchit Pass, an avenue of desultory banyans and crumbling concrete a little way to the east. There were earthenware products  spilling down the road to Barrackham in the south; engine parts to the west; toys  down one side street; clothes between two more; and countless other goods filling  all the alleys. The rows of merchandise converged crookedly on Aspic Hole like spokes  on a broken wheel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the Hole itself all distinctions broke down. In the shadow of old walls and unsafe towers were a pile of gears, a ramshackle table of broken  crockery and crude clay ornaments, a case of mouldering textbooks. Antiques, sex,  flea-powder. Between the stalls stomped hissing constructs. Beggars argued in the  bowels of deserted buildings. Members of strange races bought peculiar things. Aspic  Bazaar, a blaring mess of goods, grease and tallymen. Mercantile law ruled: let the  buyer beware.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The costermonger below the descending basket looked up into flat sunlight and a shower of brick particles. He wiped his eye. He plucked the frayed thing from  the air above his head, pulling at the cord which bore it until it went slack in  his hand. Inside the basket was a brass shekel and a note in careful, ornamented  italics. The food-vendor scratched his nose as he scanned the paper. He rummaged  in the piles of produce before him, placed eggs and fruit and root vegetables into  the container, checking against the list. He stopped and read one item again, then  smiled lasciviously and cut a slice of pork. When he was done he put the shekel in  his pocket and felt for change, hesitating as he calculated his delivery cost, eventually depositing four stivers in with the food.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He wiped his hands against his trousers  and thought for a minute, then scribbled something on the list with a stub of charcoal  and tossed it after the coins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He tugged three times at the rope and the basket  began a bobbing journey into the air. It rose above the lower roofs of surrounding  buildings, buoyed upwards by noise. It startled the roosting jackdaws in the deserted storey and inscribed the wall with another scrawled trail among many, before it disappeared  again into the window from which it had emerged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Isaac Dan der Grimnebulin had  just realized that he was dreaming. He had been aghast to find himself employed once  again at the university, parading in front of a huge blackboard covered in vague  representations of levers and forces and stress. Introductory Material Science. Isaac  had\u003cbr\u003e been staring anxiously at the class when that unctuous bastard Vermishank had  looked in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I can’t teach this class,” whispered Isaac loudly. “The market’s too loud.” He gestured at the window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s all right.” Vermishank was soothing and  loathsome. “It’s time for breakfast,” he said. “That’ll take your mind off the noise.”  And hearing that absurdity Isaac shed sleep with immense relief. The raucous profanity of the bazaar and the smell of cooking came with him into the day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He lay hugely  in the bed without opening his eyes. He heard Lin walk across the room and felt the  slight listing of the floorboards. The garret was filled with pungent smoke. Isaac  salivated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lin clapped twice. She knew when Isaac woke. Probably because he closed\u003cbr\u003e his mouth, he thought, and sniggered without opening his eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Still sleeping,  shush, poor little Isaac ever so tired,” he whimpered, and snuggled down like a child.  Lin clapped again, once, derisory, and walked away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He groaned and rolled over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Termagant!” he moaned after her. “Shrew! Harridan! All right, all right, you win,  you, you . . . uh . . . virago, you spit-fire . . .” He rubbed his head and sat up,  grinned sheepishly. Lin made an obscene gesture at him without turning around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She  stood with her back to him, nude at the stove, dancing back as hot drops of oil leapt  from the pan. The covers slipped from the slope of Isaac’s belly. He was a dirigible,  huge and taut and strong. Grey hair burst from him abundantly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lin was hairless.  Her muscles were tight under her red skin, each distinct. She was like an anatomical  atlas. Isaac studied her in cheerful lust.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His arse itched. He scratched under the  blanket, rooting as shameless as a dog. Something burst under his nail, and he withdrew  his hand to examine it. A tiny half-crushed grub waved helplessly on the end of his  finger. It was a refflick, a harmless little khepri parasite. The thing must have\u003cbr\u003e been rather bewildered by my juices, Isaac thought, and flicked his finger clean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Refflick, Lin,” he said. “Bath time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lin stamped in irritation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e New Crobuzon  was a huge plague pit, a morbific city. Parasites, infection and rumour were uncontainable.  A monthly chymical dip was a necessary prophylactic for the khepri, if they wanted  to avoid itches and sores.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lin slid the contents of the pan onto a plate and set  it down, across from her own breakfast. She sat and gestured for Isaac to join her.  He rose from the bed and stumbled across the room. He eased himself onto the small chair, wary of splinters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Isaac and Lin sat naked on either side of the bare wooden  table. Isaac was conscious of their pose, seeing them as a third person might. It  would make a beautiful, strange print, he thought. An attic room, dust-motes in the  light from the small window, books and paper and paints neatly stacked\u003cbr\u003e by cheap wooden  furniture. A dark-skinned man, big and nude and detumescing, gripping a knife and  fork, unnaturally still, sitting opposite a khepri, her slight woman’s body in shadow,  her chitinous head in silhouette.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They ignored their food and stared at each other  for a moment. Lin signed at him: Good morning, lover. Then she began to eat, still  looking at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was when she ate that Lin was most alien, and their shared meals  were a challenge and an affirmation. As he watched her, Isaac felt the familiar trill  of emotion: disgust immediately stamped out, pride at the stamping out, guilty desire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Light glinted in Lin’s compound eyes. Her headlegs quivered. She picked up half  a tomato and gripped it with her mandibles. She lowered her hands while her inner  mouthparts picked at the food her outer jaw held steady.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Isaac watched the huge  iridescent scarab that was his lover’s head devour her breakfast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He watched her  swallow, saw her throat bob where the pale insectile underbelly segued smoothly into  her human neck . . . not that she would have accepted that description. Humans have  khepri bodies, legs, hands; and the heads of shaved gibbons, she had once told him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He smiled and dangled his fried pork in front of him, curled his tongue around it,  wiped his greasy fingers on the table. He smiled at her. She undulated her headlegs  at him and signed, My monster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am a pervert, thought Isaac, and so is she.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Breakfast  conversation was generally one-sided: Lin could sign with her hands while she ate,  but Isaac’s attempts to talk and eat simultaneously made for incomprehensible noises  and food debris on the table. Instead they read; Lin an artists’ newsletter, Isaac  whatever came to hand. He\u003cbr\u003e reached out between mouthfuls and grabbed books and papers,  and found himself reading Lin’s shopping list. The item a handful of pork slices  was ringed and underneath her exquisite calligraphy was a scrawled question in much  cruder script: Got company??? Nice bit of pork goes down a treat!!!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Isaac waved  the paper at Lin. “What’s this filthy arse on about?” he yelled, spraying food. His  outrage was amused but genuine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lin read it and shrugged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Knows I don’t eat meat.  Knows I’ve got a guest for breakfast. Wordplay on “pork.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, thanks, lover, I  got that bit. How does he know you’re a vegetarian? Do you two often engage in this  witty banter?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lin stared at him for a moment without responding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Knows because  I don’t buy meat. She shook her head at the stupid question. Don’t worry: only ever  banter on paper. Doesn’t know I’m bug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her deliberate use of the slur annoyed Isaac.New York Times bestselling author","brand":"Del Rey","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299825373413,"sku":"NP9780345443021","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345443021.jpg?v=1767734652","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/perdido-street-station-isbn-9780345443021","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}