Nothing But Blue Skies [Paperback]

There's a sardonic edge to Tom Holt's novel title Nothing But Blue Skies, since the master of comic conspiracy theories here reveals just why British weather consists of a wide variety of rain. Rather than his usual scapegoat the Milk Marketing Board, the culprits are--of course!--Chinese water dragons.

Young heroine Karen is herself a dragon, but for love's sake has taken on the almost human form of an estate agent. Alas, she's hopeless at romance--unfortunate for Britain, since as the hereditary Dragon Marshall of Bank Holidays she causes rainy side effects of up to 2,000,000,000,000 litres/second/square kilometre whenever angry or upset ...

No wonder rebellious TV weathermen, enraged by sabotaged predictions of sunny days, have kidnapped Karen's father and trapped him in the third shape available to dragons: a goldfish. But the kidnappers fall foul of imperialist conspirators who reckon Britain's weather made it great, inspiring us to go out and conquer all those hot places. Behind this outfit are the even more megalomaniac schemes of an Aussie media baron who for excellent legal reasons isn't called Murdoch.

We also learn about Britain's real state religion, featuring human sacrifices to the Queen, and the North Welsh cult which believes "that when we die, we'll be reunited on the other side with all the used paper hankies we've discarded over the years." Better not to mention the potshots at Microsoft Windows.

Full of comic invention and crazy set-pieces, it's guaranteed to cheer up a rainy day. --David Langford --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Praise for Tom Holt: 'Uniquely twisted ... cracking gags' Rob Grant, THE GUARDIAN, 'Frantically wacky and wilfully confusing ... gratifyingly clever and very amusing' MAIL ON SUNDAY, 'Frothy, fast and funny' SCOTLAND ON SUNDAY, 'Dazzling' TIME OUT, 'Wildly imaginative' NEW SCIENTIST

There are very many reasons why British summers are either non-existent or, alternatively, held on a Thursday. Many of these reasons are either scientific, dull, or both - but all of them are wrong, especially the scientific ones. The real reason why it rains perpetually from January 1st to December 31st (incl.) is, of course, irritable Chinese Water Dragons. Karen is one such legendary creature. Ancient, noble, near-indestructible and, for a number of wildly improbable reasons, working as an estate-agent, Karen is irritable quite a lot of the time. Hence Wimbledon. But now things have changed and Karen's no longer irritable. She's FURIOUS. More information on this book and others can be found on the Orbit website at www orbitbooks.co.uk

Tom Holt is the author of such comic fantasy classics as: Expecting Someone Taller, Who's Afraid of Beowulf?, Flying Dutch, Ye Gods!, Overtime, Here Comes the Sun, Grailblazers, Faust Among Equals, Odds and Gods, Djinn Rummy, My Hero, Paint Your Dragon and Open Sesame

CHAPTER ONE Four men in dark grey suits and black sunglasses climbed out of a black, fat-wheeled Transit and slammed the doors. The noise woke up the proprietor, who staggered out of the little shed that served him as an office. He blinked at them. ‘Mr Denby?’ said one of the strangers. The proprietor shook his head. ‘No,’ he added, in case of doubt. ‘But this is Denby’s boatyard, right?’ ‘Yes.’ The four men exchanged glances and nodded. ‘You build boats?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘That’s good. We want a boat built.’ If the proprietor was surprised by that, he didn’t show it. (But then again, he never showed surprise at anything. Simple demarcation. If you want emotions registered, go to an actor.) Instead, he carried on looking weather-beaten and authentic. ‘Yeah,’ said another of the strangers. ‘Can you do that for us?’ The proprietor’s shoulders moved about a thirty-second of an inch, which in the boatbuilders’ dialect of body language means something like: Of course I can build you a boat, you fool, assuming that I can be bothered and you don’t mind waiting a year or so, and what would a load of dickheads like you be wanting with a boat, anyway? ‘Cool. Of course, we need it in a hurry.’ This time, the proprietor allowed his lower lip to twitch, somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousandths of an inch. ‘Like, we need it in three weeks, finished and ready to roll. Can you manage that?’ ‘Depends.’ The proprietor half-closed his eyes, as if performing miracles of mental quantity-surveying. ‘What kind of boat do you boys want?’ ‘Ah.’ For some reason, the strangers seemed uncomfortable with that question. ‘We thought we’d leave that to you, really. Like, you’re the expert here, you don’t keep a dog and bark yourself, all that shit. A boat.’ ‘A boat.’ ‘You got it.’ ‘What kind of boat?’ the proprietor asked again. To look at the strangers, you’d think they had something to hide. ‘A big boat,’ one of them said. ‘Not that we’re trying to dictate to you in any way, shape or form; I mean, if it’s gotta be a certain size, that’s the size it’s gotta be. Hell, last thing we want to do is come in here telling you how to do your job.’ ‘A big boat,’ the proprietor said. ‘Yeah.’ The tallest and grey-suitedest of the strangers nodded assertively. ‘A big boat’s just fine by us. Something in the order of – and this is just me thinking aloud, you understand, there’s nothing carved in tablets of stone or anything – something round about, say, 300 cubits by fifty cubits by thirty. There or thereabouts,’ he added quickly. ‘Cubits?’ ‘Sure. Why not cubits?’ This time, the proprietor actually frowned; easily his most demonstrative gesture since 1958. ‘What’s that in metric?’ he asked. ‘Metric?’ One of the other strangers nudged him in the small of the back. ‘He means, like, French.’ ‘Ah, right. OK. Trois cent cubites par cinquante par . . .’ The proprietor’s eyes snapped wide open, like a searchlight switching on. ‘Are you boys French, then?’ he asked dangerously. ‘Us? Shit, no. No way. We’re—’ From the way the man’s head moved a fraction to the left, you might have been forgiven for imagining he was reading notes scribbled on his shirt-cuff. ‘We’re English, same as you. You know: Buckingham Palace, afternoon tea, Bobby Charlton—’ By now the proprietor was staring at them as if trying to melt holes in their faces. ‘Where did you boys say you were from?’ he asked. ‘England,’ the stranger repeated. ‘Ah. What were you saying about cubits?’ The stranger took a deep breath, as if making himself relax. ‘I was just thinking, three hundred’s a good round number, for length. By, you know, fifty. By thirty. Give or take a cubit.’ ‘Mphm.’ ‘And,’ the stranger went on, ‘something else that’s just occurred to me, like a real spur-of-the-moment thing, dunno where in hell I got this from, but don’t you think it might be pretty damn’ cute if you built it out of gopher wood?’ ‘Gopher wood.’ ‘Yeah. Gopher wood rocks, is what I say.’ The proprietor breathed in deeply through his nose. ‘Gopher wood,’ he repeated. ‘And rocks.’ ‘Nope, just gopher wood. And while you’re at it,’ another stranger put in, with an air of almost reckless cheerfulness, ‘wouldn’t it be just swell if you pitched it, inside and out. Like, with pitch?’ ‘Hey!’ His colleague’s face instantly became a study in wonder. ‘That’s brilliant, man. Definitely, we want to go with that. Will that be OK?’ he asked the proprietor. ‘Pitch?’ ‘Pitch.’ ‘And,’ the other stranger ground on, ‘what say we have like a window, say one cubit square? And a door in the side? And – get a load of this, guys – lower, second and third storeys—’ The proprietor let go the deep breath. ‘You mean like Noah’s ark,’ he said. The strangers looked at each other. ‘Who?’ they said, all at once. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.