Nothing But Blue Skies by Tom Holt Page A

good.’
    â€˜Website? Oh, you mean that . How did you know I looked at the website?’
    The soft gurgling noise Neville made was one of his trademarks. For what it was worth, he was a genuinely brilliant meteorologist, and he could also whistle more or less in tune. It was important to bear in mind that there was always some good in everybody. ‘I don’t think you really want to know,’ he replied. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘what did you think?’
    â€˜About the website?’ Gordon pointed a forkful of shepherd’s pie at his face, caught sight of it and put it back on his plate. ‘With a certain amount of editing, it could be mere harmless drivel. I’m not saying you haven’t still got a long way to go, but it’s possible so long as you stick at it.’
    â€˜Drivel.’
    â€˜ Harmless drivel,’ Gordon reminded him. ‘Or at least, there are several places where it aspires to be harmless drivel. Ah, but Man’s reach must exceed his grasp, or what’s a Heaven for?’
    Neville wasn’t grinning any more. ‘Is this your facetious way of telling me you don’t believe what we’re telling you?’
    â€˜Yes. Do you want my bread roll, by the way? If you had two of them, you’d be able to bang them together and light a fire.’
    â€˜What is it you don’t believe?’
    Gordon sighed. ‘Come off it,’ he said. ‘A joke’s a joke, but it isn’t a fence post; hammering it into the ground is not recommended. I’ll admit you had me fooled for a minute or two, but . . .
    Neville picked up the ketchup bottle, took the lid off, sniffed and put it back where he’d found it. ‘You’re saying you think the whole thing’s a spoof. A leg-pull.’
    â€˜To more or less the same extent that Ronald Reagan was an actor; but yes, I think that’s what you intended it to be.’
    â€˜I see.’ Neville was beginning to look genuinely angry. ‘Obviously I’ve been overestimating your intelligence all these years.’
    â€˜You mean underestimating, surely.’
    Neville shook his head. ‘My own silly fault. I honestly thought you had the breadth of mind, the perception, the depth of vision . . . ’
    â€˜Sometimes I do,’ Gordon said. ‘Quite often, in fact; usually around half ten, eleven at night. Right now, though, I’m sober.’
    Neville didn’t seem to find that particularly funny. ‘That’s a pity. But we can deal with it. After all, seeing is believing.’
    â€˜Sometimes,’ Gordon replied cautiously. ‘Other times, it’s nature’s way of telling you to lay off the vodka chasers. All depends on what it is you start seeing.’
    Neville pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What are you planning on doing now?’
    â€˜Eating my lunch?’ Gordon caught another glimpse of the shepherd’s pie. ‘No, maybe not. In that case, I may as well go back to the office and do some work.’
    Neville moved to block him from getting up. It was like being threatened by a Ray Harryhausen pipe cleaner. ‘You mean,’ he said, ‘you’re going straight to the fifteenth floor and you’re going to tell them to fire me because I’ve gone crazy. That’s right, isn’t it?’
    Gordon frowned. ‘Do you want me to do that?’ he asked.
    â€˜No, of course not.’
    â€˜That’s all right, then, because I’d prefer not to. And besides, you only imagine the world is ruled by enormous flying lizards. By BBC standards, that makes you dangerously sane.’
    People were, of course, beginning to stare. But Gordon was used to that; it was Neville who seemed disconcerted - odd, really, considering that he made his living being stared at by up to ten million people at a time.
    â€˜You’ll see,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you, and then