HERE COMES THE SUN By Tom Holt (Orbit, $254) IF the worst came to the worst, it would always be possible to summon some deity or other to turn on the lights again if the Sun ever disappeared . . . even if it were at the expense of the odd sheep, goat, stray virgin or ox.
However, that's not the ghastly truth unfolded by Tom Holt in his Here Comes the Sun, whose title has more to do with flower power than candle power.
Salman Rushdie would have called it Satanic Nurses, as Mr Holt leads us through this witty metaphysical labyrinth, clogged with empire-building celestial bureaucrats supposedly acting in the best interests of mankind and attempting to keep the wheels turning.
The trouble is staff - it's impossible to get good help these days. Like when they built the Sun - they built things to last in those days; good for an eternity, with the right kind of maintenance. It's just that no one was doing any because of the fiscal and metaphysical cutbacks.
Celestial Ways and Means couldn't even organise a decent padlock for the shed in which the Sun was kept at night and a group of somewhat tarnished angels, who'd had far too much beer to drink, decide to take it for a joy ride.
What they forgot to do was check the fuel tank and of course they end up stranded in some cosmic backwater festooned with parking meters and double yellow lines. Serves them right! Enter a rather bored and very mortal secretary who virtually runs amok with the sensitivities of the bureaucrats as she solves the problems of various departments from Time and Tides to Gravity and Retribution.