Danny Dunn and the Weather Machine (7 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Danny's Discovery Discovered

When Danny, with help from Irene and Joe, had finished his story, the Professor said nothing for several minutes. Deliberately, he took out his pipe, filled it, and lit it.

Then he said, “I have learned, in science, never to say that a thing is impossible. But what you tell me, Danny, is certainly very odd and very difficult to believe. It is possible, in theory, for the machine to work as you describe it—that is, for the very tiny particles to be chilled, and to have moisture condense in droplets around them, and for miniature clouds to form. I certainly didn't intend the transmitter to do such a thing, nor did I ever see it do so. I probably never used it under the necessary conditions, as you describe them. I'll withhold any decision until we have a chance to test it.”

“You can do that now, Professor,” said Irene, who was standing near a window. “Mr. Clark's plane just landed.”

“I'll be right back,” said Danny. “I'll go get IT.” And off he dashed.

“Dear me, he certainly is hasty,” said the Professor mildly. “How can he get the plane?”

“He isn't going to get the plane, Professor Bullfinch,” said Joe. “He's going to get IT.”

“I'm afraid you are confusing me,” murmured the Professor.

“
IT
is what we called the machine, for short,” Irene explained. “I.T. for ionic transmitter.”

In a very short time, Danny reappeared. Mr. Clark was helping him carry the machine. They set it down on the long table, and Clark nodded to the two meteorologists and the Professor.

“Congratulations, Abe,” Frank said. “I felt sure if you tried it again, the cloud-seeding would work.”

Clark blew out his lips. “I wish it had,” he replied. “I like congratulations as much as anybody. Only it started to rain up there before we had a chance to throw out any more dry ice.”

“What?” said Frank. “But—then maybe it rained as a result of your first trip up.”

“I doubt it.” Clark shook his head. “I told you conditions weren't quite right. No, that's how the weather is: it just felt like raining, so it rained.”

The Professor, who had been examining his machine, turned to Danny and said in a tense voice, “Dan, I want you to think carefully. This is important. When you got the transmitter from the plane, just now, was the switch on or off?”

Danny wrinkled his forehead. “It was on, Professor. I remember thinking that it must have closed when Vanderbilt was dragging Snitcher. I turned it off just before we brought it in.”

“Aha!” Professor Bullfinch snapped his fingers. “I suspected as much. My dear boy, what you have here is a rain-making ray!”

All eyes were fastened on the Professor in astonishment.

Danny said in a bewildered tone, “But that's what I've been telling you, Professor. It makes little tiny rainstorms.”

“No, Dan. It made the great big rainstorm which is still going on outside.”

“That's impossible—” Ralph began.

“Tut, tut!” said the Professor, lifting a finger. “Not at all impossible. I believe that once the transmitter was up in the clouds, among all those droplets of water, it began making its own small clouds among the larger ones. Its drops grew heavy and began to fall. They carried others down with them. Sections of the larger cloud began to chill and condense also, and once this push had been given, the rain began in earnest.”

“But that machine doesn't work,” Frank burst out. “I saw it for myself. Danny turned it on for me and nothing happened.”

“Hmm.” The Professor took his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Turn it on, Dan. Let's see.”

Danny reached out and flipped the switch shut.

The rays shot out and met over the air conditioner. A dark-gray cloud, about the size of an armchair, formed in the air above the window. Suddenly small white particles began to whirl down. And the next minute, a blinding snowstorm filled the room.

“Hooray!” Joe yelled. “A white Christmas in August!”

The snowflakes settled in heaps on the table, on the teletype machine, on the map boards, on the instruments. They melted quickly, forming dirty pools of water.

The Professor quietly took out his handkerchief and put it over his bald head. “Very interesting,” he remarked. “The cold air from the air-conditioner coils must be making this snow. A very instructive demonstration.”

Frank had opened his umbrella and was trying to shield a pile of papers. Joe tried vainly to scoop up enough snow to make a snowball. Irene brushed snow from between Vanderbilt's ears.

As for Ralph, he was scowling more fiercely than ever. “Great guns!” he said. “If that blasted machine actually made the rain, and the cloud-seeding didn't—then I ate my new hat for nothing!”

Professor Bullfinch patted Danny's arm. “My boy,” he said, “you have made a very useful discovery. In fact, I think the Academy may be more interested in the rain-making properties of the transmitter than in its other capabilities. However—”

Danny had been smiling broadly. At this, his smile vanished. “Yes, sir?” he said in a small voice.

“Here is the lesson I promised you earlier,” the Professor said. “A scientist needs two qualities above all others: discipline and curiosity. He needs to be curious about how and why things work, and about their nature. He also needs to keep himself from jumping to conclusions, or from diving headlong into things without proper thought.

“Now, of those two qualities, you certainly have the curiosity. But you must also learn discipline.”

He sighed. Then he went on, “And I'm afraid you will have to learn it the hard way...

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Hard Way

Slowly and steadily, back and forth along the floor of the weather station, Danny pushed the mop.

“Gosh,” he said sadly, “there must be a simpler way to learn discipline than this.”

Irene was helping him clean up the room. With a sponge, she blotted the slush from the surfaces of tables and instruments.

“Well, Dan, you must admit it's your own fault,” she said.

“Yes, I know. Believe me, I'm going to stay away from sudden ideas from now on. And if I don't—” He looked about. On a hook near the door hung a brand-new panama hat, which Ralph Elswing had bought for himself to replace the other. “If I don't,” Danny went on, “I'll eat Mr. Elswing's hat.”

Irene spluttered with laughter. “Then I feel much safer,” she said. “If Mr. Elswing ever caught you—”

“Caught him at what?” asked Joe, who entered the room at that moment. “What's he up to now?”

“Nothing. He just promised never to be headstrong again.”

“Hal” said Joe sarcastically. “This I have to see. Go ahead, Dan. Start in.”

“Start in what?”

“Start in not getting crazy ideas.”

Danny looked baffled. “How can you start in not doing something?”

“Oh, skip it,” said Joe. “Look, I brought something for you.”

“A new mop?” Danny said sourly.

“Come on, be serious. This is a present.” Joe pulled a long sheet of paper out of his pocket. “A poem.”

Joe was well known in school as a poet, and his verses, written for every occasion, were always applauded even if they were a bit strange.

Danny put down the mop. “That's nice of you, Joe,” he said. “Go ahead. Read it.”

Joe cleared his throat and began:

“Mark Twain made up a saying, and until now there was no reason to doubt it;

He said, ‘Everybody talks about the weather but nobody does anything about it.'

Well, even though he is just a kid—

Danny Dunn did.”

Irene uttered a shriek of laughter. “My goodness, Joe,” she said. “What kind of English is that—‘Danny done did'?”

Joe looked at her in surprise. “I didn't say, ‘Danny done did.' I said, ‘Danny Dunn did.' ”

“Oh. I see, now,” said Irene, with a wink at Danny. “I'm sorry I interrupted you. Please go on.”

“Very well,” said Joe, a little stiffly. “If you insist—

“He started with a tiny cloud,

Which made many grownups mad but it made his friends proud;

Then, just as a little acorn grows into a mighty oak,

The little rain cloud grew into a tremendous soak.

Now, even though what makes rainfall is still a mystery,

Danny's weather maker will go down in history.

If he lived in France he would be on the President's list

To be kissed on both cheeks as a fine scientist.”

“Joe, it's a great poem!” Danny said, smiling affectionately at his friend.

“Thanks, Dan. It's for you.”

“I appreciate it. And now, I have something for you.”

“You have? What?”

“This.” Danny thrust the mop into Joe's hands.

“Now, wait a minute,” said Joe, backing away.

“Come on, Joe. You've got to help with the cleaning.”

“But why? I'm not going to be a scientist. I'm going to be a writer.”

“Writers need discipline, too,” Danny said. “That's what Miss Arnold always tells us in English class. And this mess is partly your fault.”

“Why is it my fault?”

“You should have stopped me. Go on. Mop.”

Joe snorted, but he took the mop. He began working. After a moment, he glanced up. Danny was sitting on a dry part of the long table, with a pencil and paper, his face set in a frown of concentration.

“Hey!” said Joe. “Why aren't you mopping, too?”

“I'm figuring,” Danny replied absent-mindedly. “If we bring the ray to the drugstore, and get Mr. Hopkins to leave the soda running and the tops off all the cans and syrup jars, we might be able to make an ice-cream-soda cloud. Then all we'd have to do is lie down with raincoats on—”

Irene put her hands on her hips, and looked sternly at him. Without another word, she marched over and got Mr. Elswing's hat down from the hook.

She strode to Danny's side, and held it out.

“Start eating,” she said.