The Weathermakers (1967) (5 page)

Father scowled. “That’s not going to be enough to help us, Jeremy.”

“I know.”

The videophone was sitting on the coffee table, next to my lunch tray. I got up from the sofa and paced across the room.

“Stop fidgeting and stay where I can see you!” Father snapped.

I sat on the windowsill, beside the softly humming air blower, and glanced at the thronged streets far below.

“So all we can do is sit here and hope the Climatology Division can warn us of the storms in time to keep us from losing people?” Father’s face wore the expression he uses when he thinks about how much he pays in taxes and how little he gets back in return.

“There’s another side to it, Dad. Some of the people at Climatology think weather control can be done. But not right away.”

I told him about Ted’s hopes.

“How serious is this fellow?” Father demanded. “Is he a pipe dreamer or can we depend on him?”

“I think he’s dependable. This Dr. Barneveldt—he won the Nobel Prize, you know—he seems to be working with Ted pretty closely. So it can’t be completely haywire.”

“Scientists can be wrong, Jeremy. Even Nobel Prize winners.”

“Well, maybe. But I think I’d like to stay here a while and see what happens. Ted might have the answer we want. Even his long-range predictions by themselves could be very important for us.”

Father nodded. “I agree, although I’m not certain you’re the one who should be keeping track of him. You’re a long way from home, young man.”

“I can take care of myself. And the family’s just a few minutes’ drive from here.”

“Have you seen your uncles or Aunt Louise yet?”

“Not yet. But I’ll drop in on them.”

“Yes, I suppose you couldn’t very well stay in Boston without visiting them,” Father said reluctantly. “Give them my regards. And don’t overplay this storm problem.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And stay as close as you can to this Marrett fellow. He may be a crackpot, but he’s the only hope we have.”

Staying close to Ted was no easy task. Mornings he was at MIT, afternoons at the Climatology offices, and evenings he was apt to be working either at one place or the other. He was a man on the move.

Barney tipped me off that he usually spent an hour or so Saturday mornings at the Cambridge YMCA, not far from the apartment he shared with Tuli.

I cornered him there, in a small gym off the main basketball court, and watched him give a fencing lesson to Tuli. Standing still, in the heavy white jacket and fencing mask, he looked like a hulking, heavy-footed gladiator. I expected Tuli to outspeed him easily. But in action he moved with the lightning grace of a leopard.

“Played halfback in college,” he explained at the end of the session, his face soaked with sweat. “Where I got my nose conked. Had a captain in the Air Force who liked fencing. He taught me and I’m teaching Tuli. Tried to get Barney interested, too, but she gave it up after a few weeks. Great stuff, you ought to try it.”

We started out of the gym as Tuli said, “On alternate Saturdays we practice karate. Then I’m the teacher and he’s the student.”

“Not enough action in karate,” Ted said, slinging his fencing bag over one shoulder. “Spend all your time in exercises and Oriental meditation.”

As we headed for the locker room, Ted suddenly suggested, “How about a quick swim? We’ve got about twenty minutes to spare. Come on, Jerry, we’ll dig up a suit for you.”

I agreed quickly. We raced two laps and I outdistanced him easily. “Doggone fish,” he called out, treading water. “Forgot you’re an Islander. Come on, let’s try it again.”

It was a challenge to him. A test he couldn’t ignore. After half a dozen laps he was keeping up with me. He didn’t have the right coordination, but he thrashed along on brute force, just about matching me, stroke for stroke.

“Looks as though you can do everything,” I said as we finally hauled ourselves out of the pool.

“No sense trying to do anything unless you can do it right,” he answered.

While we dressed in the locker room, Tuli said quietly to me, “He’s the type who either excels in what he’s doing, or simply doesn’t do it. He’s about as good in karate now as I am, although I’ve been studying the art for years and he’s been at it only a few months.”

“He’s an unusual person,” I agreed.

“When I first came to MIT last year,” Tuli added, “Ted was the only one to accept me right away. My English was terrible, of course. He shared his apartment with me and spent two solid months working on my pronunciation. There are not many like him.”

After we were dressed, Ted suggested we get an early lunch.

“Here at the Y?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I’ve got to see some people in Boston,” I lied.

Shrugging, he said, “Okay. See you soon.”

He turned for the locker-room door.

“I wanted to ask you,” I said, walking alongside him, “how the long-range forecasts are going.”

That brought a smile. “Great, so far. The hand calculation I did the middle of the week looks solid. This morning’s official forecast by the Boston Weather Bureau office is just the same as mine . . . but not as detailed, of course.”

“And yours was made three days ago.”

“Four. We’ve got the MIT computer running off the detailed forecast for the coming week. Should be finishing the run tonight. Then it’s just the dogwork of checking everything out . . . got the whole country to check on for the next eight days, Sunday to Sunday.”

“And you have half the MIT Department of Meteorology and three-fourths of Climatology’s computer section helping you,” Tuli said, pushing the locker-room door open.

“That many? Good . . . we’ll need ’em. And more.”

I asked, “Does Dr. Rossman know about all this?”

Ted winced. “Hope not. At least, not yet. If he finds out how much time and manpower we’re throwing into this bootlegged work . . .”

“He might consider some Eastern methods we have of dealing with undesirables,” Tuli said, straight-faced.

“By Friday we’ll have the predictions for the whole country checked out for most of the week. I’ll tell Rossman about it then . . . if everything’s working okay.”

“Why don’t we celebrate?” I suggested. “We could go down to Thornton for the weekend.”

“Thornton?”

“My family’s place in Marblehead.”

Ted glanced at Tuli. “Okay, why not? Maybe a celebration’ll be in order next weekend.”

We shook hands on it, and I told them I’d ask Barney along, too.

“I’ll ask Barney,” Ted said. There was nothing really hostile in his voice when he said it, but his tone was awfully firm.

I
T WAS
Sunday afternoon before I heard from any of them again. I was in my hotel room, watching TV, when the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Barney.

“Ted just told me that you’ve invited us to Marblehead for next weekend.”

“That’s right.” I nodded. “I hope you can come.”

“I don’t see why not. And it’s very sweet of you to ask us. I just thought I’d warn you, though. I stole a look at Ted’s forecast for the area, and it looks as though it will rain right through the weekend.”

Just what we need
, I said to myself. Aloud, I told her, “That’s too bad; I had hoped to take you out boating. Maybe Ted’s forecast won’t turn out.”

“Don’t say that . . . he’d be heartbroken.”

“I suppose so.”

Shaking her head, she said, “I’d love to go sailing, though. It’s a shame . . . the weather’s going to be fine all week. Until late Friday.”

I glanced toward the window. The Charles River was dotted with sails. “Maybe we could go during the week . . . just a short jaunt . . .”

“You mean after work? Would there be enough time?”

“Sure,” I said.

“All right,” she said happily. “How about Tuesday?”

“I’ll pick you up at the Climatology building.”

“Wonderful.”

So that Tuesday, after a fast drive out to the suburbs and back to Boston, we went out on the Charles in a rented sailboat. We skimmed along the river, crowded with other boats and an occasional powered cruiser zigzagging noisily through the flotilla. The sun was just starting to dip down behind the Back Bay complex of towers; we could see its flaming reflection in the windows of the MIT buildings on the Cambridge side of the river.

“I’m really glad you were free tonight,” I said.

“So am I,” she answered, raising her voice slightly against the wind that slapped the sails. She was wearing slacks and an oversized sweater that we had found in the boat’s gear chest. “Ted’s kept us all terribly busy with forecasts. But I think the computer can do the rest of the work without me.”

I leaned back, one hand on the tiller, and let the breeze carry us along. Barney seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Is Ted always like this?”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Well . . . sort of like an active volcano.”

Barney laughed. “He’s very excited about this forecasting technique. This is an important week for him.”

I had to tack for mid-river as we approached the Harvard Bridge. “You two spend a lot of time together, don’t you?”

“I suppose we do, between the office and this extracurricular work of his. We’ve even had dates together, now and then, when he’s hardly mentioned meteorology at all.”

“That doesn’t sound likely.”

“I know,” she replied, laughing again. “But it’s true. At first I thought Ted was only interested in getting some extra help for his computations. He’s not much of a mathematician, really. Perhaps it was only that . . . at first.”

“And now?”

“Now?” She brushed a bit of spray from her cheek. “You heard him last week . . . he said he’s threatened to marry me.”

“And you’ve agreed?”

“I haven’t really been asked, Jerry. I think Ted just assumes that I’m his girl and he’ll marry me some day—after he’s proven that he can control the weather.”

“You mean he just takes you for granted like that?”

Nodding, she said, “You’ve got to understand him, Jerry. He’s so wrapped up in his work that people . . . well, it’s not that they’re really secondary to him, but Ted simply doesn’t worry about people unless they force him to pay attention.

“And he can’t possibly do what he wants to do all by himself. He needs people to help him. So I help, and try not to cause him problems.”

“That makes it convenient for him.”

“I hope so. I’ve never met anyone like Ted. He sees farther than anyone I know, dreams bigger dreams. I suppose I’m part of his plan for the future.” She hesitated. “I imagine I’m
almost
as important to him as controlling the weather.”

“You deserve a better fate than that,” I said.

“That’s what I keep telling him.”

I headed the boat back to the dock, and then we drove to one of the better student restaurants in Harvard Square and had dinner. She began asking me about Hawaii and my family. By the time dinner was finished, she was telling me about the civil war in South Africa, and how her father had saved the 150-inch telescope there from being wrecked by a renegade mob.

We took in the three-D show at the new Hologram Theater, and then drove back along the Charles to “Faculty Row,” where her apartment was. She lived with her uncle, who was a visiting professor at MIT as well as a member of the Climatology staff.

“This was a lot of fun, Jerry,” she said as I helped her out of the car. “I enjoyed myself immensely.”

“I’m glad. We’ll have to try it again, soon.”

“Fine.”

I wanted to kiss her, but before I could make up my mind actually to do it, she turned and walked up the steps to the apartment door. I stood there, feeling stupid, as she waved goodnight to me.

Even during those bright days of late April, the air of the Arctic was heavy with cold. It sat atop the spinning Earth, imprisoned by a constant wall of westerly winds encompassing the Arctic Circle. But as the heartlands of Asia and North America warmed under the springtime sun, complicated readjustments began to take place in the moving, dynamic atmosphere. The westerlies faltered at one spot, briefly. It was long enough for a great mass of polar air to slide out of its Arctic prison and begin flowing southward, A long chain of events followed, a chain that stretched halfway across the world. The polar air mass pushed a weaker bubble of high pressure down across the great open stretches of northern Canada. Across the length of the continent the changes and counterchanges took place, as huge masses of air jostled each other, seeking a balance, a new equilibrium. The Bermuda High began to break up under the competing pressures of other systems. A tiny low-pressure cell, no more than a few clouds off the coast of Vera Cruz, felt itself being drawn into the trough of low pressure sandwiched between two westward-flowing Highs. The little storm headed northeastward, drawing moisture and power from the sea as it traveled.

I spent the next morning at the Boston Public Library, gathering book spools on meteorology (most of which I couldn’t understand, as it turned out) and arguing the chief librarian into letting me borrow them even though I wasn’t a permanent resident.

I went back to my hotel room, the spools under my arm. The phone was buzzing as I unlocked the door. I called out “Hello!” to make it open the circuit, thinking it might be Barney, but when I got into the room I saw Father’s face on the screen.