The Weathermakers (1967) Read Online Free Page B

. . .” I groped for a word, “. . . unbelievable.”
    “The pictures are being transmitted from the synchronous space stations. We can see the entire world’s weather patterns at a glance.”
    She walked to the podium that stood in the center of the room. A few touches on the control switches there, and weather maps sprang up on the viewscreens, superimposed on the televised pictures.
    “We can backtrack,” she said, her fingers flickering across the controls, “and see what the weather maps looked like yesterday . . .” the map shifted and changed slightly, “or the day before . . . or last week . . . last year . . .”
    “What about tomorrow, or next week, or next year?”
    “Tomorrow’s no problem.” The map shifted again. I could see that the storm now covering the area where Thornton dredges were trying to operate would lift off by tomorrow.
    “We can give you an educated guess about next week,” Barney said, “but it’s so vague that we don’t bother making up the maps for it. As for next year,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “you’ll have to consult the Old Farmer’s Almanac. That’s what we all do.”
    “Is that what Ted Marrett does?”
    Surprised, she asked, “Do you know Ted?”
    “We met last night. Didn’t your uncle tell you?”
    “No, he didn’t mention it. He’s rather forgetful; it’s sort of a family trait.”
    “Is Ted here? I’d like to talk to him.”
    “He’s at MIT in the morning,” Barney said. “We generally see him at lunch.”
    I glanced at my wristwatch. Almost noon.
    “Where do you eat?”
    “There’s a cafeteria here in the building. Would you like to join us?”
    “If you don’t mind.”
    “I warn you,” she said seriously, “there’s usually nothing but shoptalk.”
    “If the shoptalk’s about weather control, I want to hear it.”

3. Aerodynamics, Plus Water

    T HE Climatology Division’s cafeteria was large, very crowded and noisy, and terribly depressing. The walls were painted dead gray, and the few attempts someone had made at decorations had long ago faded into near-oblivion. Streams of people jostled through the lines and crowded the bare plastic tables. There was practically no real food at all, just synthetics and concentrates. Hardly appetizing, although Barney seemed to be pleased enough with the selection.
    “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked me as we hunted for an unoccupied table.
    My tray was nearly empty. “I . . . uh, I guess I’m used to Island food,” I lied clumsily.
    “There are better restaurants in the towns nearby, and in Boston, of course. But they’re pretty expensive.”
    “Real meat is worth the money,” I said.
    She gave me a funny look, then dropped the subject.
    By the time we found a table and sat down, Ted had arrived.
    “That’s Tuli Noyon with Ted,” Barney told me as they took trays and started working their way down the chow line. “Tuli’s from Mongolia. Ted met him at MIT and got him a part-time job here. He’s a chemical kineticist.”
    “A what?”
    “Chemical kineticist,” she said again. “Tuli’s been working with my uncle on new chemical catalysts that can change the energy balance of an air mass.”
    “Oh. Something like cloud seeding?”
    “Sort of.”
    Tuli had a stocky build that disguised his height; but I saw that he was nearly as tall as Ted. His face was oval, brown-skinned, flat featured—more like an Eskimo’s than any Oriental I had ever seen before.
    As the two of them weaved through the crowded tables toward us, I could see that they were deep in conversation, with Ted doing most of the talking. He was balancing a heavily loaded tray with one hand and gesticulating vividly with the other. Tuli was nodding, his round face nearly expressionless.
    I rose as they put their trays down on our table. Ted nodded a greeting at Barney and me without breaking vocal stride:
    “So Gustafson’s agreed to let me use the MIT computer on the midnight-to-four shift, if I