The Weathermakers (1967) Read Free

party.”
    “I nearly got lost,” I admitted.
    “Ted Marrett,” he introduced himself, grabbing my hand and pumping it hard. Gesturing, he added, “Dr. Barneveldt, chief of the theoretical section.”
    Ted was about my own age, perhaps a year or two older. He was big, heavy in the shoulders, flat in the midsection, with long, lanky legs. His face was bony, angular, and there was a barely visible scar across the bridge of his nose—a football injury, I learned later. His hair was an unruly mop of fire red. He hardly looked like a scientist who would shake the world.
    While Ted was restless, gesturing, Dr. Barneveldt was small and quiet—almost sedate, in comparison. He was thin and slightly stoop-shouldered; his hair was dead white, and he had a somehow fragile look about him. The wrinkles on his face, though, seemed to come more from the little smile he constantly wore than from advancing age.
    “Pleased to meet you both,” I said. “I’m—”
    “Jeremy Thorn the Third,” Ted finished before I could. “Never met a Third before. . . or a Second, for that matter. Rocket in from Hawaii? Good flight? Sure dressed Island style.”
    “I . . . didn’t have time to change,” I fumbled. “Uh, is Dr. Rossman here? I was supposed . . .”
    Ted nodded. “Told him you were here. He’ll make you wait a couple minutes more before he lets you into his office. His way of getting even for making him wait.”
    “Getting even?”
    “Quitting time’s four fifteen around here; Rossman likes to get home to his wife and family. He was kind of sore about having to stay to five thirty, and you even blew that time.”
    “The helicab—”
    “Don’t worry, he’ll call you in any minute now.”
    I didn’t know what to say. “You weren’t staying late just because of me, were you?”
    “Oh, no.” Ted waved the idea away. Grinning toward Dr. Barneveldt, he said, “We were just gassing about weather control.”

2. “. . . It’s Impossible”

    “W EATHER control?” I said. “That’s what I came for.”
    “I believe perhaps we should explain,” Dr. Barneveldt began to say, but a buzzer cut him off in mid-sentence.
    He carefully moved a stack of paper off the desktop intercom and touched a red-glowing button.
    “Has the visitor found the office yet?” a raspy voice asked.
    “Yes,” Dr. Barneveldt said. “Mr. Thorn is here now.”
    “Good; send him in.” The intercom clicked into silence.
    Ted gestured the old man to stay in his chair. “It’s just down the hall,” he said to me, jerking a thumb in the right direction. With the beginnings of a grin, he added, “Good luck.”
    I walked down the short hallway to the door at the end, feeling kind of jittery. There was no nameplate. I knocked once, lightly.
    “Come in.”
    Dr. Rossman’s office was almost as small and tired-looking as the one I had just left. A metal desk, a row of file cabinets, a tiny conference table with chairs that didn’t match: no more furniture than that. Only one window; the rest of the walls were covered with charts and graphs that had been taped up years ago, from the looks of them.
    I had never before realized the difference between private industry and government, as far as floor space and trappings were concerned. If Dr. Rossman had been working for Father at an equally important position, his office would have been four times larger. And probably his salary, too.
    He was seated at the desk. “Sit down, Mr. Thom. I hope you didn’t have too much trouble finding us.”
    “A little,” I answered. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you late.” He shrugged. He was lean and pale-looking, with a long, somber face that reminded me a bit of a bloodhound’s.
    “Well, now,” he said as I pulled a chair from the table toward the desk, “what can we do for Thornton Pacific?” I sat down and said, “It’s about these storms that have hit our mining dredges. They’re causing a lot of damage and expense.”
    He nodded gravely. “Yes,