Our Man in Pluvia

by Charles L. Harness

Sometimes everybody tries to do something about the weather. The hard part is getting them to agree on what to do!

Chesley (“Chigger”) Jones looked down U.S. Highway 380 and saw disaster. Disaster in the shape of a big beautiful cumulus cloud.

Ellis, the foreman of the movie crew, had called him from Pluvia, all a-dither. “Hey, Chigger, this cloud, the locals call it The Texas Monsoon. I thought you guys said it never rains here!”

Monsoon? Chigger shuddered and thought of India, where the monsoon season typically produces 125 inches of rain per month. News of the cloud must have traveled fast. A few minutes later the Mogul head office had called. Chigger recognized the gravelly voice. “We may have to cancel. We’re covered, aren’t we? If it rains?” Meaning, if the studio had to cancel filming because of rain, the insurance company would indemnify the studio for the cost of producing the movie, less a deductible. “Jones, this is ‘Hopi Holiday.’ We’ve got to have full sunshine. Rain would kill us. And we can’t hang around. Tomorrow morning the crew has to be in Roswell for ‘I Married an Alien.’ We’re talking a couple of million. Check it out.”

Chigger had groaned. That kind of exposure didn’t allow a negative answer. “I’m sure we’re OK. Just let me double check, get back to you.” The head office would understand this as “I haven’t the foggiest idea, but I’ll find out and I’ll fix it.”

So he had called up the policy on his dashboard monitor, checked the exclusions. And he had groaned again. The policy carried no coverage for earthquakes, tornadoes, meteor strikes, flood, hurricanes, hail, snow, fog, sleet … or rain.

He tried to think back. It had been weeks ago that he negotiated the insurance policy. Maybe months. The head office had warned him, “Keep it cheap. Don’t pay for a lot of stuff that can’t happen.” He remembered about rain. He had checked with Dr. Nebel, the consulting forecaster, who declared, “It hasn’t rained in Pluvia since records were started in 1895.”

“But Pluvia? Isn’t that Latin for rain?”

“Exactly. A fine example of the Texan’s love of emphasis by stating the opposite. Like the Elysian Fields.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He recalled that the Elysian Fields was a forty-square-mile tract of pear cactus.

Dr. Philo Nebel was an honorary member of the famous World Meteorological Organization-the WMO-which possessed over two hundred signatory nations with 15,000 land weather observation stations, l0,000 stations in ships at sea, 65,000 moored and drifting buoys, a dozen weather satellites. Plus upper air data retrieved hourly from 2,000 weather balloon sites; continuous reports from commercial aircraft; with minute-by-minute reports sent to the U.S. Weather Bureau in the District of Columbia, indeed to all member nations. Surely with all this, thought Chigger, Dr. Nebel could tell him with certainty if it was going to rain in Pluvia, Texas, today, August 20.

A big sign at the road side: Pray for Moisture. Chigger groaned once more. A mile farther on was another sign: Pray Harder. Chigger sighed.

The four-lane highway stretched out ahead, flat, endless and, save for the towering cumulus disaster, empty. Likewise behind him.

He thought of General Sherman’s opinion of Texas, based on several months army service before the Civil War. “If I owned both Hell and Texas, I’d live in Hell and rent out Texas.” And old Cump had been stationed in the nice part of the Lone Star State. He shrugged, checked the air conditioner thermometer. Eighty-seven. Fortunately with low humidity.

He was approaching the turn-off to the temporary movie lot and he could see the line of trucks and trailers trailers. All that would be gone tonight and on its way to the production of another cheapie several hundred miles away. He wondered if he should stop, check in with Ellis, then decided maybe later.

As he entered Pluvia, he could look down Main Street and see all of the cloud, from top to bottom, side to side. Just sitting there, visibly throbbing. Waiting to let loose.

He focussed the camera on the monster and called Dr. Nebel on the web. “Well, there it is. Now what do you think?”

He listened to the thin metallic voice of the meteorologist. “Well, bless us! The rare and famous Texas Monsoon! Standing there like a beautiful woman. She requires no makeup, no designer wardrobe. Her grace, her charm carry her without need for more. I-”

“Doc, is it going to rain?” Chigger spoke between clenched teeth.

“Rain? Hm. Let’s see. About six-tenths mile on a side, wouldn’t you say? Same for the height? Call it a cubic kilometer. Which contains about 4 million kilos of water-a bit more than a million gallons. Hm. Yes, I can see your concern. The Monsoon. Hm. Shows up intermittently this time of year.” “Doc, is it going to rain?” It came out as a harsh wail.

“Rain. Well. Perhaps I’d better explain. Most of that water is tied up as tiny crystals of ice. And yes, they fall, and they melt, and they become raindrops, and they fall. But as they fall they evaporate. They become virga-they’re gone long before they hit the ground. So, rain? Yes, lots of rain. But rain on the ground, no, not a drop.”

“So ‘monsoon’-just bitter Texas irony again?”

“Exactly. However, while we’re on the subject, I might alert you to another fact that has just come to my attention. An attempt will be made sometime today to seed the cloud by air. It will fail to produce rain.”

Off again, on again…. “How can you be so sure?”

“History, Mr. Jones. In the last fifty years, commercial seeders have made several assaults on the Monsoon, using dry ice, silver iodide, sodium chloride, water sprays, plus various other mixtures. Not a drop of rain. Check it out, if you like. According to the map, the Pluvia airport is just east of town.”

Maybe a low priority on that one, thought Jones.

Dr. Nebel added, “I presume the studio is aware of the risk inherent in the movie script.” “Huh?”

“The ceremony … the snake dance.”

Chigger had to think a moment. “Oh, you mean, the rain dance? It could actually produce rain?” He thought a moment. “You’re serious?”

A silence.

The expediter continued. “A snake dance? Nah.” Nebel was teasing him. “Nobody can make it rain holding snakes and prancing around half naked. Too weird … Hold on … emergency flash from the head office. Catch you later. Yo. Jones here.”

That gravelly voice again. “Jones? Somebody has just filed a petition for a restraining order against making the film. They claim copyright infringement plus some other stuff … desecration of tribal religion, unfair trade practice, threat of devastating crop loss and so on and so on. Meet with their lawyer right away. Here’s the address….”

“I-” But the screen blanked. Chigger immediately cross-checked the address in the local directory. The Hopi Nation? Headquarters in Arizona, but with a legal deputy here in Pluvia. He brought up the directory of officers. Here we are, thought Chigger. Local counsel: Warren Blackwolf. He punched more keys. An advertising video popped up on the monitor, a tall man striding along, dark skin, broad cheekbones, black eyes. Walking up the courthouse steps. A flowing animal grace. In the courthouse corridor, talking to reporters, smiling, eyes lively. Laughing. Perfect teeth. Rich modulated voice. Ph.D., Tri-State Bar. Still under forty.

Chief, thought Chigger, you’ve come a long way from the reservation. We’ll see.

Meanwhile, let’s just double check the fine print in our insurance policy. He pulled up the ‘Hopi Holiday’ contract. “Voice,” he said, “Section three.”

Words came back instantly. “Unless listed in the Exclusions, any thing, event, force, or cause whatsoever (herein collectively, Cause), which despite Insured’s best efforts, prevents filming the Movie on the Date or Dates, including without limitation of the generality of the foregoing: Force majeure, strikes, death or disablement of star personnel-”

“Stop. Jump to Exclusions.”

“Litigation initiated by third parties-”

“Stop.” Ouch. The Hopi suit was not covered. We’re in trouble. Back to square one.

Pay attention now, thought Chigger, we’re coming into Pluvia, Rodleigh County Seat. Speed limit thirty mph. He slowed down to fifty, found the Civic Center, parked.

Dr. Blackwolf greeted him pleasantly and waved him to a chair. Chigger stood for a moment, looking at the pictures on the wall-mostly just Indians going about their daily tasks-and one painting in particular. It was a big one, showing men dancing in a circle, each with a snake in his mouth. Chigger thought he had seen something like it before in a Baltimore art gallery. “Kabotie?” he asked.

Dr. Blackwolf smiled. “Yes. Fred Kabotie’s famous Hopi Rain Dance. Not the original, of course, but a fine copy. You’re familiar with the ceremony?”

“Some of it, I guess. Anyway, Doctor, that’s what I’m here about. I represent Mogul. You’ve applied for a restraining order to stop the film. The studio stands to lose a great deal of money.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I think maybe the problem is you just don’t understand what Mogul wants to do.”

“So tell me.”

“Well, according to the script, they’ll have these dancers do the dance, proper costumes, makeup, snakes, the whole schmear. Takes about an hour, maybe a little longer if they need retakes. At the end, there’ll be spray from a hose, about five minutes. No real rain. We promise we’re not really going to make it rain.”

Dr. Blackwolf smiled. “We never thought you would. That wasn’t our concern. Not at all.”

“So what’s the problem?”

His host hesitated. “Mr. Jones, I fear this is going to be difficult for you to grasp. Our concern stems from our religious beliefs. Our people think your Hollywood rain dance would be a hideous mockery of the real thing.”

“But … we…” Chigger stared blankly at the tall man.

“For starters,” Blackwolf said, “the ceremony must be done in late August in Hopi tribal lands in northeastern Arizona. It cannot be done at other places, other times. There is a ritual that must be followed exactly.” He gave the visitor a questioning look. “For example, when it’s over, what are you going to do with the snakes?”

Chigger shrugged. “Return them to the zoo, I guess.”

“You see? That would never do. The priests consider the snakes to be their brothers. They have to be returned into the desert and released, so that they can carry the prayers to the goddess.”

“…goddess?” Chigger stared at the tall man. “But that’s … witchcraft? Surely you don’t believe in that stuff?”

“Actually, I don’t. On the other hand, a great majority of my fellow tribesmen do believe, including several influential voices on the Hopi council.”

“Well, OK, how about if we turn the snakes loose in the desert?”

“Mr. Jones, I’m afraid you don’t get the point. A proper ceremony takes nine days. The dance itself is merely the concluding climax.” He paused, took a deep breath. “Let me explain. You’ll pardon me if I go into some detail.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Well, first, the kiva-the ceremonial cavern-is cleaned and made ready. Access is by a ladder through a hole in the roof. The dancers are selected. Until the end, they must abstain from sex, salt, and meat. Figures are drawn with colored sand on the flat rock floor of the kiva and a bowl of pure spring water is placed on an altar in the center. Men go forth into the desert and catch the snakes, which are then brought down into the kiva. Participants sleep in the kiva with the snakes for four days, praying, singing, meditating. On the final morning, they light the fires in the crypt, the smoke rises into the sky and beckons to the rain clouds. The men purify themselves by sprinkling ashes on their bodies with their left hands.”

He studied Jones quizzically. His visitor nodded silently and Blackwolf continued.

“The snake dance begins. When it’s over, the snakes are set free in the desert or in other sacred places, and the dancers take an emetic. Everything is removed from the kiva, and the sand pictures are erased. The rest is up to the rain goddess.”

He faced the visitor with deepset melancholy eyes. “You see, we Hopi have been celebrating the marvels of nature for many centuries, long before you Pa-ha-na came to the desert with your strange ways.”

“Yes.” Chigger was thoughtful. “But let’s try something. To register your copyright, you filed movies with the Library of Congress?”

“Of course.”

“Let us check your movies. If they have what we need, perhaps we can use your rain dance. We drop our dance, and you drop your suit.” Dr. Blackwolf thought about that. “Actually, you already have a copy. We filed it with the complaint. Your people have probably already checked it out.”

“Well then, let’s see what they think. Use your phone?” He placed a phone call, switched to speaker. “Ellis, I’m sitting here with the Hopi lawyer, Blackwolf. You’ve seen their film? OK. They offer a buy-out. We don’t film the dance. They’re absolutely firm on that. It violates their religion. Instead, use their film. Pay them fifty thou. They drop the petition.” The voice came in, scratchy, hesitant. “Yeah, but fifty G’s…”

“Don’t screw me up, Ellis. I’ve negotiated this down from a quarter million. Look, our dance is budgeted at a hundred thousand. You’ll not only be saving fifty thousand, you’ll be bringing in the product two hours under schedule. You’ll be out of here by three-thirty this afternoon. Four at the latest.”

“Well, OK, but only as a personal favor-”

“And one more thing. Lawyer Blackwolf wants the Hopi Nation listed in the credits, plus the names of the individual dancers.”

“Yeah, we can do that.”

Chigger clicked off. Dr. Blackwolf looked at him with arched eyebrows. “Fifty thousand dollars?”

“Makes it look genuine. For free, they’d be very suspicious.”

“I owe you one.”

Chigger rose to go. “No problem.”

His host remained seated. “You don’t want it to rain. There’s that cloud…”

Chigger was instantly alert. “The Texas Monsoon?” He sat back down. “But we have been assured it won’t produce any rain.”

“And you could be right. On the other hand, I understand an attempt will be made to seed the cloud this afternoon.”

“We know about that. Our meteorologist assures us it won’t work.”

“Is he aware they’ll be using a new seeding agent?”

“I … well … I don’t know. I guess not. He mentioned dry ice, silver iodide… ?”

“Let’s back up, take a look at the mechanics of making a raindrop. The cloud top has to be below freezing. The cloud droplets freeze, make ice crystals. The crystals fall, melt, become raindrops. But in clouds like the Monsoon, it’s a long way down and they evaporate before they reach the ground. OK?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Chigger sounded dubious.

Dr. Blackwolf smiled. “So why does the Hopi process work? It works because it provides a very special nucleating agent: smoke rising from the kiva catches an updraft and enters the cloud and seeds it. The smoke consists of microscopic particles that are very efficient at attracting water molecules and forming raindrops and inhibiting their evaporation. Those new seeds that will be tested today are synthetic organic molecules that just happen to be very similar to our Hopi smoke particles. We think they may prove quite effective.”

Chigger stifled a groan.

Blackwolf continued. “Actually, their attempt might be very interesting. It’s not generally known, but there is in fact a statute on the books from back in 1905 or 6, where the county offers a reward for successful rainmaking. Never claimed … long forgotten.”

So why bring it up? thought Chigger. Let it lie!

“We doubt that the seeders-the Carter brothers-are aware of the statute-or,” observed Dr. Blackwolf, “that the new seeds are patented.”

Chigger sat up straight. “Patented? You wouldn’t happen to have the patent number?” The lawyer reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a document. Chigger glanced at it briefly. “Borrow this?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the patent and ran from the room.

By the time he strapped on his seatbelt, he had read the name and address of the inventor on page one of the patent and had placed the call. Guthrie W. Keyman, Newton, Kansas. On the way to the airport he connected. Yes, the patented composition (Keyman called it ‘nimbo’) had worked as an insecticide in Kansas cornfields. Cloud seeding? No, never heard of it. No, he hadn’t licensed his patent to anybody for cloud seeding. Yes, he’d be happy to license … sure, Mr. Jones, you can handle it. Just keep me advised.

As he drove back into town, Chigger composed a licensing contract. Nimbo Seed Company, Licensor; Carter Brothers, Licensee.

He drove slowly around the parked planes at the little airport and soon spotted a twin-engine Piper Chieftain, the only plane with cartridges installed on the wings. A youth seated in a nearby lawn chair laid aside a comic book and looked up as Chigger drove up.

“Cloud seeder?” Chigger asked. “Yo.”

“You run the show?”

“Naw. That’s my brother Willis.”

“He around?”

“Naw. He’s in court today.”

“Oh? Who’s he suing?”

“Nobody. We’re getting sued. Some dude in Alameda County is all shook up about the Monsoon. Claims we can’t seed it. There’s a hearing going on right now.”

“In the courthouse?”

“Yeah.”

“OK. I’ll catch him there.”

And so back into town, into the courthouse parking lot, and up the stairs. He scurried down the main corridor, peeking into every courtroom (mostly empty) until he found the right one.

Panting, he took a seat close to the bar. He was the sole spectator, but nobody paid any attention to him. A weatherbeaten man of middle age sat at plaintiff’s table with his lawyer, a short corpulent man in a light three-piece seersucker suit. At defendant’s table sat a young man in a simple white T-shirt and blue jeans, and next to him another youth, likewise clad in three piece seersucker. Courtroom dress code? thought Chigger. Despite air-conditioning, the suits of both lawyers showed damp spots at the armpits. The judge was fanning himself slowly with a cardboard fan. He looked bored. Chigger wondered if he was wearing anything underneath his robe.

Plaintiff’s lawyer rose. “In closing, your honor, let me emphasize, my client, The Cotton Growers Association of Alameda County, does not claim ownership of that cloud known as the Texas Monsoon. But we do claim certain rights with respect to the cloud, including the right not to endanger our crops with the artificially induced fall of hail. Defendant proposes to try out a new seeding technique. He proposes to use our fields as his guinea pig. He claims seeding would produce only rain. We think it would also produce hail. Rain we do not need. Our fields are irrigated with water drawn from an underground aquifer. We are content with the status quo. Indeed, we insist on our status quo. Let respondent test his new seed on some other cloud. The temporary injunction should be made permanent.” He sat down.

Defendant’s lawyer arose, cleared his throat. “Your honor, my client isn’t trying to disturb the cotton fields of Alameda County. He’s just trying to test a new seeding technique that may prove of great value to agriculture in the Plains States, and to this county in particular. True, we presently irrigate. From our aquifer, we take 70,000 acre-feet per year. This is partially replenished by 45,000 acre-feet from rainfall outside our area. This leaves a shortfall of 25,000 acre-feet. In twenty-five years our aquifer will run dry. We need to start making up the shortfall now. We need people like my client, people who are ready to try new things. We need to get a plane up into the Monsoon with the new seed. We need to end the current water shortage. The injunction should be terminated.” He sat down.

For a moment, the judge just sat there and seemed to study his notes thoughtfully. Then he laid down his fan, picked up his water carafe, made as though to pour a glass of water, shook it, then replaced it. He mopped his brow and arose. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He didn’t head for the door that led to his chambers: he walked out the front door of the courtroom. After a moment’s hesitation, Chigger got up and followed unobtrusively.

The judge walked to the west end of the corridor and looked out the window. The cloud, thought Chigger. He’s studying the cloud. Whatever for? And here he comes.

The agent ducked into a stairwell as his honor strode past, then hurried after him. The two resumed their seats simultaneously.

The judge spoke in measured tones. “I find as follows. The Monsoon is presently approaching the border between Alameda and Rodleigh Counties. It is moving east at the rate of about one mile an hour. In one hour, it will be entirely within Rodleigh County. Seeding can have no impact on the Cotton Growers of Alameda County. The matter is therefore moot. The injunction is terminated, the case is dismissed.”

Jubilation at defendant’s table, dark scowls at plaintiffs.

Chigger sighed. Time to act. Sometimes he hated his job. He passed the bar gate and approached the young man at defendant’s table. “Mr. Carter?”

His quarry looked up in surprise. “Yeah?”

“I represent Nimbo Cloud Seed Company. It has come to our attention that you propose to seed a local cloud with our patented product.”

“Huh? Patented?”

“I have been to the airport, Mr. Carter. I have seen the installations on your plane.”

“Yeah. Well, look, Mr.-”

“Jones.”

“Mr. Jones. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get out there, get up in the air right away.”

“I must warn you, Mr. Carter, you will be infringing our patent.”

Willis Carter hesitated. “But they were selling it as an insecticide. We’d be using it for cloud seeding-a brand-new use. We discovered our seed clings tightly to water molecules, inhibits evaporation of rain drops. No more virga. The raindrops fall to the ground. The mechanism is completely different from use as an insecticide.”

“Sir, it makes no difference. We claim it as a new composition of matter. Any manufacture, use or sale without a license is an infringement, regardless of whether it’s a new use or not.” Chigger paused, then added evenly, “And since the infringement is deliberate, you will be liable for triple damages.”

Willis Carter stopped, turned back, looked at his lawyer. “Can he do that?”

The attorney’s shrug was eloquent.

“It’s coming up on one o’clock,” Chigger observed. “The cloud seems to be stuck in place. Why don’t we have lunch at the corner diner? Talk business.”

“Chili’s really pretty good,” Chigger observed, finally pushing his bowl away. “But I could use a glass of water.”

“Have to ask for it,” Willis Carter said. “Water shortage. They’re real strict about it.”

“Oh… ? Let it go.”

Carter’s lawyer looked at his watch. “You wanted to talk business, Mr. Jones?”

“Yes, glad you reminded me. How much money were you going to make on this test run?”

Willis Carter shrugged. “None. It’s just an experiment. If it works, we look for clients.”

“Ah. Hm. You’re familiar with County Resolution twenty-seven of 1905?” He looked at blank faces.

The young seeder said, “Uh, no, can’t say that I am.”

“That’s the Rainmaker Resolution. You don’t recall… ?”

The lawyer said, “Something vague … no … just can’t seem to…”

Chigger pulled out his palm reader. “Here, take just a second to bring it up.” He punched keys. “There Resolution twenty-seven, May 10, 1905. See there? The county offers a reward for making rain. One-tenth inch in twenty-four hours gets you ten thousand dollars. A lot of money in those days. Do you think you might qualify?”

Willis Carter stared wide-eyed at the reader. “I’d like to try.”

“You would need a license under our patent. Now, just thinking out loud … our introductory offer … which I’ll have to check with our home office … our cut is normally fifteen percent of your actual receipts, but since you’re just starting out, we’d be inclined to take only ten percent, with right of audit. We give you an exclusive license under the patent for the tri-state area. You could seed for any purpose … hail control, rain, tornado control, fog on the runway, whatever. What do you think?” He stole a look at his watch. He would need to stall this to give the movie crew time to finish up.

“What if we say no?”

Chigger sighed. “Triple damages, Mr. Carter. Plus a permanent injunction. And whether the seed works or not, we attach your plane.” He checked his watch. Two-thirty. Thirty minutes for Willis to get back to the airport and get the plane into the cloud. Three o’clock. Too soon. He needed more time. “Discuss it with your lawyer while I call it in to the head office. I’ll be in my car.”

Fifteen minutes later the two emerged from the diner. Willis was ready to sign. “We have to wait a few minutes,” Chigger explained. “The head office is in an uproar about that ten percent. Can’t see why it can’t be the usual fifteen. They’re taking a vote, and we’ll have a decision by 3:30 local time.”

They looked up at The Cloud. It was still there, buxom, seductive.

Chigger said, “Depending on results here, you chaps might want to consider participating in our operation in Libya.”

“Libya… ?” said the lawyer.

“Yeah, big deal in North Africa … rain on the Sahara. Looking into the possibilities.”

Willis Carter said, “We’d need a cloud.” He began to describe in detail a possible North African operation and when that was done he launched into plans for the Gobi Desert in Asia.

Chigger hated to interrupt. He checked his watch. “Hey, it’s after 3:30, and no word. Our deal stands. Here’s my pen. Copy for you. Off you go, and good luck.”

“Chigger!”

The expediter recognized the voice of the crew chief. He sensed despair.

“Yo.”

“We’re stuck here. We needed that one last spray from the hose, you know, to show the dance actually brought rain. But the sheriff came-turned us off. Something about water conservation. Can you fix it? Maybe get an emergency court order?”

Chigger looked at his watch. Four o’clock. By now Willis Carter should be weaving in and out of the Monsoon, scattering that mysterious new seed. And would it really work? Nebel had said nothing would work. Still-He said, “Let me look into it.”

A framed legend hung on a wall in Philo Nebel’s office in Alexandria, Virginia. Dr. Nebel had recovered it from the dwelling of an astrologer who had died in Pompeii 79 A.D. as a consequence of the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. He had judged the legend to be appropriate for a practicing meteorologist. Adjacent to the Latin inscription was hung a big flag with a red square in the center. This was one of the flags flown from county courthouse flagpoles in the closing days of the nineteenth century, when weather forecasting was handled by the U.S. Signal Corps. The flag was hoisted when a local blizzard was imminent.

On his computer desk sat a radiosonde-a quite primitive affair. Indeed, the very first, sent aloft with the first weather balloon nearly a hundred years ago.

But his prize was displayed on his desk in a locked glass case: the key that Benjamin Franklin claimed he had used in flying kites into Philadelphia thunderstorms. Actually, Dr. Nebel secretly doubted the claim. For if Franklin had truly touched the key in a storm, he would have been struck dead.

And now he was on the phone again with that pesky Jones. “No, Jones, I repeat-nobody can pull rain out of a Texas Monsoon. I have been watching this carefully ever since you called my attention to it. My computers have made billions of calculations. Billions, Mr. Jones. I have even applied chaos math. Both of our local weather satellites report no rain and no chance of rain. We have reports of temperature and humidity at nineteen levels of atmosphere, with standard photos and infrared. We have examined the size and shape of ice crystals in the cloud. We have estimated the impact of La Niña and found it to be negligible. Miraculous new seed? Nonsense! For a seed to really work, it would have to duplicate Hopi smoke, and that’s impossible. Sure, it’ll probably make a little rain, but it’ll all evaporate on the way down. No rain on the ground, Mr. Jones. None. I absolutely 100 percent guarantee. I am never wrong. Never!”

Chigger was very thoughtful as he signed off.

It had definitely turned cool. The AC thermometer read eighty-two. He turned it off and rolled down the car window. His right knee had begun to ache. That old football injury. He knew what caused it. Atmospheric pressure was dropping and the reduced pressure was releasing tiny bubbles of gas in his knee joint. He looked up, caught his reflection in the rear view mirror. His hair looked curlier. Sure sign of increased humidity.

The cloud now obscured the afternoon sun and it was growing dark. He stuck his head out of the car window and listened intently. Far overhead he thought he could hear the Piper Chieftain. Off to one side of the road stood a cottonwood tree. Its leaves were beginning to invert. He watched with interest as a flock of birds flew low over the field, where grasshoppers were making a great racket. He turned around, looked at the box of papers tied up on the back seat. The strings had tightened.

He called Ellis. “I think I can give you a nice local shower. Get your cameras out.”

*

Dr. Nebel watched the numbers as they came in from the Pluvia grid point. At first he didn’t believe them. The dew point had risen to saturation. Pressure had dropped three mb in the last hour and was still falling. Rain. Heavy, falling to the ground. It couldn’t be precisely measured, because there were no rain gauges in that part of the county, which had never before seen rain. But there it was, confirmed by Doppler radar. That demon Monsoon. How could it do this to him? And the rain kept coming. He suppressed a shudder. Oh, he would hear about this!

As he turned off the light, he looked back at the Latin legend, the curse of the meteorologist: “VERUS MEMINISSAT NEMO: FALSUS OBLIVISCAT NEMO. When you are right, nobody remembers. When you are wrong, nobody forgets.”

Copyright © 2002 by Charles L. Harness.

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