Outside the window on the twenty-fifth of July it was snowing.
* * * * *
It was an hour later. Telephones were ringing. Long-distance calls from
all over the country now that the ticker had gone out with the
incredible fact that it was snowing in the Northeast in July. Most of
the calls, though, were from Washington. Chief Botts disconnected the
PBX and walked in a dazed, staggering fashion to Johnny, smiling weakly
and saying:
"Sloman, I misjudged you. Genius, right here, right now, in this office,
and we never knew it. Sloman, I have to admit I was wrong about you. But
how did you know? How did you ever know?"
"Hell's bells," Harry Bettis said before Johnny could say it was all a
mistake. "That's easy, Chief. Anyone knows that _all_ rain starts out as
snow. It's got to. You see, the droplets of moisture in the cold upper
regions of a cloud condense around dust particles because the air up
there is too cold to hold them as vapor. Since it's below freezing, snow
is formed--snow which warms up as it passes through hotter air en route
to the ground, and--"
"That will be quite enough, Bettis," Chief Botts said. "I am a
weatherman too, you know. You don't have to tell me the most elementary
of--"
"In this case, Chief," Bettis persisted, "the biggest inversion layer
you ever saw kept the surface air down and brought the cold upper air
very close to the surface. Result: the snowflakes didn't have a chance
to melt, not even to freezing rain. Result: snow!"
"The chances of that happening," said Chief Botts coldly, "are about one
in a billion. Aren't they, Sloman, dear fellow?"
"One in two billion," Johnny said.
"He _is_ modest," Chief Botts told the staff. "He seems so unconcerned."
Just then Maxine came into the little office. The look of awe on her
face had been replaced by one of sheer amazement. "Well, I checked it,
Chief," she said. "Wait until I tell Jo-Anne!"
"Won't you please tell us first?" Chief Botts asked.
"Yes, sir," said Maxine, and read from the memo pad in her hand. "Since
coming to work for the Bureau, Johnny Sloman has once every ten days
made our official forecast. I have checked back on his forecast, Chief,
as you directed. Johnny has made fifty-five forecasts. While only one of
them--startlingly--has called for snow in July--every single one of them
has been right."
There was a shocked silence. "But--but the Weather Bureau average is
only eighty-eight percent!" Harry Bettis gasped.
"You mean," Chief Botts corrected him, "eighty-eight percent is the
figure we try to foist on the unsuspecting public. Actually, the Weather
Bureau averages a bare seventy-five percent, and you know it."
"But Sloman's got a hundred percent accuracy--up to and including snow
in July," Harry Bettis said in a shocked voice.
"It was only an accident," Johnny said in a mild voice. "I didn't mean
to write snow."
"Accident, smaccident," said Harry Bettis. "It was no accident with a
record like that. You have the uncanny ability to forecast weather with
complete accuracy, Johnny-boy. You realize what that means, old pal?"
"I'd better call Washington and tell them," Chief Botts said, but Harry
Bettis held his arm while Johnny mused:
"I guess I realize what it means, Harry. That is, if you're right. No
more getting wet on picnics. Because I'd know. I'd know, Harry. No more
going to ball games and having them rained out on you. No more being
caught by a thunderstorm at the beach ..."
"Johnny!" Harry Bettis said. "Think, pal. Think!"
"I'm calling Washington," Chief Botts said. "This is too much for me."
But Harry Bettis was still holding his arm. "Now, just a minute, bucko,"
he said. "You're not calling anyone--not without his manager's
permission."
"Whose manager's permission?"
"Why, Mr. Sloman's manager's permission, of course. In a word, me."
"This is preposterous!" Chief Botts cried.
"Is it?" Bettis asked. "Listen, Johnny, don't let anyone sell you a bill
of goods--like the Civil Service Commission giving you a GS-8 rating and
sending you to Washington. Because stick with me, kid, and there'll be
great things in store for you, you'll see."
"Such," said Maxine dubiously, "as what?"
"Are you on our side?" Harry Bettis asked her suspiciously.
"I'm on Jo-Anne's side. If old Johnny here has something she ought to
have, I want to know it."
* * * * *
"You mean, if she ought to change her mind and marry him? I'll admit it
even if I think Jo-Anne's a real cute trick: she'd be nuts if she
didn't." Women, Harry Bettis did not add, never came between Harry
Bettis and ten percent of a gold mine. But that's what he was thinking.
He went on: "Just think of it, Johnny. Drought in the Midwest. They call
Sloman. Sloman predicts rain. It rains. Have any idea what they'd pay
for a stunt like that? Or swollen rivers in New England, or California.
Looks like another big flood is on the way, but they call Sloman. Looks
like rain, kiddo? That don't matter. Predict a dry spell and it won't
rain. Do you know," Harry Bettis said in a devout whisper, "what a stunt
like that would be worth? Millions."
"Yeah, wise guy," said Maxine. "So what's in it for you?"
Harry Bettis did not look at Maxine when he answered. He looked at
Johnny and said, "I'll be frank, kiddo. You have the talent, but you
don't have the salesmanship to promote it. Do you want a mediocre job
while the weather boys exploit you for the rest of your life or--do you
want greatness, riches, and Jo-Anne?"
"Jo-Anne," Johnny said.