where some of my fellow clerks feed the customised punch-cards into the machines. Even as I’m watching the pipes, there is a sudden rumble from within one of the nearest ones. A whipcrack sound hits me like a physical force, followed swiftly by a slim bolt of lightning that shoots from the pipe into the sky. The lightning continues to shoot upwards for several seconds, and some bursts are longer than others, beating out some sort of code into the heavens. This is how the machines in the sky receive their signals.
“How do you find it, dear boy?” Mr. Metero asks.
“Fascinating,” I reply, too dumbfounded to even find another word to add.
The old man takes me by the elbow, weaving me through the jutting tubes as my head spins in all directions to watch the signals fire off. I stumble a little, my gaze suddenly snapping back to ground level, where I find that Mr. Metero has a little desk set up for himself amid the machines. It is an elegant piece of furniture, with polished oak and golden edging, and I find myself a little choked that he should think me worthy to sit at such a desk in his absence. He even has his own personal machine feeder atop the desk, ready to send custom weather out with his very own fingertips. There are fountain pens, paperwork, all manner of schematics and important documents strewn about. Everything is beautiful and elegant atop the weatherman’s desk.
Except for the rose.
It sits in a glass dome at the far right corner: a single rose suspended by I know not what. It is withered and rotten, with almost all of its petals discarded into crumbling heaps of dead matter beneath its floating stem. It disgusts me to see it, but I find my eyes drawn to it all the same. What place does a thing of such displeasing aspect have in the realm of beauty? Mr. Metero moves to the glass dome, resting one withered hand on top of it as he too watches the floating, wilted flower.
“Tell me, Khazran,” the old man begins. “What do you think of thunderstorms?”
I look into his glossy eyes, deciding that honesty is a man’s true mark.
“Beastly things,” I reply, “and a fitting horror for those that deserve it.”
“And what of lightning?” Mr. Metero adds.
“Terrifying, Sir,” I say.
“And rain?”
“The very Devil’s invention.”
Mr. Metero takes his hand away from the dome, stepping back towards me with a slow but graceful stride. The tape of news hanging from his brow is long and winding now, but he discards the hat and runs a withered hand through his thinning hair. For the first time since entering my office downstairs, the old creature looks troubled. When he finally acknowledges me again, it is from under his bushy, frowning eyebrows.
“You are a remarkably beautiful thing, Khazran,” he tells me. Before I can thank him for the compliment, he suddenly adds: “And you know it, too.”
“It’s hard not to, Sir,” I say, floundering a little, “when one is told it so often.”
The old man nods, a considered look pouting out his lips. His hand returns to hover over the top of the rose’s dome.
“You take great pride in yourself, do you not?” Mr. Metero begins. “I fear that my little rose would be deposed of its prideful place here, if I were to give you this desk for a week.”
Admittedly, I don’t like the idea of staring at the nearly-dead flower every day, but the opportunity to impress the old weathermaster is one I can’t pass up. I lean towards the dome, peering in at the crinkled petals in the hue of dried blood.
“I can abide it, Sir,” I reply.
“Abide,” he repeats, a little too darkly for my taste.
The smile that returns to Mr. Metero’s face is sharper than it was before. He recovers his top hat and flips it back into place, crossing past me to a drawer at the bottom of his desk. His crooked back arches like that of a cat’s as he fumbles in the dark drawer, eventually producing what appears to be a blank punch card. Shooing me out of his way,
“How do you find it, dear boy?” Mr. Metero asks.
“Fascinating,” I reply, too dumbfounded to even find another word to add.
The old man takes me by the elbow, weaving me through the jutting tubes as my head spins in all directions to watch the signals fire off. I stumble a little, my gaze suddenly snapping back to ground level, where I find that Mr. Metero has a little desk set up for himself amid the machines. It is an elegant piece of furniture, with polished oak and golden edging, and I find myself a little choked that he should think me worthy to sit at such a desk in his absence. He even has his own personal machine feeder atop the desk, ready to send custom weather out with his very own fingertips. There are fountain pens, paperwork, all manner of schematics and important documents strewn about. Everything is beautiful and elegant atop the weatherman’s desk.
Except for the rose.
It sits in a glass dome at the far right corner: a single rose suspended by I know not what. It is withered and rotten, with almost all of its petals discarded into crumbling heaps of dead matter beneath its floating stem. It disgusts me to see it, but I find my eyes drawn to it all the same. What place does a thing of such displeasing aspect have in the realm of beauty? Mr. Metero moves to the glass dome, resting one withered hand on top of it as he too watches the floating, wilted flower.
“Tell me, Khazran,” the old man begins. “What do you think of thunderstorms?”
I look into his glossy eyes, deciding that honesty is a man’s true mark.
“Beastly things,” I reply, “and a fitting horror for those that deserve it.”
“And what of lightning?” Mr. Metero adds.
“Terrifying, Sir,” I say.
“And rain?”
“The very Devil’s invention.”
Mr. Metero takes his hand away from the dome, stepping back towards me with a slow but graceful stride. The tape of news hanging from his brow is long and winding now, but he discards the hat and runs a withered hand through his thinning hair. For the first time since entering my office downstairs, the old creature looks troubled. When he finally acknowledges me again, it is from under his bushy, frowning eyebrows.
“You are a remarkably beautiful thing, Khazran,” he tells me. Before I can thank him for the compliment, he suddenly adds: “And you know it, too.”
“It’s hard not to, Sir,” I say, floundering a little, “when one is told it so often.”
The old man nods, a considered look pouting out his lips. His hand returns to hover over the top of the rose’s dome.
“You take great pride in yourself, do you not?” Mr. Metero begins. “I fear that my little rose would be deposed of its prideful place here, if I were to give you this desk for a week.”
Admittedly, I don’t like the idea of staring at the nearly-dead flower every day, but the opportunity to impress the old weathermaster is one I can’t pass up. I lean towards the dome, peering in at the crinkled petals in the hue of dried blood.
“I can abide it, Sir,” I reply.
“Abide,” he repeats, a little too darkly for my taste.
The smile that returns to Mr. Metero’s face is sharper than it was before. He recovers his top hat and flips it back into place, crossing past me to a drawer at the bottom of his desk. His crooked back arches like that of a cat’s as he fumbles in the dark drawer, eventually producing what appears to be a blank punch card. Shooing me out of his way,
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