continue?"
For the first time the weatherman looked faintly troubled. "Insofar as we've been able to calculate on the basis of limited data," he said, "there's no contraindication for indefinite continuation of the present pattern."
"What does that mean?" someone demanded.
"It means," the congressman interpreted, "that as far as they can tell, it's going to keep on raining forever."
"That's ridiculous," a Cabinet member said. "A storm draws its power from the released heat of evaporation; there's a definite limit to the size any weather disturbance can grow to. I should think it would be a relatively simple matter to calculate the theoretical limit, based on known factors of incident sunlight and so on."
"Normally, that would be true, Mr. Secretary. But the theory doesn't seem to apply in this case. You're aware that there seems to be an anomalous situation as regards displacement of seawater: the flow into the area of the whirlpool appears to be balanced by no corresponding outflow, even at great depth. The same is true of air volumes. It also seems to apply to the energy balance."
"Translation, please?" a peppery man spoke up.
"Easy, Homer," the congressman said. "Water and air are going in, and none is coming out. And the energy being expended by the storm exceeds that available from all known sources. Right, sir?"
The weatherman looked pleased. "Quite correct."
"So—what are we doing about it?"
The meteorologist's expression changed to one of mild surprise.
"Doing?" he echoed. He shook his head. "One doesn't 'do' anything about weather, Congressman. One simply observes it!"
"For God's sake, man!" A well-braided naval man spoke up. "You don't mean to tell us that we're going to just sit here and watch the country blow away—if it doesn't wash away first!"
"It's the function of my department to report the weather, Admiral—not to control it."
For several minutes the room was filled with emotional voices, all talking at once. The congressman rose and pounded the table for order.
"This is getting us nowhere, gentlemen," he said. "What about it, sir?" he addressed the meteorologist and his aides. "Is there any action—any measure at all—which you gentlemen can recommend? Seeding? Nuclear dissipation? Anything at all?"
The weathermen were shaking their heads before the question was out. There was a moment of silence.
"I heard something," an Interior Department spokesman said hesitantly. "Probably just a crank notion."
"Well?"
"One of our engineers—Hunnicut is his name, I believe—has suggested that the storm is tied in with the APU power broadcast. He claims that he's pinpointed a massive power drain right on top of the storm center. As a matter of fact, he submitted a proposal direct to the White House that the system be shut down."
"Well!" the congressman barked. "Maybe he's on to something. Let's check it out. God knows the time has come to grasp at straws."
"Well, an idea like that . . ."—the Interior man spread his hands—"can hardly be taken seriously."
"There's only one way to check it out," a White House spokesman said. "That's to shut down the system. And we can't do that." He outlined the situation as it affected the Caine Island prison.
"So—the prisoners riot in the dark. I think we can survive that."
"There's more to it than that—"
"I know—the reputations of the visionaries who poured ten billions of federal funds into the power-from-the-air scheme. But they'll just have to suffer, as I see it. I say shut down and observe the results."
"Congressman, that will take an executive order."
"Then let's get it."
There was a general mutter of agreement. The Interior man left hastily, shaking his head. The Cabinet member buttonholed the congressman.
"This is all very well, Herb," he said in a low tone. "But what if the idea's as silly as it sounds? What do we do then?"
The congressman patted the air. "Let's worry about that when we get to it, eh,
For the first time the weatherman looked faintly troubled. "Insofar as we've been able to calculate on the basis of limited data," he said, "there's no contraindication for indefinite continuation of the present pattern."
"What does that mean?" someone demanded.
"It means," the congressman interpreted, "that as far as they can tell, it's going to keep on raining forever."
"That's ridiculous," a Cabinet member said. "A storm draws its power from the released heat of evaporation; there's a definite limit to the size any weather disturbance can grow to. I should think it would be a relatively simple matter to calculate the theoretical limit, based on known factors of incident sunlight and so on."
"Normally, that would be true, Mr. Secretary. But the theory doesn't seem to apply in this case. You're aware that there seems to be an anomalous situation as regards displacement of seawater: the flow into the area of the whirlpool appears to be balanced by no corresponding outflow, even at great depth. The same is true of air volumes. It also seems to apply to the energy balance."
"Translation, please?" a peppery man spoke up.
"Easy, Homer," the congressman said. "Water and air are going in, and none is coming out. And the energy being expended by the storm exceeds that available from all known sources. Right, sir?"
The weatherman looked pleased. "Quite correct."
"So—what are we doing about it?"
The meteorologist's expression changed to one of mild surprise.
"Doing?" he echoed. He shook his head. "One doesn't 'do' anything about weather, Congressman. One simply observes it!"
"For God's sake, man!" A well-braided naval man spoke up. "You don't mean to tell us that we're going to just sit here and watch the country blow away—if it doesn't wash away first!"
"It's the function of my department to report the weather, Admiral—not to control it."
For several minutes the room was filled with emotional voices, all talking at once. The congressman rose and pounded the table for order.
"This is getting us nowhere, gentlemen," he said. "What about it, sir?" he addressed the meteorologist and his aides. "Is there any action—any measure at all—which you gentlemen can recommend? Seeding? Nuclear dissipation? Anything at all?"
The weathermen were shaking their heads before the question was out. There was a moment of silence.
"I heard something," an Interior Department spokesman said hesitantly. "Probably just a crank notion."
"Well?"
"One of our engineers—Hunnicut is his name, I believe—has suggested that the storm is tied in with the APU power broadcast. He claims that he's pinpointed a massive power drain right on top of the storm center. As a matter of fact, he submitted a proposal direct to the White House that the system be shut down."
"Well!" the congressman barked. "Maybe he's on to something. Let's check it out. God knows the time has come to grasp at straws."
"Well, an idea like that . . ."—the Interior man spread his hands—"can hardly be taken seriously."
"There's only one way to check it out," a White House spokesman said. "That's to shut down the system. And we can't do that." He outlined the situation as it affected the Caine Island prison.
"So—the prisoners riot in the dark. I think we can survive that."
"There's more to it than that—"
"I know—the reputations of the visionaries who poured ten billions of federal funds into the power-from-the-air scheme. But they'll just have to suffer, as I see it. I say shut down and observe the results."
"Congressman, that will take an executive order."
"Then let's get it."
There was a general mutter of agreement. The Interior man left hastily, shaking his head. The Cabinet member buttonholed the congressman.
"This is all very well, Herb," he said in a low tone. "But what if the idea's as silly as it sounds? What do we do then?"
The congressman patted the air. "Let's worry about that when we get to it, eh,
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