I-1
396 Words
ITHE AUDIOPHONE BUZZED thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—and Isobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.
“Hummm?” he said absent-mindedly.
The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commander appeared.
“Report ready, Jones?”
“Almost,” acknowledged Isobar gloomily. “It prob’ly ain’t right, though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on this dagnabbed hunk o’ green cheese—”
“Send it up,” interrupted Colonel Eagan, “as soon as you can. Sparks is making Terra contact now. That is all.”
“That ain’t all!” declared Isobar indignantly. “How about my bag—?”
It was all, so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talking to himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, “Nuts!” and returned to his duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word “Clear” which, six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. of Obs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots: Max Freq.—Min. Freq.; then he sketched careful curves in blue and red ink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily work sheet.
This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer, frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, and began writing.
“Weather forecast for Terra,” he wrote, his pen making scratching sounds.
The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answered without looking.
“O.Q.,” he said wearily. “O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a couple o’ minutes. Keep your pants on!”
“I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar?” queried a mild voice.
Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. He blinked nervously.
“Oh, jumpin’ jimminy!” he gulped. “You, Miss Sally! Golly—‘scuse me! I didn’t realize—”
The Dome Commander’s niece giggled.
“That’s all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weather in Oceania Sector 4B next week. I’ve got a swimming date at Waikiki, but I won’t make the shuttle unless the weather’s going to be nice.”
“It is,” promised Isobar. “It’ll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally. Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.”
“That’s wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.”
“Don’t mention it, ma’am,” said Isobar, and returned to his work.
South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined the meteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of his job. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind’s eye he saw himself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division’s terrain rendered possible.
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- Writer
