The Weathermakers (1967) Read Online Free PDF Page A

can get somebody to program it. That’s where you come in, Barney.”
    Tuli, who had remained standing, said to me, “I am Tuli Noyon, a friend and associate of this red-headed talking machine.”
    I had to laugh. “I’m Jerry Thom.” We shook hands and sat down.
    “So I forgot to introduce you,” Ted muttered, already digging into his food. “More important things percolating in my skull. Barney, you’ve got to squeeze some time to program the MIT machine for me. And maybe bootleg a little time on the computer here. It’s for a good cause.”
    “It’s always for a good cause.” But she was smiling at him.
    “Ted has almost convinced me,” Tuli said, “that he can make pinpoint weather forecasts two or three weeks in advance.”
    “By using the turbulence equations?” Barney asked.
    Ted nodded at her as he swallowed a forkful of imitation steak.
    “Will your two-week forecast be better than the Weather Bureau’s thirty-day predictions?” I asked.
    He swallowed hard. “Better? No comparison, buddy. That monthly dream sheet Rossman puts out is just a general look at regional trends—temperature, rainfall for regions like New England or the Southwest. Runs about seventy-five percent accurate on temperature, less’n fifty percent on precipitation. Pretty punk.”
    “And your forecasts?”
    “Ninety-five percent accuracy, plus. And pinpointed! With a little work, I’ll be able to tell you which side of the street gets wet from a cloudburst. You’ll be able to set your watch by these forecasts.”
    “That may be a slight exaggeration,” Tuli said. “And although the monthly forecasts we do are very vague, the Bureau’s three-day forecasts—put out by the various local centers—are generally about ninety percent accurate.”
    “I’m not exaggerating,” Ted insisted. “And even the best forecasts the Bureau’ll make only give general guesstimates on temperature, wind, and precipitation totals. Listen, I’ve seen guys program old wives’ tales into the computers—you know, ‘Red sky at morning, sailor take warning,’ that kind of stuff. It was just as accurate as the Bureau’s daily forecasts. Honest, I mean it! But I’m making exact predictions. To the degree, mile per hour of wind speed, and tenth-inch of precipitation.”
    “That will be very impressive,” Tuli said, “if it works.”
    “Okay, doubting Confucius; I did a hand calculation for Boston for the rest of the week. If it works out okay, we can go to the machine and do a full week for the whole continental United States.”
    “Such a humble beginning,” Tuli said, straight-faced. “Why not forecast the entire summer for the whole world?”
    Ted looked at him. “Next week, maybe.”
    “I can see there won’t be much sleep between now and Monday,” Barney said.
    “Probably the rest of next week, too,” Ted answered cheerfully. “I want to do the climatological prediction for the next three months.”
    Tuli said, “When you finally get your degree, you should share it with Barney.”
    “I’ve threatened to marry her; if that doesn’t scare her off, nothing will.”
    Barney said nothing and the conversation seemed to stall. “May I ask a question?”
    “Sure, Jerry.”
    “You talked about weather forecasts and climate predictions. What’s the difference?”
    Ted downed the last of his protein concentrate, then said, “What’d the Red Sox do last night?”
    “Huh?”
    “They won, four to nothing,” he answered his own question.
    “But what’s that got to do with—”
    He waved me down. “Night before they also won, six to five. But Monday they got clobbered, eight to one.”
    “A barbaric sport,” Tuli murmured. “It will never replace archery.”
    “Each individual game,” Ted went on, ignoring him, “is like a day’s weather.”
    “You mean each one is different.”
    “Sure. A shutout, a slugfest, tight game, runaway . . . they’re all baseball, all played under the same rules. But no two