Complete Short Fiction, page 1
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Short Fiction Complete
Hilbert Schenck
(custom book cover)
Jerry eBooks
Title Page
About Hilbert Schenck
Bibliography
Short Fiction Bibliography
Tomorrow’s Weather
Me
Snip, Snip
Memo at the Department of Agriculture
Wockyjabber
Ed Lear Wasn’t So Crazy!
Pun in Orbit
Three Days at the End of the World
The Morphology of the Kirkham Wreck
The Battle of the Abaco Reefs
Wave Rider
Buoyant Ascent
The Theology of Water
Hurricane Claude
The Geometry of Narrative
Steam Bird (1st of 2 parts)
Steam Bird (conclusion)
Silicon Muse
Send Me a Kiss by Wire
Ring Shot
A Down East Storm
A Present for Santa
Hilbert van Nydeck Schenck, Jr. was born on February 12, 1926 in Boston, Massachusetts. He was a mechanical engineer, working for a variety of companies and universities throughout his career. He taught at the Clarkson College of Technology and the University of Rhode Island for many years.
Long before Schenck became seriously (though briefly) involved in fiction; much of his nonfiction of the 1950s and 1960s dealt lovingly with the ocean and with oceanological research and exploration technologies. His first two novels are both set in the ocean-girt Cape Cod region of New England.
Hilbert Schenck died on December 2, 2013.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Novels
At the Eye of the Ocean (1981)
A Rose for Armageddon (1982)
Chronosequence (1988)
Steam Bird (1988)
Serials
Steam Bird, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction April-May 1984
Collections
Wave Rider (1980)
Steam Bird (1988)
SHORT FICTION BIBLIOGRAPHY
Tomorrow’s Weather, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, April 1953
Me, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August 1959
Snip, Snip, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1959
Memo at the Department of Agriculture, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, April 1960
Wockyjabber, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, May 1960
Ed Lear Wasn’t So Crazy!, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, June 1960
Pun in Orbit, The Mathematical Magpie, 1962
Three Days at the End of the World, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1977
The Morphology of the Kirkham Wreck, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1978
The Battle of the Abaco Reefs, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, June 1979
Wave Rider, Chrysalis 5, September 1979
Buoyant Ascent, Wave Rider, January 1980
The Theology of Water, Perpetual Light, October 1982
Hurricane Claude, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, April 1983
The Geometry of Narrative, Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, August 1983
Steam Bird (1st of 2 parts), The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1984
Steam Bird (Conclusion), The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, May 1984
Silicon Muse, Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, September 1984
Send Me a Kiss by Wire, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1985
Ring Shot, Worlds of If, September/November, September 1986
A Down East Storm, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, October 1990
A Present for Santa, Christmas Forever, November 1993
Tomorrow’s Weather
It is the sad lot of the meteorologist, while almost all of his scientific colleagues take turns starring in science fiction, to find himself featured only in an endless succession of weather-man jokes—as common a butt of folk-humor as mothers-in-law, absent-minded professors and farmers’ daughters. Now one of the younger science fiction writers gives the meteorologist his proper place in fiction, with this ingenious analysis of a possible future situation in which survival itself may depend upon a proper plotting of isobars and isotherms.
A JET PLANE needled over the Western hills, its vapor trail threading the ridge-top-cumulus as pearls on a string. The meteorologist watched its passage with interest. “Temperature inversion,” he said finally with satisfaction as the wispy trail became crooked ands potty in the wind. Then he returned to his instruments, whirling the sling psychometer carefully in the cool air. Behind him the woman also followed the jet with her head, following it until her sick eyes could not distinguish the fading speck.
“It’s the first one in weeks,” she said slowly.
“Eh? Oh, yes, I ’spect it is at that.” He carefully noted down the readings from the two thermometers and turned to his rainfall gage. She watched him, her face working, searching for words.
“Why?” she blurted. “What’s the point of these readings, these instruments? Whose to know what they are? Who cares?”
He straightened in a gentle, quiet movement. “My job,” he explained as though to a child.
“Job,” she answered. “You have no job. I keep telling you that. Every day I tell you that the weather bureau is gone, bombed. There’s so few people left it doesn’t matter what the weather is going to be. They have other worries. Can’t you understand that nobody cares what the weather is?”
“I care,” he said.
Tiredly she turned to the door of their house. “I suppose you do. I don’t know why I bother arguing. It does give some pleasure, I guess.”
He stared at the figures on the clipboard in his hand and pursed his lips. “Rain, tomorrow,” he muttered. “Of course, the Pacific High might send it northward, but we’re bound for some anyway.”
Inside the little house the woman tiredly set a fire in the small grate. She peeled stunted onions, picked from the scrabbly patch at the kitchen door. “This weather forecasting,” she began again. “It frightens me. You’re living in the past. It’s not right you should be so interested in the weather, now that everything is so changed.”
He smiled. “What you’re trying to say is that I’m insane?”
Sharply she shook her head. “No, of course not. It’s just . . . ”
“When man first began on this planet,” he interrupted her with a slow gesture, “the weather was the most important factor in his life. His food depended on the weather. The weather gave him ills and crushed his homes. His gods were gods of the elements of weather. If we’re to start again, we may as well start understanding the weather. Don’t you see that it’ll be easier then?”
She shrugged angrily. “But there’s no one here to find out what the weather is to be. If there were, then it would have some sense, but there’s nobody.”
“There may be somebody, someday,” he said.
The next day it rained. The meteorologist watched the solid drenching sheets soak the ground and clucked with satisfaction. The Pacific High must have cracked and let a storm, born in the South Pacific, sweep in on the land. He read his instruments carefully and noted down the results on his clipboard. Then, curiously, he read another instrument that had not usually been associated with weather. He plotted the results on a prepared graph. Thoughtfully, he puffed out his cheeks and blew softly. The woman looked up from her sewing and frowned.
“Now what?” she asked sarcastically. “Is it preparing to rain for 40 days and 40 nights?”
He chuckled. “Such an archaic device is out of place in the world of science. The weeding-out process will be accomplished more sweepingly this time. By my figures, the radioactivity will top the danger mark tomorrow. This storm is rich in radio-nuclei. Apparently the Pacific Trades are above critical now and . . . ”
“Do you mean we are in danger from radiation poisoning?” Her face was a little white.
“Well, if the count leveled off tomorrow night, our safe dosage would be exceeded in several months, but by that time, the half-life of the various elements will be expended. If the count continues to climb at the present rate, it’s difficult to determine when the critical exposure will occur. I’ll try and work it out on my slide rule, but I don’t know. These double logarithmic things . . . ”
“Perhaps we should move?” She was sitting up quite straight now.
“To where?” he asked.
The next day the rain continued without let-up. Beating down on the muddy turf, it formed rivulets and ran as surface water. The trees bent with their weighty leaves. It had been a fertile summer.
Carefully the meteorologist worked over his records. He frowned frequently at the figures that sprawled away under his pen. The woman sat next to him, watching with bloodshot eyes. “How is it now?” she asked suddenly. “How long?”
“It’s the rain,” he said. “It’s collected the dust thrown into the stratosphere and brought it back to earth. Three weeks with the present trend, I figure.”
“You figure!” she shouted. “You figure too much. What can we do? Can’t you tell us what to
“I’m not a nuclear physicist,” he answered shortly. “Meteorologists aren’t supposed to learn about such matters. It’s enough to learn to compute the energy of an air mass. . . .”
“Those instruments . . . useless! All this time you spent reading them and what good does it do? What good?” She was almost screaming.
The meteorologist scratched his head. “I’m thinking,” he said. “People in other places are having the same problem.”
Two more days it rained, sullenly, leadenly. The dampness seeped into the house and muddy footprints on the floor showed that the meteorologist had been out to his rain gage. “This is quite a storm,” he said, sitting deep in an old armchair. “I imagine a polar air mass must be blocking its movement over the plain states. If only I could look at a weather map . . . ”
The woman warmed her hands at a small fire. “There is no weather map,” she almost snarled. “There’ll never be a weather map again at this rate.” Her eyes were blood-red and their lids drooped. She shook continually and glanced fearfully about as though the radioactivity might suddenly become visible. “Try the counter again,” she urged.
The meteorologist shook his head. “Wear out the battery.” He puffed on his pipe and nodded almost imperceptibly at the fire.
“You’re a fool,” she said bitterly. “You sit there and think it’s civilized to die without a whimper. Well, I’m going to whimper . . . plenty.” A sudden thought struck her. “What about Death Valley? It’s dry there. No rain to contaminate.”
He shook his head again. “They threw too much at Los Angeles. The whole area is unsafe. It’s the weather that’s important. You see if we could look at the overall weather picture, we could tell where the air circulation would be safe. What it takes is a pronounced high pressure area, stable and energetic. But I can’t even guess . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Say, that ham rig of George’s in the shed. It has a crank generator, I believe?”
The mention of the dead son made her wince, but she saw hope in his face. “Yes. He was using it before . . . before the . . . ”
Leisurely, he rose. “Let’s go back, shall we? You can crank for me.”
The meteorologist sat calmly at the push-to-talk mike as the woman eagerly turned the surplus Army hand generator. “That’s about the speed, I think. Well, here goes. CQ, CQ, CQ, CQ, Fresno, California. Anyone, please. CQ, CQ . . . ”
“Hello, Fresno. James Applebee, Glencoe, Illinois. Do I read OK?”
In her excitement the woman stopped cranking. “Keep turning it,” said the meteorologist, a little strain showing in his face. “Hello, James. Do you by any chance have a Geiger in operation?”
“No, Fresno. But I made an electroscope and calibrated against the kitchen clock radium dial. We’re in trouble. I give us a month at present level and the count seems to be going up.”
The meteorologist pursed his lips. “James, I may be able to help us. I’d like a complete report on the weather in your area, please. And will you take down my questions so you can assist in further calls?”
“Roger, Fresno. But why weather?”
“Weather spreads the radio-nuclei. Now first, barometer reading. Do you have it?”
“Just a sec . . . 29 point seven two. Not very accurate. It’s an old instrument. . . .”
“All right. Temperature?”
“Ahhhh . . . 76 and a half.”
“Wind direction and velocity? Look outside and tell me what is occurring. I mean whether leaves are fluttering, smoke drifting, that sort of thing.”
“A little sapling in the yard is bending slightly. I guess direction at nor-norwest or thereabouts.”
“Fine. Now the sky, describe the clouds to me and what percentage of the sky is covered.”
“I know that one. Alto-stratus and seven-tenths covered.” The voice in the speaker seemed pleased at its accurate survey.
The meteorologist wrote rapidly on a pad. “Very good. Now will you start calling on a different frequency and ask these same questions? Record the time of each conversation. I’ll contact you in a few hours. OK?”
“Roger, Fresno. Will do. Sign off now.”
The meteorologist turned to the woman. “Like a rest?”
“No; keep going. It’s so good to hear the voices . . . ”
He picked up the mike again. “CQ, CQ, CQ, CQ, Fresno, California. Anyone, please . . . ”
They worked at it all night. Drinking coffee and talking half way around the world to the myriad voices. Finally the meteorologist got tiredly to his feet. “We have enough,” he said. “Let’s go back to the house.”
In the livingroom he went quickly to his desk and drew from a manila envelope a large folded square of paper, bearing a printed outline of the Western Hemisphere. With the joyful swiftness of a fine craftsman he filled in the symbols. Steadily the isotherms and isobars formed under the rapid, scratching pencil. The wind symbols appeared like little flags pointing the direction and showing the strength. “I wish you’d go to bed,” he said to her.
“I’ll wait,” she answered. “I’ve been tired before.”
What had been only a bleak outline map was now alive, vibrant with the sure symbolism of the meteorologist. The last wind flag went down, the last temperature was recorded. He stared at it. A tired smile grew over his thin face. “Yes, yes of course!”
The woman, dozing fitfully in her chair, came up on her feet. “What?” she asked. “What does it tell you?”
“Intense high pressure over Kansas. It’s splitting the front around it like a butcher’s knife. The count is high there, but it will not go any higher for at least two weeks. I would say the energy of that anti-cyclone was sufficient to deflect anything in the offing. And by the time it does crack, the half-lives will be pretty well expended.” He got to his feet. “Get the stuff into the car quickly. I can use battery power to call the others.”
In the ham shack he switched the rig to precious batteries and began again. “CQ, CQ, CQ, CQ everyone. Do not interrupt. Listen. Weather survey indicates central Kansas to be safe for at least two weeks, probably longer. Repeat. Weather survey shows . . . ”
In Pittsfield, Massachusetts, a man with a badly burned arm drove a loudspeaker truck through the streets talking about radioactivity and Kansas. When he died, two teen-age boys took over.
A Tennessee ridge-runner put on his shoes and counted his children. Then he loaded the whole mess of kids into a ’36 Ford. He passed new Cadillacs and Lincolns parked and useless by the roadside, but it never occurred to him to change cars.
A Negro housemaid from upper Westchester County puzzled over the four machines in the garage. She finally decided on a Chewy coupe that had belonged to the young one. After the car was loaded with water and canned food, she went to close the heavy door and saw the front hallway had gotten dusty and the silver was not locked in the safe. Uncertainly she wavered, leaning from one foot to the other, and began to hum slowly.
Israel was in Egypt land . . . Turning, she ran across the lawn to the coupe.
The chilling, benevolent monster that turned slowly over Kansas was a single-pole magnet. It drew the rubber-tired filings to it from every place in the battered land. The brutal California storm was an ill-tempered child in comparison, revolving upon itself and feeding on its own gigantic energies. The anti-cyclone was ponderous and dignified. It circled quietly and the winds were sharp and biting. In the arrowing cars people turned on the heaters and talked about the weather.
The meteorologist sent his car down the empty highway at 80 miles an hour. The sharp Kansas night seeped into the car and the woman shivered fitfully. Then his foot was down on the brake and the car wavered over the road, yielding its velocity with loud protest. “Whaa . . . ?” The woman was awake.
“Hitchhiker,” he said. It was a girl, slumped by the side of the road, her car twisted grotesquely on its back in the field.
He supported her with his arm and walked her to the car. She was cold and seemed dizzy.
“Going too fast,” she muttered. “Felt faint and lost the wheel.”
The meteorologist looked at her smiling. “No one to come with you?”
“I’m all that’s left in my town. One person out of hundreds.”
“Two persons,” corrected the woman, helping the girl into the back seat. “Oh?” said the meteorologist as he brought the car back up to speed. “Well, this cool weather will be a relief, I expect. Carrying a baby when the humidity is up can be mighty unpleasant . . . ”
