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The Weather Artist
The line of people seemed to go on forever. And he was at the end of it.
Waiting outside Providence 's Bureau of Offices, he turned to look at the image of the sky. Across the surface of the dome protecting the city, the autohue had created a mostly sunny day once again. Behind him a woman was also looking up, though he knew there was no way she was seeing what he saw. To her, the sky was flawless. And it always would be—because she, like the other survivors, couldn't recognize what was missing from the autohue's sky. The unimaginative weather machines used different mixtures of the same reds and blues, consistently creating colors that bled together and flooded the sky with clichés. In two short years everyone had become infected with a disease of the senses—one which he prayed he'd never catch. But as the line edged closer to the entrance of the Bureau he feared that he'd fall prey to the masses, and become as stagnant as the autohues that now created the weather.
He turned over his brand new briefcase, removed his work contract, white-knuckled his pen, and scrawled his signature at the bottom of page forty-three. A merry little surge of contempt ran through him as he stared at his name, barely recognizing it. The papers were more a last will and testament than an appeal for work. None of that mattered anymore, he was giving in to the same fate, and a familiar phrase ran through him like the hottest broadcast news—Clayton Usher is no longer the weather artist.
His ears started to ring, and he readied himself for another migraine. When it refused to come he realized the tone was his psiphone signaling an incoming call. Mother, please leave me alone , he pled quietly. She was adamant about him not giving up, more work was bound to come. But disasters need only appear once in a lifetime, and Clayton had had no calls since his Manhattan sky. She pushed, wanting him to make the Bureau listen, but this was no creative slump. He had simply been replaced. His days of making the weather were over.
He did his best to ignore the call, but the noise between his ears persisted making his temples throb. Talking to her seemed inevitable; she was not about to hang up. By adjusting controls on his wrist watch he turned off his bioline. The last thing he wanted was his mother sensing his emotions during the call. His frustration would only offend her.
He blinked three times, answering the call. A bioline came through, but it wasn't his mother's. “Hello?” His tone was furtive. He hated using his psiphone in public.
“Clayton Usher?” a hearty voice erupted inside his head.
“Yes,” he replied, adjusting the internal volume from his watch.
“My name is Rupert Fontaine.” The man paused, as if expecting Clayton to recognize the name. “Thank God I finally found you,” he said. The desperation in his voice made his bioline irrelevant.
“Do I know you, Mr. Fontaine?”
“Not directly, Mr. Usher. Your father used to work for me when—”
“My father worked for no one,” Clayton corrected. “He was never part of the Bureau.”
“I apologize, Mr. Usher. I didn't mean to imply…I simply meant that your father did several skies for me in Toledo . He certainly was a remarkable man, and a hell of an artist. I've been telling people for seven years the skies haven't been the same, present company excepted, of course.”
“He died five years ago, Mr. Fontaine.” At some point Fontaine had turned off his bioline because Clayton could sense nothing more about the man. Even his voice had become blank and indifferent.
“I imagine it was tough taking over,” Fontaine continued. “Becoming the last.” He paused. Nothing but breathing through the psiphone. “I can't sense your bioline. I hope this isn't a bad time.”
“Mr. Fontaine, unless you're a closeted critic with a favorable critique of my last sky, I really should hurry you along. Is there something you need from me?”
“Weather.” The word came through the psiphone with a deadpan echo. Clayton looked around, fearing everyone else had just heard it too. He quickly stepped out of line and crossed the street where he could be alone. Cabs rushed by, people lined up, the autohue made a cloud block out the sun.
“I can't do that, Mr. Fontaine. Not anymore.”
“The mayor of Toledo has already agreed to pay you quite well. In advance if you wish.”
“ Toledo has an autohue. I know for a fact that all the Midwest domes have had them for years.”
“You are correct, sir. We all do.” Fontaine's tone gave away his unease. “I regret what they've done to your livelihood.”
“Yes, the irony. A thousand machines to do one man's job,” Clayton said.
Fontaine grunted. “Convenience has proven itself the only advantage.”
“What's wrong with yours?”
“Very unfortunate,” Fontaine paused to clear his throat. “It's down, and there's no repairing it. The Bureau of Automation can't replace it until every dome in the country receives their upgraded unit. That could be months, maybe even a year.”
“I wish there was something I could do, but—”
“We don't have a choice here, Mr. Usher, and the mayor's running out of excuses. He's desperate. Please don't leave us in the dark.”
Clayton looked across the street as the line of people finally started to move. All they wanted was a guaranteed future—give up their trades, give in to the Bureau. That too was going to be his sacrifice, the price of security. There was no way he could return to his art. He hadn't created weather in almost two years, and the first autohues had splintered his confidence long before that. There was nothing left alive inside him, Manhattan had proved that. His last sky had been labeled nothing more than a parody of his previous work. The art critics reveled in their victory, finally bringing him down, and convincing the entire country to invest in the automated weather makers. They had beaten him. Now Clayton preferred the world just swallow him up, like it had everyone else.
“Mr. Fontaine,” he said. “I really wish there was something—. No, I'm sorry, you're talking to the wrong person. There's nothing I can do for you.”
“The mayor is prepared to pay you ten thousand dollars.”
“Money's not the issue,” Clayton said.
“I could persuade him to raise the amount.”
“It doesn't take long to forget,” Clayton said, well aware that forgetting was all part of the Bureau's mission. “Do you recall Manhattan ?”
“That's not a consideration, Mr. Usher. The mayor isn't concerned with hearsay and rumors. He just wants you to solve our problem.”
“So he can woo his voters.”
“I'll be frank with you. Toledo has become a very unfriendly place, and unless we give the people some weather soon they're liable to seek an alternative solution.”
“Like moving to Buffalo?”
“And we can't afford that,” Fontaine said firmly. “Mr. Usher, look up at your sky, then imagine someone taking it from you. I've risked a lot to create this opportunity. I'm begging you to accept it.”
The sun had come out again and Clayton looked up at the imperfect sky. He noticed the color around the sun was three shades too yellow, and the sun itself was not nearly as bright as it should have been. He would have added a light touch of Red40 for a better effect.
The instinct for weather was still with him, but Fontaine's offer couldn't have come at a worse time. He just wanted to start living like the rest of the survivors. The machines were the only active participants left in the world. Now, one phone call was unraveling a decision that had seemed unalterable. His passion for the weather had been stirred, and he began to wonder if it had ever settled. He had no other choice but to…
“Book me a transport for this afternoon,” Clayton said. “I'll need time to find my palette.”
Rupert Fontaine sighed. “Oh, the mayor will be so relieved. As am I.” Fontaine's bioline was back and his elation made Clayton shiver. “I'll wire you the ticket. Have a safe trip, Mr. Usher. I'm looking forward to seeing your work.” Rupert Fontaine ended the call.
“So am I,” Clayton muttered, staring at the people moving slowly toward the entrance of the Bureau of Offices. He glanced up at the off-colored sun, well aware how easily he could outshine Providence 's autohue, or any of them for that matter. He could do it with his eyes closed.
He dropped his shiny new briefcase in a trash can, stepped off the curb, and hailed a cab.
Read the rest of the story in Issue 19 of Hadrosaur Tales.
©2004 by Tim Kenyon
Not to be reprinted or reproduced without permission by the author
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