Tom’s coffee still warm within him, the Chief walked along the lighted corridor on the top floor of the Federal Building. On the right were the Administration offices; on the left, the Climatological Division. Both were still dark. Only ahead could he see light shining through a glass door; it bore the words: FORECASTING DIVISION. At that point the Chief felt his regular tingle of professional pride. Administration—that meant stenographers and mailing-lists and pay-checks, just what you found in a thousand other offices in the city. Climatology—that was only endless statistics about dead weather. But Forecasting—that was the battle-line.

“Hello, Whitey. . . . How are you, boys? . . . Any reports in yet?”

“Nothing yet, sir,” said Whitey.

In the chart room stood a long table divided into four sections, a draftsman’s stool at each. On the nearest stool sat the new Junior Meteorologist; he had almost finished the plotting of air soundings taken at various Pacific Coast stations that night. The Chief looked at the graphs. Phoenix, San Diego, Burbank. The lines ran upward and inclined off to the left; here and there they showed angles; a definite reversal of direction marked the point at which each balloon had entered the stratosphere. Oakland, Medford, Spokane. In a minute his practiced brain had summarized what was happening in the upper air over the district.

The next chart displayed the winds of the western United States at two-thousand-foot intervals from the surface up to fourteen thousand feet. Upon the first map the arrows pointed in many directions, for at the surface local relations of hill and valley were often the determining factors. The two- and four-thousand-foot maps were largely blank, for the mountain stations were actually above that level. At six and eight thousand the map filled in, and a fairly simple wind-pattern began to appear. At ten thousand and higher all the winds were strong and from the west.

Just as the Chief was finishing his survey, the sudden click of a teletype-machine sounded from the next room. Involuntarily, he smiled. It was like a bugle-call. During the next hour his life would move at its fastest.

“Who’s chart-man this morning?” he said.

“I am, sir,” said Whitey.

“Good.”

The Chief turned from the long table to the smaller one which stood in a windowed alcove. His own chair was in the alcove facing inward. Opposite it, across a large table, was a chair for the chart-man. On the table lay a large outline map of North America and the adjacent waters, a tiny circle representing each weather station. As yet only the local report had been entered; the wind-arrow and little cluster of figures at San Francisco stood lonely and conspicuous against the vast area of continent and ocean.