Snow

The handle snapped clean off as the cup hit the metal edge that demarcated carpet from walkway, scolding hot brown liquid described an almost perfect arc as the physics of the impact worked its magic on an otherwise commonplace event. Corrine was jumpy, she knew that, and not watching where she had placed her coffee in relation to her elbow was further proof. Being stuck at work in a blizzard – a blizzard that she knew was here for the long haul – gave her the jitters. It was already after 8pm, what if she got caught here for days? Yes, there were worse places to be, sure, it was just that she didn't seem to luck out on her preferences.

She'd unhooked the key to the janitors closet from Mike's office, signed it out in her name, even though there was nobody else here to countersign. The janitors closet was in fact bigger than she thought it would be; more like an office, or workshop. Corrine marveled at how neat it was inside; how some people, regardless of their rank in society, took pride in keeping things orderly even if no-one else would ever see it. Brooms and mops in their proper place, cleaning fluids sorted, spent items in labeled trash cans. She saw spare boxes of tissues and grabbed one as she took a mop back to clean up the pool of coffee marooned on the floor. After the clean-up operation Corrine made her way to the back of the closet and dumped the head of the mop in a sink. There were several upturned mugs in the sink, which seemed to run counter to her tidy janitor theory. Corrine ran water over the grey thick tentacles of the mop and as she moved it to get more water to soak, the handle became lodged under something right at its tip. Corrine turned to move it from under the obstacle, and saw that the obstacle was in fact a door handle. A narrow grey door fitted with a sturdy handle, and, now that she looked properly, hinges that ran the full length of the door. As she studied the framed door she noticed that the frame was metal. Maybe it lead outside to a balcony or a set of stairs, she thought.

Corrine checked the lock on the grey door and saw that it was numbered 23. Back in Mike's office none of the hooks held key 23. She double-checked, reading the description on each tag in case someone had got the number wrong when labeling them. No match. She took a newly brewed coffee and went back to the janitors closet, grabbing a flashlight on the way, to look at the narrow grey aperture more closely. Working on the theory that if the door lead to a stairwell or balcony it should feel cold to the touch, she put the flashlight down and placed her left palm flat against the centre of the door. It was warm, warmer than even inside the janitors closet. She frowned and leant back against the sink, sipping her coffee and letting her mind wander for a moment. Then the thought came to her to check for key 23 in the closet itself. Putting her coffee aside Corrine checked shelves and drawers on a desk located just inside the entrance. Nothing but neat paperwork, bulldog clips, and copy of Salman Rushdie's 'Midnight's Children'. “This janitor is neater and better educated than I am.” Corrine mumbled. She made her way back to the grey door and, noticing a slight gap at its bottom, picked up the flashlight and flicked the switch, turning its beam to the gap. She steadied herself with the sink and began to lean down to inspect the gap. Turning to check that she had enough room behind her to squat down Corrine realised that there was another narrow grey door directly opposite the one that she was standing in front of. As she studied it she felt a waft of warm air strike the side of her face. Corrine stood up abruptly, nearly blacking out in her rush. In her dimmed vision she came face to face with an elderly dapper man, smelling slightly of eucalyptus oil. “How old are you?” was the best she could manage with the lack of blood flow, and sudden surprise.

“Eighty-three. Why?”

“It's because I …... wondered.”

“Well, wonder no more. I'm here to tell you that I am eighty-three years old.”

“That's.... great. And, what on earth are you doing here, coming out of that …. room?”

“It seems that I could ask you the same question-”

Corrine interrupted “The blizzard outside is why I'm here. It's not like I don't want to go home, but I more or less can't go home.”

“Sorry to hear that. As to what I'm doing here,” the dapper man hesitated “....it's related to the your problem, in a way. You see, I..... that is, we, control things.”

“Oh.” Her blood flowing properly again, Corrine tried to make out what she could see through the doorway, over the man's shoulder. “Things? From within that room?”

“Yes. Where else would we control things from?”

“I hadn't given it much thought I guess. There could be other places, or rooms, I suppose.”

The dapper man eyed the other door but remained silent, Corrine stepped back as he moved over to the sink, rinsed a mug out and place it upside-down in the sink.

“Very rude of me,” he began “for not introducing myself. I got quite a start when you popped up. My name is Bart.”

“Corrine. I'm Corrine. I could say the same. I wasn't, didn't, expect to meet....”

“Haha. There you go. Two shocked people and no manners. Poor snow.... er, show.”

“And so, when you said-”

“Rather than prattle on out here in the closet, come inside. Things will make a lot more sense. I'll introduce you to the crew.”

“Crew?” Corrine started “There are many of you?”

Without further talk Bart took Corrine's elbow in a quaint nod at gallantry and escorted her through the grey portal. The door snicked assuredly closed behind them. Bart walked with familiarity towards a sunken area in the middle of the room; Corrine, unsure of what she was looking at took uneasy steps.

Bart stopped walking. “Now Corrine, this is what we call 'The Pit'” It's an array of equipment and control panels which we use... Oh, excuse me for a moment. Barb! Barb, come over here and meet Corrine.” Corrine saw an older lanky woman in a crisp white lab coat, hair in a tight bun and severe horn-rimmed glasses framing her pale serious face, seated in front of a set of video monitors. She was reading a very thick paperback book which she carefully bookmarked and closed before loping over.

“Corrine is it? From the Greek 'maiden or spear', I think.” Barb said in a voice accustomed to being heard and listened to. She pulled a green apple from the pocket of her lab coat. “Apple?” she offered.

“Hello Barb. No thanks. I wasn't expecting to be learning about the origins of my name tonight-”

“Oh,” she took a cracking bite from the apple “what were you expecting to learn then?”

“Nothing really. I was hoping to be at home - at 8pm on a Wednesday night - but I guess the snow, blizzard, stopped that.”

Barb looked Corrine directly in the eye, pausing from her chewing, said “I could say that the situation is out of our hands, but it's not, entirely.” and then walked back to her seat in front of the monitors.

Corrine cocked her head unconsciously, as if a slight tilt could help Barb's comment slide more readily into her brain.

“I don't know why she offered you that apple. She only ever brings one and nobody takes any food proffered to them that came out of a pocket.” Bart shook his head. “I suppose we all have our quirks.”

Corrine opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it.

Bart took up where he had left off. “So, this cluster of infrastructure that you see before you, the control panels and monitoring equipment, the sensor outputs and data feeds, recorders and plotters, are all part of the subsystem which we use. It's linked to a behemoth of a computer back in DC, used to be a CRAY computer way back when, but now it's something much smaller, cheaper and more powerful. Have you heard of cloud-seeding Corrine? We do something similar, but not precisely that.”

“I'm not quite sure I follow.....”

“We do snow, Corrine. Make it, control it, monitor it.”

“Snow? Cocaine? Is that what you mean?”

“What? No! Of course I don't mean cocaine! What gave you that idea?”

Corrine shook her head “The only other sort is the wet cold floaty stuff, the cause of blizzards-”

Bart frowned “Technically, that's not exactly right, Corrine. Snow doesn't cause blizzards. Wind-driven snow causes blizzards and we don't control the wind – much as we'd like to – Corrine.”

“Does this have something to do with climate change, Bart?”

This got him smiling “You're smarter than the average bear, Corrine. Not many people make the link so quickly. Normally I have to bang on about weeping icebergs, or create some other suitable analogy, - maybe some cutesy anthropomorphological cue - but you have it in one. We sculpt - if you like – the behaviour of snow so that it loosely follows traditional weather patterns seen over the previous generations.”

“And how long have we needed this sculpting for, this modification of our snow falls?”

“Oh, many years. Barb has served the longest. We're mostly retired scientists with a few meteorologists thrown in for good measure.” He turned to Barb. “Barb, how long have you been doing this for?”

“Today?” Barb asked, as she put down the apple and bookmarked her paperback again.

“No. I mean ever.”

“About eleven I think..... No, maybe going on twelve.”

Bart turned back to Corrine. “There you go, twelve years or so.”

“And rain?”

“What about rain?”

“How long has that been altered for, by humans?”

“Longer. Much longer, but I don't know exactly.” He turned to look back at The Pit.

Corrine studied Bart closely, noticed his quick eyes evaluating the data being spewed out by the monitors. “Why is that?”

“Because the rain people don't talk to us.” a peevish look on his face “They're...... snobs.”

“That seems weird. Why wouldn't they....? Where are they located?”

“Across the hall.”

Corrine's nose wrinkled in confusion “Huh?”

“The other door.”

“Other door?”

“Like I said, across the hall.”

Corrine twigged with a start. “Across the hall in the janitors closet? That other door?”