Read Online Dust by Arthur G. Slade - Free Book Online
Authors: Arthur G. Slade
Tags: Fiction, General, People & Places, Horror, Paranormal, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, supernatural, Canada, Depressions, Missing Children, Depressions - 1929, Saskatchewan, Saskatchewan - History - 20th Century, Canada - History - 20th Century, Droughts, Dust Bowl Era; 1931-1939
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the containment filters that will hold a special liquid I call vive, short for vivification. Vive causes an atmospheric reaction that leads to the formation of heavy cumulous clouds, followed by rain, to put it simply."
It didn't sound all that simple to Robert. It was something only scientists would understand.
Tiny rain clouds formed over the tower, striking it with lightning bolts. Robert's arm hair stood straight up. It was real miniature lightning. It had to be. Like the kind he'd seen in Frankenstein, a talkie Uncle Alden had taken him to.
"The process seeds the clouds, making them water-bearing. The rainmill will continue to manufacture rain clouds, until the motors are shut off. It will be a perpetual rainmaking machine." He gestured again and the image froze. He turned back to the people.
"Impossible, right? I've shown you pretty pictures, tossed out some big words. You need something concrete. Something that isn't mist in the air." He passed his hand through the image of the rainmill. "You will have it.
"I have had numerous meetings with Mr. Samuelson, the manager of Horshoe Savings and Loan." Abram nodded at the banker and his wife, sitting in the front row. Cigar smoke plumed out of Samuelson's mouth. "I have shown him blueprints and projected crop yields. As you know, bankers are hardheaded when it comes to money, but we have hammered out an agreement. I'd like to ask him to come up and announce the terms of that deal."
Samuelson rose and lumbered toward the stage, his cigar flaring red. People in the front row pulled back their feet to avoid injury. Pompous, Robert thought. That was a word that summed up everything about Samuelson. Pompous, swaggering pooh-bah.
The banker climbed the stairs at the middle of the stage, strode over to Abram, and turned to the audience. He wore a dress coat with tails; a large red sash held back his protruding stomach. Samuelson removed the cigar, tapped the ashes.
"I have examined Mr. Harsich's proposal with great care." His voice was deep and rough, vocal cords scarred by smoke. "I believe the rainmill is authentic. Its construction will create untold economic growth in our community. As long as a work crew is formed to aid Mr. Harsich, I will personally put every interest and loan payment due from those workers on hold until this date next year."
"My God," Robert's dad mumbled. "He can't be serious."
Heads turned, people muttered questions. Robert saw that Abram's and Samuelson's faces were split by wide, childlike smiles; the banker winked at Abram. The crowd's disbelieving noises grew to a senseless cacophony, so loud that Robert was tempted to cover his ears.
A man raised his arm and waved it. The din receded into a hissing of whispers and then silence.
"Yes," Abram said gently. "You have a question?"
"How do we know this thing will actually work?" the man asked.
The crowd drew a collective breath in shock. Robert squirmed off his seat and stood, leaning against the wall. The speaker was Uncle Alden. His voice sounded distant and slightly garbled.
"I've read about other rainmakers who used airplanes and such to seed clouds. Far as I know, they never had any success."
"What's your name, sir?" Abram asked.
"Alden Bailey."
"Well, Mr. Bailey, you asked a good question. Thank you for that. I'm glad you asked it. But it's a question that will be answered only in time. I'm afraid everyone will need a little patience, too. When Monday's edition of The Horshoe Times comes to your door there will be a special article outlining our plans and the conditions of Mr. Samuelson's deal. I believe all this business can be dealt with satisfactorily on Monday. In the meantime, enjoy your lemonade and treats."
He clapped his hands, the image of the rainmill collapsed into the mirror, and the lights flickered on. All that remained on the stage were two men and a mirror.
"We should talk to him," Robert's father said. "Find out more about this deal."
Robert's mother nervously
It didn't sound all that simple to Robert. It was something only scientists would understand.
Tiny rain clouds formed over the tower, striking it with lightning bolts. Robert's arm hair stood straight up. It was real miniature lightning. It had to be. Like the kind he'd seen in Frankenstein, a talkie Uncle Alden had taken him to.
"The process seeds the clouds, making them water-bearing. The rainmill will continue to manufacture rain clouds, until the motors are shut off. It will be a perpetual rainmaking machine." He gestured again and the image froze. He turned back to the people.
"Impossible, right? I've shown you pretty pictures, tossed out some big words. You need something concrete. Something that isn't mist in the air." He passed his hand through the image of the rainmill. "You will have it.
"I have had numerous meetings with Mr. Samuelson, the manager of Horshoe Savings and Loan." Abram nodded at the banker and his wife, sitting in the front row. Cigar smoke plumed out of Samuelson's mouth. "I have shown him blueprints and projected crop yields. As you know, bankers are hardheaded when it comes to money, but we have hammered out an agreement. I'd like to ask him to come up and announce the terms of that deal."
Samuelson rose and lumbered toward the stage, his cigar flaring red. People in the front row pulled back their feet to avoid injury. Pompous, Robert thought. That was a word that summed up everything about Samuelson. Pompous, swaggering pooh-bah.
The banker climbed the stairs at the middle of the stage, strode over to Abram, and turned to the audience. He wore a dress coat with tails; a large red sash held back his protruding stomach. Samuelson removed the cigar, tapped the ashes.
"I have examined Mr. Harsich's proposal with great care." His voice was deep and rough, vocal cords scarred by smoke. "I believe the rainmill is authentic. Its construction will create untold economic growth in our community. As long as a work crew is formed to aid Mr. Harsich, I will personally put every interest and loan payment due from those workers on hold until this date next year."
"My God," Robert's dad mumbled. "He can't be serious."
Heads turned, people muttered questions. Robert saw that Abram's and Samuelson's faces were split by wide, childlike smiles; the banker winked at Abram. The crowd's disbelieving noises grew to a senseless cacophony, so loud that Robert was tempted to cover his ears.
A man raised his arm and waved it. The din receded into a hissing of whispers and then silence.
"Yes," Abram said gently. "You have a question?"
"How do we know this thing will actually work?" the man asked.
The crowd drew a collective breath in shock. Robert squirmed off his seat and stood, leaning against the wall. The speaker was Uncle Alden. His voice sounded distant and slightly garbled.
"I've read about other rainmakers who used airplanes and such to seed clouds. Far as I know, they never had any success."
"What's your name, sir?" Abram asked.
"Alden Bailey."
"Well, Mr. Bailey, you asked a good question. Thank you for that. I'm glad you asked it. But it's a question that will be answered only in time. I'm afraid everyone will need a little patience, too. When Monday's edition of The Horshoe Times comes to your door there will be a special article outlining our plans and the conditions of Mr. Samuelson's deal. I believe all this business can be dealt with satisfactorily on Monday. In the meantime, enjoy your lemonade and treats."
He clapped his hands, the image of the rainmill collapsed into the mirror, and the lights flickered on. All that remained on the stage were two men and a mirror.
"We should talk to him," Robert's father said. "Find out more about this deal."
Robert's mother nervously
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