further burst of anger, he swung off the trail. To hell with his work
and blast his uncle! He'd go on into town, and he'd--he'd do whatever he
pleased.

The worst part of it was that Uncle David could make good on his threat
of seeing that Dave got no more work anywhere. David Arnold Hanson was a
power to reckon with. No other man on Earth could have persuaded anyone
to let him try his scheme of building a great deflection wall across
northern Canada to change the weather patterns. And no other man could
have accomplished the impossible task, even after twelve countries
pooled their resources to give him the job. But he was doing it, and it
was already beginning to work. Dave had noticed that the last winter in
Chicago had definitely shown that Uncle David's predictions were coming
true.

Like most of the world, Dave had regarded the big man who was his uncle
with something close to worship. He'd jumped at the chance to work under
Uncle David. And he'd been a fool. He'd been doing all right in Chicago.
Repairing computers didn't pay a fortune, but it was a good living, and
he was good at it. And there was Bertha--maybe not a movie doll, but a
sort of pretty girl who was also a darned good cook. For a man of thirty
who'd always been a scrawny, shy runt like the one in the "before"
pictures, he'd been doing all right.

Then came the letter from his uncle, offering him triple salary as a
maintenance man on the computers used for the construction job. There
was nothing said about romance and beauteous Indian maids, but Dave
filled that in himself. He would need the money when he and Bertha got
married, too, and all that healthy outdoor living was just what the
doctor would have ordered.