Everyday, with Dr. Elias Locke — The Committee for Tomorrow’s Weather

The Committee for Tomorrow’s Weather

November 15, 2026 · A fictional column from the Electric Icarus universe, created by Jon LaBelle

At nine on Sunday morning, the town council voted to abolish rain on Mondays.

This was an ambitious proposal for a town whose council had previously failed to abolish potholes, mosquitoes, or the smell behind the courthouse.

I attended as an observer, though the mayor introduced me as a weather consultant. I corrected him. He wrote “weather consultant” on my visitor badge anyway.

The chairman unveiled a brass contraption with a glass dome, a barometer, and a little cloud floating above a miniature town. “Our predictive weather engine,” he announced. “It has correctly forecast every day since we stopped checking its predictions against the sky.”

“That sounds efficient,” I said. “In the way that locking the thermometer in a drawer prevents fever.”

A clerk turned a dial marked MONDAY. The miniature cloud darkened. Rain began falling on the model’s tiny courthouse.

“Unacceptable,” said the mayor. “Turn it to SUNNY.”

The clerk complied. The miniature sun illuminated the miniature streets. Outside the window, thunder shook the actual courthouse.

The mayor smiled. “There. Problem solved.”

I asked whether the machine was intended to represent the weather or command it.

The chairman said that distinction had been referred to a subcommittee.

To demonstrate the device’s accuracy, I requested a prediction for the following hour. The clerk wrote SUNNY on a slip of paper. We placed the slip beneath a glass paperweight, agreed not to change it, and waited.

Rain struck the windows. A small leak appeared above the mayor’s chair.

“Unusual,” the chairman said.

“Unexpected,” said the clerk.

“Wet,” said the mayor.

The chairman proposed adjusting the machine until its display matched the rain. I explained that this would describe what had already happened, not test what the machine had predicted.

“Then what good is a model,” he demanded, “if it refuses to be right?”

“A model earns its usefulness by surviving comparison with something outside itself,” I said. “It doesn’t earn it by receiving a vote of confidence.”

At that moment, a pipe above the demonstration table burst. Water poured into the brass engine. Its little cloud grew to the size of a dinner plate, drifted over the mayor, and released a private thunderstorm directly into his hat.

The committee recessed.

By noon, the rain had stopped. The council issued a statement celebrating the successful conclusion of the storm and crediting its new municipal policy.

I took my visitor badge home. Under “weather consultant,” I wrote one correction: “Witness.”

There is a difference between predicting tomorrow and congratulating yourself for yesterday. The sky, mercifully, has never asked the council which one it is.