Climate--Disordered By CARTER SPRAGUE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Startling Stories, March 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The President of the Chamber of Commerce of Wheedonville by the Sea was stately and rather terrifying in his measured wrath. Nor was his peroration against the dapper young-old man who sat at the foot of the long mahogany conference table lessened by the knowledge that he had the full support of the rest of that august body. But Wiley Cordes, on whom all this anger was focussed, appeared singularly uncowed by the disfavor in which he basked. As a seasoned resort promotion expert he was not unacquainted with municipal ire. So many unforeseen factors could send resort trade swarming to the wrong resort--as had happened in this case. Having talked himself into the fat job of putting Wheedonville on the map as the sea-side town where vacationers would have the amusement world at their feet, he had been forced to sit by and watch the bulk of the available tourist vacation trade pass to Burden Bay, sixty miles to the south. It was too bad, of course, but a fellow could only do so much. "... and despite your definite assurance--in fact your promise--that retail trade in Wheedonville by the Sea would pick up a minimum of twenty-five per cent, in the year you entered the employment of this Chamber, it has decreased by more than thirty per cent. In this same period the retail trade in Burden Bay has risen by almost forty per cent. I and the Chamber whose spokesman I am would appreciate an explanation." Gathering the skirts of his morning coat carefully to avoid unsightly wrinkles, the President sat down. The silence which followed his sonorous harangue could have been scooped up with a spatula. Eight pairs of eyes remained fixed with suspicion upon the object of his address. With a sigh, Wiley Cordes got to his feet. Hands in pockets he leaned against the table, jingling the change and keys his fingers found. He was going to have to make this good or be out of a very soft, high paying job. Fortunately, he had an idea. "When I undertook to lift your resort trade here in Wheedonville by the Sea above that of Burden Bay," he began with an air of good humor that drew no response from the grave men listening to him, "I could not, of course, foresee that Mrs. Quinlan in our rival metropolis was going to give birth to quintuplets." He paused, let it sink in. "Nor could I look into a crystal ball and learn that Wheedonville by the Sea was going to be cursed with five straight weeks of fog and rain at the height of the season. And it is hardly my fault that the Burden Coastal Oil Refineries should bring in five gushers."