Sam Merwin

“ After taxiing his ex-bomber into the hangar, he got out of flying togs and drove to the Wheedonville City Club, where the members of the Chamber of Commerce were waiting.
If the mood of their previous meeting had been glum, today joy was unconfined. Old whiskey was brought out, and a special banquet served by close-mouthed club attendants. The radio was left on, and each report of the inexplicable snowstorm which had brought a halt to the Burden Bay autumn season was the occasion for a toast.
"The man who really deserves our thanks," said the President, lifting his glass to Wiley Cordes. ”

“ Cordes paused to let this sink in. He knew, as do all talented pitch men, when he had his audience hooked. The expression in the eight pairs of eyes upon him was still uniform—but it flashed a uniformity of hope. ”

“ Back and forth he flew for the better part of an hour, bombarding the clouds with ice pellets to make snow. He had timed his flight with care so that no other plane would be aloft when he reached the sky above the rival Burden Bay resort—no others took off once the snow storm began. Incoming planes were routed to Wheedonville by the Sea.
Wiley Cordes listened to the reports on his radio as he flew back to the secluded airport outside of Wheedonville. From the tenor of the announcers it was clearly evident that no one suspected the snowstorm had been deliberately induced by the hand of man. ”