Chapter 5: Routine Drill (1)
Is it fortunate or a disaster that cricket seems to calm down in the summer?
Sato, completely exhausted due to a night of cramming, promptly woke up at 03:00am as if nudged by Sato’s previous habit.
(Right, it's time to do the job.)
He thought. Albeit unconfident, he had made sure to review all material contained within Sato's log book and notes.
(Though I don't understand at least 70% of the terminology and theoretical framework of what I’ll be doing, at least I already got the gist of what to do.)
Sato stretched himself as he got up from his desk. A few hours of sleeping in an unfavorable condition left him feeling much more tired than doing overtime in his previous life. Yet the adrenaline akin to when he was still taking exams long ago made him unable to sleep peacefully, afraid that somehow he would ruin his responsibility.
(Right, speaking of responsibilities, it's pretty much confirmed that I wasn't dreaming at this point. Whether I’m Sato dreaming as Otto, or I’m actually Otto dreaming as Sato doesn't matter anymore. It might even be the case of body possession like those fantasy works I’ve read before.)
Taking the notebook he used to list the routine monitoring task, Sato dragged his heavy limbs across the room, before coming to a halt near the front door.
Suspended from a wooden hanger rack beside the door, were his personal coat and the suit uniform from the day before.
He reached out to his coat as he draped it over his tired body. Before putting on the field boots prepared beforehand.
He tucked in his notebook into the chest pocket of his coat, before turning the brass handle of the sturdy wooden door beside him.
Cold and fresh mountainous air greeted him as soon as the door was opened. Though it was still a bit stuffy and damp typical of a summer night. Weirdly enough the sound of cricket didn't echo all over the woods as he expected. Instead it was mellow and got that calming quality to it.
Illuminated by the endless breath-taking Milky Way above him, Sato began his first task of the day.
He pulled the cramped, hand written notebook from his chest pocket. Flipping to the page titled “03:00am Synoptic Routine,” his eyes scanned the simplified checklist he had frantically synthesized from the original Sato’s official logs.
(Now don't think about anything, just focus on operating the instruments and writing the number.) He repeated the mantra to calm himself.
(First task.)
Sato walked across the wet gravel towards the peculiar white, slatted wooden box resting on stilts over the grass.
Following the strict protocol he’d crammed a few hours ago, he approached from the north side to ensure his body wouldn't block any ambient light or trap heat. Clutching his small penlight between his teeth, he unlatched the double louvers and peered inside at the two parallel glass thermometers mounted to the frame.
He leaned close, careful not to breathe directly onto the glass. The mercury column was perfectly still. He read the tiny engraved hash marks: 20.2°C
Right beside it, the thermometer wrapped in a clean, water-soaked muslim sleeve read 18.1°C
Sato looked at his notebook and applied the psychrometric formula using the data that he got before, he calculated that the Relative Humidity (RH) is around 81.6%.
He knew nothing about what it meant, but he wrote the raw digit cleanly into his notebook.
Closing the louvers, he walked a few paces to the iron-housed micro-barograph resting nearby. He unlatched the protective cover, revealing the internal clockwork drum wrapped in grid paper.
A tiny, rhythmic ticking hummed inside the brass mechanism. Sato checked the purple ink-tipped pen arm. It was resting smoothly against the paper, tracing a gentle, normal barometric curve. He reached into his coat pocket for the small winding key, slotted it into the drum’s core, and carefully wound the internal spring to ensure the mechanical clockwork wouldn't fail before dawn. He noted the exact pressure reading: 1011.4 millibars.
Sato then recalculated the RH, this time replacing the standard pressure assumption he used before with the current pressure reading and he got RH at around 81.7%.
Sato turned to the dark silhouette of the steel-girded observation platform rising beside the building. He grabbed the cold, dew-slicked iron ladder rungs and carefully began to climb. The dull, metallic clanging of his heavy field boots echoed sharply into the quiet, mist-covered valley below.
When his head cleared the top of the platform, the sheer beauty of the unpolluted 1986 sky hit him like never before. Yet he shook his head, focusing on the list he had written in his notebook. He turned to face the mechanical wind vane and the Robinson anemometer—the small, three-cup assembly designed to measure wind speed.
The cup was spinning in a smooth, steady rhythm. Sato checked the analog dial mounted below them and held his notebook up to track the vane’s direction.
(This is the right one right?)
Sato thought unsure about which one which, however the description within the operational procedure is unmistakable.
So he wrote within his notebook:
Wind direction: North-northwest
Wind speed: 2.5m/second
He checked off the final box on his handwritten routine list.
Descending the ladder, the cool breeze kept his mind sharp, washing away the lingering exhaustion of his three-hour cramming session. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping back into the gray linoleum interior of the station, where the smell of old paper and ozone greeted him.
He sat down at the heavy steel desk and pulled the mechanical Telex terminal closer. His fingers, long accustomed to rapid modern keyboard typing in his previous life, hovered over the blocky keys. He opened the JMA numeric code tables.
Without needing to analyze what a temperature of 20.2°C, a NWW wind, or RH 81.7% meant he expertly translated his raw notes into a standardized string of five-digit weather code blocks according to the regulation. He began striking the mechanical keys, punching the data onto the paper tape.
He then fed the leading edge of the paper tape into a mechanical sprocket wheel on the Telex’s Tape Reader (Transmitter). Before pressing the dedicated command key to initiate direct telegraphic connection to the main central computer system in Tokyo. And so he sent the data of his first synoptic observation run.
Sato slumped onto his chair as he released a sigh of relief.
(Finally, I need to rest in the meantime before receiving the analysis and preparing a report for the locals. Not to mention I need to do other synoptic runs at 09:00; 15:00; 21:00.
Now that I’m thinking about it, it seems like I haven't done my duties the previous night. Fortunately it seems no one’s contacting me. I’m glad there's no advanced communication yet so that my boss wouldn't call me immediately after I made a mistake.)
Sato laughed his heart out, albeit self-deprecatingly.
What do you guys think of the recent disappearing critters’ sound at night?
