 What wouldn't be something Humphrey would want from his life?
What made it possible was Humphrey Fownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied his rear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of the handkerchief pocket. Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass still intrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humidity that was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was this rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting his fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayed and chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returning them. Conformity had become more than a social force; it was a physical necessity. Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. He had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. You've got winds in your brain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—" At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammed shut. It expressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and got neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear, the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a more satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.
 a promotion from his job
 to experience real weather  a family  a promotion from his job  to escape the dome