 What wouldn't be something Humphrey would want from his life?
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The weatherman was always right: Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%; occasional light showers—but of what? The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously. What made it possible was Humphrey Fownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to begin with for a person living in a domed city. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied his rear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of the handkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of put and take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea he was playing. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-light fragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. 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. He came to see that genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own small efforts, rarer. 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. "It's like this, MacBride. And if there was a house sitting on such a mountain and if winds did blow, it would shake exactly the way that one does. 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. Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off his shoes. 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. The sun and moon both looked down upon a garden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.
 a promotion from his job
 to experience real weather  a family  a promotion from his job  to escape the dome