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In an even once-male-dominated world, the battles are inevitable. Meteorology is no different on that score, and when Peter Starlite, the weatherman for the morning show, came into Dewey Snowcropp’s evening news room, Snowcropp glared at him like the sun coming over the horizon one minute later on the subsequent day.

“What do you want, Starlite?”

“I’m here to do your weather, Snowcropp.”

“We’ll see about that. Who sent you?”

“Pudge.”

“Your anchorman should keep his opinions where they belong, between the morning recipe and the birthday greetings.” Snowcropp came down the stairs like a cold front.

“Said I could forecast your guessing game into the ground.” There were only six inches between their faces.

“Yeah? What’s tomorrow’s high?”

“88.”

“92 – it’s heating up, and the next day’s going to be 94. A scorcher.”

“Going to cool way down, Snowcropp, once the salmon start swimming upstream in Alaska. I say 86. Ruffle that cool air up there.”

“I eat salmon for dinner, Stargazer.”

“And you look like an orange coward.”