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This chapter focuses on the organizational features of meteorology, particularly the position of operational meteorology as government-sponsored activity. The organization of operational meteorology highlights the tension between autonomy and control. Scientific domains are integrated into society and cannot be separated from the organizational infrastructure that they help create. Not only do sciences have managers, but they also have audiences. The presence of an audience produces demands for expertise. The chapter examines the implications of the organization of the National Weather Service as a governmental agency devoted to public science. It then explores how this occupation is linked to a set of clients on the output boundary of government meteorology—the public, the media, and private firms.

This chapter describes how the public also vented anger and frustration at agents of government whose job it was to protect people before a natural disaster occurred. The public was incensed at having received no warnings from the National Weather Service (NWS) and demanded to know why their local civil defense organizations had failed in the midst of the crisis. The public expected to hold someone responsible for the death and the destruction of property. Assigning blame is an integral component of American democracy; in order for change to occur, the electorate must assign responsibility when the government fails so they can pressure officials into improving public policy. In response to the public outrage, elected officials conducted a series of hearings into what went wrong before and during the Hurricane Agnes disaster. State senator Bill Smith, who was unable to get Governor Nelson Rockefeller to agree to a special legislative session, teamed up with Senate majority leader Warren Anderson to hold special hearings into government failures during the disaster. These investigations would show just how tattered the disaster safety net had become in the days before Hurricane Agnes.

This chapter considers depth in knowledge, focusing on rules-based protections for knowledge-based authority in the executive branch. Rules provide firmer footing for depth than norms do, but even rules strain under presidents bent on political control. With the so-called war on science ramping up again in the Trump administration, questions about whether and to what extent rules protect government research and expertise from the unitary executive have been pushed front and center. Here we consider four cases in which knowledge-based authority was besieged, focusing on the National Weather Service, the Environmental Protection Agency, the Department of Agriculture, and the executive branch’s response to the coronavirus pandemic.

I used to enjoy listening to the National Weather Service forecasts on my short-wave weather radio. An endlessly repeated taped message updated every few hours might be less than thrilling, but the voices of the half-dozen or so forecasters made it come alive. Each one had an identifiable style and intonation; it was easy to assign personalities, even faces, to them. Ten years ago the announcers were all men. There was the one I labeled the grand elder, with his pontifical voice and distinctive, rolling rhythms. When cost-cutting forced the station to move from Manhattan to the grounds of the Brookhaven National Laboratory, way out on Long Island, he disappeared from the airways. Perhaps the daily commute on the Long Island Expressway was too much for the old fellow. I am sure I wasn’t the only listener to mourn the loss of his avuncular cadences. Another announcer who appealed to me spoke fluently until he came to an American Indian place name such as Manasquan or Wanaque (both in New Jersey). Then he hesitated. I could imagine the look of terror in his eyes when he scanned the next line of the script, and there it was, a word with fearsome Q-sounds or daunting combinations of con-sonants and vowels. If I had had any way of getting in touch with him, I would have comforted him by explaining how lucky he was to be broadcasting in the New York–New Jersey metropolitan area. Up in northern Maine, the forecasters have to cope with names such as Caucomgomoc and Chemquasabamticook. Some announcers proclaimed their individuality with what seemed like deliberately odd pronunciations of common words. The most original was the fellow who figured out a new way to say “climate,” an achievement I would have thought was impossible. He did it by lengthening the separation between the two syllables and heavily stressing the second: “cly-matt.”Eventually, the Weather Service hired its first woman announcer, a welcome addition; she made her mark immediately by shortening the phrase “Here are the latest Central Park observations” to “Here is the latest Central Park.”