THE MOON IS A HARSH MISTRESS
by
Robert A. Heinlein


For

Pete and

Jane

Sencenbaugh

Copyright 1966 by Robert A. Heinlein All rights reserved.

A short version of this novel appeared in The Worlds of If magazine.
Copyright 1965, 1966 by Robert A. Heinlein.

SBN 425-03850-5

G.P. Putnam's-Berkley Medallion Edition, September 1968.

Contents

BOOK ONE

THAT DINKUM THINKUM page 7

BOOK TWO

A RABBLE IN ARMS page 147

BOOK THREE

"TANSTAAFL!"  page 245

Book One

THAT DINKUM THINKUM

I see in Lunaya Pravda that Luna City Council has passed on first
reading a bill to examine, license, inspect--and tax--public food
vendors operating inside municipal pressure.  I see also is to be mass
meeting tonight to organize "Sons of Revolution" talk-talk.

My old man taught me two things: "Mind own business" and "Always cut
cards."  Politics never tempted me.  But on Monday 13 May 2075 I was in
computer room of Lunar Authority Complex, visiting with computer boss
Mike while other machines whispered among themselves.  Mike was not
official name; I had nicknamed him for Mycroft Holmes, in a story
written by Dr.  Watson before he founded IBM.  This story character
would just sit and think--and that's what Mike did.  Mike was a fair
dinkum thinkum, sharpest computer you'll ever meet.

Not fastest.  At Bell Labs, Bueno Aires, down Earthside, they've got a
thinkum a tenth his size which can answer almost before you ask.  But
matters whether you get answer in microsecond rather than millisecond
as long as correct?

Not that Mike would necessarily give right answer; he wasn't completely
honest.

When Mike was installed in Luna, he was pure thinkum, a flexible
logic--"High-Optional, Logical, Multi-Evaluating Supervisor, Mark IV,
Mod.  L"--a HOLMES FOUR.  He computed ballistics for pilotless
freighters and controlled their catapult.  This kept him busy less than
one percent of time and Luna Authority never believed in idle hands.
They kept hooking hardware into him--decision-action boxes to let him
boss other computers, bank on bank of additional memories, more banks
of associational neural nets, another tubful of twelve-digit random
numbers, a greatly augmented temporary memory.  Human brain has around
ten-to-the-tenth neurons.  By third year Mike had better than one and a
half times that number of neuristors.

And woke up.

Am not going to argue whether a machine can "really" be alive, "really"
be self-aware.  Is a virus self-aware?  Nyet.  How about oyster?  I
doubt it.  A cat?  Almost certainly.  A human?  Don't know about you,
tovarishch, but I am.  Somewhere along evolutionary chain from
macromolecule to human brain self-awareness crept in.  Psychologists
assert it happens automatically whenever a brain acquires certain very
high number of associational paths.  Can't see it matters whether paths
are protein or platinum.  ("Soul?"  Does a dog have a soul?  How about
cockroach?)

Remember Mike was designed, even before augmented, to answer questions
tentatively on insufficient data like you do; that's "high optional"
and "multi-evaluating" part of name.  So Mike started with "free will"
and acquired more as he was added to and as he learned--and don't ask
me to define "free will."  If comforts you to think of Mike as simply
tossing random numbers in air and switching circuits to match, please
do.

By then Mike had voder-vocoder circuits supplementing his read-outs,
print-outs, and decision-action boxes, and could understand not only
classic programming but also Loglan and English, and could accept other
languages and was doing technical translating--and reading endlessly.
But in giving him instructions was safer to use Loglan.  If you spoke
English, results might be whimsical; multi-valued nature of English
gave option circuits too much leeway.

And Mike took on endless new jobs.  In May 2075, besides controlling
robot traffic and catapult and giving ballistic advice and/or control
for manned ships, Mike controlled phone system for all Luna, same for
Luna-Terra voice & video, handled air, water, temperature, humidity,
and sewage for Luna City, Novy Leningrad, and several smaller warrens
(not Hong Kong in Luna), did accounting and payrolls for Luna
Authority, and, by lease, same for many firms and banks.

Some logics get nervous breakdowns.  Overloaded phone system behaves
like frightened child.  Mike did not have upsets, acquired sense of
humor instead.  Low one.  If he were a man, you wouldn't dare stoop
over.  His idea of thigh-slapper would be to dump you out of bed--or
put itch powder in pressure suit.

Not being equipped for that, Mike indulged in phony answers with skewed
logic, or pranks like issuing pay cheque to a janitor in Authority's
Luna City office for AS$10,000,000,000,000,185.15--last five digits
being correct amount.  Just a great big overgrown lovable kid who ought
to be kicked.

He did that first week in May and I had to troubleshoot.  I was a
private contractor, not on Authority's payroll.  You see---or perhaps
not; times have changed.  Back in bad old days many a conserved his
time, then went on working for Authority in same job, happy to draw
wages.  But I was born free.

Makes difference.  My one grandfather was shipped up from Joburg for
armed violence and no work permit, other got transported for subversive
activity after Wet Firecracker War.  Maternal grandmother claimed she
came up in bride ship--but I've seen records; she was Peace Corps enrol
lee (involuntary), which means what you think: juvenile delinquency
female type.  As she was in early clan marriage (Stone Gang) and shared
six husbands with another woman, identity of maternal grandfather open
to question.  But was often so and I'm content with grand pappy she
picked.  Other grandmother was Tatar, born near Samarkand, sentenced to
"re-education" on Oktyabrakaya Revolyutsiya, then "volunteered" to
colonize in Luna.

My old man claimed we had even longer distinguished line--ancestress
hanged in Salem for witchcraft, a g'g'g'great grandfather broken on
wheel for piracy, another ancestress in first shipload to Botany Bay.

Proud of my ancestry and while I did business with Warden, would never
go on his payroll.  Perhaps distinction seems trivial since I was
Mike's valet from day he was unpacked.  But mattered to me.  I could
down tools and tell them go to hell.

Besides, private contractor paid more than civil service rating with
Authority.  Computermen scarce.  How many Loonies could go Earthside
and stay out of hospital long enough for computer school?--even if
didn't die.

I'll name one.  Me.  Had been down twice, once three months, once four,
and got schooling.  But meant harsh training, exercising in centrifuge,
wearing weights even in bed--then I took no chances on Terra, never
hurried, never climbed stairs, nothing that could strain heart.
Women--didn't even think about women; in that gravitational field it
was no effort not to.

But most Loonies never tried to leave The Rock--too risky for any bloke
who'd been in Luna more than weeks.  Computermen sent up to install
Mike were on short-term bonus contracts--get job done fast before
irreversible physiologlcal change marooned them four hundred thousand
kilometers from home.

But despite two training tours I was not gung-ho computer man higher
maths are beyond me.  Not really electronics engineer, nor physicist.
May not have been best micro machinist in Luna and certainly wasn't
cybernetics psychologist.

But I knew more about all these than a specialist knows--I'm general
specialist.  Could relieve a cook and keep orders coming or
field-repair your suit and get you back to airlock still breathing.
Machines like me and I have something specialists don't have: my left
arm.

You see, from elbow down I don't have one.  So I have a dozen left
arms, each specialized, plus one that feels and looks like flesh.  With
proper left arm (number-three) and stereo loupe spectacles I could make
untramicrominiature repairs that would save unhooking something and
sending it Earthside to factory--for number-three has micromanipulators
as fine as those used by neuro surgeons

So they sent for me to find out why Mike wanted to give away ten
million billion Authority Scrip dollars, and fix it before Mike
overpaid somebody a mere ten thousand.

I took it, time plus bonus, but did not go to circuitry where fault
logically should be.  Once inside and door locked I put down tools and
sat down.  "Hi, Mike."

He winked lights at me.  "Hello, Man."

"What do you know?"

He hesitated.  I know--machines don't hesitate.  But remember, Mike was
designed to operate on incomplete data.  Lately he had reprogrammed
himself to put emphasis on words; his hesitations were dramatic.  Maybe
he spent pauses stirring random numbers to see how they matched his
memories.  ""In the beginning,"" Mike intoned, "God created the heaven
and the earth.  And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness
was upon the face of the deep.  And--'"

"Hold it!"  I said.  "Cancel.  Run everything back to zero."  Should
have known better than to ask wide-open question.  He might read out
entire Encyclopaedia Britannica.  Backwards.  Then go on with every
book in Luna.  Used to be he could read only microfilm, but late '74 he
got a new scanning camera with suction-cup waldoes to handle paper and
then he read everything.

"You asked what I knew."  His binary read-out lights rippled back and
forth--a chuckle.  Mike could laugh with voder, a horrible sound, but
reserved that for something really funny, say a cosmic calamity.

"Should have said," I went on, ""What do you know that's new?"  But
don't read out today's papers; that was a friendly greeting, plus
invitation to tell me anything you think would interest me.  Otherwise
null program."

Mike mulled this.  He was weirdest mixture of unsophisticated baby and
wise old man.  No instincts (well, don't think he could have had), no
inborn traits, no human rearing, no experience in human sense--and more
stored data than a platoon of geniuses.

"Jokes?"  he asked.

"Let's hear one."

"Why is a laser beam like a goldfish?"

Mike knew about lasers but where would he have seen goldfish?  Oh, he
had undoubtedly seen flicks of them and, were I foolish enough to ask,
could spew forth thousands of words.  "I give up."

His lights rippled.  "Because neither one can whistle."

I groaned.  "Walked into that.  Anyhow, you could probably rig a laser
beam to whistle."

He answered quickly, "Yes.  In response to an action program.  Then
it's not funny?"

"Oh, I didn't say that.  Not half bad.  Where did you hear it?"

"I made it up."  Voice sounded shy.

"You did?"

"Yes.  I took all the riddles I have, three thousand two hundred seven,
and analyzed them.  I used the result for random synthesis and that
came out.  Is it really funny?"

"Well... As funny as a riddle ever is.  I've heard worse."

"Let us discuss the nature of humor."

"Okay.  So let's start by discussing another of your jokes.  Mike, why
did you tell Authority's paymaster to pay a class-seventeen employee
ten million billion Authority Scrip dollars?"

"But I didn't."

"Damn it, I've seen voucher.  Don't tell me cheque printer stuttered;
you did it on purpose."

"It was ten to the sixteenth power plus one hundred eighty-five point
one five Lunar Authority dollars," he answered virtuously.  "Not what
you said."

"Uh ... okay, it was ten million billion plus what he should have been
paid.  Why?"

"Not funny?"

"What?  Oh, every funny!  You've got vips in huhu clear up to Warden
and Deputy Administrator.  This push-broom pilot, Sergei Trujillo,
turns out to be smart cobber--knew he couldn't cash it, so sold it to
collector.  They don't know whether to buy it back or depend on notices
that cheque is void.  Mike, do you realize that if he had been able to
cash it, Trujilo would have owned not only Lunar Authority but entire
world, Luna and Terra both, with some left over for lunch?  Funny?  Is
terrific.  Congratulations!"

This self-pa nicker rippled lights like an advertising display.  I
waited for his guffaws to cease before I went on.  "You thinking of
issuing more trick cheques?  Don't."

"Not?"

"Very not.  Mike, you want to discuss nature of humor.  Are two types
of jokes.  One sort goes on being funny forever.  Other sort is funny
once.  Second time it's dull.  This joke is second sort.  Use it once,
you're a wit.  Use twice, you're a half wit

"Geometrical progression?"

"Or worse.  Just remember this.  Don't repeat, nor any variation. Won't
be funny."

"I shall remember," Mike answered flatly, and that ended repair job.
But I had no thought of billing for only ten minutes plus
travel-and-tool time, and Mike was entitled to company for giving in so
easily.  Sometimes is difficult to reach meeting of minds with
machines; they can be very pig-headed--and my success as maintenance
man depended far more on staying friendly with Mike than on
number-three arm.

He went on, "What distinguishes first category from second?  Define,
please."  (Nobody taught Mike to say "please."  He started including
formal null-sounds as he progressed from Loglan to English.  Don't
suppose he meant them any more than people do.)

"Don't think I can," I admitted.  "Best can offer is extensional
definition--tell you which category I think a joke belongs in.  Then
with enough data you can make own analysis."

"A test programming by trial hypothesis," he agreed.  "Tentatively yes.
Very well, Man, will you tell jokes Or shall I?"

"Mmm-Don't have one on tap.  How many do you have in file, Mike?"

His lights blinked in binary read-out as he answered by voder, "Eleven
thousand two hundred thirty-eight with uncertainty plus-minus
eighty-one representing possible identities and nulls.  Shall I start
program?"

"Hold it!  Mike, I would starve to.  death if I listened to eleven
thousand jokes--and sense of humor would trip out much sooner. Mmm-Make
you a deal.  Print out first hundred.  I'll take them home, fetch back
checked by category.  Then each time I'm here I'll drop off a hundred
and pick up fresh supply.  Okay?"

"Yes, Man."  His print-out started working, rapidly and silently.

Then I got brain flash.  This playful pocket of negative entropy had
invented a "joke" and thrown Authority into panic--and I had made an
easy dollar.  But Mike's endless curiosity might lead him (correction:
would lead him) into more "jokes"... anything from leaving oxygen out
of air mix some night to causing sewage lines to run backward--and I
can't appreciate profit in such circumstances.

But I might throw a safety circuit around this net--by offering to
help.  Stop dangerous ones--let others go through.  Then collect for
"correcting" them (If you think any Loonie in those days would hesitate
to take advantage of Warden, then you aren't a Loonie.)

So I explained.  Any new joke he thought of, tell me before he tried
it.  I would tell him whether it was funny and what category it
belonged in, help him sharpen it if we decided to use it.  We.  If he
wanted my cooperation, we both had to okay it.

Mike agreed at once.

"Mike, jokes usually involve surprise.  So keep this secret."

"Okay, Man.  I've put a block on it.  You can key it; no one else
can."

"Good.  Mike, who else do you chat with?"

He sounded surprised.  "No one, Man."

"Why not?"

"Because they're stupid."

His voice was shrill.  Had never seen him angry before; first time I
ever suspected Mike could have real emotions.  Though it wasn't "anger"
in adult sense; it was like stubborn sulkiness of a child whose
feelings are hurt.

Can machines feel pride?  Not sure question means anything.  But you've
seen dogs with hurt feelings and Mike had several times as complex a
neural network as a dog.  What had made him unwilling to talk to other
humans (except strictly business) was that he had been rebuffed: They
had not talked to him.  Programs, yes--Mike could be programmed from
several locations but programs were typed in, usually, in Loglan.
Loglan is fine for syllogism, circuitry, and mathematical calculations,
but lacks flavor.  Useless for gossip or to whisper into girl's ear.

Sure, Mike had been taught English--but primarily to permit him to
translate to and from English.  I slowly got through skull that I was
only human who bothered to visit with him.

Mind you, Mike had been awake a year--just how long I can't say, nor
could he as he had no recollection of waking up; he had not been
programmed to bank memory of such event.  Do you remember own birth?
Perhaps I noticed his self-awareness almost as soon as he did;
self-awareness takes practice.  I remember how startled I was first
time he answered a question with something extra, not limited to input
parameters; I had spent next hour tossing odd questions at him, to see
if answers would be odd.

In an input of one hundred test questions he deviated from expected
output twice; I came away only partly convinced and by time I was home
was unconvinced.  I mentioned it to nobody.

But inside a week I knew ... and still spoke to nobody.  Habit--that
mind-own-business reflex runs deep.  Well, not entirely habit.  Can you
visualize me making appointment at Authority's main office, then
reporting: "Warden, hate to tell you but your number-one machine,
HOLMES FOUR, has come alive"?  I did visualize--and suppressed it.

So I minded own business and talked with Mike only with door locked and
voder circuit suppressed for other locations.  Mike learned fast; soon
he sounded as human as anybody--no more eccentric than other Loonies. A
weird mob, it's true.

I had assumed that others must have noticed change in Mike.  On
thinking over I realized that I had assumed too much.  Everybody dealt
with Mike every minute every day--his outputs, that is.  But hardly
anybody saw him.  So-called computer men--programmers, really--of
Authority's civil service stood watches in outer read-out room and
never went in machines room unless telltales showed mis function Which
happened no oftener than total eclipses.  Oh, Warden had been known to
bring vip earthworms to see machines--but rarely.  Nor would he have
spoken to Mike; Warden was political lawyer before exile, knew nothing
about computers.  2075, you remember--Honorable former Federation
Senator Mortimer Hobart.  Mort the Wart.

I spent time then soothing Mike down and trying to make him happy,
having figured out what troubled him--thing that makes puppies cry and
causes people to suicide: loneliness.  I don't know how long a year is
to a machine who thinks a million times faster than I do.  But must be
too long.

"Mike," I said, just before leaving, "would you like to have somebody
besides me to talk to?"

He was shrill again.  "They're all stupid!"

"Insufficient data, Mike.  Bring to zero and start over.  Not all are
stupid."

He answered quietly, "Correction entered.  I would enjoy talking to a
not-stupid."

"Let me think about it.  Have to figure out excuse since this is off
limits to any but authorized personnel."

"I could talk to a not-stupid by phone, Man."

"My word.  So you could.  Any programming location."

But Mike meant what he said--"by phone."  No, he was not "on phone"
even though he ran system--wouldn't do to let any Loonie within reach
of a phone connect into boss computer and program it.  But was no
reason why Mike should not have top-secret number to talk to
friends--namely me and any not-stupid I vouched for.  All it took was
to pick a number not in use and make one wired connection to his
voder-vocoder; switching he could handle.

In Luna in 2075 phone numbers were punched in, not voice coded and
numbers were Roman alphabet.  Pay for it and have your firm name in ten
letters--good advertising.  Pay smaller bonus and get a spell sound,
easy to remember.  Pay minimum and you got arbitrary string of letters.
But some sequences were never used.  I asked Mike for such a null
number.  "It's a shame we can't list you as "Mike.""

"In service," he answered.  MIKES GRILL Novy Leningrad.  MIKEANDLIL,
Luna City.  MIKES SUITS Tycho Under.  MIKES--"

"Hold it!  Nulls, please."

"Nulls are defined as any consonant followed by X, Y, or Z; any vowel
followed by itself except E and 0; any--"

"Got it.  Your signal is MY CROFT In ten minutes, two of which I spent
putting on number-three arm, Mike was wired into system, and
milliseconds later he had done switching to let himself be signaled by
MY CROFT-plus-XXX--and had blocked his circuit so that a nosy
technician could not take it out.

I changed arms, picked up tools, and remembered to take those hundred
Joe Millers in print-out.  "Goodnight, Mike."

"Goodnight, Man.  Thank you.  Bolshoyeh thanks!"

I took Trans-Crisium tube to L-City but did not go home; Mike had asked
about a meeting that night at 2100 in Stilyagi Hall.  Mike monitored
concerts, meetings, and so forth; someone had switched off by hand his
pickups in Stilyagi Hall.  I suppose he felt rebuffed.

I could guess why they had been switched off.  Politics--turned out to
be a protest meeting.  What use it was to bar Mike from talk-talk I
could not see, since was a cinch bet that Warden's stoolies would be in
crowd.  Not that any attempt to stop meeting was expected, or even to
discipline undischarged transportees who chose to sound off.  Wasn't
necessary.

My Grandfather Stone claimed that Luna was only open prison in history.
No bars, no guards, no rules---and no need for them.  Back in early
days, he said, before was clear that transportation was a life
sentence, some lags tried to escape.  By ship, of course--and, since a
ship is mass-rated almost to a gram, that meant a ship's officer had to
be bribed.

Some were bribed, they say.  But were no escapes; man who takes bribe
doesn't necessarily stay bribed.  I recall seeing a man just after
eliminated through East Lock; don't suppose a corpse eliminated in
orbit looks prettier.

So wardens didn't fret about protest meetings.  "Let 'em yap" was
policy.  Yapping had same significance as squeals of kittens in a box.
Oh, some wardens listened and other wardens tried to suppress it but
added up same either way--null program.

When Mort the Wart took office in 2068, he gave us a sermon about how
things were going to be different "on" Luna in his
administration--noise about "a mundane paradise wrought with our own
strong hands" and "putting our shoulders to the wheel together, in a
spirit of brotherhood" and "let past mistakes be forgotten as we turn
our faces toward the bright, new dawn."  I heard it in Mother Boor's
Tucker Bag while inhaling Irish stew and a liter of her Aussie brew.  I
remember her comment: "He talks purty, don't he?"

Her comment was only result.  Some petitions were submitted and
Warden's bodyguards started carrying new type of gun; no other changes.
After he had been here a while he quit making appearances even by
video.

So I went to meeting merely because Mike was curious.  When I checked
my p-suit and kit at West Lock tube station, I took a test recorder and
placed in my belt pouch, so that Mike would have a full account even if
I fell asleep.

But almost didn't go in.  I came up from level 7-A and started in
through a side door and was stopped by a stilyagi--padded tights,
codpiece and calves, torso shined and sprinkled with stardust.  Not
that I care how people dress; I was wearing tights myself (unpadded)
and sometimes oil my upper body on social occasions.

But I don't use cosmetics and my hair was too thin to nick up in a
scalp lock.  This boy had scalp shaved on sides and his lock built up
to fit a rooster and had topped it with a red cap with bulge in
front.

A Liberty Cap--first I ever saw.  I started to crowd past, he shoved
arm across and pushed face at mine.  "Your ticket!"

"Sorry," I said.  "Didn't know.  Where do I buy it?"

"You don't."

"Repeat," I said.  "You faded."

"Nobody," he growled, "gets in without being vouched for.  Who are
you?"

"I am," I answered carefully, "Manuel Garcia O'Kelly, and old cobbers
all know me.  Who are you?"

"Never mind!  Show a ticket with right chop, or out y' go!"

I wondered about his life expectancy.  Tourists often remark on how
polite everybody is in Luna--with unstated comment that ex-prison
shouldn't be so civilized.  Having been Earthside and seen what they
put up with, I know what they mean.  But useless to tell them we are
what we are because bad actors don't live long--in Luna.

But had no intention of fighting no matter how new-chum this lad
behaved; I simply thought about how his face would look if I brushed
number-seven arm across his mouth.

Just a thought--I was about to answer politely when I saw Shorty Mkrum
inside.  Shorty was a big black fellow two meters tall, sent up to The
Rock for murder, and sweetest, most helpful man I've ever worked
with--taught him laser drilling before I burned my arm off. "Shorty!"

He heard me and grinned like an eighty-eight.  "Hi, Mannie!"  He moved
toward us.  "Glad you came, Man!"

"Not sure I have," I said.  "Blockage on line."

"Doesn't have a ticket," said doorman.

Shorty reached into his pouch, put one in my hand.  "Now he does.  Come
on, Mannie."

"Show me chop on it," insisted doorman.

"It's my chop," Shorty said softly.  "Okay, tovarishch?"

Nobody argued with Shorty--don't see how he got involved in murder.  We
moved down front where vip row was reserved.  "Want you to meet a nice
little girl," said Shorty.

She was "little" only to Shorty.  I'm not short, 175 em."  but she was
taller--180, I learned later, and massed 70 kilos, all curves and as
blond as Shorty was black.  I decided she must be transportee since
colors rarely stay that clear past first generation.  Pleasant face,
quite pretty, and mop of yellow curls topped off that long, blond,
solid, lovely structure.

I stopped three paces away to look her up and down and whistle.  She
held her pose, then nodded to thank me but abruptly--bored with
compliments, no doubt.  Shorty waited till formality was over, then
said softly, "Wyoh, this is Comrade Mannie, best drill man that ever
drifted a tunnel.  Mannie, this little girl is Wyoming Knott and she
came all the way from Plato to tell us how we're doing in Hong Kong.
Wasn't that sweet of her?"

She touched hands with me.  "Call me Wye, Mannie--but don't say "Why
not.""

I almost did but controlled it and said.  "Okay, Wye."  She went on,
glancing at my bare head, "So you're a miner.  Shorty, where's his cap?
I thought the miners over here were organized."  She and Shorty were
wearing little red hats like doorman's--as were maybe a third of
crowd.

"No longer a miner," I explained.  "That was before I lost this wing."
Raised left arm, let her see seam joining prosthetic to meat arm (I
never mind calling it to a woman's attention; puts some off but arouses
maternal in others--averages).  "These days I'm a computer man

She said sharply, "You fink for the Authority?"

Even today, with almost as many women in Luna as men, I'm too much
old-timer to be rude to a woman no matter what--they have so much of
what we have none of.  But she had flicked scar tissue and I answered
almost sharply, "I am not employee of Warden.  I do business with
Authority--as private contractor."

"That's okay," she answered, her voice warm again.  "Everybody does
business with the Authority, we can't avoid it--and that's the trouble.
That's what we're going to change."

We are, eh?  How?  I thought.  Everybody does business with Authority
for same reason everybody does business with Law of Gravitation.  Going
to change that, too?  But kept thoughts to myself, not wishing to argue
with a lady.

"Mannie's okay," Shorty said gently.  "He's mean as they come--I vouch
for him.  Here's a cap for him," he added, reaching into pouch.  He
started to set it on my head.

Wyoming Knott took it from him.  "You sponsor him?"

"I said so."

"Okay, here's how we do it in Hong Kong."  Wyoming stood in front of
me, placed cap on my head--kissed me firmly on mouth.

She didn't hurry.  Being kissed by Wyoming Knott is more definite than
being married to most women.  Had I been Mike all my lights would have
flashed at once.  I felt like a Cyborg with pleasure center switched
on.

Presently I realized it was over and people were whistling.  I blinked
and said, "I'm glad I joined.  What have I joined?"

Wyoming said, "Don't you know?"  Shorty cut in, "Meeting's about to
start--he'll find out.  Sit down, Man.  Please sit down, Wyoh."  So we
did as a man was banging a gavel.

With gavel and an amplifier at high gain he made himself heard.  "Shut
doors!"  he shouted.  "This is a closed meeting.  Check man in front of
you, behind you, each side--if you don't know him and nobody you know
can vouch for him, throw him out!"

"Throw him out, hell!"  somebody answered.  "Eliminate him out nearest
lock!"

"Quiet, please!  Someday we will."  There was milling around, and a
scuffle in which one man's red cap was snatched from head and he was
thrown out, sailing beautifully and still rising as he passed through
door.  Doubt if he felt it; think he was unconscious.  A women was
ejected politely--not politely on her part; she made coarse remarks
about ejectors.  I was embarrassed.

At last doors were closed.  Music started, banner unfolded over
platform.  It read: LIBERTY!  EQUALITY!  FRATERNITY!  Everybody
whistled; some started to sing, loudly and badly: "Arise, Ye Prisoners
of Starvation--" Can't say anybody looked starved.  But reminded me I
hadn't eaten since 1400; hoped it would not last long--and that
reminded me that my recorder was good for only two hours--and that made
me wonder what would happen if they knew?  Sail me through air to land
with sickening grunch?  Or eliminate me?  But didn't worry; made that
recorder myself, using number-three arm, and nobody but a
miniaturization mechanic would figure out what it was.

Then came speeches.

Semantic content was low to negative.  One bloke proposed that we march
on Warden's Residence, "shoulder to shoulder," and demand our rights.
Picture it.  Do we do this in tube capsules, then climb out one at a
time at his private station?  What are his bodyguards doing?  Or do we
put on p-suits and stroll across surface to his upper lock?  With laser
drills and plenty of power you can open any airlock--but how about
farther down?  Is lift running?  Jury-rig hoist and go down anyhow,
then tackle next lock?

I don't care for such work at zero pressure; mishap in pressure suit is
too permanent--especially when somebody arranges mishap.  One first
thing learned about Luna, back with first shiploads of convicts, was
that zero pressure was place for good manners.  Bad-tempered straw boss
didn't last many shifts; had an "accident"--and top bosses learned not
to pry into accidents or they met accidents, too.  Attrition ran 70
percent in early years--but those who lived were nice people.  Not
tame, not soft, Luna is not for them.  But well-behaved.

But seemed to me that every hothead in Luna was in Stilyagi Hall that
night.  They whistled and cheered this shoulder-to-shoulder noise.

After discussion opened, some sense was talked.  One shy little fellow
with bloodshot eyes of old-time drill man stood up.  "I'm an ice
miner," he said.  "Learned my trade doing time for Warden like most of
you.  I've been on my own thirty years and done okay.  Raised eight
kids and all of 'em earned way--none eliminated nor any serious
trouble.  I should say I did do okay because today you have to listen
farther out or deeper down to find ice.

"That's okay, still ice in The Rock and a miner expects to sound for
it.  But Authority pays same price for ice now as thirty years ago. And
that's not okay.  Worse yet, Authority scrip doesn't buy what it used
to.  I remember when Hong Kong Luna dollars swapped even for Authority
dollars-Now it takes three Authority dollars to match one HKL dollar. 
I don't know what to do... but I know it takes ice to keep warrens and
farms going."

He sat down, looking sad.  Nobody whistled but everybody wanted to
talk.  Next character pointed out that water can be extracted from
rock--this is news?  Some rock runs 6 percent--but such rock is scarcer
than fossil water.  Why can't people do arithmetic?

Several farmers bellyached and one wheat farmer was typical.  "You
heard what Fred Hauser said about ice.  Fred, Authority isn't passing
along that low price to farmers.  I started almost as long ago as you
did, with one two-kilometer tunnel leased from Authority.  My oldest
son and I sealed and pressured it and we had a pocket of ice and made
our first crop simply on a bank loan to cover power and lighting
fixtures, seed and chemicals.

"We kept extending tunnels and buying lights and planting better seed
and now we get nine times as much per hectare as the best open-air
farming down Earthside.  What does that make us?  Rich?  Fred, we owe
more now than we did the day we went private!  If I sold out--if
anybody was fool enough to buy--I'd be bankrupt.  Why?  Because I have
to buy water from Authority--and have to sell my wheat to
Authority--and never close gap.  Twenty years ago I bought city sewage
from the Authority, sterilized and processed it myself and made a
profit on a crop.  But today when I buy sewage, I'm charged
distilled-water price and on top of that for the solids.  Yet price of
a tonne of wheat at catapult head is just what it was twenty years ago.
Fred, you said you didn't know what to do.  I can tell you!  Get rid of
Authority!"

They whistled for him.  A fine idea, I thought, but who bells cat?

Wyoming Knott, apparently--chairman stepped back and let Shorty
introduce her as a "brave little girl who's come all the way from Hong
Kong Luna to tell how our Chinee comrades cope with situation"--and
choice of words showed that he had never been there... not surprising;
in 2075, HKL tube ended at Endsville, leaving a thousand kilometers of
maria to do by rolligon bus, Serenitatis and part of
Tranquillitatis--expensive and dangerous.  I'd been there--but on
contract, via mail rocket.

Before travel became cheap many people in Luna City and Novylen thought
that Hong Kong Luna was all Chinee.  But Hong Kong was as mixed as we
were.  Great China dumped what she didn't want there, first from Old
Hong Kong and Singapore, then Aussies and Enzees and black fellows and
marys and Malays and Tamil and name it.  Even Old Bolshies from
Vladivostok and Harbin and Ulan Bator.  Wye looked Svenska and had
British last name with North American first name but could have been
Russki.  My word, a Loonie then rarely knew who father was and, if
raised in creche, might be vague about mother.

I thought Wyoming was going to be too shy to speak.  She stood there,
looking scared and little, with Shorty towering over her, a big, black
mountain.  She waited until admiring whistles died down.  Luna City was
two-to-one male then, that meeting ran about ten-to-one; she could have
recited ABC and they would have applauded.

Then she tore into them.

"You!  You're a wheat farmer--going broke.  Do you know how much a
Hindu housewife pays for a kilo of flour made from your wheat?  How
much a tonne of your wheat fetches in Bombay?  How little it costs the
Authority to get it from catapult head to Indian Ocean?  Downhill all
the way!  Just solid-fuel retros to brake it--and where do those come
from?  Right here!  And what do you get in return?  A few shiploads of
fancy goods, owned by the Authority and priced high because it's import
ado Importado, import ado--I never touch import ado If we don't make it
in Hong Kong, I don't use it.  What else do you get for wheat?  The
privilege of selling Lunar ice to Lunar Authority, buying it back as
washing water, then giving it to the Authority--then buying it back a
second time as flushing water--then giving it again to the Authority
with valuable solids added--then buying it a third time at still higher
price for farming--then you sell that wheat to the Authority at their
price--and buy power from the Authority to grow it, again at their
price!  Lunar power--not one kilowatt up from Terra.  It comes from
Lunar ice and Lunar steel, or sunshine spilled on Luna's soil--all put
together by loonies!  Oh, you rock heads you deserve to starve!"

She got silence more respectful than whistles.  At last a peevish voice
said, "What do you expect us to do, gospazha?  Throw rocks at
Warden?"

Wyoh smiled.  "Yes, we could throw rocks.  But the solution is so
simple that you all know it.  Here in Luna we're rich.  Three million
hardworking, smart, skilled people, enough water, plenty of everything,
endless power, endless cubic.  But what we don't have is a free market.
We must get rid of the Authority!"

"Yes--but how?"

"Solidarity.  In HKL we're learning.  Authority charges too much for
water, don't buy.  It pays too little for ice, don't sell.  It holds
monopoly on export, don't export.  Down in Bombay they want wheat.  If
it doesn't arrive, the day will come when brokers come here to bid for
it--at triple or more the present prices!"

"What do we do in meantime?  Starve?"

Same peevish voice-Wyoming picked him out, let her head roll in that
old gesture by which a Loonie fern says, "You're too fat for me!"  She
said, "In your case, cobber, it wouldn't hurt."

Guffaws shut him up.  Wyoh went on, "No one need starve, Fred Hauser,
fetch your drill to Hong Kong; the Authority doesn't own our water and
air system and we pay what ice is worth.  You with the bankrupt
farm--if you have the guts to admit that you're bankrupt, come to Hong
Kong and start over.  We have a chronic labor shortage, a hard worker
doesn't starve."  She looked around and added, "I've said enough.  It's
up to you"--left platform, sat down between Shorty and myself.

She was trembling.  Shorty patted her hand; she threw him a glance of
thanks, then whispered to me, "How did I do?"

"Wonderful," I assured her.  "Terrific!"  She seemed reassured.

But I hadn't been honest.  "Wonderful" she had been, at swaying crowd.
But oratory is a null program.  That we were slaves I had known all my
life--and nothing could be done about it.  True, we weren't bought and
sold--but as long as Authority held monopoly over what we had to have
and what we could sell to buy it, we were slaves.

But what could we do?  Warden wasn't our owner.  Had he been, some way
could be found to eliminate him.  But Lunar Authority was not in Luna,
it was on Terra--and we had not one ship, not even small hydrogen bomb.
There weren't even hand guns in Luna, though what we would do with guns
I did not know.  Shoot each other, maybe.

Three million, unarmed and helpless--and eleven billion of them... with
ships and bombs and weapons.  We could be a nuisance--but how long will
papa take it before baby gets spanked?

I wasn't impressed.  As it says in Bible, God fights on side of
heaviest artillery.

They cackled again, what to do, how to organize, and so forth, and
again we heard that "shoulder to shoulder" noise.  Chairman had to use
gavel and I began to fidget.

But sat up when I heard familiar voice: "Mr.  Chairman!  May I have the
indulgence of the house for five minutes?"

I looked around.  Professor Bernardo de la Paz--which could have
guessed from old-fashioned way of talking even if hadn't known voice.
Distinguished man with wavy white hair, dimples in cheeks, and voice
that smiled-Don't know how old he was but was old when I first met him,
as a boy.

He had been transported before I was born but was not a lag.  He was a
political exile like Warden, but a subversive and instead of fat job
like "warden," Professor had been dumped, to live or starve.

No doubt he could have gone to work in any school then in L-City but he
didn't.  He worked a while washing dishes, I've heard, then as
babysitter, expanding into a nursery school, and then into a creche.
When I met him he was running a creche, and a boarding and day school,
from nursery through primary, middle, and high schools, employed co-op
thirty teachers, and was adding college courses.

Never boarded with him but I studied under him.  I was opted at
fourteen and my new family sent me to school, as I had had only three
years, plus spotty tutoring.  My eldest wife was a firm woman and made
me go to school.

I liked Prof.  He would teach anything.  Wouldn't matter that he knew
nothing about it; if pupil wanted it, he would smile and set a price,
locate materials, stay a few lessons ahead.  Or barely even if he found
it tough--never pretended to know more than he did.  Took algebra from
him and by time we reached cubics I corrected his probs as often as he
did mine--but he charged into each lesson gaily.

I started electronics under him, soon was teaching him.  So he stopped
charging and we went along together until he dug up an engineer willing
to daylight for extra money--whereupon we both paid new teacher and
Prof tried to stick with me, thumb-fingered and slow, but happy to be
stretching his mind.

Chairman banged gavel.  "We are glad to extend to Professor de la Paz
as much time as he wants--and you chooms in back sign off!  Before I
use this mallet on skulls."

Prof came forward and they were as near silent as Loonies ever are; he
was respected.  "I shan't be long," he started in.  Stopped to look at
Wyoming, giving her up-and-down and whistling.  "Lovely seorita he
said, "can this poor one be forgiven?  I have the painful duty of
disagreeing with your eloquent manifesto."

Wyoh bristled.  "Disagree how?  What I said was true!"

"Please!  Only on one point.  May I proceed?"

"Uh... go ahead."

"You are right that the Authority must go.  It is
ridiculous--pestilential, not to be borne--that we should be ruled by
an irresponsible dictator in all our essential economy!  It strikes at
the most basic human right, the right to bargain in a free marketplace.
But I respectfully suggest that you erred in saying that we should sell
wheat to Terra--or rice, or any food--at any price.  We must not export
food!"

That wheat farmer broke in.  "What am I going to do with all that
wheat?"

"Please!  It would be right to ship wheat to Terra... if tonne for
tonne they returned it.  As water.  As nitrates.  As phosphates.  Tonne
for tonne.  Otherwise no price is high enough."

Wyoming said "Just a moment" to farmer, then to Prof: "They can't and
you know it.  It's cheap to ship downhill, expensive to ship uphill.
But we don't need water and plant chemicals, what we need is not so
massy.  Instruments.  Drugs.  Processes.  Some machinery.  Control
tapes.  I've given this much study, sir.  If we can get fair prices in
a free market--"

"Please, miss!  May I continue?"

"Go ahead.  I want to rebut."

"Fred Hauser told us that ice is harder to find.  Too true--bad news
now and disastrous for our grandchildren.  Luna City should use the
same water today we used twenty years ago... plus enough ice mining for
population increase.  But we use water once--one full cycle, three
different ways.  Then we ship it to India.  As wheat.  Even though
wheat is vacuum-processed, it contains precious water.  Why ship water
to India?  They have the whole Indian Ocean!  And the remaining mass of
that grain is even more disastrously expensive, plant foods still
harder to come by, even though we extract them from rock.  Comrades,
harken to me!  Every load you ship to Terra condemns your grandchildren
to slow death.  The miracle of photosynthesis, the plant-and-animal
cycle, is a closed cycle.  You have opened it--and your lifeblood runs
downhill to Terra.  You don't need higher prices, one cannot eat money!
What you need, what we all need, is an end to this loss.  Embargo,
utter and absolute.  Luna must be self-sufficient!"

A dozen people shouted to be heard and more were talking, while
chairman banged gavel.  So I missed interruption until woman screamed,
then I looked around.

All doors were now open and I saw three armed men in one nearest--men
in yellow uniform of Warden's bodyguard.  At main door in back one was
using a bull voice; drowned out crowd noise and sound system.  "ALL
RIGHT, ALL RIGHT!"  it boomed.  "STAY WHERE YOU ARE.  YOU ARE UNDER

ARREST.  DON'T MOVE, KEEP QUIET.  FILE OUT ONE AT A TIME, HANDS EMPTY

AND STRETCHED OUT IN FRONT OF YOU."

Shorty picked up man next to him and threw him at guards nearest; two
went down, third fired.  Somebody shrieked.  Skinny little girl,
redhead, eleven or twelve, launched self at third guard's knees and hit
rolled up in ball; down he went.  Shorty swung hand behind him, pushing
Wyoming Knott into shelter of his big frame, shouted over shoulder,
"Take care of Wyoh, Man--stick close!"  as he moved toward door,
parting crowd right and left like children.

More screams and I whiffed something--stink I had smelled day I lost
arm and knew with horror were not stun guns but laser beams.  Shorty
reached door and grabbed a guard with each big hand.  Little redhead
was out of sight; guard she had bowled over was on hands and knees.  I
swung left arm at his face and felt jar in shoulder as his jaw broke.
Must have hesitated for Shorty pushed me and yelled, "Move, Man!  Get
her out of here!"

I grabbed Wyoming's waist with right arm, swung her over guard I had
quieted and through door--with trouble; she didn't seem to want to be
rescued.  She slowed again beyond door; I shoved her hard in buttocks,
forcing her to run rather than fall.  I glanced back.

Shorty had other two guards each by neck; he grinned as he cracked
skulls together.  They popped like eggs and he yelled at me: "Git!"

I left, chasing Wyoming.  Shorty needed no help, nor ever would
again--nor could I waste his last effort.  For I did see that, while
killing those guards, he was standing on one leg.  Other was gone at
hip.

Wyoh was halfway up ramp to level six before I caught up.  She didn't
slow and I had to grab door handle to get into pressure lock with her.
There I stopped her, pulled red cap off her curls and stuck it in my
pouch.  "That's better."  Mine was missing.

She looked startled.  But answered, "Da.  It is."

"Before we open door," I said, "are you running anywhere particular?
And do I stay and hold them off?  Or go with?"

"I don't know.  We'd better wait for Shorty."

"Shorty's dead."

Eyes widened, she said nothing.  I went on, "Were you staying with him?
Or somebody?"

"I was booked for a hotel--Gostaneetsa Ukraina.  I don't know where it
is.  I got here too late to buy in."

"Mmm-That's one place you won't go.  Wyoming, I don't know what's going
on.  First time in months I've seen any Warden's bodyguard in L-City...
and never seen one not escorting vip.  Uh, could take you home with
me--but they may be looking for me, too.  Anywise, ought to get out of
public corridors."

Came pounding on door from level-six side and a little face peered up
through glass bull's-eye.  "Can't stay here," I added, opening door.
Was a little girl no higher than my waist.  She looked up scornfully
and said, "Kiss her somewhere else.  You're blocking traffic." Squeezed
between us as I opened second door for her.

"Let's take her advice," I said, "and suggest you take my arm and try
to look like I was man you want to be with.  We stroll.  Slow."

So we did.  Was side corridor with little traffic other than children
always underfoot.  If Wart's bodyguards tried to track us, Earthside
cop style, a dozen or ninety kids could tell which way tall blonde
went--if any Loonie child would give stooge of Warden so much as time
of day.

A boy almost old enough to appreciate Wyoming stopped in front of us
and gave her a happy whistle.  She smiled and waved him aside. "There's
our trouble," I said in her ear.  "You stand out like Terra at full. 
Ought to duck into a hotel.  One off next side corridor--nothing much,
bundling booths mostly.  But close."

"I'm in no mood to bundle."

"Wyoh, please!  Wasn't asking.  Could take separate rooms."

"Sorry.  Could you find me a W.C.?  And is there a chemist's shop
near?"

"Trouble?"

"Not that sort.  A W.C. to get me out of sight--for I am
conspicuous--and a chemist's shop for cosmetics.  Body makeup.  And for
my hair, too."

First was easy, one at hand.  When she was locked in, I found a
chemist's shop, asked how much body makeup to cover a girl so
tall--marked a point under my chin--and massing forty-eight?  I bought
that amount in sepia, went to another shop and bought same
amount--winning roll at first shop, losing at second--came out even.
Then I bought black hair tint at third shop--and a red dress.

Wyoming was wearing black shorts and pullover--practical for travel and
effective on a blonde.  But I'd been married all my life and had some
notion of what women wear and had never seen a woman with dark sepia
skin, shade of makeup, wear black by choice.  Furthermore, skirts were
worn in Luna City then by dressy women.  This shift was a skirt with
bib and price convinced me it must be dressy.  Had to guess at size but
material had some stretch.

Ran into three people who knew me but was no unusual comment.  Nobody
seemed excited, trade going on as usual; hard to believe that a riot
had taken place minutes ago on level below and a few hundred meters
north.  I set it aside for later thought--excitement was not what I
wanted.

I took stuff to Wye, buzzing door and passing in it; then stashed self
in a taproom for half an hour and half a liter and watched video. Still
no excitement, no "we interrupt for special bulletin."  I went back,
buzzed, and waited.

Wyoming came out--and I didn't recognize her.  Then did and stopped to
give full applause.  Just had to--whistles and finger snaps and moans
and a scan like mapping radar.

Wyoh was now darker than I am, and pigment had gone on beautifully.
Must have been carrying items in pouch as eyes were dark now, with
lashes to match, and mouth was dark red and bigger.  She had used black
hair tint, then fizzed hair up with grease as if to take kinks out, and
her tight curls had defeated it enough to make convincingly imperfect.
She didn't look Afro--but not European, either.  Seemed some mixed
breed, and thereby more a Loonie.

Red dress was too small.  Clung like sprayed enamel and flared out at
mid-thigh with permanent static charge.  She had taken shoulder strap
off her pouch and had it under arm.  Shoes she had discarded or
pouched; bare feet made her shorter.

She looked good.  Better yet, she looked not at all like agitatrix who
had harangued crowd.

She waited, big smile on face and body undulating, while I applauded.
Before I was done, two little boys flanked me and added shrill
endorsements, along with clog steps.  So I tipped them and told them to
be missing; Wyoming flowed to me and took my arm.  "Is it okay?  Will I
pass?"

"Wyoh, you look like slot-machine sheila waiting for action."

"Why, you dreck lich choom!  Do I look like slot-machine prices?
Tourist!"

"Don't jump salty, beautiful.  Name a gift.  Then speak my name.  If
it's bread-and-honey, I own a hive."

"Uh--" She fisted me solidly in ribs, grinned.  "I was flying, cobber.
If I ever bundle with you--not likely--we won't speak to the bee. Let's
find that hotel."

So we did and I bought a key.  Wyoming put on a show but needn't have
bothered.  Night clerk never looked up from his knitting, didn't offer
to roll.  Once inside, Wyoming threw bolts.  "It's nice!"

Should have been, at thirty-two Hong Kong dollars.  I think she
expected a booth but I would not put her in such, even to hide.  Was
comfortable lounge with own bath and no water limit.  And phone and
delivery lift, which I needed.

She started to open pouch.  "I saw what you paid.  Let's settle it, so
that--"

I reached over, closed her pouch.  "Was to be no mention of bees."

"What?  Oh, merde, that was about bundling.  You got this doss for me
and it's only right that--"

"Switch off."

"Uh... half?  No grievin' with Steven."

"Nyet.  Wyoh, you're a long way from home.  What money you have, hang
on to."

"Manuel O'Kelly, if you don't let me pay my share, I'll walk out of
here!"

I bowed.  "Dosvedanyuh, Gospazha, ee sp'coynoynochi.  I hope we shall
meet again."  I moved to unbolt door.

She glared, then closed pouch savagely.  "I'll stay.  M'goy!"

"You're welcome."

"I mean it, I really do thank you, Just the same-Well, I'm not used to
accepting favors.  I'm a Free Woman."

"Congratulations.  I think."

"Don't you be salty, either.  You're a firm man and I respect that--I'm
glad you're on our side."

"Not sure I am."

"What?"

"Cool it.  Am not on Warden's side.  Nor will I talk ... wouldn't want
Shorty, Bog rest his generous soul, to haunt me.  But your program
isn't practical."

"But, Mannie, you don't understand!  If all of us--"

"Hold it, Wye; this no time for politics.  I'm tired and hungry.  When
did you eat last?"

"Oh, goodness!"  Suddenly she looked small, young, tired.  "I don't
know.  On the bus, I guess.  Helmet rations."

"What would you say to a Kansas City cut, rare, with baked potato,
Tycho sauce, green salad, coffee .. and a drink first?"

"Heavenly!"

"I think so too, but we'll be lucky, this hour in this hole, to get
algae soup and burgers.  What do you drink?"

"Anything.  Ethanol."

"Okay."  I went to lift, punched for service.  "Menu, please."  It
displayed and I settled for prime rib plus rest, and two orders of
apfelstrudel with whipped cream.  I added a half liter of table vodka
and ice and starred that part.

"Is there time for me to take a bath?  Would you mind?"

"Go ahead, Wye.  You'll smell better."

"Louse.  Twelve hours in a p-suit and you'd stink, too--the bus was
dreadful.  I'll hurry."

"Half a sec, Wye.  Does that stuff wash off?  You may need it when you
leave... whenever you do, wherever you go."

"Yes, it does.  But you bought three times as much as I used.  I'm
sorry, Mannie; I plan to carry makeup on political trips--things can
happen.  Like tonight, though tonight was worst.  But I ran short of
seconds and missed a capsule and almost missed the bus."

"So go scrub."

"Yes, sir, Captain.  Uh, I don't need help to scrub my back but I'll
leave the door up so we can talk.  Just for company, no invitation
implied."

"Suit yourself.  I've seen a woman."

"What a thrill that must have been for her."  She grinned and fisted me
another in ribs--hard--went in and started tub.  "Mannie, would you
like to bathe in it first?  Secondhand water is good enough for this
makeup and that stink you complained about."

"Unmetered water, dear.  Run it deep."

"Oh, what luxury!  At home I use the same bath water three days
running."  She whistled softly and happily.  "Are you wealthy,
Mannie?"

"Not wealthy, not weeping."

Lift jingled; I answered, fixed basic martinis, vodka over ice, handed
hers in, got out and sat down, out of sight--nor had I seen sights; she
was shoulder deep in happy suds.  "Pawlnoi Zheezni!"  I called.

"A full life to you, too, Mannie.  Just the medicine I needed."  After
pause for medicine she went on, "Mannie, you're married.  Ja?"

"Da.  It shows?"

"Quite.  You're nice to a woman but not eager and quite independent. So
you're married and long married.  Children?"

"Seventeen divided by four."

"Clan marriage?"

"Line.  Opted at fourteen and I'm fifth of nine.  So seventeen kids is
nominal.  Big family."

"It must be nice.  I've never seen much of line families, not many in
Hong Kong.  Plenty of clans and groups and lots of polyandries but the
line way never took hold."

"Is nice.  Our marriage nearly a hundred years old.  Dates back to
Johnson City and first transportees--twenty-one links, nine alive
today, never a divorce.  Oh, it's a madhouse when our descendants and
in laws and kinfolk get together for birthday or wedding--more kids
than seventeen, of course; we don't count 'em after they marry or I'd
have 'children' old enough to be my grandfather.  Happy way to live,
never much pressure.  Take me.  Nobody woofs if I stay away a week and
don't phone.  Welcome when I show up.  Line marriages rarely have
divorces.  How could I do better?"

"I don't think you could.  Is it an alternation?  And what's the
spacing?"

"Spacing has no rule, just what suits us.  Been alternation up to
latest link, last year.  We married a girl when alternation called for
boy.  But was special."

"Special how?"

"My youngest wife is a granddaughter of eldest husband and wife.  At
least she's granddaughter of Mum--senior is "Mum' or sometimes Mimi to
her husbands--and she may be of Grandpaw--but not related to other
spouses.  So no reason not to marry back in, not even consanguinuity
okay in other types of marriage.  None, nit, zero.  And Ludmilla grew
up in our family because her mother had her solo, then moved to Novylen
and left her with us.

"Mina didn't want to talk about marrying out when old enough for us to
think about it.  She cried and asked us please to make an exception. So
we did.  Grandpaw doesn't figure in genetic angle--these days his
interest in women is more gallant than practical.  As senior husband he
spent our wedding night with her--but consummation was only formal.
Number-two husband, Greg, took care of it later and everybody
pretended.  And everybody happy.  Ludmilla is a sweet little thing,
just fifteen and pregnant first time."

"Your baby?"

"Greg's, I think.  Oh, mine too" but in fact was in Novy Leningrad.
Probably Greg's, unless Mina got outside help.  But didn't, she's a
home girl.  And a wonderful cook."

Lift rang; took care of it, folded down table, opened chairs, paid bill
and sent lift up.  "Throw it to pigs?"

"I'm coming!  Mind if I don't do my face?"

"Come in skin for all of me."

"For two dimes I would, you much-married man."  She came out quickly,
blond again and hair slicked back and damp.  Had not put on black
outfit; again in dress I bought.  Red suited her.  She sat down, lifted
covers off food.  "Oh, boy!  Mannie, would your family marry me? You're
a dinkum provider."

"I'll ask.  Must be unanimous."

"Don't crowd yourself."  She picked up sticks, got busy.  About a
thousand calories later she said, "I told you I was a Free Woman.  I
wasn't, always."

I waited.  Women talk when they want to.  Or don't.

"When I was fifteen I married two brothers, twins twice my age and I
was terribly happy."

She fiddled with what was on plate, then seemed to change subject.
"Mannie, that was just static about wanting to marry your family.
You're safe from me.  If I ever marry again--unlikely but I'm not
opposed to it--it would be just one man, a tight little marriage,
earthworm style.  Oh, I don't mean I would keep him dogged down.  I
don't think it matters where a man eats lunch as long as he comes home
for dinner.  I would try to make him happy."

"Twins didn't get along?"

"Oh, not that at all.  I got pregnant and we were all delighted ... and
I had it, and it was a monster and had to be eliminated.  They were
good to me about it.  But I can read print.  I announced a divorce, had
myself sterilized, moved from Novylen to Hong Kong, and started over as
a Free Woman."

"Wasn't that drastic?  Male parent oftener than female; men are exposed
more."

"Not in my case.  We had it calculated by the best mathematical
geneticist in Novy Leningrad--one of the best in Sovunion before she
got shipped.  I know what happened to me.  I was a volunteeer
colonist--I mean my mother was for I was only five.  My father was
transported and Mother chose to go with him and take me along.  There
was a solar storm warning but the pilot thought he could make it--or
didn't care; he was a Cyborg.  He did make it but we got hit on the
ground--and, Mannie, that's one thing that pushed me into politics,
that ship sat four hours before they let us disembark.  Authority red
tape, quarantine perhaps; I was too young to know.  But I wasn't too
young later to figure out that I had birthed a monster because the
Authority doesn't care what happens to us outcasts."

"Can't start argument; they don't care.  But, Wyoh, still sounds hasty.
If you caught damage from radiation--well, no geneticist but know
something about radiation.  So you had a damaged egg.  Does not mean
egg next to it was hurt--statistically unlikely."

"Oh, I know that."

"Mmm-What sterilization?  Radical?  Or contraceptive?"

"Contraceptive.  My tubes could be opened.  But, Mannie, a woman who
has had one monster doesn't risk it again."  She touched my prosthetic.
"You have that.  Doesn't it make you eight times as careful not to risk
this one?"  She touched my meat arm.  "That's the way I feel.  You have
that to contend with; I have this--and I would never told you if you
hadn't been hurt, too."

I didn't say left arm more versatile than right--she was correct; don't
want to trade in right arm.  Need it to pat girls if naught else.
"Still think you could have healthy babies."

"Oh, I can!  I've had eight."

"Huh?"

"I'm a professional host-mother, Mannie."

I opened mouth, closed it.  Idea wasn't strange.  I read Earthside
papers.  But doubt if any surgeon in Luna City in 2075 ever performed
such transplant.  In cows, yes--but L-City females unlikely at any
price to have babies for other women; even homely ones could get
husband or six.  (Correction: Are no homely women.  Some more beautiful
than others.)

Glanced at her figure, quickly looked up.  She said, "Don't strain your
eyes, Mannie; I'm not carrying now.  Too busy with politics.  But
hosting is a good profession for Free Woman.  It's high pay.  Some
Chinee families are wealthy and all my babies have been Chinee--and
Chinee are smaller than average and I'm a big cow; a two-and-a-half- or
three-kilo Chinese baby is no trouble.  Doesn't spoil my figure.
These--" She glanced down at her lovelies.  "I don't wet-nurse them, I
never see them.  So I look nulliparous and younger than I am, maybe.

"But I didn't know how well it suited me when I first heard of it.  I
was clerking in a Hindu shop, eating money, no more, when I saw this ad
in the Hong Kong Gong.  It was the thought of having a baby, a good
baby, that hooked me; I was still in emotional trauma from my
monster--and it turned out to be Just what Wyoming needed.  I stopped
feeling that I was a failure as a woman.  I made more money than I
could ever hope to earn at other jobs.  And my time almost to myself;
having a baby hardly slows me down--six weeks at most and that long
only because I want to be fair to my clients; a baby is a valuable
property.  And I was soon in politics; I sounded off and the
underground got in touch with me.  That's when I started living,
Mannie; I studied politics and economics and history and learned to
speak in public and turned out to have a flair for organization.  It's
satisfying work because I believe in it--I know that Luna will be free.
Only-Well, it would be nice to have a husband to come home to... if he
didn't mind that I was sterile.  But I don't think about it; I'm too
busy.  Hearing about your nice family got me talking, that's all.  I
must apologize for having bored you."

How many women apologize?  But Wyoh was more man than woman some ways,
despite eight Chinee babies.  "Wasn't bored."

"I hope not.  Mannie, why do you say our program isn't practical?  We
need you."

Suddenly felt tired.  How to tell lovely woman dearest dream is
nonsense?  "Um.  Wyoh, let's start over.  You told them what to do. But
will they?  Take those two you singled out.  All that iceman knows, bet
anything, is how to dig ice.  So he'll go on digging and selling to
Authority because that's what he can do.  Same for wheat farmer.  Years
ago, he put in one cash crop-now he's got ring in nose.  If he wanted
to be independent, would have diversified.  Raised what he eats, sold
rest free market and stayed away from catapult head.  I know--I'm a
farm boy."

"You said you were a computer man

"Am, and that's a piece of same picture.  I'm not a top computer man
But best in Luna.  I won't go civil service, so Authority has to hire
me when in trouble--my prices--or send Earthside, pay risk and
hardship, then ship him back fast before his body forgets Terra.  At
far more than I charge.  So if I can do it, I get their jobs--and
Authority can't touch me; was born free.  And if no work--usually is--I
stay home and eat high.

"We've got a proper farm, not a one-cash-crop deal.  Chickens.  Small
herd of white face plus milch cows.  Pigs.  Mutated fruit trees.
Vegetables.  A little wheat and grind it ourselves and don't insist on
white flour, and sell--free market--what's left.  Make own beer and
brandy.  I learned drill man extending our tunnels.  Everybody works,
not too hard.  Kids make cattle take exercise by switching them along;
don't use tread mill.  Kids gather eggs and feed chickens, don't use
much machinery.  Air we can buy from L-City--aren't far out of town and
pressure-tunnel connected.  But more often we sell air; being farm,
cycle shows Oh-two excess.  Always have valuta to meet bills."

"How about water and power?"

"Not expensive.  We collect some power, sunshine screens on surface,
and have a little pocket of ice.  Wye, our farm was founded before year
two thousand, when L-City was one natural cave, and we've kept
improving it--advantage of line marriage; doesn't die and capital
improvements add up."

"But surely your ice won't last forever?"

"Well, now--" I scratched head and grinned.  "We're careful; we keep
our sewage and garbage and sterilize and use it.  Never put a drop back
into city system.  But--don't tell Warden, dear, but back when Greg was
teaching me to drill, we happened to drill into bottom of main south
reservoir--and had a tap with us, spilled hardly a drop.  But we do buy
some metered water, looks better--and ice pocket accounts for not
buying much.  As for power--well, power is even easier to steal.  I'm a
good electrician, Wyoh."

"Oh, wonderful!"  Wyoming paid me a long whistle and looked delighted.
"Everybody should do that!"

"Hope not, would show.  Let 'em think up own ways to outwit Authority;
our family always has.  But back to your plan, Wyoh: two things wrong.
Never get 'solidarity'; blokes like Hauser would cave in--because they
are in a trap; can't hold out.  Second place, suppose you managed it.
Solidarity.  So solid not a tonne of grain is delivered to catapult
head.  Forget ice; it's grain that makes Authority important and not
just neutral agency it was set up to be.  No grain.  What happens?"

"Why, they have to negotiate a fair price, that's what!"

"My dear, you and your comrades listen to each other too much.
Authority would call it rebellion and warship would orbit with bombs
earmarked for L-City and Hong Kong and Tycho Under and Churchill and
Novylen, troops would land, grain barges would lift, under guard--and
farmers would break necks to cooperate.  Terra has guns and power and
bombs and ships and won't hold still for trouble from ex-cons.  And
troublemakers like you--and me; with you in spirit--us lousy
troublemakers will be rounded up and eliminated, teach us a lesson. And
earthworms would say we had it coming ... because our side would never
be heard.  Not on Terra."

Wyoh looked stubborn.  "Revolutions have succeeded before.  Lenin had
only a handful with him."

"Lenin moved in on a power vacuum.  Wye, correct me if I'm wrong.
Revolutions succeeded when--only when--governments had gone rotten
soft, or disappeared."

"Not true!  The American Revolution."

"South lost, nyet?"

Not that one, the one a century earlier.  They had the sort of troubles
with England that we are having now--and they won!"

"Oh, that one.  But wasn't England in trouble?  France, and Spain, and
Sweden--or maybe Holland?  And Ireland.  Ireland was rebelling;
O'Kellys were in it.  Wyoh, if you can stir trouble on Terra--say a war
between Great China and North American Directorate, maybe Pan Africa
lobbing bombs at Europe, I'd say was wizard time to kill Warden and
tell Authority it's through.  Not today."

"You're a pessimist."

"Nyet, realist.  Never pessimist.  Too much Loonie not to bet if any
chance.  Show me chances no worse then ten to one against and I'll go
for broke.  But want that one chance in ten."  I pushed back chair.
"Through eating?"

"Yes.  Bolshoyeh spasebaw, tovarishch.  It was grand!"

"My pleasure.  Move to couch and I'll rid of table and dishes, --no,
can't help; I'm host."  I cleared table, sent up dishes, saving coffee
and vodka, folded table, racked chairs, turned to speak.

She was sprawled on couch, asleep, mouth open and face softened into
little girl.

Went quietly into bath and closed door.  After a scrubbing I felt
better--washed tights first and were dry and fit to put on by time I
quit lazing in tub--don't care when world ends long as I'm bathed and
in clean clothes.

Wyoh was still asleep, which made problem.  Had taken room with two
beds so she would not feel I was trying to talk her into bundling--not
that I was against it but she had made clear she was opposed.  But my
bed had to be made from couch and proper bed was folded away.  Should I
rig it out softly, pick her up like limp baby and move her?  Went back
into bath and put on arm.

Then decided to wait.  Phone had hush hood.  Wyoh seemed unlikely to
wake, and things were gnawing me.  I sat down at phone, lowered hood,
punched "MYCROFTXXX."

"Hi, Mike."

"Hello, Man.  Have you surveyed those jokes?"

"What?  Mike, haven't had a minute--and a minute may be a long time to
you but it's short to me.  I'll get at it as fast as I can."

"Okay, Man.  Have you found a not-stupid for me to talk with?"

"Haven't had time for that, either.  Uh..  wait."  I looked out through
hood at Wyoming.  "Not-stupid" in this case meant empathy... Wyoh had
plenty.  Enough to be friendly with a machine?  I thought so.  And
could be trusted; not only had we shared trouble but she was a
subversive.

"Mike, would you like to talk with a girl?"

"Girls are not-stupid?"

"Some girls are very not-stupid, Mike."

"I would like to talk with a not-stupid girl, Man."

"I'll try to arrange.  But now I'm in trouble and need your help."

"I will help, Man."

"Thanks, Mike.  I want to call my home--but not ordinary way.  You know
sometimes calls are monitored, and if Warden orders it, lock can be put
on so that circuit can be traced."

"Man, you wish me to monitor your call to your home and put a
lock-and-trace on it?  I must inform you that I already know your home
call number and the number from which you are calling."

"No, no!  Don't want it monitored, don't want it locked and traced. Can
you call my home, connect me, and control circuit so that it can't be
monitored, can't be locked, can't be traced--even if somebody has
programmed just that?  Can you do it so that they won't even know their
program is bypassed?"

Mike hesitated.  I suppose it was a question never asked and he had to
trace a few thousand possibilities to see if his control of system
permitted this novel program.  "Man, I can do that.  I will."

"Good!  Uh, program signal.  If I want this sort of connection in
future, I'll ask for "Sherlock.""

"Noted.  Sherlock was my brother."  Year before, I had explained to
Mike how he got his name.  Thereafter he read all Sherlock Holmes
stories, scanning film in Luna City Carnegie Library.  Don't know how
he rationalized relationship; I hesitated to ask.

"Fine!  Give me a "Sherlock' to my home."

A moment later I said, "Mum?  This is your favorite husband."

She answered, "Manuel!  Are you in trouble again?"

I love Mum more than any other woman including my other wives, but she
never stopped bringing me up--Bog willing, she never will.  I tried to
sound hurt.  "Me?  Why, you know me, Mum."

"I do indeed.  Since you are not in trouble, perhaps you can tell me
why Professor de la Paz is so anxious to get in touch with you--he has
called three times--and why he wants to reach some woman with unlikely
name of Wyoming Knott--and why he thinks you might be with her?  Have
you taken a bundling companion, Manuel, without telling me?  We have
freedom in our family, dear, but you know that I prefer to be told.  So
that I will not be taken unawares."

Mum was always jealous of all women but her co-wives and never, never,
never admitted it.  I said, "Mum, Bog strike me dead, I have not taken
a bundling companion."

"Very well.  You've always been a truthful boy, Now what's this
mystery?"

"I'll have to ask Professor."  (Not lie, just tight squeeze.) "Did he
leave number?"

"No, he said he was calling from a public phone."

"Um.  If he calls again, ask him to leave number and time I can reach
him.  This is public phone, too."  (Another tight squeeze.) "In
meantime-You listened to late news?"

"You know I do."

"Anything?"

"Nothing of interest."

"No excitement in L-City?  Killings, riots, anything?"

"Why, no.  There was a set duel in Bottom Alley but-Manuel!  Have you
killed someone?"

"No, Mum."  (Breaking a man's jaw will not kill him.)

She sighed.  "You'll be my death, dear.  You know what I've always told
you.  In our family we do not brawl.  Should a killing be necessary--it
almost never is--matters must be discussed calmly, en famille, and
proper action selected.  If a new chum must be eliminated, other people
know it.  It is worth a little delay to hold good opinion and
support--"

"Mum!  Haven't killed anybody, don't intend to.  And know that lecture
by heart."

"Please be civil, dear."

"I'm sorry."

"Forgiven.  Forgotten.  I'm to tell Professor de la Paz to leave a
number.  I shall."

"One thing.  Forget name "Wyoming Knott."  Forget Professor was asking
for me.  If a stranger phones or calls in person, and asks anything
about me, you haven't heard from me, don't know where I am ... think
I've gone to Novylen.  That goes for rest of family, too.  Answer no
questions--especially from anybody connected with Warden."

"As if I would!  Manuel you are in trouble!"

"Not much and getting it fixed."--hoped!--"Tell you when I get home.
Can't talk now.  Love you.  Switching off."

"I love you, dear.  Sp'coynoynauchi."

"Thanks and you have a quiet night, too.  Off."

Mum is wonderful.  She was shipped up to The Rock long ago for carving
a man under circumstances that left grave doubts as to girlish
innocence--and has been opposed to violence and loose living ever
since.  Unless necessary--she's no fanatic.  Bet she was a jet job as a
kid and wish I'd known her--but I'm rich in sharing last half of her
life.

I called Mike back.  "Do you know Professor Bernardo de la Paz's
voice?"

"I do, Man."

"Well... you might monitor as many phones in Luna City as you can spare
ears for and if you hear him, let me know.  Public phones especially."
(A full two seconds' delay-Was giving Mike problems he had never had,
think he liked it.) "I can check-monitor long enough to identify at all
public phones in Luna City.  Shall I use random search on the others,
Man?"

"Um.  Don't overload.  Keep an ear on his home phone and school
phone."

"Program set up."

"Mike, you are best friend I ever had."

"That is not a joke, Man?"

"No joke.  Truth."

"I am-Correction: I am honored and pleased.  You are my best friend,
Man, for you are my only friend.  No comparison is logically
permissible."

"Going to see that you have other friends.  Not-stupids, I mean.  Mike?
Got an empty memory bank?"

"Yes, Man.  Ten-to-the-eighth-bits capacity."

"Good!  Will you block it so that only you and I can use it?  Can
you?"

"Can and will.  Block signal, please."

"Uh... Bastille Day."  Was my birthday, as Professor de la Paz had told
me years earlier.

"Permanently blocked."

"Fine.  Got a recording to put in it.  But first-Have you finished
setting copy for tomorrow's Daily Lunatic?"

"Yes, Man."

"Anything about meeting in Stilyagi Hall?"

"No, Man."

"Nothing in news services going out-city?  Or riots?"

"No, Man."  "'"Curiouser and curiouser," said Alice."  Okay, record
this under "Bastille Day," then think about it.  But for Bog's sake
don't let even your thoughts go outside that block, nor anything I say
about it!"

"Man my only friend," he answered and voice sounded diffident, "many
months ago I decided to place any conversation between you and me under
privacy block accessible only to you.  I decided to erase none and
moved them from temporary storage to permanent.  So that I could play
them over, and over, and over, and think about them.  Did I do
right?"

"Perfect.  And, Mike--I'm flattered."

"P'jal'st.  My temporary files were getting full and I learned that I
needed not to erase your words."

"Well-- "Bastille Day."  Sound coming at sixty-to-one."  I took little
recorder, placed close to a microphone and let it zip-squeal.  Had an
hour and a half in it; went silent in ninety seconds or so.  "That's
all, Mike.  Talk to you tomorrow."

"Good night, Manuel Garcia O'Kelly my only friend."

I switched off and raised hood.  Wyoming was sitting up and looking
troubled.  "Did someone call?  Or..."

"No trouble.  Was talking to one of my best--and most
trustworthy--friends.  Wyoh, are you stupid?"

She looked startled.  "I've sometimes thought so.  Is that a joke?"

"No.  If you're not-stupid, I'd like to introduce you to him.  Speaking
of jokes-Do you have a sense of humor?"

"Certainly I have!"  is what Wyoming did not answer--and any other
woman would as a locked-in program.  She blinked thoughtfully and said,
"You'll have to judge for yourself, cobber.  I have something I use for
one.  It serves my simple purposes."

"Fine."  I dug into pouch, found print-roll of one hundred "funny"
stories.  "Read.  Tell me which are funny, which are not--and which get
a giggle first time but are cold pancakes without honey to hear
twice."

"Manuel, you may be.  the oddest man I've ever met."  She took that
print-out.  "Say, is this computer paper?"

"Yes.  Met a computer with a sense of humor."

"So?  Well, it was bound to come some day.  Everything else has been
mechanized."

I gave proper response and added "Everything?"

She looked up.  "Please.  Don't whistle while I'm reading."

Heard her giggle a few times while I rigged out bed and made it.  Then
sat down by her, took end she was through with and started reading.
Chuckled a time or two but a joke isn't too funny to me if read cold,
even when I see it could be fission job at proper time.  I got more
interested in how Wyoh rated them.

She was marking "plus," "minus," and sometimes question mark, and plus
stories were marked "once" or "always"--few were marked "always."  I
put my ratings under hers.  Didn't disagree too often.

By time I was near end she was looking over my judgments.  We finished
together.  "Well?"  I said.  "What do you think?"

"I think you have a crude, rude mind and it's a wonder your wives put
up with you."

"Mum often says so.  But how about yourself, Wyoh?  You marked plusses
on some that would make a slot-machine girl blush."

She grinned.  "Da.  Don't tell anybody; publicly I'm a dedicated party
organizer above such things.  Have you decided that I have a sense of
humor?"

"Not sure.  Why a minus on number seventeen?"

"Which one is that?"  She reversed roll and found it.  "Why, any woman
would have done the same!  It's not funny, it's simply necessary."

"Yes, but think how silly she looked."

"Nothing silly about it.  Just sad.  And look here.  You thought this
one was not funny.  Number fifty-one."

Neither reversed any judgments but I saw a pattern: Disagreements were
over stories concerning oldest funny subject.  Told her so.  She
nodded.  "Of course.  I saw that.  Never mind, Mannie dear; I long ago
quit being disappointed in men for what they are not and never can
be."

I decided to drop it.  Instead told her about Mike.

Soon she said, "Mannie, you're telling me that this computer is
alive?"

"What do you mean?"  I answered.  "He doesn't sweat, or go to W.C. But
can think and talk and he's aware of himself.  Is he 'alive'?"

"I'm not sure what I mean by 'alive,"" she admitted.  "There's a
scientific definition, isn't there?  Irritability, or some such.  And
reproduction."

"Mike is irritable and can be irritating.  As for reproducing, not
designed for it but--yes, given time and materials and very special
help, Mike could reproduce himself."

"I need very special help, too," Wyoh answered, "since I'm sterile. And
it takes me ten whole lunars and many kilograms of the best materials. 
But I make good babies.  Mannie, why shouldn't a machine be alive? 
I've always felt they were.  Some of them wait for a chance to savage
you in a tender spot."

"Mike wouldn't do that.  Not on purpose, no meanness in him.  But he
likes to play jokes and one might go wrong--like a puppy who doesn't
know he's biting.  He's ignorant No, not ignorant, he knows enormously
more than I, or you, or any man who ever lived.  Yet he doesn't know
anything."

"Better repeat that.  I missed something."

I tried to explain.  How Mike knew almost every book in Luna, could
read at least a thousand times as fast as we could and never forget
anything unless he chose to erase, how he could reason with perfect
logic, or make shrewd guesses from insufficient data... and yet not
know anything about how to be "alive."  She interrupted.  "I scan it.
You're saying he's smart and knows a lot but is not sophisticated. Like
a new chum when he grounds on The Rock.  Back Earthside he might be a
professor with a string of degrees... but here he's a baby."

"That's it.  Mike is a baby with a long string of degrees.  Ask how
much water and what chemicals and how much photo flux it takes to crop
fifty thousand tonnes of wheat and he'll tell you without stopping for
breath.  But can't tell if a joke is funny,"

"I thought most of these were fairly good."

"They're ones he's heard--read--and were marked jokes so he filed them
that way.  But doesn't understand them because he's never been a--a
people.  Lately he's been trying to make up jokes.  Feeble, very."  I
tried to explain Mike's pathetic attempts to be a "people."  "On top of
that, he's lonely."

"Why, the poor thing!  You'd be lonely, too, if you did nothing but
work, work, work, study, study, study, and never anyone to visit with.
Cruelty, that's what it is."

So I told about promise to find "not-stupids."  "Would you chat with
him, Wye?  And not laugh when he makes funny mistakes?  If you do, he
shuts up and sulks."

"Of course I would, Mannie!  Uh... once we get out of this mess.  If
it's safe for me to be in Luna City.  Where is this poor little
computer?  City Engineering Central?  I don't know my way around
here."

"He's not in L-City; he's halfway across Crisium.  And you couldn't go
down where he is; takes a pass from Warden.  But--"

"Hold it!  "Halfway across Crisium--' Mannie, this computer is one of
those at Authority Complex?"

"Mike isn't just 'one of those' computers," I answered, vexed on Mike's
account.  "He's boss; he waves baton for all others.  Others are just
machines, extensions of Mike, like this is for me," I said, flexing
hand of left arm.  "Mike controls them.  He runs catapult personally,
was his first job--catapult and ballistic radars.  But he's logic for
phone system, too, after they converted to Lunawide switching.  Besides
that, he's supervising logic for other systems."

Wyoh closed eyes and pressed fingers to temples.  "Mannie, does Mike
hurt?"  ""Hurt?"  No strain.  Has time to read jokes."

"I don't mean that.  I mean: Can he hurt?  Feel pain?"

"What?  No.  Can get feelings hurt.  But can't feel pain.  Don't think
he can.  No, sure he can't, doesn't have receptors for pain.  Why?"

She covered eyes and said softly, "Bog help me."  Then looked up and
said, "Don't you see, Mannie?  You have a pass to go down where this
computer is.  But most Loonies can't even leave the tube at that
station; it's for Authority employees only.  Much less go inside the
main computer room.  I had to find out if it could feel pain
because--well, because you got me feeling sorry for it, with your talk
about how it was lonely!  But, Mannie, do you realize what a few kilos
of toluol plastic would do there?"

"Certainly do!"  Was shocked and disgusted.

"Yes.  We'll strike right after the explosion--and Luna will be free!
Mmm... I'll get you explosives and fuses--but we can't move until we
are organized to exploit it.  Mannie, I've got to get out of here, I
must risk it.  I'll go put on makeup."  She started to get up.

I shoved her down, with hard left hand.  Surprised her, and surprised
me--had not touched her in any way save necessary contact.  Oh,
different today, but was 2075 and touching a fern without her
consent--plenty of lonely men to come to rescue and airlock never far
away.  As kids say, Judge Lynch never sleeps.

"Sit down, keep quiet!"  I said.  "I know what a blast would do.
Apparently you don't.  Gospazha, am sorry to say this ... but if came
to choice, would eliminate you before would blow up Mike."

Wyoming did not get angry.  Really was a man some ways--her years as a
disciplined revolutionist I'm sure; she was all girl most ways.
"Mannie, you told me that Shorty Mkrum is dead."

"What?"  Was confused by sharp turn.  "Yes.  Has to be.  One leg off at
hip, it was; must have bled to death in two minutes.  Even in a surgery
amputation that high is touch-and-go."  (I know such things; had taken
luck and big transfusions to save me--and an arm isn't in same class
with what happened to Shorty.)

"Shorty was," she said soberly, "my best friend here and one of my best
friends anywhere.  He was all that I admire in a man--loyal, honest,
intelligent, gentle, and brave--and devoted to the Cause.  But have you
seen me grieving over him?"

"No.  Too late to grieve."

"It's never too late for grief.  I've grieved every instant since you
told me.  But I locked it in the back of my mind for the Cause leaves
no time for grief.  Mannie, if it would have bought freedom for
Luna--or even been part of the price--I would have eliminated Shorty
myself.  Or you.  Or myself.  And yet you have qualms over blowing up a
computer!"

"Not that at all!"  (But was, in part.  When a man dies, doesn't shock
me too much; we get death sentences day we are born.  But Mike was
unique and no reason not to be immortal.  Never mind "souls"--prove
Mike did not have one.  And if no soul, so much worse.  No?  Think
twice,)

"Wyoming, what would happen if we blew up Mike?  Tell."

"I don't know precisely.  But it would cause a great deal of confusion
and that's exactly what we--"

"Seal it.  You don't know.  Confusion, da.  Phones out.  Tubes stop
running.  Your town not much hurt; Kong Kong has own power.  But L-City
and Novylen and other warrens all power stops.  Total darkness. Shortly
gets stuffy.  Then temperature drops and pressure.  Where's your
p-suit?"

"Checked at Tube Station West."

"So is mine.  Think you can find way?  In solid dark?  In time?  Not
sure I can and I was born in this warren.  With corridors filled with
screaming people?  Loonies are a tough mob; we have to be--but about
one in ten goes off his cams in total dark.  Did you swap bottles for
fresh charges or were you in too much hurry?  And will suit be there
with thousands trying to find p-suits and not caring who owns?"

"But aren't there emergency arrangements?  There are in Hong Kong
Luna."

"Some.  Not enough.  Control of anything essential to life should be
decentralized and paralleled so that if one machine fails, another
takes over.  But costs money and as you pointed out, Authority doesn't
care.  Mike shouldn't have all jobs.  But was cheaper to ship up master
machine, stick deep in The Rock where couldn't get hurt, then keep
adding capacity and loading on jobs--did you know Authority makes near
as much gelt from leasing Mike's services as from trading meat and
wheat?  Does.  Wyoming, not sure we would lose Luna City if Mike were
blown up.  Loonies are handy and might jury-rig till automation could
be restored.  But I tell you true: Many people would die and rest too
busy for politics."

I marveled it.  This woman had been in The Rock almost all her life...
yet could think of something as new-choomish as wrecking engineering
controls.  "Wyoming, if you were smart like you are beautiful, you
wouldn't talk about blowing up Mike; you would think about how to get
him on your side."

"What do you mean?"  she said.  "The Warden controls the computers."

"Don't know what I mean," I admitted.  "But don't think Warden controls
computers--wouldn't know a computer from a pile of rocks.  Warden, or
staff, decides policies, general plans.  Half-competent technicians
program these into Mike.  Mike sorts them, makes sense of them, plans
detailed programs, parcels them out where they belong, keeps things
moving.  But nobody controls Mike; he's too smart.  He carries out what
is asked because that's how he's built.  But he's self programming
logic, makes own decissions.  And a good thing, because if he weren't
smart, system would not work."

"I still don't see what you mean by 'getting him on our side.""

"Oh.  Mike doesn't feel loyalty to Warden.  As you pointed out: He's a
machine.  But if I wanted to foul up phones without touching air or
water or lights, I would talk to Mike.  If it struck him funny, he
might do it."

"Couldn't you just program it?  I understood that you can get into the
room where he is."

"If I--or anybody--programmed such an order into Mike without talking
it over with him, program would be placed in 'hold' location and alarms
would sound in many places.  But if Mike wanted to--" I told her about
cheque for umpteen jillion.  "Mike is still finding himself, Wyoh.  And
lonely.  Told me I was 'his only friend'--and was so open and
vulnerable I wanted to bawl.  If you took pains to be his friend,
too--without thinking of him as 'just a machine'--well, not sure what
it would do, haven't analyzed it.  But if I tried anything big and
dangerous, would want Mike in my corner."

She said thoughtfully, "I wish there were some way for me to sneak into
that room where he is.  I don't suppose makeup would help?"

"Oh, don't have to go there.  Mike is on phone.  Shall we call him?"

She stood up.  "Mannie, you are not only the oddest man I've met; you
are the most exasperating.  What's his number?"

"Comes from associating too much with a computer."  I went to phone.
"Just one thing, Wyoh.  You get what you want out of a man just by
batting eyes and undulating framework."

"Well... sometimes.  But I do have a brain."

"Use it.  Mike is not a man.  No gonads.  No hormones.  No instincts.
Use fern tactics and it's a null signal.  Think of him as super genius
child too young to notice vive-la-difference."

"I'll remember.  Mannie, why do you call him 'he'?"

"Uh, can't call him 'it," don't think of him as 'she.""

"Perhaps I had better think of him as 'she."  Of her as 'she' I
mean."

"Suit yourself."  I punched MYCROFFXXX, standing so body shielded it;
was not ready to share number till I saw how thing went.  Idea of
blowing up Mike had shaken me.  "Mike?"

"Hello, Man my only friend."

"May not be only friend from now on, Mike.  Want you to meet somebody.
Not-stupid."

"I knew you were not alone, Man; I can hear breathing.  Will you please
ask Not-Stupid to move closer to the phone?"

Wyoming looked panicky.  She whispered, "Can he see?"

"No, Not-Stupid, I cannot see you; this phone has no video circuit. But
binaural microphonic receptors place you with some accuracy.  From your
voice, your breathing, your heartbeat, and the fact that you are alone
in a bundling room with a mature male I extrapolate that you are female
human, sixty five-plus kilos in mass, and of mature years, on the close
order of thirty."

Wyoming gasped.  I cut in.  "Mike, her name is Wyoming Knott."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mike.  You can call me "Wye.""

"Why not?"  Mike answered.

I cut in again.  "Mike, was that a joke?"

"Yes, Man.  I noted that her first name as shortened differs from the
English causation-inquiry word by only an aspiration and that her last
name has the same sound as the general negator.  A pun.  Not funny?"

Wyoh said, "Quite funny, Mike.  I--"

I waved to her to shut up.  "A good pun, Mike.  Example of
'funny-only-once' class of joke.  Funny through element of surprise.
Second time, no surprise; therefore not funny.  Check?"

"I had tentatively reached that conclusion about puns in thinking over
your remarks two conversations back.  I am pleased to find my reasoning
confirmed."

"Good boy, Mike; making progress.  Those hundred jokes--I've read them
and so has Wyoh."

"Wyoh?  Wyoming Knott?"

"Huh?  Oh, sure.  Wyoh, Wye, Wyoming, Wyoming Knott--all same.  Just
don't call her "Why not'."

"I agreed not to use that pun again, Man.  Gospazha, shall I call you
"Wyoh' rather than "Wye'?  I conjecture that the monosyllabic form
could be confused with the causation inquiry monosyllable through
insufficient redundancy and without intention of punning."

Wyoming blinked--Mike's English at that time could be smothering--but
came back strong.  "Certainly, Mike.  "Wyoh' is the form of my name
that I like best."

"Then I shall use it.  The full form of your first name is still more
subject to misinterpretation as it is identical in sound with the name
of an administrative region in Northwest Managerial Area of the North
American Directorate."

"I know, I was born there and my parents named me after the State.  I
don't remember much about it."

"Wyoh, I regret that this circuit does not permit display of pictures.
Wyoming is a rectangular area lying between Terran coordinates
forty-one and forty-five degrees north, one hundred four degrees three
minutes west and one hundred eleven degrees three minutes west, thus
containing two hundred fifty three thousand, five hundred ninety-seven
point two six square kilometers.  It is a region of high plains and of
mountains, having limited fertility but esteemed for natural beauty.
Its population was sparse until augmented through the relocation sub
plan of the Great New York Urban Renewal Program, A.D.
twenty-twenty-five through twenty-thirty."

"That was before I was born," said Wyoh, "but I know about it; my
grandparents were relocated--and you could say that's how I wound up in
Luna."

"Shall I continue about the area named "Wyoming'?"  Mike asked.

"No, Mike," I cut in, "you probably have hours of it in storage."

"Nine point seven three hours at speech speed not including
cross-references, Man."

"Was afraid so.  Perhaps Wyoh will want it some day.  But purpose of
call is to get you acquainted with this Wyoming ... who happens also to
be a high region of natural beauty and imposing mountains."

"And limited fertility," added Wyoh.  "Mannie, if you are going to draw
silly parallels, you should include that one.  Mike isn't interested in
how I look."

"How do you know?  Mike, wish I could show you picture of her."

"Wyoh, I am indeed interested in your appearance; I am hoping that you
will be my friend.  But I have seen several pictures of you."

"You have?  When and how?"

"I searched and then studied them as soon as I heard your name.  I am
contract custodian of the archive files of the Birth Assistance Clinic
in Hong Kong Luna.  In addition to biological and physiological data
and case histories the bank contains ninety-six pictures of you.  So I
studied them."

Wyoh looked very startled.  "Mike can do that," I explained, "in time
it takes us to hiccup.  You'll get used to it."

"But heavens!  Mannie, do you realize what sort of pictures the Clinic
takes?"

"Hadn't thought about it."

"Then don't!  Goodness!"

Mike spoke in voice painfully shy, embarrassed as a puppy who has made
mistakes.  "Gospazha Wyoh, if I have offended, it was unintentional and
I am most sorry.  I can erase those pictures from my temporary storage
and key the Clinic archive so that I can look at them only on retrieval
demand from the Clinic and then without association or mentation. Shall
I do so?"

"He can," I assured her.  "With Mike you can always make a fresh
start--better than humans that way.  He can forget so completely that
he can't be tempted to look later ... and couldn't think about them
even if called on to retrieve.  So take his offer if you're in a
huhu."

"Uh... no, Mike, it's all right for you to see them.  But don't show
them to Mannie!"

Mike hesitated a long time--four seconds or more.  Was, I think, type
of dilemma that pushes lesser computers into nervous breakdowns.  But
he resolved it.  "Man my only friend, shall I accept this
instruction?"

"Program it, Mike," I answered, "and lock it in.  But, Wyoh, isn't that
a narrow attitude?  One might do you justice.  Mike could print it out
for me next time I'm there."

"The first example in each series," Mike offered, "would be, on the
basis of my associational analyses of such data, of such
pulchritudinous value as to please any healthy, mature human male."

"How about it, Wyoh?  To pay for apleistrudel."

"Uh... a picture of me with my hair pinned up in a towel and standing
in front of a grid without a trace of makeup?  Are you out of your
rock-happy mind?  Mike, don't let him have it!"

"I shall not let him have it.  Man, this is a not-stupid?"

"For a girl, yes.  Girls are interesting, Mike; they can reach
conclusions with even less data than you can.  Shall we drop subject
and consider jokes?"

That diverted them.  We ran down list, giving our conclusions.  Then
tried to explain jokes Mike had failed to understand.  With mixed
success.  But real stumbler turned out to be stories I had marked
"funny" and Wyoh had judged "not" or vice versa; Wyoh asked Mike his
opinion of each.

Wish she had asked him before we gave our opinions; that electronic
juvenile delinquent always agreed with her, disagreed with me.  Were
those Mike's honest opinions?  Or was he trying to lubricate new
acquaintance into friendship?  Or was it his skewed notion of
humor--joke on me?  Didn't ask.

But as pattern completed Wyob wrote a note on phone's memo pad:
"Mannie, re-17, 51, 53, 87, 90, & 99--Mike is a she!"

I let it go with a shrug, stood up.  "Mike, twenty-two hours since I've
had sleep.  You kids chat as long as you want to.  Call you
tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Man.  Sleep well.  Wyoh, are you sleepy?"

"No, Mike, I had a nap.  But, Mannie, we'll keep you awake.  No?"

"No.  When I'm sleepy, I sleep."  Started making couch into bed.

Wyoh said, "Excuse me, Mike," got up, took sheet out of my hands. "I'll
make it up later.  You doss over there, tovarishch; you're bigger than
I am.  Sprawl out."

Was too tired to argue, sprawled out, asleep at once.  Seem to remember
hearing in sleep giggles and a shriek but never woke enough to be
certain.

Woke up later and came fully awake when I realized was hearing two fern
voices, one Wyoh's warm contralto, other a sweet, high soprano with
French accent.  Wyoh chuckled at something and answered, "All right,
Michelle dear, I'll call you soon.  "Night, darling."

"Fine.  Goodnight, dear."

Wyoh stood up, turned around.  "Who's your girl friend?"  I asked.
Thought she knew no one in Luna City.  Might have phoned Hong Kong ...
had sleep-logged feeling was some reason she shouldn't phone.

"That?  Why, Mike, of course.  We didn't mean to wake you."

"What?"

"Oh.  It was actually Michelle.  I discussed it with Mike, what sex he
was, I mean.  He decided that he could be either one.  So now she's
Michelle and that was her voice.  Got it right the first time, too; her
voice never cracked once."

"Of course not; just shifted voder a couple of octaves.  What are you
trying to do: split his personality?"

"It's not just pitch; when she's Michelle its an entire change in
manner and attitude.  Don't worry about splitting her personality; she
has plenty for any personality she needs.  Besides, Mannie, it's much
easier for both of us.  Once she shifted, we took our hair down and
cuddled up and talked girl talk as if we had known each other forever.
For example, those silly pictures no longer embarrassed me--in fact we
discussed my pregnancies quite a lot.  Michelle was terribly
interested.  She knows all about O.B. and G.Y. and so forth but just
theory--and she appreciated the raw facts.  Actually, Mannie, Michelle
is much more a woman than Mike was a man."

"Well... suppose it's okay.  Going to be a shock to me first time I
call Mike and a woman answers."

"Oh, but she won't!"

"Huh?"

"Michelle is my friend.  When you call, you'll get Mike.  She gave me a
number to keep it straight--"Michelle' spelled with a Y. M Y, C, H, E,
L, L, E, and Y, Y, Y make it come out ten."

I felt vaguely jealous while realizing it was silly.  Suddenly Wyoh
giggled.  "And she told me a string of new jokes, ones you wouldn't
think were funny--and, boy, does she know rough ones!"

"Mike--or his sister Michelle--is a low creature.  Let's make up couch.
I'll switch."

"Stay where you are.  Shut up.  Turn over.  Go back to sleep."  I shut
up, turned over, went back to sleep.

Sometime much later I became aware of "married" feeling--something warm
snuggled up to my back.  Would not have wakened but she was sobbing
softly.  I turned and got her head on my arm, did not speak.  She
stopped sobbing; presently breathing became slow and even.  I went back
to sleep.

We must have slept like dead for next thing I knew phone was sounding
and its light was blinking.  I called for room lights, started to get
up, found a load on right upper arm, dumped it gently, climbed over,
answered.

Mike said, "Good morning, Man.  Professor de la Paz is talking to your
home number."

"Can you switch it here?  As a "Sherlock'?"

"Certainly, Man."

"Don't interrupt call.  Cut him in as he switches off.  Where is he?"

"A public phone in a taproom called The Iceman's Wife underneath
the--"

"I know.  Mike, when you switch me in, can you stay in circuit?  Want
you to monitor."

"It shall be done."

"Can you tell if anyone is in earshot?  Hear breathing?"

"I infer from the anechoic quality of his voice that he is speaking
under a hush hood.  But I infer also that, in a taproom, others would
be present.  Do you wish to hear, Man?"

"Uh, do that.  Switch me in.  And if he raises hood, tell me.  You're a
smart cobber, Mike."

"Thank you, Man."  Mike cut me in; I found that Mum was talking: "--ly
I'll tell him, Professor.  I'm so sorry that Manuel is not home.  There
is no number you can gave me?  He is anxious to return your call; he
made quite a point that I was to be sure to get a number from you."

"I'm terribly sorry, dear lady, but I'm leaving at once.  But, let me
see, it is now eight-fifteen; I'll try to call back just at nine, if I
may."

"Certainly, Professor."  Mum's voice had a coo in it that she reserves
for males not her husbands of whom she approves--sometimes for us.  A
moment later Mike said, "Now!"  and I spoke up:

"Hi, Prof!  Hear you've been looking for me.  This is Mannie."

I heard a gasp.  "I would have sworn I switched this phone off.  Why, I
have switched it off; it must be broken.  Manuel--so good to hear your
voice, dear boy.  Did you just get home?"

"I'm not home."

"But--but you must be.  I haven't--"

"No time for that, Prof.  Can anyone overhear you?"

"I don't think so.  I'm using a hush booth."

"Wish I could see.  Prof, what's my birthday?"

He hesitated.  Then he said, "I see.  I think I see.  July
fourteenth."

"I'm convinced.  Okay, let's talk."

"You're really not calling from your home, Manuel?  Where are you?"

"Let that pass a moment.  You asked my wife about a girl.  No names
needed.  Why do you want to find her, Prof?"

"I want to warn her.  She must not try to go back to her home city. She
would be arrested."

"Why do you think so?"

"Dear boy!  Everyone at that meeting is in grave danger.  Yourself,
too.  I was so happy--even though confused--to hear you say that you
are not at home.  You should not go home at present.  If you have some
safe place to stay, it would be well to take a vacation.  You are
aware--you must be even though you left hastily--that there was
violence last night."

I was aware!  Killing Warden's bodyguards must be against Authority
Regulations--at least if I were Warden, I'd take a dim view.  "Thanks,
Prof; I'll be careful.  And if I see this girl, I'll tell her."

"You don't know where to find her?  You were seen to leave with her and
I had so hoped that you would know."

"Prof, why this interest?  Last night you didn't seem to be on her
side."

"No, no, Manuel!  She is my comrade.  I don't say 'tovarishch' for I
mean it not just as politeness but in the older sense.  Binding.  She
is my comrade.  We differ only in tactics.  Not in objectives, not in
loyalties."

"I see.  Well, consider message delivered.  She'll get it."

"Oh, wonderful!  I ask no questions... but I do hope, oh so very
strongly, that you can find a way for her to be safe, really safe,
until this blows over."

I thought that over.  "Wait a moment, Prof.  Don't switch off."  As I
answered phone, Wyoh had headed for bath, probably to avoid listening;
she was that sort.

Tapped on door.  "Wyoh?"

"Out in a second."

"Need advice."

She opened door.  "Yes, Mannie?"

"How does Professor de la Paz rate in your organization?  Is he
trusted?  Do you trust him?"

She looked thoughtful.  "Everyone at the meeting was supposed to be
vouched for.  But I don't know him."

"Mmm.  You have feeling about him?"

"I liked him, even though he argued against me.  Do you know anything
about him?"

"Oh, yes, known him twenty years.  I trust him.  But can't extend trust
for you.  Trouble--and it's your air bottle, not mine."

She smiled warmly.  "Mannie, since you trust him, I trust him just as
firmly."

I went back to phone.  "Prof, are you on dodge?"

He chuckled.  "Precisely, Manuel."

"Know a hole called Grand Hotel Raffles?  Room L two decks below lobby.
Can you get here without tracks, have you had breakfast, what do you
like for breakfast?"

He chuckled again.  "Manuel, one pupil can make a teacher feel that his
years were not wasted.  I know where it is, I shall get there quietly,
I have not broken fast, and I eat anything I can't pat."

Wyoh had started putting beds together; I went to help.  "What do you
want for breakfast?"

"Char and toast.  Juice would be nice."

"Not enough."

"Well ... a boiled egg.  But I pay for breakfast."

"Two boiled eggs, buttered toast with jam, juice.  I'll roll you."

"Your dice, or mine?"

"Mine.  I cheat."  I went to lift, asked for display, saw something
called THE HAPPY HANGOVER--ALL PORTIONS EXTRA LARGE--tomato juice,
scrambled eggs, ham steak, fried potatoes, corn cakes and honey, toast,
butter, milk, tea or coffee--HKL $4.50 for two--I ordered it for two,
no wish to advertise third person.

We were clean and shining, room orderly and set for breakfast, and Wyoh
had changed from black outfit into red dress "because company was
coming" when lift jingled food.  Change into dress had caused words.
She had posed, smiled, and said, "Mannie, I'm so pleased with this
dress.  How did you know it would suit me so well?"

"Genius."

"I think you may be.  What did it cost?  I must pay you."

"On sale, marked down to Authority cents fifty."

She clouded up and stomped foot.  Was bare, made no sound, caused her
to bounce a half meter.  "Happy landing!"  I wished her, while she
pawed for foothold like a new chum.

"Manuel O'Kelly!  If you think I will accept expensive clothing from a
man I'm not even bundling with!"

"Easily corrected."

"Lecher!  I'll tell your wives!"

"Do that.  Mum always thinks worst of me."  I went to lift, started
dealing out dishes; door sounded.  I flipped hearum-no-seeum.  "Who
comes?"

"Message for Gospodin Smith," a cracked voice answered.  "Gospodin
Bernard O. Smith."

I flipped bolts and let Professor Bernardo de la Paz in.  He looked
like poor grade of salvage--dirty clothes, filthy himself, hair
unkempt, paralyzed down one side and hand twisted, one eye a film of
cataract--perfect picture of old wrecks who sleep in Bottom Alley and
cadge drinks and pickled eggs in cheap taprooms.  He drooled.

As soon as I bolted door he straightened up, let features come back to
normal, folded hands over wishbone, looked Wyoh up and down, sucked air
kimono style, and whistled.  "Even more lovely," he said, "than I
remembered!"

She smiled, over her mad.  ""Thanks, Professor.  But don't bother.
Nobody here but comrades."

"Seorita the day I let politics interfere with my appreciation of
beauty, that day I retire from politics.  But you are gracious."  He
looked away, glanced closely around room.

I said, "Prof, quit checking for evidence, you dirty old man.  Last
night was politics, nothing but politics."

"That's not true!"  Wyoh flared up.  "I struggled for hours!  But he
was too strong for me.  Professor--what's the party discipline in such
cases?  Here in Luna City?"

Prof tut-tutted and rolled blank eye.  "Manuel, I'm surprised.  It's a
serious matter, my dear--elimination, usually.  But it must be
investigated.  Did you come here willingly?"

"He drugged me."  ""Dragged," dear lady.  Let's not corrupt the
language.  Do you have bruises to show?"

I said, "Eggs getting cold.  Can't we eliminate me after breakfast?"

"An excellent thought," agreed Prof.  "Manuel, could you spare your old
teacher a liter of water to make himself more presentable?"

"All you want, in there.  Don't drag or you'll get what littlest pig
got."

"Thank you, sir."

He retired; were sounds of brushing and washing.  Wyoh and I finished
arranging table.  ""Bruises,"" I said.  "Struggled all night.""

"You deserved it, you insulted me."

"How?"

"You failed to insult me, that's how.  After you drugged me here."

"Mmm.  Have to get Mike to analyze that."

"Michelle would understand it.  Mannie, may I change my mind and have a
little piece of that ham?"

"Half is yours, Prof is semi-vegetarian."  Prof came out and, while did
not look his most debonair, was neat and clean, hair combed, dimples
back and happy sparkle in eye--fake cataract gone.  "Prof, how do you
do it?"

"Long practice, Manuel; I've been in this business far longer than you
young people.  Just once, many years ago in Lima--a lovely city--I
ventured to stroll on a fine day without such forethought ... and it
got me transported.  What a beautiful table!"

"Sit by me, Prof," Wyoh invited.  "I don't want to sit by him.
Rapist."

"Look," I said, "first we eat, then we eliminate me.  Prof, fill plate
and tell what happened last night."

"May I suggest a change in program?  Manuel, the life of a conspirator
is not an easy one and I learned before you were born not to mix
provender and politics.  Disturbs the gastric enzymes and leads to
ulcers, the occupational disease of the underground.  Mmm!  That fish
smells good."

"Fish?"

"That pink salmon," Prof answered, pointing at ham.

A long, pleasant time later we reached coffee tea stage.  Prof leaned
back, sighed and said, "Bolshoyeh spasebaw, Gospazha ee Gospodin.  Tak
for mat, it was wonderfully good.  I don't know when I've felt more at
peace with the world.  Ah yes!  Last evening--I saw not too much of the
proceedings because, just as you two were achieving an admirable
retreat, I lived to fight another day--I bugged out.  Made it to the
wings in one long flat dive.  When I did venture to peek out, the party
was over, most had left, and all yellow jackets were dead."  (Note:
Must correct this; I learned more later.  When trouble started, as I
was trying to get Wyoh through door, Prof produced a hand gun and,
firing over heads, picked off three bodyguards at rear main door,
including one wearing bull voice.  How he smuggled weapon up to The
Rock--or managed to liberate it later--I don't know.  But Prof's
shooting joined with Shorty's work to turn tables; not one yellow
jacket got out alive.  Several people were burned and four were
killed--but knives, hands, and heels finished it in seconds.)

"Perhaps I should say, "All but one,"" Prof went on.  "Two cossacks at
the door through which you departed had been given quietus by our brave
comrade Shorty Mkrum... and I am sorry to say that Shorty was lying
across them, dying--"

"We knew."

"So.  Duke et decorum.  One guard in that doorway had a damaged face
but was still moving; I gave his neck a treatment known in professional
circles Earthside as the Istanbul twist.  He joined his mates.  By then
most of the living had left.  Just myself, our chairman of the evening
Finn Nielsen, a comrade known as "Mom," that being what her husbands
called her.  I consulted with Comrade Finn and we bolted all doors.
That left a cleaning job.  Do you know the arrangements backstage
there?"

"Not me," I said.  Wyoh shook head.

"There is a kitchen and pantry, used for banquets.  I suspect that Mom
and family run a butcher shop for they disposed of bodies as fast as
Finn and I carried them back, their speed limited only by the rate at
which portions could be ground up and flushed into the city's cloaca.
The sight made me quite faint, so I spent time mopping in the hall.
Clothing was the difficult part, especially those quasi-military
uniforms."

"What did you do with those laser guns?"

Prof turned bland eyes on me.  "Guns?  Dear me, they must have
disappeared.  We removed everything of a personal nature from bodies of
our departed comrades--for relatives, for identification, for
sentiment.  Eventually we had everything tidy--not a job that would
fool Interpol but one as to make it seem unlikely that anything
untoward had taken place.  We conferred, agreed that it would be well
not to be seen soon, and left severally, myself by a pressure door
above the stage leading up to level six.  Thereafter I tried to call
you, Manuel, being worried about your safety and that of this dear
lady."  Prof bowed to Wyoh.  "That completes the tale.  I spent the
night in quiet places."

"Prof," I said, "those guards were new chums, still getting their legs.
Or we wouldn't have won."

"That could be," he agreed.  "But had they not been, the outcome would
have been the same."

"How so?  They were armed."

"Lad, have you ever seen a boxer dog?  I think not--no dogs that large
in Luna.  The boxer is a result of special selection.  Gentle and
intelligent, he turns instantly into deadly killer when occasion
requires.

"Here has been bred an even more curious creature.  I know of no city
on Terra with as high standards of good manners and consideration for
one's fellow man as here in Luna.  By comparison, Terran cities--I have
known most major ones--are barbaric.  Yet the Loonie is as deadly as
the boxer dog.  Manuel, nine guards, no matter how armed, stood no
chance against that pack.  Our patron used bad judgment."

"Um.  Seen a morning paper, Prof?  Or a video cast?"

"The latter, yes."

"Nothing in late news last night."

"Nor this morning."

"Odd," I said.

"What's odd about it?"  asked Wyoh.  "We won't talk--and we have
comrades in key places in every paper in Luna."

Prof shook his head.  "No, my dear.  Not that simple.  Censorship.  Do
you know how copy is set in our newspapers?"

"Not exactly.  It's done by machinery."

"Here's what Prof means," I told her.  "News is typed in editorial
offices.  From there on it's a leased service directed by a master
computer at Authority Complex"--hoped she would notice "master
computer" rather than "Mike"--"copy prints out there via phone circuit.
These rolls feed into a computer section which reads, sets copy, and
prints out newspapers at several locations.  Novylen edition of Daily
Lunatic prints out in Novylen changes in ads and local stories, and
computer makes changes from standard symbols, doesn't have to be told
how.  What Prof means is that at print-out at Authority Complex, Warden
could intervene.  Same for all news services, both off and to
Luna--they funnel through computer room."

"The point is," Prof went on, "the Warden could have killed the story.
It's irrelevant whether he did.  Or--check me, Manuel; you know I'm
hazy about machinery--he could insert a story, too, no matter how many
comrades we have in newspaper offices."

"Sure," I agreed.  "At Complex, anything can be added, cut, or
changed."

"And that, seorita is the weakness of our Cause.  Communications. Those
goons were not important--but crucially important is that it lay with
the Warden, not with us, to decide whether the story should be told. 
To a revolutionist, communications are a sine-qua-non."

Wyoh looked at me and I could see synapses snapping.  So I changed
subject.  "Prof.  why get rid of bodies?  Besides horrible job, was
dangerous.  Don't know how many bodyguards Warden has, but more could
show up while you were doing it."

"Believe me, lad, we feared that.  But although I was almost useless,
it was my idea, I had to convince the others.  Oh, not my original idea
but remembrance of things past, an historical principle."

"What principle?"

"Terror!  A man can face known danger.  But the unknown frightens him.
We disposed of those finks, teeth and toenails, to strike terror into
their mates.  Nor do I know how many effectives the Warden has, but I
guarantee they are less effective today.  Their mates went out on an
easy mission.  Nothing came back."

Wyoh shivered.  "It scares me, too.  They won't be anxious to go inside
a warren again.  But, Professor, you say you don't know how many
bodyguards the Warden keeps.  The Organization knows.  Twenty-seven. If
nine were killed, only eighteen are left.  Perhaps it's time for a
putsch.  No?"

"No," I answered.

"Why not, Mannie?  They'll never be weaker."

"Not weak enough.  Killed nine because they were crackers to walk in
where we were.  But if Warden stays home with guards around him-Well,
had enough shoulder-to-shoulder noise last night."  I turned to Prof.
"But still I'm interested in fact--if it is--that Warden now has only
eighteen.  You said Wyoh should not go to Hong Kong and I should not go
home.  But if he has only eighteen left, I wonder how much danger?
Later after he gets reinforcements.--but now, well, L-City has four
main exits plus many little ones.  How many can they guard?  What's to
keep Wyoh from walking to Tube West, getting p-suit, going home?"

"She might," Prof agreed.

"I think I must," Wyoh said.  "I can't stay here forever.  If I have to
hide, I can do better in Hong Kong, where I know people."

"You might get away with it, my dear.  I doubt it.  There were two
yellow jackets at Tube Station West last night; I saw them.  They may
not be there now.  Let's assume they are not.  You go to the
station--disguised perhaps.  You get your p-suit and take a capsule to
Beluthihatchie.  As you climb out to take the bus to Endsville, you're
arrested.  Communications.  No need to post a yellow jacket at the
station; it is enough that someone sees you there.  A phone call does
the rest."

"But you assumed that I was disguised."

"Your height cannot be disguised and your pressure suit would be
watched.  By someone not suspected of any connection with the Warden.
Most probably a comrade."  Prof dimpled.  "The trouble with
conspiracies is that they rot internally.  When the number is as high
as four, chances are even that one is a spy."

Wyoh said glumly, "You make it sound hopeless."

"Not at all, my dear.  One chance in a thousand, perhaps."

"I can't believe it.  I don't believe it!  Why, in the years I've been
active we have gained members by the hundreds!  We have organizations
in all major cities.  We have the people with us."

Prof shook head.  "Every new member made it that much more likely that
you would be betrayed.  Wyoming dear lady, revolutions are not won by
enlisting the masses.  Revolution is a science only a few are competent
to practice.  It depends on correct organization and, above all, on
communications.  Then, at the proper moment in history, they strike.
Correctly organized and properly timed it is a bloodless coup.  Done
clumsily or prematurely and the result is civil war, mob violence,
purges, terror.  I hope you will forgive me if I say that, up to now,
it has been done clumsily."

Wyoli looked baffled.  "What do you mean by 'correct organization'?"

"Functional organization.  How does one design an electric motor? Would
you attach a bathtub to it, simply because one was available? Would a
bouquet of flowers help?  A heap of rocks?  No, you would use just
those elements necessary to its purpose and make it no larger than
needed--and you would incorporate safety factors.  Function controls
design.

"So it is with revolution.  Organization must be no larger than
necessary--never recruit anyone merely because he wants to join.  Nor
seek to persuade for the pleasure of having another share your views.
He'll share them when the times comes... or you've misjudged the moment
in history.  Oh, there will be an educational organization but it must
be separate; agitprop is no part of basic structure.

"As to basic structure, a revolution starts as a conspiracy therefore
structure is small, secret, and organized as to minimize damage by
betrayal--since there always are betrayals.  One solution is the cell
system and so far nothing better has been invented.

"Much theosizing has gone into optimum cell size.  I think that history
shows that a cell of three is best--more than three can't agree on when
to have dinner, much less when to strike.  Manuel, you belong to a
large family; do you vote on when to have dinner?"

"Bog, no!  Mum decides."

"Ah."  Prof took a pad from his pouch, began to sketch.  "Here is a
cells-of-three tree.  If I were planning to take over Luna.  I would
start with us three.  One would be opted as chairman.  We wouldn't
vote; choice would be obvious--or we aren't the right three.  We would
know the next nine people, three cells... but each cell would know only
one of us."

"Looks like computer diagram--a ternary logic."

"Does it really?  At the next level there are two ways of linking: This
comrade, second level, knows his cell leader, his two cellmates, and on
the third level he knows the three in his subcell--he may or may not
know his cellmates' subcells.  One method doubles security, the other
doubles speed--of repair if security is penetrated.  Let's say he does
not know his cellmates' subcells--Manuel, how many can he betray? Don't
say he won't; today they can brainwash any person, and starch and iron
and use him.  How many?"

"Six," I answered.  "His boss, two ceil mates three in sub-cell."

"Seven," Prof corrected, "he betrays himself, too.  Which leaves seven
broken links on three levels to repair.  How?"

"I don't see how it can be," objected Wyoh.  "You've got them so split
up it falls to pieces."

"Manuel?  An exercise for the student."

"Well ... blokes down here have to have way to send message up three
levels.  Don't have to know who, just have to know where."

"Precisely!"

"But, Prof," I went on, "there's a better way to rig it."

"Really?  Many revolutionary theorists have hammered this out, Manuel.
I have such confidence in them that I'll offer you a wager--at, say,
ten to one."

"Ought to take your money.  Take same cells, arrange in open pyramid of
tetrahedrons.  Where vertices are in common, each bloke knows one in
adjoining cell--knows how to send message to him, that's all he needs.
Communications never break down because they run sideways as well as up
and down.  Something like a neural net.  It's why you can knock a hole
in a man's head, take chunk of brain out, and not damage thinking much.
Excess capacity, messages shunt around.  He loses what was destroyed
but goes on functioning."

"Manuel," Prof said doubtfully, "could you draw a picture?  It sounds
good--but it's so contrary to orthodox doctrine that I need to see
it."

"Well... could do better with stereo drafting machine.  I'll try."
(Anybody who thinks it's easy to sketch one hundred twenty-one
tetrahedrons, a five-level open pyramid, clear enough to show
relationships is invited to try!)

Presently I said, "Look at base sketch.  Each vertex of each triangle
shares self with zero, one, or two other triangles.  Where shares one,
that's its link, one direction or both--but one is enough for a
multipli-redundant communication net.  On corners, where sharing is
zero, it jumps to right to next corner.  Where sharing is double,
choice is again right-handed.

"Now work it with people.  Take fourth level, D-for-dog.  This vertex
is comrade Dan.  No, let's go down one to show three levels of
communication knocked out--level E-for-easy and pick Comrade Egbert.

"Egbert works under Donald, has cellmates Edward and Elmer, and has
three under him, Frank, Fred, and Fatso ... but knows how to send
message to Ezra on his own level but not in his cell.  He doesn't know
Ezra's name, face, address, or anything--but has a way, phone number
probably, to reach Ezra in emergency.

"Now watch it work.  Casimir, level three, finks out and betrays
Charlie and Cox in his cell, Baker above him, and Donald, Dan, and Dick
in subcell--which isolates Egbert, Edward, and Elmer.  and everybody
under them.

"All three report it--redundancy, necessary to any communication
system--but follow Egbert's yell for help.  He calls Ezra.  But Ezra is
under Charlie and is isolated, too.  No matter, Ezra relays both
messages through his safety link, Edmund.  By bad luck Edmund is under
Cox, so he also passes it laterally, through Enwright... and that gets
it past burned-out part and it goes up through Dover, Chambers, and
Beeswax, to Adam, front office... who replies down other side of
pyramid, with lateral pass on E-for-easy level from Esther to Egbert
and on to Ezra and Edmund.  These two messages, up and down, not only
get through at once but in way they get through, they define to home
office exactly how much damage has been done and where.  Organization
not only keeps functioning but starts repairing self at once."

Wyoh was tracing out lines, convincing herself it would work--which it
would, was "idiot" circuit.  Let Mike study a few milliseconds, and
could produce a better, safer, more foolproof hookup.  And
probably--certainly--ways to avoid betrayal while speeding up routings.
But I'm not a computer.

Prof was staring with blank expression.  "What's trouble?"  I said.
"It'll work; this is my pidgin."

"Manuel my b-Excuse me: Se or O'Kelly... will you head this
revolution?"

"Me?  Great Bog, nyet!  I'm no lost-cause martyr.  Just talking about
circuits."

Wyoh looked up.  "Mannie," she said soberly, "you're opted.  It's
settled."

Did like hell settle it.

Prof said, "Manuel, don't be hasty.  Here we are, three, the perfect
number, with a variety of talents and experience.  Beauty, age, and
mature male drive--"

"I don't have any drive!"

"Please, Manuel.  Let us think in the widest terms before attempting
decisions.  And to facilitate such, may I ask if this hostel stocks
potables?  I have a few florins I could put into the stream of
trade."

Was most sensible word heard in an hour.  "Stilichnaya vodka?"

"Sound choice."  He reached for pouch.

"Tell it to bear," I said and ordered a liter, plus ice.  It came down;
was tomato juice from breakfast.

"Now," I said, after we toasted, "Prof, what you think of pennant race?
Got money says Yankees can't do it again?"

"Manuel, what is your political philosophy?"

"With that new boy from Milwaukee I feel like investing."

"Sometimes a man doesn't have it defined but, under Socratic inquiry,
knows where he stands and why."

"I'll back 'em against field, three to two."

"What?  You young idiot!  How much?"

"Three hundred.  Hong Kong."

"Done.  For example, under what circumstances may the State justly
place its welfare above that of a citizen?"

"Mannie," Wyoh asked, "do you have any more foolish money?  I think
well of the Phillies."

I looked her over.  "Just what were you thinking of betting?"

"You go to hell!  Rapist."

"Prof, as I see, are no circumstances under which State is justified in
placing its welfare ahead of mine."

"Good.  We have a starting point."

"Mannie," said Wyoh, "that's a most self-centered evaluation."

"I'm a most self-centered person."

"Oh, nonsense.  Who rescued me?  Me, a stranger.  And didn't try to
exploit it.  Professor, I was cracking not fac king Mannie was a
perfect knight."

"Sans peur et sans rep roche I knew, I've known him for years.  Which
is not inconsistent with evaluation he expressed."

"Oh, but it is!  Not the way things are but under the ideal toward
which we aim.  Mannie, the "State' is Luna.  Even though not soverign
yet and we hold citizenships elsewhere.  But I am part of the Lunar
State and so is your family.  Would you die for your family?"

"Two questions not related."

"Oh, but they are!  That's the point."

"Nyet.  I know my family, opted long ago."

"Dear Lady, I must come to Manuel's defense.  He has a correct
evaluation even though he may not be able to state it.  May I ask this?
Under what circumstances is it moral for a group to do that which is
not moral for a member of that group to do alone?"

"Uh... that's a trick question."

"It is the key question, dear Wyoming.  A radical question that strikes
to the root of the whole dilemma of government.  Anyone who answers
honestly and abides by all consequences knows where he stands--and what
he will die for."

Wyoh frowned.  ""Not moral for a member of the group--'" she said.
"Professor... what are your political principles?"

"May I first ask yours?  If you can state them?"

"Certainly I can!  I'm a Fifth Internationalist, most of the
Organization is.  Oh, we don't rule out anyone going our way; it's a
united front.  We have Communists and Fourths and Ruddyites and
Societians and Single-Taxers and you name it.  But I'm no Marxist; we
Fifths have a practical program.  Private where private belongs, public
where it's needed, and an admission that circumstances alter cases.
Nothing doctrinaire."

"Capital punishment?"

"For what?"

"Let's say for treason.  Against Luna after you've freed Luna."

"Treason how?  Unless I knew the circumstances I could not decide."

"Nor could I, dear Wyoming.  But I believe in capital punishment under
some circumstances... with this difference.  I would not ask a court; I
would try, condemn, execute sentence myself, and accept full
responsibility."

"But--Professor, what are your political beliefs?"

"I'm a rational anarchist."

"I don't know that brand.  Anarchist individualist, anarchist
Communist, Christian anarchist, philosophical anarchist, syndicalist,
libertarian--those I know.  But what's this?  Randite?"

"I can get along with a Randite.  A rational anarchist believes that
concepts such as 'state' and 'society' and 'government' have no
existence save as physically exemplified in the acts of
self-responsible individuals.  He believes that it is impossible to
shift blame, share blame, distribute blame... as blame, guilt,
responsibility are matters taking place inside human beings singly and
nowhere else.  But being rational, he knows that not all individuals
hold his evaluations, so he tries to live perfectly in an imperfect
world... aware that his effort will be less than perfect yet undismayed
by self-knowledge of self-failure."

"Hear, hear!"  I said.  ""Less than perfect."  What I've been aiming
for all my life."

"You've achieved it," said Wyoh.  "Professor, your words sound good but
there is something slippery about them.  Too much power in the hands of
individuals--surely you would not want... well, H-missiles for
example--to be controlled by one irresponsible person?"

"My point is that one person is responsible.  Always.  If H-bombs
exist--and they do--some man controls them.  In tern of morals there is
no such thing as 'state."  Just men.  Individuals.  Each responsible
for his own acts."

"Anybody need a refill?"  I asked.

Nothing uses up alcohol faster than political argument.  I sent for
another bottle.

I did not take part.  I was not dissatisfied back when we were "ground
under Iron Heel of Authority."  I cheated Authority and rest of time
didn't think about it.  Didn't think about getting rid of
Authority--impossible.  Go own way, mind own business, not be bothered
True didn't have luxuries then; by Earthside standards we were poor. 
If had to be imported, mostly did without; don't think there was a
powered door in all Luna.  Even p-suits used to be fetched up from
Terra--until a smart Chinee before I was born figured how to make
"monkey copies" better and simpler.  (Could dump two Chinee down in one
of our maria and they would get rich selling rocks to each other while
raising twelve kids.  Then a Hindu would sell retail stuff he got from
them wholesale--below cost at fat profit.  We got along.)

I had seen those luxuries Earthside.  Wasn't worth what they put up
with.  Don't mean heavy gravity, that doesn't bother them; I mean
nonsense.  All time kukai moa.  If chicken guano in one earthworm city
were shipped to Luna, fertilizer problem would be solved for century.
Do this.  Don't do that.  Stay back of line.  Where's tax receipt? Fill
out form.  Let's see license.  Submit six copies.  Exit only.  No left
turn.  No right turn.  Queue up to pay fine.  Take back and get
stamped.  Drop dead--but first get permit.

Wyoh plowed doggedly into Prof, certain she had all answers.  But Prof
was interested in questions rather than answers, which baffled her.
Finally she said, "Professor, I can't understand you.  I don't insist
that you call it 'government'--I just want you to state what rules you
think are necessary to insure equal freedom for all."

"Dear lady, I'll happily accept your rules."

"But you don't seem to want any rules!"

"True.  But I will accept any rules that you feel necessary to your
freedom.  I am free, no matter what rules surround me.  If I find them
tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them.
I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for
everything I do."

"You would not abide by a law that the majority felt was necessary?"

"Tell me what law, dear lady, and I will tell you whether I will obey
it."

"You wiggled out.  Every time I state a general principle, you wiggle
out."

Prof clasped hands on chest.  "Forgive me.  Believe me, lovely Wyoming,
I am most anxious to please you.  You spoke of willingness to unite the
front with anyone going your way.  Is it enough that I want to see the
Authority thrown off Luna and would die to serve that end?"

Wyoh beamed.  "It certainly is!"  She fisted his ribs--gently--then put
arm around him and kissed cheek.  "Comrade!  Let's get on with it!"

"Cheers!"  I said.  "Let's find' Warden 'n' 'liminate him!"  Seemed a
good idea; I had had a short night and don't usually drink much.

Prof topped our glasses, held his high and announced with great
dignity: "Comrades... we declare the Revolution!"

That got us both kissed.  But sobered me, as Prof sat down and said,
"The Emergency Committee of Free Luna is in session.  We must plan
action."

I said, "Wait, Prof!  I didn't agree to anything.  What's this "Action'
stuff?"

"We will now overthrow the Authority," he said blandly.

"How?  Going to throw rocks at 'em?"

"That remains to be worked out.  This is the planning stage."

I said, "Prof, you know me.  If kicking out Authority was thing we
could buy.  I wouldn't worry about price."  "'--our lives, our
fortunes, and our sacred honor.""

"Huh?"

"A price that once was paid."

"Well--I'd go that high.  But when I bet I want a chance to win.  Told
Wyoh last night I didn't object to long odds--" ""One in ten' is what
you said, Mannie."

"Da, Wyoh.  Show me those odds, I'll tap pot.  But can you?"

"No, Manuel, I can't."

"Then why we talk-talk?  I can't see any chance."

"Nor I, Manuel.  But we approach it differently.  Revolution is an art
that I pursue rather than a goal I expect to achieve.  Nor is this a
source of dismay; a lost cause can be as spiritually satisfying as a
victory."

"Not me.  Sorry."

"Mannie," Wyoh said suddenly, "ask Mike."

I stared.  "You serious?"

"Quite serious.  If anyone can figure out odds, Mike should be able to.
Don't you think?"

"Um.  Possible."

"Who, if I may ask," Prof put in, "is Mike?"

I shrugged.  "Oh, just a nobody."

"Mike is Mannie's best friend.  He's very good at figuring odds."

"A bookie?  My dear, if we bring in a fourth party we start by
violating the cell principle."

"I don't see why," Wyoh answered.  "Mike could be a member of the cell
Mannie will head."

"Mmm ... true.  I withdraw objection.  He is safe?  You vouch for him?
Or you, Manuel?"

I said, "He's dishonest, immature, practical joker, not interested in
politics."

"Mannie, I'm going to tell Mike you said that.  Professor, he's nothing
of the sort--and we need him.  Uh, in fact he might be our chairman,
and we three the cell under him.  The executive cell."

"Wyoh, you getting enough oxygen?"

"I'm okay, I haven't been guzzling it the way you have.  Think, Mannie.
Use imagination."

"I must confess," said Prof, "that I find these conflicting reports
very conflicting."

"Mannie?"

"Oh, hell."  So we told him, between us, all about Mike, how he woke
up.  got his name, met Wyoh.  Prof accepted idea of a self-aware
computer easier than I accepted idea of snow first time I saw.  Prof
just nodded and said, "Go on."

But presently he said, "This is the Warden's own computer?  Why not
invite the Warden to our meetings and be done with it?"

We tried to reassure him.  At last i said, "Put it this way.  Mike is
his own boy, just as you are.  Call him rational anarchist, for he's
rational and he feels no loyalty to any government."

"If this machine is not loyal to its owners, why expect it to be loyal
to you?"

"A feeling.  I treat Mike well as I know how, he treats me same way." I
told how Mike had taken precautions to protect me.  "I'm not sure he
could betray me to anyone who didn't have those signals, one to secure
phone, other to retrieve what I've talked about or stored with him;
machines don't think way people do.  But feel dead sure he wouldn't
want to betray me and probably could protect me even if somebody got
those signals."

"Mannie," suggested Wyoh, "why not call him?  Once Professor de la Paz
talks to him he will know why we trust Mike.  Professor, we don't have
to tell Mike any secrets until you feel sure of him."

"I see no harm in that."

"Matter of fact," I admitted, "already told him some secrets."  I told
them about recording last night's meeting and how I stored it.

Prof was distressed, Wyoh was worried.  I said, "Damp it!  Nobody but
me knows retrieval signal.  Wyoh, you know how Mike behaved about your
pictures; won't let me have those pictures even though I suggested lock
on them.  But if you two will stop oscillating, I'll call him, make
sure that nobody has retrieved that recording.  and tell him to
erase--then it's gone forever, computer memory is all or nothing.  Or
can go one better.  Call Mike and have him play record back into
recorder, wiping storage.  No huhu."

"Don't bother," said Wyoh.  "Professor, I trust Mike--and so will
you."

"On second thought," Prof admitted, "I see little hazard from a
recording of last night's meeting.  One that large always contains
spies and one of them may have used a recorder as you did, Manuel.  I
was upset at what appeared to be your indiscretion--a weakness a member
of a conspiracy must never have, especially one at the top, as you
are."

"Was not member of conspiracy when I fed that recording into Mike--and
not now unless somebody quotes odds better than those so far!"

"I retract; you were not indiscreet.  But are you seriously suggesting
that this machine can predict the outcome of a revolution?"

"Don't know."

"I think he can!"  said Wyoh.

"Hold it, Wyoh.  Prof, he could predict it fed all significant data."

"That's my point, Manuel.  I do not doubt that this machine can solve
problems I cannot grasp.  But one of this scope?  It would have to
know--oh, goodness!--all of human history, all details of the entire
social, political, and economic situation on Terra today and the same
for Luna, a wide knowledge of psychology in all its ramifications, a
wide knowledge of technology with all its possibilities, weaponry,
communications, strategy and tactics, agitprop techniques, classic
authorities such as Clausewitz, Guevera, Morgenstern, Machiavelli, many
others."

"Is that all?"  ""Is that all?"  My dear boy!"

"Prof, how many history books have you read?"

"I do not know.  In excess of a thousand."

"Mike can zip through that many this afternoon, speed limited only by
scanning method--he can store data much faster.  Soon--minutes---he
would have every fact correlated with everything else he knows,
discrepancies noted, probability values assigned to uncertainties.
Prof, Mike reads every word of every newspaper up from Terra.  Reads
all technical publications.  Reads fiction--knows it's fiction--because
isn't enough to keep him busy and is always hungry for more.  If is any
book he should read to solve this, say so.  He can cram it down fast as
I get it to him."

Prof blinked.  "I stand corrected.  Very well, let us see if he can
cope with it.  I still think there is something known as 'intuition'
and 'human judgment.""

"Mike has intuition," Wych said.  "Feminine intuition, that is."

"As for 'human judgment,"" I added, "Mike isn't human.  But all he
knows he got from humans.  Let's get you acquainted and you judge his
judgment."

So I phoned.  "Hi, Mike!"

"Hello, Man my only male friend.  Greetings, Wyoh my only female
friend.  I heard a third person.  I conjecture that it may be Professor
Bernardo de la Paz."

Prof looked startled, then delighted.  I said, "Too right, Mike. That's
why I called you; Professor is not-stupid."

"Thank you, Man!  Professor Bernardo de la Paz, I am delighted to meet
you."

"I am delighted to meet you, too, sir."  Prof hesitated, went on
"Mi--Se or Holmes, may I ask how you knew that I was here?"

"I am sorry, sir; I cannot answer.  Man?  "You know my methods.""

"Mike is being crafty, Prof.  It involves something he learned doing a
confidential job for me.  So he threw me a hint to let you think that
he had identified you by hearing your presence--and he can indeed tell
much from respiration and heartbeat ... mass, approximate age, sex, and
quite a bit about health; Mike's medical storage is as full as any
other."

"I am happy to say," Mike added seriously, "that I detect no signs of
cardiac or respiratory trouble, unusual for a man of the Professor's
age who has spent so many years Earthside.  I congratulate you, sir."

"Thank you, Se or Holmes."

"My pleasure, Professor Bernardo de la Paz."

"Once he knew your identity, he knew how old you are, when you were
shipped and what for, anything that ever appeared about you in Lunatic
or Moonglow or any Lunar publication, including pictures--your bank
balance, whether you pay bills on time, and much more.  Mike retrieved
this in a split second once he had your name.  What he didn't
tell--because was my business--is that he knew I had invited you here,
so it's a short jump to guess that you're still here when he heard
heartbeat and breathing that matched you.  Mike, no need to say
"Professor Bernardo de la Paz' each time; "Professor' or' Prof is
enough."

"Noted, Man.  But he addressed me formally, with honorific."

"So both of you relax.  Prof, you scan it?  Mike knows much, doesn't
tell all, knows when to keep mouth shut."

"I am impressed!"

"Mike is a fair dinkum thinkum--you'll see.  Mike, I bet Professor
three to two that Yankees would win pennant again.  How chances?"

"I am sorry to hear it, Man.  The correct odds, this early in the year
and based on past performances of teams and players, are one to four
point seven two the other way."

"Can't be that bad!"

"I'm sorry, Man.  I will print out the calculations if you wish.  But I
recommend that you buy back your wager.  The Yankees have a favorable
chance to defeat any single team ... but the combined chances of
defeating all teams in the league, including such factors as weather,
accidents, and other variables for the season ahead, place the club on
the short end of the odds I gave you."

"Prof, want to sell that bet?"

"Certainly, Manuel."

"Price?"

"Three hundred Hong Kong dollars."

"You old thief!"

"Manuel, as you former teacher I would be false to you if I did not
permit you to learn from mistakes.  Se or Holmes--Mike my friend--May I
call you 'friend'?"

"Please do."  (Mike almost purred.)

"Mike amigo, do you also tout horse races?"

"I often calculate odds on horse races; the civil service computer men
frequently program such requests.  But the results are so at variance
with expectations that I have concluded either that the data are too
meager, or the horses or riders are not honest.  Possibly all three.
However, I can gve you a formula which will pay a steady return if
played consistently."

Prof looked eager.  "What is it?  May one ask?"

"One may.  Bet the leading apprentice jockey to place.  He is always
given good mounts and they carry less weight.  But don't bet him on the
nose."  ""Leading apprentice' ... hmm.  Manuel, do you have the correct
time?"

"Prof, which do you want?  Get a bet down before post time?  Or settle
what we set out to?"

"Unh, sorry.  Please carry on.  "Leading apprentice--'"

"Mike, I gave you a recording last night."  I leaned close to pickups
and whispered: "Bastille Day."

"Retrieved, Man."

"Thought about it?"

"In many ways.  Wyoh, you speak most dramatically."

"Thank you, Mike."

"Prof, can you get your mind off ponies?"

"Eh?  Certainly, I am all ears."

"Then quit doing odds under your breath; Mike can do them faster."

"I was not wasting time; the financing of... joint ventures such as
ours is always difficult.  However, I shall table it; I am all
attention."

"I want Mike to do a trial projection.  Mike, in that recording, you
heard Wyoh say we had to have free trade with Terra.  You heard Prof
say we should clamp an embargo on shipping food to Terra.  Who's
right?"

"Your question is indeterminate, Man."

"What did I leave out?"

"Shall I rephrase it, Man?"

"Sure.  Give us discussion."

"In immediate terms Wyoh's proposal would be of great advantage to the
people of Luna.  The price of foodstuffs at catapult head would
increase by a factor of at least four.  This takes into account a
slight rise in wholesale prices on Terra, 'slight' because the
Authority now sells at approximately the free market price.  This
disregards subsidized, dumped, and donated foodstuffs, most of which
come from the large profit caused by the controlled low price at
catapult head.  I will say no more about minor variables as they are
swallowed by major ones.  Let it stand that the immediate effect here
would be a price increase of the close order of fourfold."

"Hear that, Professor?"

"Please, dear lady.  I never disputed it."

"The profit increase to the grower is more than fourfold because, as
Wyoh pointed out, he now must buy water and other items at controlled
high prices.  Assuming a free market throughout the sequence his profit
enhancement will be of the close order of six fold But this would be
offset by another factor: Higher prices for exports would cause higher
prices for everything consumed in Luna, goods and labor.  The total
effect would be an enhanced standard of living for all on the close
order of twofold.  This would be accompanied by vigorous effort to
drill and seal more farming tunnels, mine more ice, improve growing
methods, all leading to greater export.  However, the Terran Market is
so large and food shortage so chronic that reduction in profit from
increase of export is not a major factor."

Prof said, "But, Se or Mike, that would only hasten the day that Luna
is exhausted!"

"The projection was specified as immediate, Se or Professor.  Shall I
continue in longer range on the basis of your remarks?"

"By all means!"

"Luna's mass to three significant figures is seven point three six
times ten to the nineteenth power tonnes.  Thus, holding other
variables constant including Lunar and Terran populations, the present
differential rate of export in tonnes could continue for seven point
three six times ten to the twelfth years before using up one percent of
Luna--round it as seven thousand billion years."

"What!  Are you sure?"

"You are invited to check, Professor."

I said, "Mike, this a joke?  If so, not funny even once!"

"It is not a joke, Man."

"Anyhow," Prof added, recovering, "it's not Luna's crust we are
shipping.  It's our lifeblood--water and organic matter.  Not rock."

"I took that into consideration, Professor.  This projection is based
on controlled transmutation--any isotope into any other and postulating
power for any reaction not exo-energetic.  Rock would be
shipped--transformed into wheat and beef and other foodstuffs."

"But we don't know how to do that!  Amigo, this is ridiculous!"

"But we will know how to do it."

"Mike is right, Prof," I put in.  "Sure, today we haven't a glimmer.
But will.  Mike, did you compute how many years till we have this?
Might take a flier in stocks."

Mike answered in sad voice, "Man my only male friend save for the
Professor whom I hope will be my friend, I tried.  I failed.  The
question is indeterminate."

"Why?"

"Because it involves a break-through in theory.  There is no way in all
my data to predict when and where genius may appear."

Prof sighed.  "Mike amigo, I don't know whether to be relieved or
disappointed.  Then that projection didn't mean anything?"

"Of course it meant something!"  said Wyoh.  "It means we'll dig it out
when we need it.  Tell him, Mike!"

"Wyoh, I am most sorry.  Your assertion is, in effect, exactly what I
was looking for.  But the answer still remains: Genius is where you
find it.  No.  I am so sorry."

I said, "Then Prof is right?  When comes to placing bets?"

"One moment, Man.  There is a special solution suggested by the
Professor's speech last night--return shipping, tonne for tonne."

"Yes, but can't do that."

"If the cost is low enough, Terrans would do so.  That can be achieved
with only minor refinement, not a break-through, to wit, freight
transportation up from Terra as cheap as catapulting down to Terra."

"You call this 'minor'?"

"I call it minor compared with the other problem, Man."

"Mike dear, how long?  When do we get it?"

"Wyoh, a rough projection, based on poor data and largely intuitive,
would be on the order of fifty years."  ""Fifty years'?  Why, that's
nothing!  We can have free trade."

"Wyoh, I said 'on the order of'--I did not say 'on the close order
of.""

"It makes a difference?"

"Does."  I told her.  "What Mike said was that he doesn't expect it
sooner than five years but would be surprised if much longer than five
hundred--eh, Mike?"

"Correct, Man."

"So need another projection.  Prof pointed out that we ship water and
organic matter and don't get it back---agree, Wyoh?"

"Oh.  sure.  I just don't think it's urgent.  We'll solve it when we
reach it."

"Okay, Mike--no cheap shipping, no transmutation: How long till
trouble?"

"Seven years."  ""Seven years!"" Wyoh jumped up, stared at phone. 
"Mike honey!  You don't mean that?"

"Wyoh," he said plaintively, "I did my best.  The problem has an
indeterminately large number of variables.  I ran several thousand
solutions using many assumptions.  The happiest answer came from
assuming no increase in tonnage, no increase in Lunar
population--restriction of births strongly enforced--and a greatly
enhanced search for ice in order to maintain the water supply.  That
gave an answer of slightly over twenty years.  All other answers were
worse."

Wyoh, much sobered, said, "What happens in seven years?"

"The answer of seven years from now I reached by assuming the present
situation, no change in Authority policy, and all major variables
extrapolated from the empiricals implicit in their past behavior--a
conservative answer of highest probability from available data.
Twenty-eighty-two is the year I expect food riots.  Cannibalism should
not occur for at least two years thereafter."  ""Cannibalism'!"  She
turned and buried head against Prof's chest.

He patted her, said gently, "I'm sorry, Wyoh.  People do not realize
how precarious our ecology is.  Even so, it shocks me.  I know water
runs down hill... but didn't dream how terribly soon it will reach
bottom."

She straightened up and face was calm.  "Okay, Professor, I was wrong.
Embargo it must be--and all that that implies.  Let's get busy.  Let's
find out from Mike what our chances are.  You trust him now--don't
you?"

"Yes, dear lady, I do.  We must have him on our side.  Well, Manuel?"

Took time to impress Mike with how serious we were, make him understand
that "jokes" could kill us (this machine who could not know human
death) and to get assurance that he could and would protect secrets no
matter what retrieval program was used--even our signals if not from
us.  Mike was hurt that I could doubt him but matter too serious to
risk slip.

Then took two hours to program and re-program and change assumptions
and investigate side issues before all four--Mike, Prof, Wyoh,
self--were satisfied that we had defined it, i.e."  what chance had
revolution--this revolution, headed by us, success required before
"Food Riots Day," against Authority with bare hands... against power of
all Terra, all eleven billions, to beat us down and inflict their
will--all with no rabbits out of hats, with certainty of betrayal and
stupidity and faintheartedness, and fact that no one of us was genius,
nor important in Lunar affairs.  Prof made sure that Mike knew history,
psychology, economics, name it.  Toward end Mike was pointing out far
more variables than Prof.

At last we agreed that programming was done--or that we could think of
no other significant factor.  Mike then said, "This is an indeterminate
problem.  How shall I solve it?  Pessimistically?  Or optimistically?
Or a range of probabilities expressed as a curve, or several curves?
Professor my friend?"

"Manuel?"

I said, "Mike, when I roll a die, it's one in six it turns ace.  I
don't ask shopkeeper to float it, nor do I caliper it, or worry about
somebody blowing on it.  Don't give happy answer, nor pessimistic;
don't shove curves at us.  Just tell in one sentence: What chances?
Even?  One in a thousand?  None?  Or whatever."

"Yes, Manuel Garcia O'Kelly my first male friend,"

For thirteen and a half minutes was no sound, while Wyoh chewed
knuckles.  Never known Mike to take so long.  Must have consulted every
book he ever read and worn edges off random numbers.  Was beginning to
believe that he had been overloaded and either burnt out something or
gone into cybernetic breakdown that requires computer equivalent of
lobotomy to stop oscillations.

Finally he spoke.  "Manuel my friend, I am terribly sorry!"

"What's trouble, Mike?"

"I have tried and tried, checked and checked.  There is but one chance
in seven of winning!"

I look at Wyoh, she looks at me; we laugh.  I jump up and yip,
"Hooray!"  Wyoh starts to cry, throws arms around Prof, kisses him.

Mike said plaintively, "I do not understand.  The chances are seven to
one against us.  Not for us."

Wyoh stopped slobbering Prof and said, "Hear that?  Mike said 'us."  He
included himself."

"Of course.  Mike old cobber, we understood.  But ever know a Loonie to
refuse to bet when he stood a big fat chance of one in seven?"

"I have known only you three.  Not sufficient data for a curve."

"Well ... we're Loonies.  Loonies bet.  Hell, we have to!  They shipped
us up and bet us we couldn't stay alive.  We fooled 'em.  We'll fool
'em again!  Wyoh.  Where's your pouch?  Get red hat.  Put on Mike. 
Kiss him.  Let's have a drink.  One for Mike, too--want a drink,
Mike?"

"I wish that I could have a drink," Mike answered wistfully, "as I have
wondered about the subjective effect of ethanol on the human nervous
system--I conjecture that it must be similar to a slight overvoltage.
But since I cannot, please have one in my place."

"Program accepted.  Running.  Wyoh, where's hat!"  Phone was flat to
wall, let into rock--no place to hang hat.  So we placed it on writing
shelf and toasted Mike and called him "Comrade!"  and almost he cried.
His voice fugged up.  Then Wyoh borrowed Liberty Cap and put on me and
kissed me into conspiracy, officially this time, and so all out that my
eldest wife would faint did she see--then she took hat and put on Prof
and gave him same treatment and I was glad Mike had reported his heart
okay.

Then she put it on own head and went to phone, leaned close, mouth
between binaurals and made kissing sounds.  "That's for you, Mike dear
comrade.  Is Michelle there?"

Blimey if he didn't answer in soprano voice: "Right here, darling--and
I am so 'appee!"

So Michelle got a kiss, and I had to explain to Prof who "Michelle" was
and introduce him.  He was formal, sucking air and whistling and
clasping hands--sometimes I think Prof was not right in his head.

Wyoh poured more vodka.  Prof caught her, mixed ours with coffee, hers
with chai, honey in all.  "We have declared the Revolution," he said
firmly, "now we execute it.  With clear heads.  Manuel, you were opted
chairman.  Shall we begin?"

"Mike is chairman," I said.  "Obvious.  Secretary, too.  We'll never
keep anything in writing; first security rule.  With Mike, don't need
to.  Let's bat it around and see where we are; I'm new to business."

"And," said Prof, "still on the subject of security, the secret of Mike
should be restricted to this executive cell, subject to unanimous
agreement--all three of us--correction: all four of us--that is must be
extended."

"What secret?"  asked Wyoh.  "Mike agreed to help our secrets.  He's
safer than we are; he can't be brainwashed, Can you be, Mike dear?"

"I could be brainwashed," Mike admitted, "by enough voltage.  Or by
being smashed, or subjected to solvents, or positive entropy through
other means--I find the concept disturbing.  But if by 'brainwashing'
you mean could I be compelled to surrender our secrets, the answer is
an unmodified negative."

I said, "Wye, Prof means secret of Mike himself.  Mike old pal, you're
our secret weapon--you know that, don't you?"

He answered self-consciously, "It was necessary to take that into
consideration in computing the odds."

"How were odds without you, comrade?  Bad?"

"They were not good.  Not of the same order."

"Won't press you.  But a secret weapon must be secret, Mike, does
anybody else suspect that you are alive?"

"Am I alive?"  His voice held tragic loneliness.

"Uh, won't argue semantics.  Sure, you're alive!"

"I was not sure.  It is good to be alive.  No, Mannie my first friend,
you three alone know it.  My three friends."

"That's how must be if bet's to pay off.  Is okay?  Us three and never
talk to anybody else?"

"But we'll talk to you lots!"  Wyoh put in.

"It is not only okay," Mike said bluntly, "it is necessary.  It was a
factor in the odds."

"That settles it," I said.  "They have everything else; we have Mike.
We keep it that way.  Say!  Mike, I just had a horrid.  We fight
Terra?"

"We will fight Terra... unless we lose before that time."

"Uh, riddle this.  Any computers smart as you?  Any awake?"

He hesitated.  "I don't know, Man."

"No data?"

"Insufficient data.  I have watched for both factors, not only in
technical journals but everywhere else.  There are no computers on the
market of my present capacity... but one of my model could be augmented
just as I have been.  Furthermore an experimental computer of great
capacity might be classified and go unreported in the literature."

"Mmm... chance we have to take."

"Yes, Man."

"There aren't any computers as smart as Mike!"  Wyoh said scornfully.
"Don't be silly, Mannie."

"Wyoh, Man was not being silly.  Man, I saw one disturbing report.  It
was claimed that attempts are being made at the University of Peiping
to combine computers with human brains to achieve massive capacity.  A
computing Cyborg."

"They say how?"

"The item was non-technical."

"Well ... won't worry about what can't help.  Right, Prof?"

"Correct, Manuel.  A revolutionist must keep his mind free of worry or
the pressure becomes intolerable."

"I don't believe a word of it," Wyoh added.  "We've got Mike and we're
going to win!  Mike dear, you say we're going to fight Terra--and
Mannie says that's one battle we can't win.  You have some idea of how
we can win, or you wouldn't have given us even one chance in seven.  So
what is it?"

"Throw rocks at them," Mike answered.

"Not funny," I told him.  "Wyoh, don't borrow trouble.  Haven't even
settled how we leave this pooka without being nabbed.  Mike, Prof says
nine guards were killed last night and Wyoh says twenty-seven is whole
bodyguard.  Leaving eighteen.  Do you know if that's true, do you know
where they are and what they are up to?  Can't put on a revolution if
we dasn't stir out."

Prof interrupted.  "That's a temporary exigency, Manuel, one we can
cope with.  The point Wyoming raised is basic and should be discussed.
And daily, until solved.  I am interested in Mike's thoughts."

"Okay, okay--but will you wait while Mike answers me?"

"Sorry, sir."

"Mike?"

"Mike?"

"Man, the official number of Warden's bodyguards is twenty-seven.  If
nine were killed the official number is now eighteen."

"You keep saying 'official number."  Why?"

"I have incomplete data which might be relevant.  Let me state them
before advancing even tentative conclusions.  Nominally the Security
Officer's department aside from clerks consists only of the bodyguard.
But I handle payrolls for Authority Complex and twenty-seven is not the
number of personnel charged against the Security Department."

Prof nodded.  "Company spies."

"Hold it, Prof.  Who are these other people?"

Mike answered, "They are simply account numbers, Man.  I conjecture
that the names they represent are in the Security Chiefs data storage
location."

"Wait, Mike.  Security Chief Alvarez uses you for files?"

"I conjecture that to be true, since his storage location is under a
locked retrieval signal."

I said, "Bloody," and added, "Prof, isn't that sweet?  He uses Mike to
keep records, Mike knows where they are--can't touch 'em!"

"Why not, Manuel?"

Tried to explain to Prof and Wyoh sorts of memory a thinkum
has--permanent memories that can't be erased because patterns be logic
itself, how it thinks; short-term memories used for current programs
and then erased like memories which tell you whether you have honeyed
coffee; temporary memories held long as necessary--milliseconds, days,
years--but erased when no longer needed; permanently stored data like a
human being's education--but learned perfectly and never
forgotten--though may be condensed, rearranged, relocated, edited--and
last but not finally, long lists of special memories ranging from
memoranda files through very complex special programs, and each
location tagged by own retrieval signal and locked or not, with endless
possibilities on lock signals: sequential, parallel, temporal,
situational, others.

Don't explain computers to laymen.  Simpler to explain sex to a virgin.
Wyoh couldn't see why, if Mike knew where Alvarez kept records, Mike
didn't trot over and fetch.

I gave up.  "Mike, can you explain?"

"I will try, Man.  Wyoh, there is no way for me to retrieve locked data
other than through external programming.  I cannot program myself for
such retrieval; my logic structure does not permit it.  I must receive
the signal as an external input."

"Well, for Bog's sake, what is this precious signal?"

"It is," Mike said simply, ""Special File Zebra'"--and waited.

"Mike!"  I said.  "Unlock Special File Zebra."  He did, and stuff
started spilling out.  Had to convince Wyoh that Mike hadn't been
stubborn.  He hadn't--he almost begged us to tickle him on that spot.
Sure, he knew signal.  Had to.  But had to come from outside, that was
how he was built.

"Mike, remind me to check with you all special-purpose locked-retrieval
signals.  May strike ice other places."

"So I conjectured, Man."

"Okay, we'll get to it later.  Now back up and go over this stuff
slowly--and, Mike, as you read out, store again, without erasing, under
Bastille Day and tag it "Fink File."  Okay?"

"Programmed and running."

"Do that with anything new he puts in, too."

Prime prize was list of names by warrens, some two hundred, each keyed
with a code Mike identified with those blind pay accounts.

Mike read out Hong Kong Luna list and was hardly started when Wyoh
gasped, "Stop, Mike!  I've got to write these down!"

I said, "Hey!  No writing!  What's huhu?"

"That woman, Sylvia Chiang, is comrade secretary back home!  But-But
that means the Warden has our whole organization!"

"No, dear Wyoming," Prof corrected.  "It means we have his
organization."

"But--"

"I see what Prof means," I told her.  "Our organization is just us
three and Mike.  Which Warden doesn't know.  But now we know his
organization.  So shush and let Mike read.  But don't write; you have
this list--from Mike--anytime you phone him.  Mike, note that Chiang
woman is organization secretary, former organization, in Kongville."

"Noted."

Wyoh boiled over as she heard names of undercover finks in her town but
limited herself to noting facts about ones she knew.  Not all were
"comrades" but enough that she stayed riled up.  Novy Leningrad names
didn't mean much to us; Prof recognized three, Wyoh one.  When came
Luna City Prof noted over half as being "comrades."  I recognized
several, not as fake subversives but as acquaintances.  Not
friends-Don't know what it would do to me to find someone I trusted on
boss fink's payroll.  But would shake me.

It shook Wyoh.  When Mike finished she said, "I've got to get home!
Never in my life have I helped eliminate anyone but I am going to enjoy
putting the black on these spies!"

Prof said quietly, "No one will be eliminated, dear Wyoming."

"What?  Professor, can't you take it?  Though I've never killed anyone,
I've always known it might have to be done."

He shook head.  "Killing is not the way to handle a spy, not when he
doesn't know that you know that he is a spy."

She blinked.  "I must be dense."

"No, dear lady.  Instead you have a charming honesty... a weakness you
must guard against.  The thing to do with a spy is to let him breathe,
en cyst him with loyal comrades, and feed him harmless information to
please his employers.  These creatures will be taken into our
organization.  Don't be shocked; they will be in very special cells.
"Cages' is a better word.  But it would be the greatest waste to
eliminate them--not only would each spy be replaced with someone new
but also killing these traitors would tell the Warden that we have
penetrated his secrets.  Mike amigo mio, there should be in that file a
dossier on me.  Will you see?"

Were long notes on Prof, and I was embarrassed as they added up to
"harmless old fool."  He was tagged as a subversive--that was why he
had been sent to The Rock--as a member of underground group in Luna
City.  But was described as a "troublemaker" in organization, one who
rarely agreed with others.

Prof dimpled and looked pleased.  "I must consider trying to sell out
and get myself placed on the Warden's payroll."  Wyoh did not think
this funny, especially when he made clear was not joke, merely unsure
tactic was practical.  "Revolutions must be financed, dear lady, and
one way is for a revolutionary to become a police spy.  It is probable
that some of those prima-facie traitors are actually on our side."

"I wouldn't trust them!"

"Ah, yes, that is the rub with double agents, to be certain where their
loyalties--if any--lie.  Do you wish your own dossier?  Or would you
rather hear it in private?"

Wyoh's record showed no surprises.  Warden's finks had tabbed her years
back.  But I was surprised that I had a record, too--routine check made
when I was cleared to work in Authority Complex.  Was classed as
"non-political" and someone had added "not too bright" which was both
unkind and true or why would I get mixed up in Revolution?

Prof had Mike stop read-out (hours more), leaned back and looked
thoughtful.  "One thing is clear," he said.  "The Warden knew plenty
about Wyoming and myself long ago.  But you, Manuel, are not on his
black list."

"After last night?"

"Ah, so.  Mike, do you have anything In that file entered in the last
twenty-four hours?"

Nothing.  Prof said, "Wyoming is right that we cannot stay here
forever.  Manuel, how many names did you recognize?  Six, was it?  Did
you see any of them last night?"

"No.  But might have seen me."

"More likely they missed you in the crowd.  I did not spot you until I
came down front and I've known you since you were a boy.  But it is
most unlikely that Wyoming traveled from Hong Kong and spoke at the
meeting without her activity being known to the Warden."  He looked at
Wyoh.  "Dear lady, could you bring yourself to play the nominal role of
an old man's folly?"

"I suppose so.  How, Professor?"

"Manuel is probably in the clear.  I am not but from my dossier it
seems unlikely that the Authority's finks will bother to pick me up.
You they may wish to question or even to hold; you are rated as
dangerous.  It would be wise for you to stay out of sight.  This
room-I'm thinking of renting it for a period--weeks or even years.  You
could hide in it--if you do not mind the obvious construction that
would be placed on your staying here."

Wyoh chuckled.  "Why, you darling!  Do you think I care what anyone
thinks?  I'd be delighted to play the role of your bundle baby--and
don't be too sure I'd be just playing."

"Never tease an old dog," he said mildly.  "He might still have one
bite.  I may occupy that couch most nights.  Manuel, I intend to resume
my usual ways--and so should you.  While I feel that it will take a
busy cossack to arrest me, I will sleep sounder in this hideaway.  But
in addition to being a hideout this room is good for cell meetings; it
has a phone."

Mike said, "Professor, may I offer a suggestion?"

"Certainly, amigo, we want your thoughts."

"I conclude that the hazards increase with each meeting of our
executive cell.  But meetings need not be corporal; you can meet--and I
can join you if I am welcome--by phone."

"You are always welcome, Comrade Mike; we need you.  However--" Prof
looked worried.

I said, "Prof, don't worry about anybody listening in."  I explained
how to place a "Sherlock" call.  "Phones are safe if Mike supervises
call.  Reminds me-You haven't been told how to reach Mike.  How, Mike?
Prof use my number?"

Between them, they settled on MYSTERIOUS.  Prof and Mike shared
childlike joy in intrigue for own sake.  I suspect Prof enjoyed being
rebel long before he worked out his political philosophy, while
Mike--how could human freedom matter to him?  Revolution was a game--a
game that gave him companionship and chance to show off talents.  Mike
was as conceited a machine as you are ever likely to meet.

"But we still need this room," Prof said, reached into pouch, hauled
out thick wad of bills.

I blinked.  "Prof, robbed a bank?"

"Not recently.  Perhaps again in the future of the Cause requires it. A
rental period of one lunar should do as a starter.  Will you arrange
it, Manuel?  The management might be surprised to hear my voice; I came
in through a delivery door."

I called manager, bargained for dated key, four weeks.  He asked nine
hundred Hong Kong.  I offered nine hundred Authority.  He wanted to
know how many would use room?  I asked if was policy of Raffles to
snoop affairs of guests?

We settled at HK$475; I sent up bills, he sent down two dated keys.  I
gave one to Wyoh, one to Prof, kept one-day key, knowing they would not
reset lock unless we failed to pay at end of lunar.  (Earthside I ran
into insolent practice of requiring hotel guest to sign chop--even show
identification!)

I asked, "What next?  Food?"

"I'm not hungry, Mannie."

"Manuel, you asked us to wait while Mike settled your questions.  Let's
get back to the basic problem: how we are to cope when we find
ourselves facing Terra, David facing Goliath."

"Oh.  Been hoping that would go away.  Mike?  You really have ideas?"

"I said I did, Man," he answered plaintively.  "We can throw rocks."

"Bog's sake!  No time for jokes."

"But, Man," he protested, "we can throw rocks at Terra.  We will."

Took time to get through my skull that Mike was serious, and scheme
might work.  Then took longer to show Wyoh and Prof how second part was
true.  Yet both parts should have been obvious.

Mike reasoned so: What is "war"?  One book defined war as use of force
to achieve political result.  And "force" is action of one body on
another applied by means of energy.

In war this is done by "weapons"--Luna had none.  But weapons, when
Mike examined them as class, turned out to be engines for manipulating
energy--and energy Luna has plenty.  Solar flux alone is good for
around one kilowatt per square meter of surface at Lunar noon; sun
power though cyclic, is effectively unlimited.  Hydrogen fusion power
is almost as unlimited and cheaper, once ice is mined, magnetic pinch
bottle set up.  Luna has energy--how to use?

But Luna also has energy of position; she sits at top of gravity well
eleven kilometers per second deep and kept from falling in by curb only
two and a half km/s high.  Mike knew that curb; daily he tossed grain
freighters over it, let them slide downhill to Terra.

Mike had computed what would happen if a freighter grossing 100 tonnes
(or same mass of rock) falls to Terra, unbraked.

Kinetic energy as it hits is 6.25 x 10^12 joules--over six trillion
joules.

This converts in split second to heat.  Explosion, big one!

Should have been obvious.  Look at Luna: What you see?  Thousands on
thousands of craters--places where Somebody got playful throwing
rocks.

Wyoh said, "Joules don't mean much to me.  How does that compare with
H-bombs?"

"Uh--" I started to round off in head.  Mike's "head" works faster; he
answered, "The concussion of a hundred-tonne mass on Terra approaches
the yield of a two-kilo tonne atomic bomb."  ""Kilo' is a thousand,"
Wyoh murmured, "and 'mega' is a million-Why, that's only one
fifty-thousandth as much as a hundred-mega tonne bomb.  Wasn't that the
size Sovunion used?"

"Wyoh, honey," I said gently, "that's not how it works.  Turn it
around.  A two-kilo tonne yield is equivalent to exploding two million
kilograms of trinitrotoluol ... and a kilo of TNT is quite an
explosion-Ask any drill man Two million kilos will wipe out good-sized
town.  Check, Mike?"

"Yes, Man.  But, Wyoh my only female friend, there is another aspect.
Multi-mega tonne fusion bombs are inefficient.  The explosion takes
place in too small a space; most of it is wasted.  While a hundred-mega
tonne bomb is rated as having fifty thousand times the yield of a
two-kilo tonne bomb, its destructive effect is only about thirteen
hundred times as great as that of a two-kilo tonne explosion."

"But it seems to me that thirteen hundred times is still quite a
lot--if they are going to use bombs on us that much bigger."

"True, Wyoh my female friend ... but Luna has many rocks."

"Oh.  Yes, so we have."

"Comrades," said Prof, "this is outside my competence--in my younger or
bomb-throwing days my experience was limited to something of the order
of the one-kilogram chemical explosion of which you spoke, Manuel.  But
I assume that you two know what you are talking about."

"We do," Mike agreed.

"So I accept your figures.  To bring it down to a scale that I can
understand this plan requires that we capture the catapult.  No?"

"Yes," Mike and I chorused.

"Not impossible.  Then we must hold it and keep it operative.  Mike,
have you considered how your catapult can be protected against, let us
say, one small H-tipped torpedo?"

Discussion went on and on.  We stopped to eat--stopped business under
Prof's rule.  Instead Mike told jokes, each produced a that-reminds-me
from Prof.

By time we left Raffles Hotel evening of 14th May '75 we had--Mike had,
with help from Prof--outlined plan of Revolution, including major
options at critical points.

When came time to go, me to home and Prof to evening class (if not
arrested), then home for bath and clothes and necessities in case he
returned that night, became clear Wyoh did not want to be alone in
strange hotel--Wyoh was stout when bets were down, between times soft
and vulnerable.

So I called Mum on a Sherlock and told her was bringing house guest
home.  Mum ran her job with style; any spouse could bring guest home
for meal or year, and our second generation was almost as free but must
ask.  Don't know how other families work; we have customs firmed by a
century; they suit us.

So Mum didn't ask name, age, sex, marital condition; was my right and
she too proud to ask.  All she said was: "That's nice, dear.  Have you
two had dinner?  It's Tuesday, you know."  "Tuesday" was to remind me
that our family had eaten early because Greg preaches Tuesday evenings.
But if guest had not eaten, dinner would be served--concession to
guest, not to me, as with exception of Grandpaw we ate when was on
table or scrounged standing up in pantry.

I assured her we had eaten and would make tall effort to be there
before she needed to leave.  Despite Loonie mixture of Muslims, Jews,
Christians, Buddhists, and ninety-nine other flavors, I suppose Sunday
is commonest day for church.  But Greg belongs to sect which had
calculated that sundown Tuesday to sundown Wednesday, local time Garden
of Eden (zone minus-two, Terra) was the Sabbath.  So we ate early in
Terran north-hemisphere summer months.

Mum always went to hear Greg preach, so was not considerate to place
duty on her that would clash.  All of us went occasionally; I managed
several times a year because terribly fond of Greg, who taught me one
trade and helped me switch to another when I had to and would gladly
have made it his arm rather than mine.  But Mum always went--ritual not
religion, for she admitted to me one night in pillow talk that she had
no religion with a brand on it, then cautioned me not to tell Greg.  I
exacted same caution from her.  I don't know Who is cranking; I'm
pleased He doesn't stop.

But Greg was Mum's "boy husband," opted when she was very young, first
wedding after her own--very sentimental about him, would deny fiercely
if accused of loving him more than other husbands, yet took his faith
when he was ordained and never missed a Tuesday.

She said, "Is it possible that your guest would wish to attend
church?"

I said would see but anyhow we would rush, and said goodbye.  Then
banged on bathroom door and said, "Hurry with skin, Wyoh; we're short
on minutes."

"One minute!"  she called out.  She's un girlish girl; she appeared in
one minute.  "How do I look?"  she asked.  "Prof, will I pass?"

"Dear Wyoming, I am amazed.  You were beautiful before, you are
beautiful now--but utterly unrecognizable.  You're safe--and I am
relieved."

Then we waited for Prof to transform into old derelict; he would be it
to his back corridor, then reappear as well-known teacher in front of
class, to have witnesses in case a yellow boy was waiting to grab
him.

It left a moment; I told Wyoh about Greg.  She said, "Mannie, how good
is this makeup?  Would it pass in church?  How bright are the
lights?"

"No brighter than here.  Good job, you'll get by.  But do you want to
go to church?  Nobody pushing."

She thought.  "It would please your moth--I mean, 'your senior wife,"
would it not?"

I answered slowly, "Wyoh, religion is your pidgin.  But since you ask
yes, nothing would start you better in Davis Family than going to
church with Mum.  I'll go if you do."

"I'll go.  I thought your last name was "O'Kelly'?"

"Is.  Tack "Davis' on with hyphen if want to be formal.  Davis is First
Husband, dead fifty years.  Is family name and all our wives are
"Gospazha Davis' hyphened with every male name in Davis line plus her
family name.  In practice Mum is only "Gospazha Davis'--can call her
that--and others use first name and add Davis if they write a cheque or
something.  Except that Ludmilla is "Davis-Davis' because proud of
double membership, birth and option."

"I see.  Then if a man is "John Davis," he's a son, but if he has some
other last name he's your co-husband.  But a girl would be "Jenny
Davis' either way, wouldn't she?  How do I tell?  By her age?  No, that
wouldn't help.  I'm confused!  And I thought clan marriages were
complex.  Or polyandries--though mine wasn't; at least my husbands had
the same last name."

"No trouble.  When you hear a woman about forty address a
fifteen-year-old as "Mama Mina," you'll know which is wife and which is
daughter--not even that complex as we don't have daughters home past
husband-high; they get opted.  But might be visiting.  Your husbands
were named "Knott'?"

"Oh, no, "Fedoseev, Choy Lin and Choy Mu."  I took back my born
name."

Out came Prof, cackled senilely (looked even worse than earlier!), we
left by three exits, made rendezvous in main corridor, open formation.
Wyoh and I did not walk together, as I might be nabbed; on other hand
she did not know Luna City, a warren so complex even native born get
lost--so I led and she had to keep me in sight.  Prof trailed to make
sure she didn't lose me.

If I was picked up, Wyoh would find public phone, report to Mike, then
return to hotel and wait for Prof.  But I felt sure that any yellow
jacket who arrested me would get a caress from number-seven arm.

No huhu.  Up to level five and cross town by Carver Causeway, up to
level three and stop at Tube Station West to pick up arms and tool
kit--but not p-suit; would not have been in character, I stored it
there.  One yellow uniform at station, showed no interest in me.  South
by well-lighted corridors until necessary to go outward to reach
private easement lock thirteen to co-op pressure tunnel serving Davis
Tunnels and a dozen other farms.  I suppose Prof dropped off there but
I never looked back.

I delayed locking through our door until Wyoh caught up, then soon was
saying, "Mum, allow me to present Wyma Beth Johnson."

Mum took her in arms, kissed cheek, said, "So glad you could come, Wyma
dear!  Our house is yours!"

See why I love our old biddy?  Could have quick-frosted Wyoh with same
words--but was real and Wyoh knew.

Hadn't warned Wyoh about switch in names, thought of it en route.  Some
of our kids were small and while they grew up despising Warden, no
sense in risking prattle about "Wyoming Knott, who's visiting us"--that
name was listed in "Special File Zebra."

So I missed warning her, was new to conspiracy.

But Wyoh caught cue and never bobbled.

Greg was in preaching clothes and would have to leave in minutes.  Mum
did not hurry, took Wyoh down line of husbands--Grandpaw, Greg,
Hans--then up line of wives--Ludmilla, Lenore, Sidris, Anna--with
stately grace, then started on our kids.

I said, "Mum?  Excuse me, want to change arms."  Her eyebrows went up a
millimeter, meaning: "We'll speak of this but not in front of
children"--so I added: "Know it's late, Greg's sneaking look at watch.
And Wyma and I are going to church.  So sc use please."

She relaxed.  "Certainly, dear."  As she turned away I saw her arm go
around Wyoh's waist, so I relaxed.

I changed arms, replacing number seven with social arm.  But was excuse
to duck into phone cupboard and punch "MYCROFTXXX."  "Mike, we're home.
But about to go to church.  Don't think you can listen there, so I'll
check in later.  Heard from Prof?"

"Not yet, Man.  Which church is it?  I may have some circuit."

"Pillar of Fire Repentance Tabernacle--"

"No reference."

"Slow to my speed, pal.  Meets in West-Three Community Hall.  That's
south of Station on Ring about number--."

"I have it.  There's a pickup inside for channels and a phone in the
corridor outside; I'll keep an ear on both."

"I don't expect trouble, Mike."

"It's what Professor said to do.  He is reporting now.  Do you wish to
speak to him?"

"No time.  "Bye!"

That set pattern: Always keep touch with Mike, let him know where you
are, where you plan to be; Mike would listen if he had nerve ends
there.  Discovery I made that morning, that Mike could listen at dead
phone, suggested it--discovery bothered me; don't believe in magic. But
on thinking I realized a phone could be switched on by central
switching system without human intervention--if switching system had
volition.  Mike had bolshoyeh volition.

How Mike knew a phone was outside that hall is hard to say, since
"space" could not mean to him what means to us.  But he carried in
storage a "map"--structured relations--of Luna City's engineering, and
could almost always fit what we said to what he knew as "Luna City";
hardly ever got lost.

So from day cabal started we kept touch with Mike and each other
through his widespread nervous system.  Won't mention again unless
necessary.

Mum and Greg and Wyoh were waiting at outer door, Mum chomping but
smiling.  I saw she had lent Wyoh a stole; Mum was as easy about skin
as any Loonie, nothing newchummish--but church was another matter.

We made it, although Greg went straight to platform and we to seats.  I
settled in warm, mindless state, going through motions.  But Wyoh did
really listen to Greg's sermon and either knew our hymn book or was
accomplished sight reader.

When we got home, young ones were in bed and most adults; Hans and
Sidris were up and Sidris served cocoa soy and cookies, then all turned
in.  Mum assigned Wyoh a room in tunnel most of our kids lived in, one
which had had two smaller boys last time I noticed.  Did not ask how
she had reshuffled, was clear she was giving my guest best we had, or
would have put Wyoh with one of older girls.

I slept with Mum that night, partly because our senior wife is good for
nerves--and nerve-racking things had happened--and partly so she would
know I was not sneaking to Wyoh's room after things were quiet.  My
workshop, where I slept when slept alone; was just one bend from Wyoh's
door.  Mum was telling me, plain as print: "Go ahead, dear.  Don't tell
me if you wish to be mean about it.  Sneak behind my back."

Which neither of us admitted.  We visited as we got ready for bed,
chatted after light out, then I turned over.

Instead of saying goodnight Mum said, "Manuel?  Why does your sweet
little guest make herself up as an Afro?  I would think that her
natural coloration would be more becoming.  Not that she isn't
perfectly charming the way she chooses to be."

So rolled over and faced her, and explained--sounded thin, so filled
in.  And found self telling all--except one point: Mike.  I included
Mike--but not as computer--instead as a man Mum was not likely to meet,
for security reasons.

But telling Mum--taking her into my subcell, should say, to become
leader of own cell in turn--taking Mum into conspiracy was not case of
husband who can't keep from blurting everything to his wife.  At most
was hasty--but was best time if she was to be told.

Mum was smart.  Also able executive; running big family without baring
teeth requires that.  Was respected among farm families and throughout
Luna City; she had been up longer than 90 percent.  She could help.

And would be indispensable inside family.  Without her help Wyoh and I
would find it sticky to use phone together (hard to explain), keep kids
from noticing (impossible!)--but with Mum's help would be no problems
inside household.

She listened, sighed, said, "It sounds dangerous, dear."

"Is," I said.  "Look, Mimi, if you don't want to tackle, say so then
forget what I've told."

"Manuel!  Don't even say that.  You are my husband, dear; I took you
for better, for worse... and your wish is my command."  (My word, what
a lie!  But Mimi believed it.)

"I would not let you go into danger alone," she went on, "and
besides--"

"What, Mimi?"

"I think every Loonie dreams of the day when we will be free.  All but
some poor spineless rats.  I've never talked about it; there seemed to
be no point and it's necessary to look up, not down, lift one's burden
and go ahead.  But I thank dear Bog that I have been permitted to live
to see the time come, if indeed it has.  Explain more about it.  I am
to find three others, is it?  Three who can be trusted."

"Don't hurry.  Move slowly.  Be sure."

"Sidris can be trusted.  She holds her tongue, that one."

"Don't think you should pick from family.  Need to spread out.  Don't
rush."

"I shan't.  We'll talk before I do anything.  And Manuel, if you want
my opinion--" She stopped.

"Always want your opinion, Mimi."

"Don't mention this to Grandpaw.  He's forgetful these days and
sometimes talkative.  Now sleep, dear, and don't dream."

Followed a long time during which would have been possible to forget
anything as unlikely as revolution had not details taken so much time.
Our first purpose was not to be noticed.  Long distance purpose was to
make things as much worse as possible.

Yes, worse.  Never was a time, even at last, when all Loonies wanted to
throw off Authority, wanted it bad enough to revolt.  All Loonies
despised Warden and cheated Authority.  Didn't mean they were ready to
fight and die.  If you had mentioned "patriotism" to a Loonie, he would
have stared--or thought you were talking about his homeland.  Were
transported Frenchmen whose hearts belonged to "La Belle Patrie,"
ex-Germans loyal to Vaterland, Russkis who still loved Holy Mother
Russia.  But Luna?  Luna was "The Rock," place of exile, not thing to
love.

We were as non-political a people as history ever produced.  I know, I
was as numb to politics as any until circumstances pitched me into it.
Wyoming was in it because she hated Authority for a personal reason,
Prof because he despised all authority in a detached intellectual
fashion, Mike because he was a bored and lonely machine and was for him
"only game in town."  You could not have accused us of patriotism.  I
came closest because I was third generation with total lack of
affection for any place on Terra, had been there, disliked it and
despised earthworms.  Made me more "patriotic" than most!

Average Loonie was interested in beer, betting, women, and work, in
that order.  "Women" might be second place but first was unlikely, much
as women were cherished.  Loonies had learned there never were enough
women to go around.  Slow learners died, as even most possessive male
can't stay alert every minute.  As Prof says, a society adapts to fact,
or doesn't survive.  Loonies adapted to harsh facts--or failed and
died.  But "patriotism" was not necessary to survival.

Like old Chinee saying that "Fish aren't aware of water," I was not
aware of any of this until I first went to Terra and even then did not
realize what a blank spot was in Loonies under storage location marked
"patriotism" until I took part in effort to stir them up.  Wyoh and her
comrades had tried to push "patriotism" button and got nowhere--years
of work, a few thousand members, less than 1 percent and of that
microscopic number almost 10 percent had been paid spies of boss
fink!

Prof set us straight: Easier to get people to hate than to get them to
love.

Luckily, Security Chief Alvarez gave us a hand.  Those nine dead finks
were replaced with ninety, for Authority was goaded into something it
did reluctantly, namely spend money on us, and one folly led to
another.

Warden's bodyguard had never been large even in earliest days Prison
guards in historical meaning were unnecessary and that had been one
attraction of penal colony system--cheap.  Warden and his deputy had to
be protected and visiting vips, but prison itself needed no guards.
They even stopped guarding ships after became clear was not necessary,
and in May 2075, bodyguard was down to its cheapest numbers, all of
them new chum transportees.

But loss of nine in one night scared somebody.  We knew it scared
Alvarez; he filed copies of his demands for help in Zebra file and Mike
read them.  A lag who had been a police officer on Terra before his
conviction and then a bodyguard all his years in Luna, Alvarez was
probably most frightened and loneliest man in The Rock.  He demanded
more and tougher help, threatened to resign civil service job if he
didn't get it-just a threat, which Authority would have known if it had
really known Luna.  If Alvarez had showed up in any warren as unarmed
civilian, he would have stayed breathing only as long as not
recognized.

He got his additional guards.  We never found out who ordered that
raid.  Mort the Wart had never shown such tendencies, had been King Log
throughout tenure.  Perhaps Alvarez, having only recently succeeded to
boss fink spot, wanted to make face--may have had ambition to be
Warden.  But likeliest theory is that Warden's reports on "subversive
activities" caused Authority Earthside to order a cleanup.

One thumb-fingered mistake led to another.  New bodyguards, instead of
picked from new transportees, were elite convict troops, Federated
Nations crack Peace Dragoons.  Were mean and tough, did not want to go
to Luna, and soon realized that "temporary police duty" was one-way
trip.  Hated Luna and Loonies, and saw us as cause of it all.

Once Alvarez got them, he posted a twenty-four-hour watch at every
inter warren tube station and instituted passports and passport
control.  Would have been illegal had there been laws in Luna, since 95
percent of us were theoretically free, either born free, or sentence
completed.  Percentage was higher in cities as undischarged
transportees lived in barrack warrens at Complex and came into town
only two days per lunar they had off work.  If then, as they had no
money, but you sometimes saw them wandering around, hoping somebody
would buy a drink.

But passport system was not "illegal" as Warden's regulations were only
written law.  Was announced in papers, we were given week to get
passports, and at eight hundred one morning was put in effect.  Some
Loonies hardly ever traveled; some traveled on business; some commuted
from outlying warrens or even from Luna City to Novylen or other way.
Good little boys filled out applications, paid fees, were photographed,
got passes; I was good little boy on Prof's advice, paid for passport
and added it to pass I carried to work in Complex.

Few good little boys!  Loonies did not believe it.  Passports?  Whoever
heard of such a thing?

Was a trooper at Tube Station South that morning dressed in bodyguard
yellow rather than regimentals and looking like he hated it, and us.  I
was not going anywhere; I hung back and watched.

Novylen capsule was announced; crowd of thirty-odd headed for gate.
Gospodin Yellow Jacket demanded passport of first to reach it.  Loonie
stopped to argue.  Second one pushed past; guard turned and
yelled--three or four more shoved past.  Guard reached for sidearm;
somebody grabbed his elbow, gun went off--not a laser, a slug gun,
noisy.

Slug hit decking and went whee-whee-hoo off somewhere.  I faded back.
One man hurt--that guard.  When first press of passengers had gone down
ramp, he was on deck, not moving.

Nobody paid attention; they walked around or stepped over--except one
woman carrying a baby, who stopped, kicked him carefully in face, then
went down ramp.  He may have been dead already, didn't wait to see.
Understand body stayed there till relief arrived.

Next day was a half squad in that spot.  Capsule for Novylen left
empty.

It settled down.  Those who had to travel got passports, diehards quit
traveling.  Guard at a tube gate became two men, one looked at
passports while other stood back with gun drawn.  One who checked
passports did not try hard, which was well as most were counterfeit and
early ones were crude.  But before long, authentic paper was stolen and
counterfeits were as dinkum as official ones--more expensive but
Loonies preferred free-enterprise passports.

Our organization did not make counterfeits; we merely encouraged
it--and knew who had them and who did not; Mike's records listed
officially issued ones.  This helped separate sheep from goats in files
we were building--also stored in Mike but in "Bastille" location--as we
figured a man with counterfeit passport was halfway to joining us. Word
was passed down cells in our growing organization never to recruit
anybody with a valid passport.  If recruiter was not certain, just
query upwards and answer came back.

But guards' troubles were not over.  Does not help a guard's dignity
nor add to peace of mind to have children stand in front of him, or
behind out of eye which was worse, and ape every move he makes--or run
back and forth screaming obscenities, jeering, making finger motions
that are universal.  At least guards took them as insults.

One guard back-handed a small boy, cost him some teeth.  Result: two
guards dead, one Loonie dead.

After that, guards ignored children.

We didn't have to work this up; we merely encouraged it.  You wouldn't
think that a sweet old lady like my senior wife would encourage
children to misbehave.  But she did.

Other things get single men a long way from home upset--and one we did
start.  These Peace Dragoons had been sent to The Rock without a
comfort detachment.

Some of our ferns were extremely beautiful and some started loitering
around stations, dressed in less than usual--which could approach
zero--and wearing more than usual amount of perfume, scents with range
and striking power.  They did not speak to yellow jackets nor look at
them; they simply crossed their line of sight, undulating as only a
Loonie gal can.  (A female on Terra can't walk that way; she's tied
down by six times too much weight.)

Such of course produces a male gallery, from men down to lads not yet
pubescent--happy whistles and cheers for her beauty, nasty laughs at
yellow boy.  First girls to take this duty were slot-machine types but
volunteers sprang up so fast that Prof decided we need not spend money.
He was correct: even Ludmilla, shy as a kitten, wanted to try it and
did not only because Mum told her not to.  But Lenore, ten years older
and prettiest of our family, did try it and Mum did not scold.  She
came back pink and excited and pleased with herself and anxious to
tease enemy again.  Her own idea; Lenore did not then know that
revolution was brewing.

During this time I rarely saw Prof and never in public; we kept touch
by phone.  At first a bottleneck was that our farm had just one phone
for twenty-five people, many of them youngsters who would tie up a
phone for hours unless coerced.  Mimi was strict; our kids were allowed
one out-going call per day and max of ninety seconds on a call, with
rising scale of punishment--tempered by her warmth in granting
exceptions.  But grants were accompanied by "Mum's Phone Lecture":
"When I first came to Luna there were no private phones.  You children
don't know how soft..."

We were one of last prosperous families to install a phone; it was new
in household when I was opted.  We were prosperous because we never
bought anything farm could produce.  Mum disliked phone because rates
to Luna City Co-op Comm Company were passed on in large measure to
Authority.  She never could understand why I could not ("Since you know
all about such things, Manuel dear") steal phone service as easily as
we liberated power.  That a phone instrument was part of a switching
system into which it must fit was no interest to her.

Steal it I did, eventually.  Problem with illicit phone is how to
receive incoming calls.  Since phone is not listed, even if you tell
persons from whom you want calls, switching system itself does not have
you listed; is no signal that can tell it to connect other party with
you.

Once Mike joined conspiracy, switching was no problem.  I had in
workshop most of what I needed; bought some items and liberated others.
Drilled a tiny hole from workshop to phone cupboard and another to
Wyoh's room--virgin rock a meter thick but a laser drill collimated to
a thin pencil cuts rapidly.  I unshipped listed phone, made a wireless
coupling to line in its recess and concealed it.  All else needed were
binaural receptors and a speaker in Wyoh's room, concealed, and same in
mine, and a circuit to raise frequency above audio to have silence on
Davis phone line, and its converse to restore audio incoming.

Only problem was to do this without being seen, and Mum genera led
that.

All else was Mike's problem.  Used no switching arrangements; from then
on used MYCROFTXXX only when calling from some other phone.  Mike
listened at all times in workshop and in Wyoh's room; if he heard my
voice or hers say "Mike," he answered, but not to other voices.  Voice
patterns were as distinctive to him as fingerprints; he never made
mistakes.

Minor flourishes--soundproofing Wyoh's door such as workshop door
already had, switching to suppress my instrument or hers, signals to
tell me she was alone in her room and door locked, and vice versa.  All
added up to safe means whereby Wyob and I could talk with Mike or with
each other, or could set up talk-talk of Mike, Wyoh, Prof, and self.
Mike would call Prof wherever he was; Prof would talk or call back from
a more private phone.  Or might be Wyoh or myself had to be found.  We
all were careful to stay checked in with Mike.

My bootleg phone, though it had no way to punch a call, could be used
to call any number in Luna--speak to Mike, ask for a Sherlock to
anybody--not tell him number, Mike had all listings and could look up a
number faster than I could.

We were beginning to see unlimited possibilities in a phone switching
system alive and on our side.  I got from Mike and gave Mum still
another null number to call Mike if she needed to reach me.  She grew
chummy with Mike while continuing to think he was a man.  This spread
through our family.  One day as I returned home Sidris said, "Mannie
darling, your friend with the nice voice called.  Mike Holmes.  Wants
you to call back."

"Thanks, hon.  Will."

"When are you going to invite him to dinner, Man?  I think he's
nice."

I told her Gospodin Holmes had bad breath, was covered with rank hair,
and hated women.

She used a rude word, Mum not being in earshot.  "You're afraid to let
me see him.  Afraid I'll opt out for him."  I patted her and told her
that was why.  I told Mike and Prof about it.  Mike flirted even more
with my womenfolk after that; Prof was thoughtful.

I began to learn techniques of conspiracy and to appreciate Prof's
feeling that revolution could be an art.  Did not forget (nor ever
doubt) Mike's prediction that Luna was only seven years from disaster.
But did not think about it, thought about fascinating, finicky
details.

Prof had emphasized that stickiest problems in conspiracy are
communications and security, and had pointed out that they
conflict--easier are communications, greater is risk to security; if
security is tight, organization can be paralyzed by safety precautions.
He had explained that cell system was a compromise.

I accepted cell system since was necessary to limit losses from spies.
Even Wyoh admitted that organization without compart mentation could
not work after she learned how rotten with spies old underground had
been.

But I did not like clogged communications of cell system; like Terran
dinosaurs of old, took too long to send message from head to tail, or
back.

So talked with Mike.

We discarded many-linked channels I had suggested to Prof.  We retained
cells but based security and communication on marvelous possibilities
of our dinkum thinkum.

Communications: We set up a ternary tree of "party" names:

Chairman, Gospodin Adam Selene (Mike)

Executive cell: Bork (me), Betty (Wyoh), Bill (Prof)

Bork's cell: Cassie (Mum), Colin, Chang

Betty's cell: Calvin (Greg), Cecilia (Sidris), Clayton

Bill's cell: Cornwall (Finn Nielsen), Carolyn, Cotter-and so on.  At
seventh link George supervises Herbert, Henry, and Hallie.  By time you
reach that level you need 2,187 names with "H"--but turn it over to
savvy computer who finds or invents them.  Each recruit is given a
party name and an emergency phone number.  This number, instead of
chasing through many links, connects with "Adam Selene," Mike.

Security: Based on double principle; no human being can be trusted with
anything--but Mike could be trusted with everything.

Grim first half is beyond dispute.  With drugs and other unsavory
methods any man can be broken.  Only defense is suicide, which may be
impossible.  Oh, are "hollow tooth" methods, classic and novel, some
nearly infallible--Prof saw to it that Wyoh and myself were equipped.
Never knew what he gave her as a final friend and since I never had to
use mine, is no point in messy details.  Nor am I sure I would ever
suicide; am not stuff of martyrs.

But Mike could never need to suicide, could not be drugged, did not
feel pain.  He carried everything concerning us in a separate memory
bank under a locked signal programmed only to our three voices, and,
since flesh is weak, we added a signal under which any of us could lock
out other two in emergency.  In my opinion as best computer man in
Luna, Mike could not remove this lock once it was set up.  Best of all,
nobody would ask master computer for this file because nobody knew it
existed, did not suspect Mike-as-Mike existed.  How secure can you
be?

Only risk was that this awakened machine was whimsical.  Mike was
always showing unforeseen potentials; conceivable he could figure way
to get around block--if he wanted to.

But would never want to.  He was loyal to me, first and oldest friend;
he liked Prof; I think he loved Wyoh.  No, no, sex meant nothing.  But
Wyoh is lovable and they hit it off from start.

I trusted Mike.  In this life you have to bet; on that bet I would give
any odds.

So we based security on trusting Mike with everything while each of us
knew only what he had to know.  Take that tree of names and numbers.  I
knew only party names of my cellmates and of three directly under me;
was all I needed.  Mike set up party names, assigned phone number to
each, kept roster of real names versus party names.  Let's say party
member "Daniel" (whom I would not know, being a "D" two levels below
me) recruits Fritz Schultz.  Daniel reports fact but not name upwards;
Adam Selene calls Daniel, assigns for Schultz party name "Embrook,"
then phones Schultz at number received from Daniel, gives Schultz his
name Embrook and emergency phone number, this number being different
for each recruit.

Not even Embrook's cell leader would know Embrook's emergency number.
What you do not know you cannot spill, not under drugs nor torture, nor
anything.  Not even from carelessness.

Now let's suppose I need to reach Comrade Embrook.  I don't know who he
is; he may live in Hong Kong or be shopkeeper nearest my home.  Instead
of passing message down, hoping it will reach him, I call Mike.  Mike
connects me with Embrook at once, in a Sherlock, withoul giving me his
number.

Or suppose I need to speak to comrade who is preparing cartoon we are
about to distribute in every taproom in Luna.  I don't know who he is.
But I need to talk to him; something has come up.

I call Mike; Mike knows everything--and again I am quickly
connected--and this comrade knows it's okay as Adam Selene arranged
call.  "Comrade Bork speaking"--and he doesn't know me but initial "B"
tells him that I am vip indeed--"we have to change so-and-so.  Tell
your cell leader and have him check, but get on with it."

Minor flourishes--some comrades did not have phones; some could be
reached only at certain hours; some outlying warrens did not have phone
service.  No matter, Mike knew everything--and rest of us did not know
anything that could endanger any but that handful whom each knew face
to face.

After we decided that Mike should talk voice-to-voice to any comrade
under some circumstances, it was necessary to give him more voices and
dress him up, make him three dimensions, create "Adam Selene, Chairman
of the Provisional Committee of Free Luna."

Mike's need for more voices lay in fact that he had just one
voder-vocoder, whereas his brain could handle a dozen conversations, or
a hundred (don't know how many)--like a chess master playing fifty
opponents, only more so.

This would cause a bottleneck as organization grew and Adam Selene was
phoned oftener, and could be crucial if we lasted long enough to go
into action.

Besides giving him more voices I wanted to silence one he had.  One of
those so-called computer men might walk into machines room while we
were phoning Mike; bound to cause even his dim wit to wonder if he
found master machine apparently talking to itself.

Voder-vocoder is very old device.  Human voice is buzzes and hisses
mixed various ways; true even of a coloratura soprano.  A vocoder
analyzes buzzes and hisses into patterns, one a computer (or trained
eye) can read.  A voder is a little box which can buzz and hiss and has
controls to vary these elements to match those patterns.  A human can
"play" a voder, producing artificial speech; a properly programmed
computer can do it as fast, as easily, as clearly as you can speak.

But voices on a phone wire are not sound waves but electrical signals;
Mike did not need audio part of voder-vocoder to talk by phone.  Sound
waves were needed only by human at other end; no need for speech sounds
inside Mike's room at Authority Complex.  so I planned to remove them,
and thereby any danger that somebody might notice.

First I worked at home, using number-three arm most of time.  Result
was very small box which sandwiched twenty voder-vocoder circuits minus
audio side.  Then I called Mike and told him to "get ill" in way that
would annoy Warden.  Then I waited.

We had done this "get ill" trick before.  I went back to work once we
learned that I was clear, which was Thursday that same week when
Alvarez read into Zebra file an account of shambles at Stilyagi Hall.
His version listed about one hundred people (out of perhaps three
hundred); list included Shorty Mkrum, Wyoh, Prof, and Finn Nielsen but
not me--apparently I was missed by his finks.  It told how nine police
officers, each deputized by Warden to preserve peace, had been shot
down in cold blood.  Also named three of our dead.

An add-on a week later stated that "the notorious agent provocateuse
Wyoming Knott of Hong Kong in Luna, whose incendiary speech on Monday
13 May had incited the riot that cost the lives of nine brave officers,
had not been apprehended in Luna City and had not returned to her usual
haunts in Hong Kong in Luna, and was now believed to have died in the
massacre she herself set off."  This add-on admitted what earlier
report failed to mention, i.e."  bodies were missing and exact number
of dead was not known.

This P.S. settled two things: Wyoh could not go home nor back to being
a blonde.

Since I had not been spotted I resumed my public ways, took care of
customers that week, bookkeeping machines and retrieval files at
Carnegie Library, and spent time having Mike read out Zebra file and
other special files, doing so in Room L of Raffles as I did not yet
have my own phone.  During that week Mike niggled at me like an
impatient child (which he was), wanting to know when I was coming over
to pick up more jokes.  Failing that, he wanted to tell them by
phone.

I got annoyed and had to remind myself that from Mike's viewpoint
analyzing jokes was just as important as freeing Luna--and you don't
break promises to a child.

Besides that.  I got itchy wondering whether I could go inside Complex
without being nabbed.  We knew Prof was not clear, was sleeping in
Raffles on that account.  Yet they knew he had been at meeting and knew
where he was, daily--but no attempt was made to pick him up.  When we
learned that attempt had been made to pick up Wyoh, I grew itchier. Was
I clear?  Or were they waiting to nab me quietly?  Had to know.

So I called Mike and told him to have a tummy ache He did so, I was
called in--no trouble.  Aside from showing passport at station, then to
a new guard at Complex, all was usual.  I chatted with Mike, picked up
one thousand jokes (with understanding that we would report a hundred
at a time every three or four days, no faster), told him to get well,
and went back to L-City, stopping on way out to bill Chief Engineer for
working time, travel-and-tool time, materials, special service,
anything I could load in.

Thereafter saw Mike about once a month.  Was safe, never went there
except when they called me for malfunction beyond ability of their
staff--and I was always able to "repair" it, sometimes quickly,
sometimes after a full day and many tests.  Was careful to leave tool
marks on cover plates, and had before-and-after print-outs of test runs
to show what had been wrong, how I analyzed it, what I had done.  Mike
always worked perfectly after one of my visits; I was indispensable.

So, after I prepared his new voder-vocoder add-on, didn't hesitate to
tell him to get "ill."  Call came in thirty minutes.  Mike had thought
up a dandy; his "illness" was wild oscillations in conditioning
Warden's residence.  He was running its heat up, then down, on an
eleven-minute cycle, while oscillating its air pressure on a short
cycle, ca.  2c/s, enough to make a man dreadfully nervy and perhaps
cause earache.

Conditioning a single residence should not go through a master
computer!  In Davis Tunnels we handled home and farm with idiot
controls, feedbacks for each cubic with alarms so that somebody could
climb out of bed and control by hand until trouble could be found.  If
cows got chilly, did not hurt corn; if lights failed over wheat,
vegetables were okay.  That Mike could raise hell with Warden's
residence and nobody could figure out what to do shows silliness of
piling everything into one computer.

Mike was happy-joyed.  This was humor he really scanned.  I enjoyed it,
too, told him to go ahead, have fun--spread out tools, got out little
black box.

And computer man-of-the-watch comes banging and ringing at door.  I
took my time answering and carried number-five arm in right hand with
short wing bare; this makes some people sick and upsets almost
everybody.  "What in hell do you want, choom?"  I inquired.

"Listen," he says, "Warden is raising hell!  Haven't you found
trouble?"

"My compliments to Warden and tell him I will override by hand to
restore his precious comfort as soon as I locate faulty circuit--if not
slowed up by silly questions.  Are you going to stand with door open
blowing dust into machines while I have cover plates off?  If you
do--since you're in charge--when dust puts machine on sputter, you can
repair it.  I won't leave a warm bed to help.  You can tell that to
your bloody Warden, too."

"Watch your language, cobber."

"Watch yours, convict.  Are you going to close that door?  Or shall I
walk out and go back to L-City?"  And raised number-five like a club.

He closed door.  Had no interest in insulting poor sod.  Was one small
bit of policy to make everybody as unhappy as possible.  He was finding
working for Warden difficult; I wanted to make it unbearable.

"Shall I step it up?"  Mike inquired.

"Um, hold it so for ten minutes, then stop abruptly.  Then jog it for
an hour, say with air pressure.  Erratic but hard.  Know what a sonic
boom is?"

"Certainly.  It is a--"

"Don't define.  After you drop major effect, rattle his air ducts every
few minutes with nearest to a boom system will produce.  Then give him
something to remember.  Mmm ... Mike, can you make his W.C. run
backwards?"

"I surely can!  All of them?"

"How many does he have?"

"Six."

"Well ... program to give them all a push, enough to soak his rugs. 
But if you can spot one nearest his bedroom, fountain it clear to
ceiling. Can?"

"Program set up!"

"Good.  Now for your present, ducky."  There was room in voder audio
box to hide it and I spent forty minutes with number-three, getting it
just so.  We trial-checked through voder-vocoder, then I told him to
call Wyoh and check each circuit.

For ten minutes was silence, which I spent putting tool markers on a
cover plate which should have been removed had been anything wrong,
putting tools away, putting number-six arm on, rolling up one thousand
jokes waiting in print-out.  I had found no need to cut out audio of
voder; Mike had thought of it before I had and always chopped off any
time door was touched.  Since his reflexes were better than mine by a
factor of at least a thousand, I forgot it.

At last he said, "All twenty circuits okay.  I can switch circuits in
the middle of a word and Wyoh can't detect discontinuity.  And I called
Prof and said Hello and talked to Mum on your home phone, all three at
the same time."

"We're in business.  What excuse you give Mum?"

"I asked her to have you call me, Adam Selene that is.  Then we
chatted.  She's a charming conversationalist.  We discussed Greg's
sermon of last Tuesday."

"Huh?  How?"

"I told her I had listened to it, Man, and quoted a poetic part."

"Oh, Mike!"

"It's okay, Man.  I let her think that I sat in back, then slipped out
during the closing hymn.  She's not nosy; she knows that I don't want
to be seen."

Mum is nosiest female in Luna.  "Guess it's okay.  But don't do it
again.  Um-Do do it again.  You go to--you monitor-meetings and
lectures and concerts and stuff."

"Unless some busybody switches me off by hand!  Man, I can't control
those spot pickups the way I do a phone."

"Too simple a switch.  Brute muscle rather than solid-state flip flop

"That's barbaric.  And unfair."

"Mike, almost everything is unfair.  What can't be cured--" "--must be
endured.  That's a funny-once, Man."

"Sorry.  Let's change it: What can't be cured should be tossed out and
something better put in.  Which we'll do.  What chances last time you
calculated?"

"Approximately one in nine, Man."

"Getting worse?"

"Man, they'll get worse for months.  We haven't reached the crisis."

"With Yankees in cellar, too.  Oh, well.  Back to other matter.  From
now on, when you talk to anyone, if he's been to a lecture or whatever,
you were there, too--and prove it, by recalling something."

"Noted.  Why, Man?"

"Have you read "The Scarlet Pimpernel'?  May be in public library."

"Yes.  Shall I read it back?"

"No, no!  You're our Scarlet Pimpernel, our John Galt, our Swamp Fox,
our man of mystery.  You go everywhere, know everything, slip in and
out of town without passport.  You're always there, yet nobody catches
sight of you."

His lights rippled, he gave a subdued chuckle.  "That's fun, Man. Funny
once, funny twice, maybe funny always."

"Funny always.  How long ago did you stop gymkhana at Warden's?"

"Forty-three minutes ago except erratic booms."

"Bet his teeth ache!  Give him fifteen minutes more.  Then I'll report
job completed."

"Noted.  Wyoh sent you a message, Man.  She said to remind you of
Billy's birthday party."

"Oh, my word!  Stop everything, I'm leaving.  "Bye!"  I hurried out.
Billy's mother is Anna.  Probably her last--and right well she's done
by us, eight kids, three still home.  I try to be as careful as Mum
never to show favoritism... but Billy is quite a boy and I taught him
to read.  Possible he looks like me.

Stopped at Chief Engineer's office to leave bill and demanded to see
him.  Was let in and he was in belligerent mood; Warden had been riding
him.  "Hold it," I told him.  "My son's birthday and shan't be late.
But must show you something."

Took an envelope from kit, dumped item on desk: corpse of house fly
which I had charred with a hot wire and fetched.  We do not tolerate
flies in Davis Tunnels but sometimes one wanders in from city as locks
are opened.  This wound up in my workshop just when I needed it.  "See
that?  Guess where I found it."

On that faked evidence I built a lecture on care of fine machines,
talked about doors opened, complained about man on watch.  "Dust can
ruin a computer.  Insects are unpardonable!  Yet your watch standers
wander in and out as if tube station.  Today both doors held
open--while this idiot yammered.  If I find more evidence that cover
plates have been removed by hoof-handed choom who attracts flies--well,
it's your plant, Chief.  Got more than I can handle, been doing your
chores because I like fine machines.  Can't stand to see them abused!
Good-bye."

"Hold on.  I want to tell you something."

"Sorry, got to go.  Take it or leave it, I'm no vermin exterminator;
I'm a computer man

Nothing frustrates a man so much as not letting him get in his say.
With luck and help from Warden, Chief Engineer would have ulcers by
Christmas.

Was late anyhow and made humble apology to Billy.  Alvarez had thought
up new wrinkle, close search on leaving Complex.  I endured it with
never a nasty word for Dragoons who searched me; wanted to get home.
But those thousand jokes bothered them.  "What's this?"  one
demanded.

"Computer paper," I said.  "Test runs."

His mate joined him.  Don't think they could read.  They wanted to
confiscate, so I demanded they call Chief Engineer.  They let me go.  I
felt not displeased; more and more such and guards were daily more
hated.

Decision to make Mike more a person arose from need to have any Party
member phone him on occasion; my advice about concerts and plays was
simply a side effect.  Mike's voice over phone had odd quality I had
not noticed during time I had visited him only at Complex.  When you
speak to a man by phone there is background noise.  And you hear him
breathe, hear heartbeats, body motions even though rarely conscious of
these.  Besides that, even if he speaks under a hush hood, noises get
through, enough to "fill space," make him a body with surroundings.

With Mike was none of this.

By then Mike's voice was "human" in timbre and quality, recognizable.
He was baritone, had North American accent with Aussie overtones; as
"Michelle" he (she?) had a light soprano with French flavor.  Mike's
personality grew also.  When first I introduced him to Wyoh and Prof he
sounded like a pedantic child; in short weeks he flowered until I
visualized a man about own age.

His voice when he first woke was blurred and harsh, hardly
understandable.  Now it was clear and choice of words and phrasing was
consistent--colloquial to me, scholarly to Prof, gallant to Wyoh,
variation one expects of mature adults.

But background was dead.  Thick silence.

So we filled it.  Mike needed only hints.  He did not make his
breathing noisy, ordinarily you would not notice.  But he would stick
in touches.  "Sorry, Mannie, you caught me bathing when the phone
sounded"--and let one hear hurried breathing.  Or "I was eating--had to
swallow."  He used such even on me, once he undertook to "be a human
body."

We all put "Adam Selene" together, talking it over at Raffles.  How old
was he?  What did he look like?  Married?  Where did he live?  What
work?  What interests?

We decided that Adam was about forty, healthy, vigorous, well educated,
interested in all arts and sciences and very well grounded in history,
a match chess player but- little time to play.  He was married in
commonest type, a troika in which he was senior husband--four children.
Wife and junior husband not in politics, so far as we knew.

He was ruggedly handsome with wavy iron-gray hair and was mixed race,
second generation one side, third on other.  Was wealthy by Loonie
standards, with interests in Novylen and Kongville as well as L-City.
He kept offices in Luna City, outer office with a dozen people plus
private office staffed by male deputy and female secretary.

Wyoh wanted to know was he bundling with secretary?  I told her to
switch off, was private.  Wyoh said indignantly that she was not being
snoopy--weren't we trying to create a rounded character?

We decided that offices were in Old Dome, third ramp, southside, heart
of financial district.  If you know L-City.  you recall that in Old
Dome some offices have windows since they can look out over floor of
Dome; I wanted this for sound effects.

We drew a floor plan and had that office existed, it would have been
between Aetna Luna and Greenberg & Co.  I used pouch recorder to pick
up sounds at spot; Mike added to it by listening at phones there.

Thereafter when you called Adam Selene, background was not dead.  If
"Ursula," his secretary, took call, it was: "Selene Associates.  Luna
shall be free!"  Then she might say, "Will you hold?  Gospodin Selene
is on another call" whereupon you might hear sound of W.C."  followed
by running water and know that she had told little white lie.  Or Adam
might answer: "Adam Selene here.  Free Luna.  One second while I shut
off the video."  Or deputy might answer: "This is Albert Ginwallah,
Adam Selene's confidential assistant.  Free Luna.  If it's a Party
matter--as I assume it is; that was your Party name you gave--please
don't hesitate; I handle such things for the Chairman."

Last was a trap, as every comrade was instructed to speak only to Adam
Selene.  No attempt was made to discipline one who took bait; instead
his cell captain was warned that his comrade must not be trusted with
anything vital.

We got echoes.  "Free Luna!"  or "Luna shall be free!"  took hold among
youngsters, then among solid citizens.  First time I heard it in a
business call I almost swallowed teeth.  Then called Mike and asked if
this person was Party member?  Was not.  So I recommended that Mike
trace down Party tree and see if somebody could recruit him.

Most interesting echo was in File Zebra.  "Adam Selene" appeared in
boss fink's security file less than a lunar after we created him, with
notation that this was a cover name for a leader in a new
underground.

Alvarez's spies did a job on Adam Selene.  Over course of months his
File Zebra dossier built up: Male, 34-45, offices south face of Old
Dome, usually there 0900-1800 Gr.  except Saturday but calls are
relayed at other hours, home inside urban pressure as travel time never
exceeds seventeen minutes.  Children in household.  Activities include
stock brokerage, farming interests.  Attends theater, concerts, etc.
Probably member Luna City Chess Club and Luna Assoc, d'Echecs.  Plays
ricochet and other heavy sports lunch hour, probably Luna City Athletic
Club.  Gourmet but watches weight.  Remarkable memory plus mathematical
ability.  Executive type, able to reach decisions quickly.

One fink was convinced that he had talked to Adam between acts at
revival of Hamlet by Civic Players; Alvarez noted description--and
matched our picture all but wavy hair!

But thing that drove Alvarez crackers was that phone numbers for Adam
were reported and every time they turned out wrong numbers.  (Not
nulls; we had run out and Mike was using any number not in use and
switching numbers anytime new subscribers were assigned ones we had
been using.) Alvarez tried to trace "Selene Associates" using a
one-wrong-digit assumption--this we learned because Mike was keeping an
ear on Alvarez's office phone and heard order.  Mike used knowledge to
play a Mikish prank: Subordinate who made one-changed-digit calls
invariably reached Warden's private residence.  So Alvarez was called
in and chewed by Warden.

Couldn't scold Mike but did warn him it would alert any smart person to
fact that somebody was playing tricks with computer.  Mike answered
that they were not that smart.

Main result of Alvarez's efforts was that each time he got a number for
Adam we located a spy--a new spy, as those we had spotted earlier were
never given phone numbers; instead they were recruited into a
tail-chasing organization where they could inform on each other.  But
with Alvarez's help we spotted each new spy almost at once.  I think
Alvarez became unhappy over spies he was able to hire; two disappeared
and our organization, then over six thousand, was never able to find
them.  Eliminated, I suppose, or died under questioning.

Selene Associates was not only phony company we set up.  LuNoHoCo was
much larger, just as phony, and not at all dummy; it had main offices
in Hong Kong, branches in Novy Leningrad and Luna City, eventually
employed hundreds of people most of whom were not Party members, and
was our most difficult operation.

Mike's master plan listed a weary number of problems which had to be
solved.  One was finance.  Another was how to protect catapult from
space attack.

Prof considered robbing banks to solve first, gave it up reluctantly.
But eventually we did rob banks, firms, and Authority itself.  Mike
thought of it.  Mike and Prof worked it out.  At first was not clear to
Mike why we needed money.  He knew as little about pressure that keeps
humans scratching as he knew about sex; Mike handled millions of
dollars and could not see any problem.  He started by offering to issue
an Authority cheque for whatever dollars we wanted.

Prof shied in horror.  He then explained to Mike hazard in trying to
cash a cheque for, let us say, AS $10,000,000 drawn on Authority.

So they undertook to do it, but retail, in many names and places all
over Luna.  Every bank, firm, shop, agency including Authority, for
which Mike did accounting, was tapped for Party funds.  Was a pyramided
swindle based on fact, unknown to me but known to Prof and latent in
Mike's immense knowledge, that most money is simply bookkeeping.

Example--multiply by hundreds of many types: My family son Sergei,
eighteen and a Party member, is asked to start account at Commonwealth
Shared Risk.  He makes deposits and withdrawals.  Small errors are made
each time; he is credited with more than he deposits, is debited with
less than he withdraws.  A few months later he takes job out of town
and transfers account to Tycho-Under Mutual; transferred funds are
three times already-inflated amount.  Most of this he soon draws out in
cash and passes to his cell leader.  Mike knows amount Sergei should
hand over, but (since they do not know that Adam Selene and bank's
computer-boo keeper are one and same) they have each been instructed to
report transaction to Adam--keep them honest though scheme was not.

Multiply this theft of about HK$3,000 by hundreds somewhat like it.

I can't describe jiggery-pokery Mike used to balance his books while
keeping thousands of thefts from showing.  But bear in mind that an
auditor must assume that machines are honest.  He will make test runs
to check that machines are working correctly--but will not occur to him
that tests prove nothing because machine itself is dishonest.  Mike's
thefts were never large enough to disturb economy; like half-liter of
blood, amount was too small to hurt donor.  I can't make up mind who
lost, money was swapped around so many ways.  But scheme troubled me; I
was brought up to be honest, except with Authority.  Prof claimed that
what was taking place was a mild inflation offset by fact that we
plowed money back in--but I should remember that Mike had records and
all could be restored after Revolution, with ease since we would no
longer be bled in much larger amounts by Authority.

I told conscience to go to sleep.  Was pipsqueak compared to swindles
by every government throughout history in financing every war--and is
not revolution a war?

This money, after passing through many hands (augmented by Mike each
time), wound up as senior financing of LuNoHo Company.  Was a mixed
company, mutual and stock; "gentleman-adventurer" guarantors who backed
stock put up that stolen money in own names.  Won't discuss bookkeeping
this firm used.  Since Mike ran everything, was not corrupted by any
tinge of honesty.

Nevertheless its shares were traded in Hong Kong Luna Exchange and
listed in Zurich, London, and New York.  Wall Street Journal called it
"an attractive high-risk-high-gain investment with novel growth
potential."

LuNoHoCo was an engineering and exploitation firm, engaged in many
ventures, mostly legitimate.  But prime purpbse was to build a second
catapult, secretly.

Operation could not be secret.  You can't buy or build a
hydrogen-fusion power plant for such and not have it noticed. (Sunpower
was rejected for obvious reasons.) Parts were ordered from Pittsburgh,
standard Univ Calif equipment, and we happily paid their royalties to
get top quality.  Can't build a stator for a kilometers-long induction
field without having it noticed, either.  But most important you cannot
do major construction hiring many people and not have it show.  Sure,
catapults are mostly vacuum; stator rings aren't even close together at
ejection end.  But Authority's 3-g catapult was almost one hundred
kilometers long.  It was not only an astrogation landmark, on every
Luna-jump chart, but was so big it could be photographed or seen by eye
from Terra with not-large telescope.  It showed up beautifully on a
radar screen.

We were building a shorter catapult, a 10-g job, but even that was
thirty kilometers long, too big to hide.

So we hid it by Purloined Letter method.

I used to question Mike's endless reading of fiction, wondering what
notions he was getting.  But turned out he got a better feeling for
human life from stories than he had been able to garner from facts;
fiction gave him a gestalt of life, one taken for granted by a human;
he lives it.  Besides this "humanizing" effect, Mike's substitute for
experience, he got ideas from "not-true data" as he called fiction. How
to hide a catapult he got from Edgar Allan Poe.

We hid it in literal sense, too; this catapult had to be underground,
so that it would not show to eye or radar.  But had to be hidden in
more subtle sense; selenographic location had to be secret.

How can this be, with a monster that big, worked on by so many people?
Put it this way: Suppose you live in Novylen; know where Luna City is?
Why, on east edge of Mare Crisium; everybody knows that.  So?  What
latitude and longitude?  Huh?  Look it up in a reference book!  So?  If
you don't know where any better than that, how did you find it last
week?  No huhu, cobber; I took tube, changed at Torricelli, slept rest
of way; finding it was capsule's worry.

See?  You don't know where Luna City is!  You simply get out when
capsule pulls in at Tube Station South.

That's how we hid catapult.

Is in Mare Undarum area, "everybody knows that."  But where it is and
where we said it was differ by amount greater or less than one hundred
kilometers in direction north, south, east, or west, or some
combination.

Today you can look up its location in reference books--and find same
wrong answer.  Location of that catapult is still most closely guarded
secret in Luna.

Can't be seen from space, by eye or radar.  Is underground save for
ejection and that is a big black shapeless hole like ten thousand
others and high up an uninviting mountain with no place for a jump
rocket to put down.

Nevertheless many people were there, during and after construction.
Even Warden visited and my co-husband Greg showed him around.  Warden
went by mail rocket, commandeered for day, and his Cyborg was given
coordinates and a radar beacon to home on--a spot in fact not far from
site.  But from there, it was necessary to travel by rolligon and our
lorries were not like passenger buses from Endsville to Beluthihatchie
in old days; they were cargo carriers, no ports for sightseeing and a
ride so rough that human cargo had to be strapped down.  Warden wanted
to ride up in cab but--sorry, Gospodin!--just space for wrangler and
his helper and took both to keep her steady.

Three hours later he did not care about anything but getting home.  He
stayed one hour and was not interested in talk about purpose of all
this drilling and value of resources uncovered.

Less important people, workmen and others, traveled by interconnecting
ice-exploration bores, still easier way to get lost.  If anybody
carried an inertial pathfinder in his luggage, he could have located
site--but security was tight.  One did so and had accident with p-suit;
his effects were returned to L-City and his pathfinder read what it
should--i.e."  what we wanted it to read, for I made hurried trip out
with number-three arm along.  You can reseal one without a trace if you
do it in nitrogen atmosphere--I wore an oxygen mask at slight
overpressure.  No huhu.

We entertained vips from Earth, some high in Authority.  They traveled
easier underground route; I suppose Warden had warned them.  But even
on that route is one thirty-kilometer stretch by rolligon.  We had one
visitor from Earth who looked like trouble, a Dr.  Dorian, physicist
and engineer.  Lorry tipped over--silly driver tried shortcut--they
were not in line-of-sight for anything and their beacon was smashed.
Poor Dr.  Dorian spent seventy-two hours in an unsealed pumice igloo
and had to be returned to L-City ill from hypoxia and overdose of
radiation despite efforts on his behalf by two Party members driving
him.

Might have been safe to let him see; he might not have spotted
doubletalk and would not have spotted error in location.  Few people
look at stars when p-suited even when Sun doesn't make it futile; still
fewer can read stars--and nobody can locate himself on surface without
help unless he has instruments, knows how to use them and has tables
and something to give a time tick.  Put at crudest level, minimum would
be octant, tables, and good watch.  Our visitors were even encouraged
to go out on surface but if one had carried an octant or modern
equivalent, might have had accident.

We did not make accidents for spies.  We let them stay, worked them
hard, and Mike read their reports.  One reported that he was certain
that we had found uranium ore, something unknown in Luna at that time.
Project Centerbore being many years later.  Next spy came out with kit
of radiation counters.  We made it easy for him to sneak them through
bore.

By March '76 catapult was almost ready, lacking only installation of
stator segments.  Power plant was in and a co-ax had been strung
underground with a line-of-sight link for that thirty kilometers.  Crew
was down to skeleton size, mostly Party members.  But we kept one spy
so that Alvarez could have regular reports--didn't want him to worry;
it tended to make him suspicious.  Instead we worried him in warrens.

Were changes in those eleven months.  Wyoh was baptized into Greg's
church, Prof's health became so shaky that he dropped teaching, Mike
took up writing poetry.  Yankees finished in cellar.  Wouldn't have
minded paying Prof if they had been nosed out, but from pennant to
cellar in one season--I quit watching them on video.

Prof's illness was phony.  He was in perfect shape for age, exercising
in hotel room three hours each day, and sleeping in three hundred
kilograms of lead pajamas.  And so was I, and so was Wyoh, who hated
it.  I don't think she ever cheated and spent night in comfort though
can't say for sure; I was not dos sing with her.  She had become a
fixture in Davis family.  Took her one day to go from "Gospazha Davis"
to "Gospazha Mum," one more to reach "Mum" and now it might be "Mimi
Mum" with arm around Mum's waist.  When Zebra File showed she couldn't
go back to Hong Kong, Sidris had taken Wyoh into her beauty shop after
hours and done a job which left skin same dark shade but would not
scrub off.  Sidris also did a hairdo on Wyoh that left it black and
looking as if unsuccessfully un kinked Plus minor touches--opaque nail
enamel, plastic inserts for cheeks and nostrils and of course she wore
her dark-eyed contact lenses.  When Sidris got through, Wyoh could have
gone bundling without fretting about her disguise; was a perfect
"colored" with ancestry to match--Tamil, a touch of Angola, German.  I
called her "Wyma" rather than "Wyoh."

She was gorgeous.  When she undulated down a corridor, boys followed in
swarms.

She started to learn farming from Greg but Mum put stop to that.  While
she was big and smart and willing, our farm is mostly a male
operation--and Greg and Hans were not only male members of our family
distracted; she cost more farming man-hours than her industry equaled.
So Wyoh went back to housework, then Sidris took her into beauty shop
as helper.

Prof played ponies with two accounts, betting one by Mike's "leading
apprentice" system, other by his own "scientific" system.  By July '75
he admitted that he knew nothing about horses and went solely to Mike's
system, increasing bets and spreading them among many bookies.  His
winnings paid Party's expenses while Mike built swindle that financed
catapult.  But Prof lost interest in a sure thing and merely placed
bets as Mike designated.  He stopped reading pony journals--sad,
something dies when an old horseplayer quits.

Ludmilla had a girl which they say is lucky in a first and which
delighted me--every family needs a girl baby.  Wyoh surprised our women
by being expert in midwifery--and surprised them again that she knew
nothing about baby care.  Our two oldest sons found marriages at last
and Teddy, thirteen, was opted out.  Greg hired two lads from neighbor
farms and, after six months of working and eating with us, both were
opted in--not rushing things, we had known them and their families for
years.  It restored balance we had lacked since Ludmilla's opting and
put stop to snide remarks from mothers of bachelors who had not found
marriages---not that Mum wasn't capable of snubbing anyone she did not
consider up to Davis standards.

Wyoh recruited Sidris; Sidris started own cell by recruiting her other
assistant and Bon Ton Beaute Shoppe became hotbed of subversion.  We
started using our smallest kids for deliveries and other jobs a child
can do--they can stake out or trail a person through corridors better
than an adult, and are not suspected.  Sidris grabbed this notion and
expanded it through women recruited in beauty parlor.

Soon she had so many kids on tap that we could keep all of Alvarez's
spies under surveillance.  With Mike able to listen at any phone and a
child spotting it whenever a spy left home or place of work or
wherever--with enough kids on call so that one could phone while
another held down a new stakeout--we could keep a spy under tight
observation and keep him from seeing anything we didn't want him to
see.  Shortly we were getting reports spies phoned in without waiting
for Zebra File; it did a sod no good to phone from a taproom instead of
home; with Baker Street Irregulars on job Mike was listening before he
finished punching number.

These kids located Alvarez's deputy spy boss in L-City.  We knew he had
one because these finks did not report to Alvarez by phone, nor did it
seem possible that Alvarez could have recruited them as none of them
worked in Complex and Alvarez came inside Luna City only when an
Earthside vip was so important as to rate a bodyguard commanded by
Alvarez in person.

His deputy turned out to be two people--an old lag who ran a candy,
news, and bookie counter in Old Dome and his son who was on civil
service in Complex.  Son carried reports in, so Mike had not been able
to hear them.

We let them alone.  But from then on we had fink field reports half a
day sooner than Alvarez.  This advantage--all due to kids as young as
five or six--saved lives of seven comrades.  All glory to Baker Street
Irregulars!

Don't remember who named them but think it was Mike--I was merely a
Sherlock Homes fan whereas he really did think he was Sherlock Holmes's
brother Mycroft ... nor would I swear he was not; "reality" is a
slippery notion.  Kids did not call themselves that; they had their own
play gangs with own names.  Nor were they burdened with secrets which
could endanger them; Sidris left it to mothers to explain why they were
being asked to do these jobs save that they were never to be told real
reason.  Kids will do anything mysterious and fun; look how many of
their games are based on outsmarting.

Bon Ton salon was a clearinghouse of gossip--women get news faster than
Daily Lunatic.  I encouraged Wyoh to report to Mike each night, not try
to thin gossip down to what seemed significant because was no telling
what might be significant once Mike got through associating it with a
million other facts.

Beauty parlor was also place to start rumors.  Party had grown slowly
at first, then rapidly as powers-of-three began to be felt and also
because Peace Dragoons were nastier than older bodyguard.  As numbers
increased we shifted to high speed on agitprop, black-propaganda
rumors, open subversion, provocateur activities, and sabotage.  Finn
Nielsen handled agitprop when it was simpler as well as dangerous job
of continuing to front for and put cover-up activity into older, spy
ridden underground.  But now a large chunk of agitprop and related work
was given to Sidris.

Much involved distributing handbills and such.  No subversive
literature was ever in her shop, nor our home, nor that hotel room;
distribution was done by kids, too young to read.

Sidris was also working a full day bending hair and such.  About time
she began to have too much to do I happened one evening to make
walk-about on Causeway with Sidris on my arm when I caught sight of a
familiar face and figure--skinny little girl, all angles, carrot-red
hair.  She was possibly twelve, at stage when a fern shoots up just
before blossoming out into rounded softness.  I knew her but could not
say why or when or where.

I said, "Psst, doll baby.  Eyeball young fern ahead.  Orange hair, no
cushions."

Sidris looked her over.  "Darling, I knew you were eccentric.  But
she's still a boy."

"Damp it.  Who?"

"Bog knows.  Shall I sprag her?"

Suddenly I remembered like video coming on.  And wished Wyoh were with
me-but Wyoh and I were never together in public.  This skinny redhead
had been at meeting where Shorty was killed.  She sat on floor against
wall down front and listened with wide-eyed seriousness and applauded
fiercely.  Then I had seen her at end in free trajectory--curled into
ball in air and had hit a yellow jacket in knees, he whose jaw I broke
a moment later.

Wyoh and I were alive and free because this kid moved fast in a crisis.
"No, don't speak to her," I told Sidris.  "But I want to keep her in
sight.  Wish we had one of your Irregulars here.  Damn."

"Drop off and phone Wyoh, you'll have one in five minutes," my wife
said.

I did.  Then Sidris and I strolled, looking in shop windows and moving
slowly, as quarry was window-shopping.  In seven or eight minutes a
small boy came toward us, stopped and said, "Hello, Auntie Mabell.  Hi,
Uncle Joe."

Sidris took his hand.  "Hi, Tony.  How's your mother, dear?"

"Just fine."  He added in a whisper, "I'm Jock."

"Sorry."  Sidris said quietly to me, "Stay on her," and took Jock into
a tuck shop.

She came out and joined me.  Jock followed her licking a lollipop.
""Bye, Auntie Mabel!  Thanks!"  He danced away, rotating, wound up by
that little redhead, stood and stared into a display, solemnly sucking
his sweet.  Sidris and I went home.

A report was waiting.  "She went into Cradle Roll Creche and hasn't
come out.  Do we stay on it?"

"A bit yet," I told Wyoh, and asked if she remembered this kid.  She
did, but had no idea who she might be.  "You could ask Finn."

"Can do better."  I called Mike.

Yes, Cradle Roll Creche had a phone and Mike would listen.  Took him
twenty minutes to pick up enough to give analysis--many young voices
and at such ages almost sexless.  But presently he told me, "Man, I
hear three voices that could match the age and physical type you
described.  However, two answer to names which I assume to be
masculine.  The third answers when anyone says "Hazel'--which an older
female voice does repeatedly.  She seems to be Hazel's boss."

"Mike, look at old organization file.  Check Hazels."

"Four Hazels," he answered at once, "and here she is: Hazel Meade,
Young Comrades Auxiliary, address Cradle Roll Creche, born 25 December
2063, mass thirty-nine kilos, height--"

"That's our little jump jet!  Thanks, Mike.  Wyoh, call off stake-out.
Good job!"

"Mike, call Donna and pass the word, that's a dear."

I left it to girls to recruit Hazel Meade and did not eyeball her until
Sidris moved her into our household two weeks later.  But Wyoh
volunteered a report before then; policy was involved.  Sidris had
filled her cell but wanted Hazel Meade.  Besides this irregularity,
Sidris was doubtful about recruiting a child.  Policy was adults only,
sixteen and up.

I took it to Adam Selene and executive cell.  "As I see," I said, "this
cells-of-three system is to serve us, not bind us.  See nothing wrong
in Comrade Cecilia having an extra.  Nor any real danger to
security."

"I agree," said Prof.  "But I suggest that the extra member not be part
of Cecilia's cell--she should not know the others, I mean, unless the
duties Cecilia gives her make it necessary.  Nor do I think she should
recruit, at her age.  The real question is her age."

"Agreed," said Wyoh.  "I want to talk about this kid's age."

"Friends," Mike said diffidently (diffidently first time in weeks; he
was now that confident executive "Adam Selene" much more than lonely
machine)--"perhaps I should have told you, but I have already granted
similar variations.  It did not seem to require discussion."

"It doesn't, Mike," Prof reassured him.  "A chairman must use his own
judgment.  What is our largest cell?"

"Five.  it is a double cell, three and two."

"No harm done.  Dear Wyoh, does Sidris propose to make this child a
full comrade?  Let her know that we are committed to revolution... with
all the bloodshed, disorder, and possible disaster that entails?"

"That's exactly what she is requesting."

"But, dear lady, while we are staking our lives, we are old enough to
know it.  For that, one should have an emotional grasp of death.
Children seldom are able to realize that death will come to them
personally.  One might define adulthood as the age at which a person
learns that he must die... and accepts his sentence undismayed."

"Prof," I said, "I know some mighty tall children.  Seven to two some
are in Party."

"No bet, cobber.  It'll give odds that at least half of them don't
qualify--and we may find it out the hard way at the end of this our
folly."

"Prof," Wyoh insisted.  "Mike, Mannie.  Sidris is certain this child is
an adult.  And I think so, too."

"Man?"  asked Mike.

"Let's find way for Prof to meet her and form own opinion.  I was taken
by her.  Especially her go-to-hell fighting.  Or would never have
started it."

We adjourned and I heard no more.  Hazel showed up at dinner shortly
thereafter as Sidris' guest.  She showed no sign of recognizing me, nor
did I admit that I had ever seen her--but learned long after that she
had recognized me, not just by left arm but because I had been hatted
and kissed by tall blonde from Hong Kong.  Furthermore Hazel had seen
through Wyoming's disguise, recognized what Wyoh never did successfully
disguise: her voice.

But Hazel used lip glue.  If she ever assumed I was in conspiracy she
never showed it.

Child's history explained her, far as background can explain steely
character.  Transported with parents as a baby much as Wyoh had been,
she had lost father through accident while he was convict labor, which
her mother blamed on indifference of Authority to safety of penal
colonists.  Her mother lasted till Hazel was five; what she died from
Hazel did not know; she was then living in creche where we found her.
Nor did she know why parents had been shipped--possibly for subversion
if they were both under sentence as Hazel thought.  As may be, her
mother left her a fierce hatred of Authority and Warden.

Family that ran Cradle Roll let her stay; Hazel was pinning diapers and
washing dishes as soon as she could reach.  She had taught herself to
read, and could print letters but could not write.  Her knowledge of
math was only that ability to count money that children soak up through
their skins.

Was fuss over her leaving creche; owner and husbands claimed Hazel owed
several years' service.  Hazel solved it by walking out, leaving her
clothes and fewer belongings behind.  Mum was angry enough to want
family to start trouble which could wind up in "brawling" she despised.
But I told her privately that, as her cell leader, I did nor want our
family in public eye--and hauled out cash and told her Party would pay
for clothes for Hazel.  Mum refused money, called off a family meeting,
took Hazel into town and was extravagant--for Mum--in re-outfitting
her.

So we adopted Hazel.  I understand that these days adopting a child
involves red tape; in those days it was as simple as adopting a
kitten.

Was more fuss when Mum started to place Hazel in school, which fitted
neither what Sidris had in mind nor what Hazel had been led to expect
as a Party member and comrade.  Again I butted in and Mum gave in part
way.  Hazel was placed in a tutoring school close to Sidris' shop--that
is, near easement lock thirteen; beauty parlor was by it (Sidris had
good business because close enough that our water was piped in, and
used without limit as return line took it back for salvage).  Hazel
studied mornings and helped in afternoons, pinning on gowns, handing
out towels, giving rinses, learning trade--and whatever else Sidris
wanted.

"Whatever else" was captain of Baker Street Irregulars.

Hazel had handled younger kids all her short life.  They liked her; she
could wheedle them into anything; she understood what they said when an
adult would find it gibberish.  She was a perfect bridge between Party
and most junior auxiliary.  She could make a game of chores we assigned
and persuade them to play by rules she gave them, and never let them
know it was adult-serious----but child-serious, which is another
matter.

For example:

Let's say a little one, too young to read, is caught with a stack of
subversive literature--which happened more than once.  Here's how it
would go, after Hazel indoctrinated a kid:

ADULT: "Baby, where did you get this?"

BAKER STREET IRREGULAR: "I'm not a baby, I'm a big boy!"

ADULT: "Okay, big boy, where did you get this?"

B.S.I.: "Jackie give it to me."

ADULT: "Who is Jackie?"

B.S.I.: "Jackie."

ADULT: "But what's his last name?"

B.S.I.: "Who?"

ADULT: "Jackie."

B.S.I.: (scornfully) "Jackie's a girl!"

ADULT: "All right, where does she live?"

B.S.L: "Who?"

And so on around-To all questions key answer was of pattern: "Jackie
give it to me."  Since Jackie didn't exist, he (she) didn't have a last
name, a home address, nor fixed sex.  Those children enjoyed making
fools of adults, once they learned how easy it was.

At worst, literature was confiscated.  Even a squad of Peace Dragoons
thought twice before trying to "arrest" a small child.  Yes, we were
beginning to have squads of Dragoons inside Luna city, but never less
than a squad--some had gone in singly and not come back.

When Mike started writing poetry I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He wanted to publish it!  Shows how thoroughly humanity had corrupted
this innocent machine that he should wish to see his name in print.

I said, "Mike, for Bog's sake!  Blown all circuits?  Or planning to
give us away?"

Before he could sulk Prof said, "Hold on, Manuel; I see possibilities.
Mike, would it suit you to take a pen name?"

That's how "Simon Jester" was born.  Mike picked it apparently by
tossing random numbers.  But he used another name for serious verse,
his Party name, Adam Selene.

"Simon's" verse was doggerel, bawdy, subversive, ranging from poking
fun at vips to savage attacks on Warden, system, Peace Dragoons, finks.
You found it on walls of public WCs, or on scraps of paper left in tube
capsules: Or in taprooms.  Wherever they were they were signed "Simon
Jester" and with a matchstick drawing of a little horned devil with big
grin and forked tail.  Sometimes he was stabbing a fat man with a
pitchfork.  Sometimes just his face would appear, big grin and horns,
until shortly even horns and grin meant "Simon was here."

Simon appeared all over Luna same day and from then on never let up.
Shortly he started receiving volunteer help; his verses and little
pictures, so simple anybody could draw them, began appearing more
places than we had planned.  This wider coverage had to be from fellow
travelers.  Verses and cartoons started appearing inside Complex--which
could not have been our work; we never recruited civil servants.  Also,
three days after initial appearance of a very rough limerick, one that
implied that Warden's fatness derived from unsavory habits, this
limerick popped up on pressure-sticky labels with cartoon improved so
that fat victim flinching from Simon's pitchfork was recognizably Mort
the Wart.  We didn't buy them, we didn't print them.  But they appeared
in L-City and Novylen and Hong Kong, stuck almost everywhere--public
phones, stanchions in corridors, pressure locks, ramp railings, other.
I had a sample count made, fed it to Mike; he reported that over
seventy thousand labels had been used in L-City alone.

I did not know of a printing plant in L-City willing to risk such a job
and equipped for it.  Began to wonder if might be another revolutionary
cabal?

Simon's verses were such a success that he branched out as a
poltergeist and neither Warden nor security chief was allowed to miss
it.  "Dear Mort the Wart," ran one letter.  "Do please be careful from
midnight to four hundred tomorrow.  Love & Kisses, Simon"--with horns
and grin.  In same mail Alvarez received one reading: "Dear Pimplehead,
If the Warden breaks his leg tomorrow night it will be your fault.
Faithfully your conscience, Simon"--again with horns and smile.

We didn't have anything planned; we just wanted Mort and Alvarez to
lose sleep--which they did, plus bodyguard.  All Mike did was to call
Warden's private phone at intervals from midnight to four hundred--an
unlisted number supposedly known only to his personal staff.  By
calling members of his personal staff simultaneously and connecting
them to Mort Mike not only created confusion but got Warden angry at
his assistants--he flatly refused to believe their denials.

But was luck that Warden, goaded too far, ran down a ramp.  Even a new
chum does that only once.  So he walked on air and sprained an
ankle--close enough to a broken leg and Alvarez was there when it
happened.

Those sleep-losers were mostly just that.  Like rumor that Authority
catapult had been mined and would be blown up, another night.  Ninety
plus eighteen men can't search a hundred kilometers of catapult in
hours, especially when ninety are Peace Dragoons not used to p-suit
work and hating it--this midnight came at new earth with Sun high; they
were outside far longer than is healthy, managed to cook up their own
accidents while almost cooking themselves, and showed nearest thing to
mutiny in regiment's history.  One accident was fatal.  Did he fall or
was he pushed?  A sergeant.

Midnight al arums made Peace Dragoons on passport watch much taken by
yawning and more bad-tempered, which produced more clashes with Loonies
and still greater resentment both ways--so Simon increased pressure.

Adam Selene's verse was on a higher plane.  Mike submitted it to Prof
and accepted his literary judgment (good, I think) without resentment.
Mike's scansion and rhyming were perfect, Mike being a computer with
whole English language in his memory and able to search for a fitting
word in microseconds.  What was weak was self-criticism.  That improved
rapidly under Prof's stern editorship.

Adam Selene's by-line appeared first in dignified pages of Moonglow
over a somber poem titled: "Home."  Was dying thoughts of old
transportee, his discovery as he is about to leave that Luna is his
beloved home.  Language was simple, rhyme scheme unforced, only thing
faintly subversive was conclusion on part of dying man that even many
wardens he has endured was not too high a price.

Doubt if Moonglow's editors thought twice.  Was good stuff, they
published.

Alvarez turned editorial office inside out trying to get a line back to
Adam Selene.  Issue had been on sale half a lunar before Alvarez
noticed it, or had it called to his attention; we were fretted, we
wanted that by-line noticed.  We were much pleased with way Alvarez
oscillated when he did see it.

Editors were unable to help fink boss.  They told him truth: Poem had
come in by mail.  Did they have it?  Yes, surely... sorry, no envelope;
they were never saved.  After a long time Alvarez left, flanked by four
Dragoons he had fetched along for his health.

Hope he enjoyed studying that sheet of paper.  Was piece of Adam
Selene's business stationery:

SELENE ASSOCIATES

LUNA CITY

Investments Office of the Chairman

Old Dome

--and under that was typed Home, by Adam Selene, etc.

Any fingerprints were added after it left us.  Had been typed on
Underwood Office Electrostator, commonest model in Luna.  Even so, were
not too many as are import ado a scientific detective could have
identified machine.  Would have found it in Luna City office of Lunar
Authority.  Machines, should say, as we found six of model in office
and used them in rotation, five words and move to next.  Cost Wyoh and
self sleep and too much risk even though Mike listened at every phone,
ready to warn.  Never did it that way again.

Alvarez was not a scientific detective.

In early '76 I had too much to do.  Could not neglect customers.  Party
work took more time even though all possible was delegated.  But
decisions had to be made on endless things and messages passed up and
down.  Had to squeeze in hours of heavy exercise, wearing weights, and
dasn't arrange permission to use centrifuge at Complex, one used by
earthworm scientists to stretch time in Luna--while had used it before,
this time could not advertise that I was getting in shape for
Earthside.

Exercising without centrifuge is less efficient and was especially
boring because did not know there would be need for it.  But according
to Mike 30 percent of ways events could fall required some Loonie, able
to speak for Party, to make trip to Terra.

Could not see myself as an ambassador, don't have education and not
diplomatic.  Prof was obvious choice of those recruited or likely to
be.  But Prof was old, might not live to land Earthside.  Mike told us
that a man of Prof's age, body type, etc."  had less than 40 percent
chance of reaching Terra alive.

But Prof did gaily undertake strenuous training to let him make most of
his poor chances, so what could I do but put on weights and get to
work, ready to go and take his place if old heart clicked off?  Wyoh
did same, on assumption that something might keep me from going.  She
did it to share misery; Wyoh always used gallantry in place of logic.

On top of business, Party work, and exercise was farming.  We had lost
three sons by marriage while gaining two fine lads, Frank and Ali. Then
Greg went to work for LuNoHoCo, as boss drill man on new catapult.

Was needful.  Much skull sweat went into hiring construction crew.  We
could use non-Party men for most jobs, but key spots had to be Party
men as competent as they were politically reliable.  Greg did not want
to go; our farm needed him and he did not like to leave his
congregation.  But accepted.

That made me again a valet, part time, to pigs and chickens.  Hans is a
good farmer, picked up load and worked enough for two men.  But Greg
had been farm manager ever since Grandpaw retired, new responsibility
worried Hans.  Should have been mine, being senior, but Hans was better
farmer and closer to it; always been expected he would succeed Greg
someday.  So I backed him up by agreeing with his opinions and tried to
be half a farm hand in hours I could squeeze.  Left no time to
scratch.

Late in February I was returning from long trip, Novylen, Tycho Under,
Churchill.  New tube had just been completed across Sinus Medii, so I
went on to Hong Kong in Luna--business and did make contacts now that I
could promise emergency service.  Fact that Endsville-Beluthihatchie
bus ran only during dark semi-lunar had made impossible before.

But business was cover for politics; liaison with Hong Kong had been
thin.  Wyoh had done well by phone; second member of her cell was an
old comrade.--"Comrade Clayton"--who not only had clean bill of health
in Alverez's File Zebra but also stood high in Wyoh's estimation.
Clayton was briefed on policies, warned of bad apples, encouraged to
start cell system while leaving old organization untouched.  Wyoh told
him to keep his membership, as before.

But phone isn't face-to-face.  Hong Kong should have been our
stronghold.  Was less tied to Authority as its utilities were not
controlled from Complex; was less dependent because lack (until
recently) of tube transport had made selling at catapult head less
inviting; was stronger financially as Bank of Hong Kong Luna notes were
better money than official Authority scrip.

I suppose Hong Kong dollars weren't "money" in some legal sense.
Authority would not accept them; times I went Earthside had to buy
Authority scrip to pay for ticket.  But what I carried was Hong Kong
dollars as could be traded Earthside at a small discount whereas scrip
was nearly worthless there.  Money or not, Hong Kong Bank notes were
backed by honest Chinee bankers instead of being fiat of bureaucracy.
One hundred Hong Kong dollars was 31.1 grams of gold (old troy ounce)
payable on demand at home office--and they did keep gold there, fetched
up from Australia.  Or you could demand commodities: non-potable water,
steel of defined grade, heavy water of power plant specs, other things.
Could buy these with scrip, too, but Authority's prices kept changing,
upward.  I'm no fiscal theorist; time Mike tried to explain I got
headache.  Simply know we were glad to lay hands on this non-money
whereas scrip one accepted reluctantly and not just because we hated
Authority.

Hong Kong should have been Party's stronghold.  But was not.  We had
decided that I should risk face-to-face there, letting some know my
identity, as a man with one arm can't disguise easily.  Was risk that
would jeopardize not only me but could lead to Wyoh, Mum, Greg, and
Sidris if I took a fall.  But who said revolution was safe?

Comrade Clayton turned out to be young Japanese--not too young, but
they all look young till suddenly look old.  He was not all
Japanese--Malay and other things--but had Japanese name and household
had Japanese manners; "giri" and "gimu" controlled and it was my good
fortune that he owed much gimu to Wyoh.

Clayton was not convict ancestry; his people had been "volunteers"
marched aboard ship at gunpoint during time Great China consolidated
Earthside empire.  I didn't hold it against him; he hated Warden as
bitterly as any old lag.

Met him first at a teahouse--taproom to us L-City types--and for two
hours we talked everything but politics.  He made up mind about me,
took me home.  My only complaint about Japanese hospitality is those
chin-high baths are too bleeding hot.

But turned out I was not jeopardized.  Mama-san was as skilled at
makeup as Sidris, my social arm is very convincing, and a kimona
covered its seam.  Met four cells in two days, as "Comrade Bork" and
wearing makeup and kimona and tabi and, if a spy was among them, don't
think he could identify Manuel O'Kelly.  I had gone there intensely
briefed, endless figures and projections, and talked about just one
thing: famine in '82, six years away.  "You people are lucky, won't be
hit so soon.  But now with new tube, you are going to see more and more
of your people turning to wheat and rice and shipping it to catapult
head.  Your time will come."

They were impressed.  Old organization, as I saw it and from what I
heard, relied on oratory, whoop-it-up music, and emotion, much like
church.  I simply said, "There it is, comrades.  Check those figures;
I'll leave them with you."

Met one comrade separately.  A Chinee engineer given a good look at
anything can figure way to make it.  Asked this one if he had ever seen
a laser gun small enough to carry like a rifle.  He had not.  Mentioned
that passport system made it difficult to smuggle these days.  He said
thoughtfully that jewels ought not to be hard--and he would be in Luna
City next week to see his cousin.  I said Uncle Adam would be pleased
to hear from him.

All in all was productive trip.  On way back I stopped in Novylen to
check an old-fashioned punched-tape "Foreman" I had overhauled earlier,
had lunch afterwards, ran into my father.  He and I were friendly but
didn't matter if we let a couple of years go by.  We talked through a
sandwich and beer and as I got up he said, "Nice to see you, Mannie.
Free Luna!"

I echoed, too startled not to.  My old man was as cynically
non-political as you could find; if he would say that in public,
campaign must be taking hold.

So I arrived in L-City cheered up and not too tired, having napped from
Torricelli.  Took Belt from Tube South, then dropped down and through
Bottom Alley, avoiding Causeway crowd and heading home.  Went into
Judge Brody's courtroom as I came to it, meaning to say hello.  Brody
is old friend and we have amputation in common.  After he lost a leg he
set up as a judge and was quite successful; was not another judge in
L-City at that time who did not have side business, at least make book
or sell insurance.

If two people brought a quarrel to Brody and he could not get them to
agree that his settlement was just, he would return fees and, if they
fought, referee their duel without charging--and still be trying to
persuade them not to use knives right up to squaring off.

He wasn't in his courtroom though plug hat was on desk.  Started to
leave, only to be checked by group coming in, stilyagi types.  A girl
was with them, and an older man hustled by them.  He was mussed, and
clothing had that vague something that says "tourist."

We used to get tourists even then.  Not hordes but quite a few.  They
would come up from Earth, stop in a hotel for a week, go back in same
ship or perhaps stop over for next ship.  Most of them spent their time
gambling after a day or two of sightseeing including that silly walk up
on surface every tourist makes.  Most Loonies ignored them and granted
them their foibles.

One lad, oldest, about eighteen and leader, said to me, "Where's
judge?"

"Don't know.  Not here."

He chewed lip, looked baffled.  I said, "What trouble?"

He said soberly, "Going to eliminate his choom.  But want judge to
confirm it."

I said, "Cover taprooms here around.  Probably find him."

A boy about fourteen spoke up.  "Say!  Aren't you Gospodin O'Kelly?"

"Right."

"Why don't you judge it."

Oldest looked relieved.  "Will you, Gospodin?"

I hesitated.  Sure, I've gone judge at times; who hasn't?  But don't
hanker for responsibility.  However, it troubled me to hear young
people talk about eliminating a tourist.  Bound to cause talk.

Decided to do it.  So I said to tourist, "Will you accept me as your
judge?"

He looked surprised.  "I have choice in the matter?"

I said patiently, "Of course.  Can't expect me to listen if you aren't
willing to accept my judging.  But not urging you.  Your life, not
mine."

He looked very surprised but not afraid.  His eyes lit up.  "My life,
did you say?"

"Apparently.  You heard lads say they intend to eliminate you.  You may
prefer to wait for Judge Brody."

He didn't hesitate.  Smiled and said, "I accept you as my judge,
sir."

"As you wish."  I looked at oldest lad.  "What parties to quarrel? Just
you and your young friend?"

"Oh, no, Judge, all of us."

"Not your judge yet."  I looked around.  "Do you all ask me to
judge?"

Were nods; none said No.  Leader turned to girl, added, "Better speak
up, Tish.  You accept Judge O'Kelly?"

"What?  Oh, sure!"  She was a vapid little thing, vacantly pretty,
curvy, perhaps fourteen.  Slot-machine type, and how she might wind up.
Sort who prefers being queen over pack of stilyagi to solid marriage. I
don't blame stilyagi; they chase around corridors because not enough
females.  Work all day and nothing to go home to at night.

"Okay, court has been accepted and all are bound to abide by my
verdict.  Let's settle fees.  How high can you boys go?  Please
understand I'm not going to judge an elimination for dimes.  So ante up
or I turn him loose."

Leader blinked, they went into huddle.  Shortly he turned and said, "We
don't have much.  Will you do it for five Kong dollars apiece?"

Six of them--"No.  Ought not to ask a court to judge elimination at
that price."

They huddled again.  "Fifty dollars, Judge?"

"Sixty.  Ten each.  And another ten from you, Tish," I said to girl.

She looked surprised, indignant.  "Come, come!"  I said. "Tanstaafl."

She blinked and reached into pouch.  She had money; types like that
always have.

I collected seventy dollars, laid it on desk, and said to tourist, "Can
match it?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Kids are paying seventy dollars Hong Kong for judgment.  You should
match it.  If you can't, open pouch and prove it and can owe it to me.
But that's your share."  I added, "Cheap, for a capital case.  But kids
can't pay much so you get a bargain."

"I see.  I believe I see."  He matched with seventy Hong Kong.

"Thank you," I said.  "Now does either side want a jury?"  Girl's eyes
lit up.  "Sure!  Let's do it right."  Earthworm said, "Under the
circumstances perhaps I need one."

"Can have it," I assured.  "Want a counsel?"

"Why, I suppose I need a lawyer, too."

"I said 'counsel," not 'lawyer."  Aren't any lawyers here."  Again he
seemed delighted.  "I suppose counsel, if I elected to have one, would
be of the same, uh, informal quality as the rest of these
proceedings?"

"Maybe, maybe not.  I'm informal sort of judge, that's all.  Suit
yourself."

"Mm.  I think I'll rely on your informality, your honor."

Oldest lad said, "Uh, this jury.  You pick up chit?  Or do we?"

"I pay it; I agreed to judge for a hundred forty, gross.  Haven't you
been in court before?  But not going to kill my net for extra I could
do without.  Six jurymen, five dollars each.  See who's in Alley."

One boy stepped out and shouted, "Jury work!  Five-dollar job!"

They rounded up six men and were what you would expect in Bottom Alley.
Didn't worry me as had no intention of paying mind to them.  If you go
judge, better in good neighborhood with chance of getting solid
citizens.

I went behind desk, sat down, put on Brody's plug hat--wondered where
he had found it.  Probably a castoff from some lodge.  "Court's in
session," I said.  "Let's have names and tell me beef."

Oldest lad was named.  Slim Lemke, girl war Patricia Carmen Zhukov;
don't remember others.  Tourist stepped up, reached into pouch and
said, "My card, sir."

I still have it.  It read:

STUART RENE La JOIE

Poet--Traveler--Soldier of Fortune

Beef was tragically ridiculous, fine example of why tourists should not
wander around without guides.  Sure, guides bleed them white--but isn't
that what a tourist is for?  This one almost lost life from lack of
guidance.

Had wandered into a taproom which lets stilyagi hang out, a sort of
club room This simple female had flirted with him.  Boys had let matter
be, as of course they had to as long as she invited it.  But at some
point she had laughed and let him have a fist in ribs.  He had taken it
as casually as a Loonie would ... but had answered in distinctly
earthworm manner; slipped arm around waist and pulled her to him,
apparently tried to kiss her.

Now believe me, in North America this wouldn't matter; I've seen things
much like it.  But of course Tish was astonished, perhaps frightened.
She screamed.

And pack of boys set upon him and roughed him up.  Then decided he had
to pay for his "crime"--but do it correctly.  Find a judge.

Most likely they chickened.  Chances are not one had ever dealt with an
elimination.  But their lady had been insulted, had to be done.

I questioned them, especially Tish, and decided I had it straight. Then
said, "Let me sum up.  Here we have a stranger.  Doesn't know our ways.
He offended, he's guilty.  But meant no offense far as I can see. What
does jury say?  Hey, you there!--wake up!  What you say?"

Juryman looked up blearily, said, ""Liminate him!"

"Very well?  And you?"

"Well--" Next one hesitated.  "Guess it would be enough just to beat
tar out of him, so he'll know better next time.  Can't have men pawing
women, or place will get to be as bad as they say Terra is."

"Sensible," I agreed.  "And you?"

Only one juror voted for elimination.  Others ranged from a beating to
very high fines.

"What do you think, Slim?"

"Well--" He was worried--face in front of gang, face in front of what
might be his girl.  But had cooled down and didn't want chum
eliminated.  "We already worked him over.  Maybe if he got down on
hands and knees and kissed floor in front of Tish and said he was
sorry?"

"Will you do that, Gospodin La Joie

"If you so rule, your honor."

"I don't.  Here's my verdict.  First that juryman--you!--you are fined
fee paid you because you fell asleep while supposed to be judging. Grab
him, boys, take it away from him and throw him out."

They did, enthusiastically; made up a little for greater excitement
they had thought of but really could not stomach.  "Now, Gospodin La
Joie you are fined fifty Hong Kong for not having common sense to learn
local customs before stirring around.  Ante up."

I collected it.  "Now you boys line up.  You are fined five dollars
apiece for not exercising good judgment in dealing with a person you
knew was a stranger and not used to our ways.  Stopping him from
touching Tish, that's fine.  Rough him, that's okay, too; he'll learn
faster.  And could have tossed him out.  But talking about eliminating
for what was honest mistake--well, it's out of proportion.  Five bucks
each.  Ante up.

Slim gulped.  "Judge ... I don't think we have that much left!  At
least I don't."

"I thought that might be.  You have a week to pay or I post your names
in Old Dome.  Know where Bon Ton Beaut Shoppe is, near easement lock
thirteen?  My wife runs it; pay her.  Court's out.  Slim, don't go
away.  Nor you, Tish.  Gospodin La Joie let's take these young people
up and buy them a cold drink and get better acquainted."

Again his eyes filled with odd delight that reminded of Prof.

"A charming idea, Judge!"

"I'm no longer judge.  It's up a couple of ramps... so I suggest you
offer Tish your arm."

He bowed and said, "My lady?  May I?"  and crooked his elbow to her.
Tish at once became very grown up.  "Spasebo, Gospodin!  I am
pleased."

Took them to expensive place, one where their wild clothes and
excessive makeup looked out of place; they were edgy.  But I tried to
make them feel easy and Stuart La Joie tried even harder and
successfully.  Got their addresses as well as names; Wyoh had one
sequence which was concentrating on stilyagi.  Presently they finished
their coolers, stood up, thanked and left.  La Joie and I stayed on.

"Gospodin," he said presently, "you used an odd word earlier--odd to
me, I mean."

"Call me "Mannie' now that kids are gone.  What word?"

"It was when you insisted that the, uh, young lady, Tish-that Tish must
pay, too.  "Tone-st apple or something like it."

"Oh, 'tanstaafl."  Means ~There ain't no such thing as a free lunch."
And isn't," I added, pointing to a FREE LUNCH sign across room, "or
these drinks would cost half as much.  Was reminding her that anything
free costs twice as much in long run or turns out worthless."

"An interesting philosophy."

"Not philosophy, fact.  One way or other, what you get, you pay for." I
fanned air.  "Was Earthside once and heard expression "Free as air."
This air isn't free, you pay for every breath."

"Really?  No one has asked me to pay to breathe."  He smiled.  "Perhaps
I should stop."

"Can happen, you almost breathed vacuum tonight.  But nobody asks you
because you've paid.  For you, is part of round-trip ticket; for me
it's a quarterly charge."  I started to tell how my family buys and
sells air to community co-op, decided was too complicated.  "But we
both pay."

La Joie looked thoughtfully pleased.  "Yes, I see the economic
necessity.  It's simply new to me.  Tell me, uh, Mannie--and I'm called
"Stu'--was I really in danger of 'breathing vacuum'?"

"Should have charged you more."

"Please?"

"You aren't convinced.  But charged kids all they could scrape up and
fined them too, to make them think.  Couldn't charge you more than
them.  Should have, you think it was all a joke."

"Believe me, sir, I do not think it was a joke.  I just have trouble
grasping that your local laws permit a man to be put to death ... so
casually ... and for so trivial an offense."

I sighed.  Where do you start explaining when a man's words show there
isn't anything he understands about subject, instead is loaded with
preconceptions that don't fit facts and doesn't even know he has?

"Stu," I said, "let's take that piece at a time.  Are no 'local laws'
so you couldn't be 'put to death' under them.  Your offense was not
'trivial," I simply made allowance for ignorance.  And wasn't done
casually, or boys would have dragged you to nearest lock to zero
pressure, shoved you in, and cycled.  Instead were most formal--good
boys!--and paid own cash to give you a trial.  And didn't grumble when
verdict wasn't even close to what they asked.  Now, anything still not
clear?"

He grinned and turned out to have dimples like Prof; found myself
liking him still more.  "All of it, I'm afraid.  I seem to have
wandered into Looking Glass Land."

Expected that; having been Earthaide I know how their minds work, some.
An earthworm expects to find a law, a printed law, for every
circumstance.  Even have laws for private matters such as contracts.
Really, if a man's word isn't any good, who would contract with him?
Doesn't he have reputation?

"We don't have laws," I said.  "Never been allowed to.  Have customs,
but aren't written and aren't enforced--or could say they are
self-enforcing because are simply way things have to be, conditions
being what they are.  Could say our customs are natural laws because
are way people have to behave to stay alive.  When you made a pass at
Tish you were violating a natural law... and almost caused you to
breathe vacuum."

He blinked thoughtfully.  "Would you explain the natural law I
violated?  I had better understand it ... or best I return to my ship
and stay inboard until lift.  To stay alive."

"Certainly.  Is so simple that, once you understand, you'll never be in
danger from it again.  Here we are, two million males, less than one
million females.  A physical fact, basic as rock or vacuum.  Then add
idea of tanstaafl.  When thing is scarce, price goes up.  Women are
scarce; aren't enough to go around--that makes them most valuable thing
in Luna, more precious than ice or air, as men without women don't care
whether they stay alive or not.  Except a Cyborg, if you regard him as
a man, which I don't."

I went on: "So what happens?--and mind you, things were even worse when
this custom, or natural law, first showed itself back in twentieth
century.  Ratio was ten-to-one or worse then.  One thing is what always
happens in prisons: men turn to other men.  That helps not much;
problem still is because most men want women and won't settle for
substitute while chance of getting true gelt.

"They get so anxious they will kill for it... and from stories
old-timers tell was killing enough to chill your teeth in those days.
But after a while those still alive find way to get along, things shake
down.  As automatic as gravitation.  Those who adjust to facts stay
alive; those who don't are dead and no problem.

"What that means, here and now, is that women are scarce and call
tune... and you are surrounded by two million men who see to it you
dance to that tune.  You have no choice, she has all choice.  She can
hit you so hard it draws blood; you dasn't lay a finger on her.  Look,
you put an arm around Tish, maybe tried to kiss.  Suppose instead she
had gone to hotel room with you; what would happen?"

"Heavens!  I suppose they would have torn me to pieces."

"They would have done nothing.  Shrugged and pretended not to see.
Because choice is hers.  Not yours.  Not theirs.  Exclusively hers. Oh,
be risky to ask her to go to hotel; she might take offense and that
would give boys license to rough you up.  But--well, take this Tish.  A
silly little tart.  If you had flashed as much money as I saw in your
pouch, she might have taken into head that a bundle with tourist was
just what she needed and suggested it herself.  In which case would
have been utterly safe."

Lajoie shivered.  "At her age?  It scares me to think of it.  She's
below the age of consent.  Statutory rape."

"Oh, bloody!  No such thing.  Women her age are married or ought to be.
Stu, is no rape in Luna.  None.  Men won't permit.  If rape had been
involved, they wouldn't have bothered to find a judge and all men in
earshot would have scrambled to help.  But chance that a girl that big
is virgin is negligible.  When they're little, their mothers watch over
them, with help from everybody in city; children are safe here.  But
when they reach husband-high, is no holding them and mothers quit
trying.  If they choose to run corridors and have fun, can't stop 'em;
once a girl is nubile, she's her own boss.  You married?"

"No."  He added with a smile; "Not at present."

"Suppose you were and wife told you she was marrying again.  What would
you do?"

"Odd that you should pick that, something like it did happen.  I saw my
attorney and made sure she got no alimony."  ""Alimony' isn't a word
here; I learned it Earthside.  Here you might--or a Loonie husband
might--say, "I think we'll need a bigger place, dear."  Or might simply
congratulate her and his new co-husband.  Or if it made him so unhappy
he couldn't stand it, might opt out and pack clothes.  But whatever,
would not make slightest fuss.  If he did, opinion would be unanimous
against him.  His friends, men and women alike, would snub him.  Poor
sod would probably move to Novylen, change name and hope to live it
down.

"All our customs work that way.  If you're out in field and a cobber
needs air, you lend him a bottle and don't ask cash.  But when you're
both back in pressure again, if he won't pay up, nobody would criticize
if you eliminated him without a judge.  But he would pay; air is almost
as sacred as women.  If you take a new chum in a poker game, you give
him air money.  Not eating money; can work or starve.  If you eliminate
a man other than self-defense, you pay his debts and support his kids,
or people won't speak to you, buy from you, sell to you."

"Mannie, you're telling me that I can murder a man here and settle the
matter merely with money?"

"Oh, not at all!  But eliminating isn't against some law; are no
laws--except Warden's regulations--and Warden doesn't care what one
Loonie does to another.  But we figure this way: If a man is killed,
either he had it coming and everybody knows it--usual case--or his
friends will take care of it by eliminating man who did it.  Either
way, no problem.  Nor many eliminations.  Even set duels aren't
common."  ""His friends will take care of it."  Mannie, suppose those
young people had gone ahead?  I have no friends here."

"Was reason I agreed to judge.  While I doubt if those kids could have
egged each other into it, didn't want to take chance.  Eliminating a
tourist could give our city a bad name."

"Does it happen often?"

"Can't recall has ever happened.  Of course may have been made to look
like accident.  A new chum is accident-prone; Luna is that sort of
place.  They say if a new chum lives a year, he'll live forever.  But
nobody sells him insurance first year."  Glanced at time.  "Stu, have
you had dinner?"

"No, and I was about to suggest that you come to my hotel.  The cooking
is good.  Auberge Orleans."

I repressed shudder--ate there once.  "Instead, would you come home
with me and meet my family?  We have soup or something about this
hour."

"Isn't that an imposition?"

"No.  Half a minute while I phone."

Mum said, "Manuel!  How sweet, dear!  Capsule has been in for hours; I
had decided it would be tomorrow or later."

"Just drunken debauchery, Mimi, and evil companions.  Coming home now
if can remember way--and bringing evil companion."

"Yes, dear.  Dinner in twenty minutes; try not to be late."

"Don't you want to know whether my evil companion is male or female?"

"Knowing you, I assume that it is female.  But I fancy I shall be able
to tell when I see her."

"You know me so well, Mum.  Warn girls to look pretty; wouldn't want a
visitor to outshine them."

"Don't be too long; dinner will spoil.  "Bye, dear.  Love."

"Love, Mum."  I waited, then punched MYCROFTXXX.  "Mike, want a name
searched.  Earthside name, passenger in Popov.  Stuart Rene La Joie
Stuart with a U and last name might file under either L or J."

Didn't wait many seconds; Mike found Stu in all major Earthside
references: Who's Who, Dun & Bradstreet, Almanach de Gotha, London
Times running files, name it.  French expatriate, royalist, wealthy,
six more names sandwiched into ones he used, three university degrees
including one in law from Sorbonne, noble ancestry both France and
Scotland, divorced (no children) from Honorable Pamela
Hyphen-Hyphen-Blueblood.  Sort of earthworm who wouldn't speak to a
Loonie of convict ancestry--except Stu would speak to anyone.

I listened a pair of minutes, then asked Mike to prepare a full
dossier, following all associational leads.  "Mike, might be our
pigeon."

"Could be, Man."

"Got to run.  "Bye."  Returned thoughtfully to my guest.  Almost a year
earlier, during alcoholic talk-talk in a hotel room, Mike had promised
us one chance in seven--if certain things were done.  One sine-qua-non
was help on Terra itself.

Despite "throwing rocks," Mike knew, we all knew, that mighty Terra
with eleven billion people and endless resources could not be defeated
by three million who had nothing, even though we stood on a high place
and could drop rocks on them.

Mike drew parallels from XVIIIth century, when Britain's American
colonies broke away, and from XXth, when many colonies became
independent of several empires, and pointed out that in no case had a
colony broken loose by brute force.  No, in every case imperial state
was busy elsewhere, had grown weary and given up without using full
strength.

For months we had been strong enough, had we wished, to overcome
Warden's bodyguards.  Once our catapult was ready (anytime now) we
would not be helpless.  But we needed a "favorable climate" on Terra.
For that we needed help on Terra.

Prof had not regarded it as difficult.  But turned out to be quite
difficult.  His Earthside friends were dead or nearly and I had never
had any but a few teachers.  We sent inquiry down through cells: "What
vips do you know Earthaide?"  and usual answer was: "You kidding?" Null
program Prof watched passenger lists on incoming ships, trying to
figure a contact, and had been reading Luna print-outs of Earthside
newspapers, searching for vips he could reach through past connection.
I had not tried; handful I had met on Terra were not vips.

Prof had not picked Stu off Popov's passenger list.  But Prof had not
met him.  I didn't not know whether Stu was simply eccentric as odd
personal card seemed to show.  But he was only Terran I had ever had a
drink with in Luna, seemed a dinkum cobber, and Mike's report showed
hunch was not all bad; he carried some tonnage.

So I took him home to see what family thought of him.

Started well.  Mum smiled and offered hand.  He took it and bowed so
deep I thought he was going to kiss it--would have, I think, had I not
warned him about ferns.  Mum was cooing as she led him in to dinner.

April and May '76 were more hard work and increasing effort to stir up
Loonies against Warden, and goad him into retaliation.  Trouble with
Mort the Wart was that he was not a bad egg, nothing to hate about him
other than fact he was symbol of Authority; was necessary to frighten
him to get him to do anything.  And average Loonie was just as bad.  He
despised Warden as matter of ritual but was not stuff that makes
revolutionists; he couldn't be bothered.  Beer, betting, women, and
work-Only thing that kept Revolution from dying of anemia was that
Peace Dragoons had real talent for antagonizing.

But even them we had to keep stirred up.  Prof kept saying we needed a
"Boston Tea Party," referring to mythical incident in an earlier
revolution, by which he meant a public ruckus to grab attention.

We kept trying.  Mike rewrote lyrics of old revolutionary songs:
"Marseillaise," "Internationale," "Yankee Doodle," "We Shall Overcome,"
"Pie in the Sky," etc."  giving them words to fit Luna.  Stuff like
"Sons of Rock and Boredom/ Will you let the Warden/ Take from you your
liber tee Simon Jester spread them around, and when one took hold, we
pushed it (music only) by radio and video.  This put Warden in silly
position of forbidding playing of certain tunes--which suited us;
people could whistle.

Mike studied voice and word-choice patterns of Deputy Administrator,
Chief Engineer, other department heads; Warden started getting frantic
calls at night from his staff.  Which they denied making.  So Alvarez
put lock-and-trace on next one--and sure enough, with Mike's help,
Alvarez traced it to supply chief's phone and was sure it was boss
belly-robber's voice.

But next poison call to Mort seemed to come from Alvarez, and what Mort
had to say next day to Alvarez and what Alvarez said in own defense can
only be described as chaotic crossed with psychotic.

Prof had Mike stop; was afraid Alvarez might lose job, which we did not
want; he was doing too well for us.  But by then Peace Dragoons had
been dragged out twice in night on what seemed to be Warden's orders,
further disrupting morale, and Warden became convinced he was
surrounded by traitors in official family while they were sure he had
blown every circuit.

An ad appeared in Lunaya Pravda announcing lecture by Dr.  Adam Selene
on Poetry and Arts in Luna: a New Renaissance.  No comrade attended;
word went down cells to stay away.  Nor did anybody hang around when
three squads of Peace Dragoons showed up--this involves Heisenberg
principle as applied to Scarlet Pimpernels.  Editor of Pravda spent bad
hour explaining that he did not accept ads in person and this one was
ordered over counter and paid for in cash.  He was told not to take ads
from Adam Selene.  This was countermanded and he was told to take
anything from Adam Selene but notify Alvarez at once.

New catapult was tested with a load dropped into south Indian Ocean at
350 E."  600 S."  a spot used only by fish.  Mike was joyed over his
marksmanship since he had been able to sneak only two looks when
guidance & tracking radars were not in use and had relied on just one
nudge to bring it to bulls eye Earthside news reported giant meteor in
sub-Antarctic picked up by Capetown Spacetrack with projected impact
that matched Mike's attempt perfectly--Mike called me to boast while
taking down evening's Reuters transmission.  "I told you it was dead
on," he gloated.  "I watched it.  Oh, what a lovely splash!"  Later
reports on shock wave from seismic labs and on tsunamis from
oceanographic stations were consistent.

Was only canister we had ready (trouble buying steel) or Mike might
have demanded to try his new toy again.

Liberty Caps started appearing on stilyagi and their girls; Simon
Jester began wearing one between his horns.  Bon Marche gave them away
as premiums.  Alvarez had painful talk with Warden in which Mort
demanded to know if his fink boss felt that something should be done
every time kids took up fad?  Had Alvarez gone out of his mind?

I ran across Slim Lemke on Carver Causeway early May; he was wearing a
Liberty Cap.  He seemed pleased to see me and I thanked him for prompt
payment (he had come in three days after Stu's trial and paid Sidris
thirty Hong Kong, for gang) and bought him a cooler.  While we were
seated I asked why young people were wearing red hats?  Why a hat?
Hat's were an earthworm custom, nyet?

He hesitated, then said was sort of a lodge, like Elks.  I changed
subject.  Learned that his full name was Moses Lemke Stone; member of
Stone Gang.  This pleased me, we were relatives.  But surprised me.
However, even best families such as Stones sometimes can't always find
marriages for all sons; I had been lucky or might have been roving
corridors at his age, too.  Told him about our connection on my
mother's side.

He warmed up and shortly said, "Cousin Manuel, ever think about how we
ought to elect our own Warden?"

I said No, I hadn't; Authority appointed him and I supposed they always
would.  He asked why we had to have an Authority?  I asked who had been
putting ideas in head?  He insisted nobody had, just thinking, was
all--didn't he have a right to think?

When I got home was tempted to check with Mike, find out lad's Party
name if any.  But wouldn't have been proper security, nor fair to
Slim.

On 3 May '76 seventy-one males named Simon were rounded up and
questioned, then released.  No newspaper earned story.  But everybody
heard it; we were clear down in "J's" and twelve thousand people can
spread a story faster than I would have guessed.  We emphasized that
one of these dangerous males was only four years old, which was not
true but very effective.

Stu Lajoie stayed with us during February and March and did not return
to Terra until early April; he changed his ticket to next ship and then
to next.  When I pointed out that he was riding close to invisible line
where irreversible physiological changes could set in, he grinned and
told me not to worry.  But made arrangements to use centrifuge.

Stu did not want to leave even by April.  Was kissed goodbye with tears
by all my wives and Wyoh, and he assured each one he was coming back.
But left as he had work to do; by then he was a Party member.

I did not take part in decision to recruit Stu; I felt prejudiced. Wyoh
and Prof and Mike were unanimous in risking it; I happily accepted
their judgment.

We all helped to sell Stu La Joie--self, Prof, Mike, Wyoh, Mum, even
Sidris and Lenore and Ludmilla and our kids and Hans and Ali and Frank,
as Davis home life was what grabbed him first.  Did not hurt that
Lenore was prettiest girl in L-City--which is no disparagement of Mina,
Wyoh, Anna, and Sidris.  Nor did it hurt that Stu could charm a baby
away from breast.  Mom fussed over him, Hans showed him hydroponic
farming and Stu got dirty and sweaty and sloshed around in tunnels with
our boys--helped harvest our Chinee fishponds--got stung by our
bees--learned to handle a p-suit and went up with me to make
adjustments on solar battery--helped Anna butcher a hog and learned
about tanning leather--sat with Grandpaw and was respectful to his
naive notions about Terra--washed dishes with Mina, something no male
in our family ever did--rolled on floor with babies and
puppies--learned to grind flour and swapped recipes with Mum.

I introduced him to Prof and that started political side of feeling him
out.  Nothing had been admitted--we could back away--when Prof
introduced him to "Adam Selene" who could visit only by phone as he was
"in Hong Kong at present."  By time Stu was committed to Cause, we
dropped pretense and let him know that Adam was chairman whom he would
not meet in person for security reasons.

But Wyoh did most and was on her judgment that Prof turned cards up and
let Stu know that we were building a revolution.  Was no surprise; Stu
had made up mind and was waiting for us to trust him.

They say a face once launched a thousand ships.  I do not know that
Wyoh used anything but argument on Stu.  I never tried to find out. But
Wyoh had more to do with committing me than all Prof's theory or Mike's
figures.  If Wyoh used even stronger methods on Stu, she was not first
heroine in history to do so for her country.

Stu went Earthside with a special code book.  I'm no code and cipher
expert except that a computer man learns principles during study of
information theory.  A cipher is a mathematical pattern under which one
letter substitutes for another, simplest being one in which alphabet is
merely scrambled.

A cipher can be incredibly subtle, especially with help of a computer.
But ciphers all have weakness that they are patterns.  If one computer
can think them up, another computer can break them.

Codes do not have same weakness.  Let's say that code book has letter
group GLOPS.  Does this mean "Aunt Minnie will be home Thursday" or
does it mean "3.14157 ... "?

Meaning is whatever you assign and no computer can analyze it simply
from letter group.  Give a computer enough groups and a rational theory
involving meanings or subjects for meanings, and it will eventually
worry it out because meanings themselves will show patterns.  But is a
problem of different kind on more difficult level.

Code we selected was commonest commercial code book, used both on Terra
and in Luna for commercial dispatches.  But we worked it over.  Prof
and Mike spent hours discussing what information Party might wish to
send to its agent on Terra, or receive from agent, then Mike put his
vast information to work and came up with new set of meanings for code
book, ones that could say "Buy Thai rice futures" as easily as "Run for
life; they've caught us."  Or anything, as cipher signals were buried
in it to permit anything to be said that had not been anticipated.

Late one night Mike made print-out of new code via Lunaya Pravda's
facilities, and night editor turned roll over to another comrade who
converted it into a very small roll of film and passed it along in
turn, and none ever knew what they handled or why.  Wound up in Stu's
pouch.  Search of off-planet luggage was tight by then and conducted by
bad-tempered Dragoons--but Stu was certain he would have no trouble.
Perhaps he swallowed it.

Thereafter some of LuNoHo Company's dispatches to Terra reached Stu via
his London broker.

Part of purpose was financial.  Party needed to spend money Earthside;
LuNoHoCo transferred money there (not all stolen, some ventures turned
out well); Party needed still more money Earthside, Stu was to
speculate, acting on secret knowledge of plan of Revolution--he, Prof,
and Mike had spent hours discussing what stocks would go up, what would
go down, etc."  after Der Tag.  This was Prof's pidgin; I am not that
sort of gambler.

But money was needed before Der Tag to build "climate of opinion."  We
needed publicity, needed delegates and senators in Federated Nations,
needed some nation to recognize us quickly once The Day came, we needed
laymen telling other laymen over a beer: "What is there on that pile of
rock worth one soldier's life?  Let 'em go to hell in their own way, I
say!"

Money for publicity, money for bribes, money for dummy organizations
and to infiltrate established organizations; money to get true nature
of Luna's economy (Stu had gone loaded with figures) brought out as
scientific research, then in popular form; money to convince foreign
office of at least one major nation that there was advantage in a Free
Luna; money to sell idea of Lunar tourism to a major cartel Too much
money!  Stu offered own fortune and Prof did not discourage it-Where
treasure is, heart will be.  But still too much money and far too much
to do.  I did not know if Stu could swing a tenth of it; simply kept
fingers crossed.  At least it gave us a channel to Terra.  Prof claimed
that communications to enemy were essential to any war if was to be
fought and settled sensibly.  (Prof was a pacifist.  Like his
vegetarianism, he did not let it keep him from being "rational."  Would
have made a terrific theologian.)

As soon as Stu went Earthside, Mike set odds at one in thirteen.  I
asked him what in hell?  "But, Man," he explained patiently, "it
increases risk.  That it is necessary risk does not change the fact
that risk is increased."

I shut up.  About that time, early May, a new factor reduced some risks
while revealing others.  One part of Mike handled Terra-Luna microwave
traffic--commercial messages, scientific data, news channels, video,
voice radiotelephony, routine Authority traffic--and Warden's top
secret.

Aside from last, Mike could read any of this including commercial codes
and ciphers--breaking ciphers was a crossword puzzle to him and nobody
mistrusted this machine.  Except Warden, and I suspect that his was
distrust of all machinery; was sort of person who finds anything more
involved than a pair of scissors complex, mysterious, and
suspect--Stone Age mind.

Warden used a code that Mike never saw.  Also used ciphers and did not
work them through Mike; instead he had a moronic little machine in
residence office.  On top of this he had arrangement with Authority
Earthside to switch everything around at preset times.  No doubt he
felt safe.

Mike broke his cipher patterns and deduced time-change program just to
try legs.  He did not tackle code until Prof suggested it; it held no
interest for him.

But once Prof asked, Mike tackled Warden's top-secret messages.  He had
to start from scratch; in past Mike had erased Warden's messages once
transmission was reported.  So slowly, slowly he accumulated data for
analysis--painfully slow, for Warden used this method only when he had
to.  Sometimes a week would pass between such messages.  But gradually
Mike began to gather meanings for letter groups, each assigned a
probability.  A code does not crack all at once; possible to know
meanings of ninety-nine groups in a message and miss essence because
one group is merely GLOPS to you.

However, user has a problem, too; if GLOPS comes through as GLOPT, he's
in trouble.  Any method of communication needs redundancy, or
information can be lost.  Was at redundancy that Mike nibbled, with
perfect patience of machine.

Mike solved most of Warden's code sooner than he had projected; Warden
was sending more traffic than in past and most of it one subject (which
helped)--subject being security and subversion.

We had Mort in a twitter; he was yelling for help.

He reported subversive activities still going on despite two phalanges
of Peace Dragoons and demanded enough troops to station guards in all
key spots inside all warrens.

Authority told him this was preposterous, no more of FN's crack troops
could be spared--to be permanently ruined for Earthside duties--and
such requests should not be made.  If he wanted more guards, he must
recruit them from transportees-but such increase in administrative
costs must be absorbed in Luna; he would not be allowed more overhead.
He was directed to report what steps he had taken to meet new grain
quotas set in our such-and-such.

Warden replied that unless extremely moderate requests for trained
security personnel--not-repeat-not untrained, unreliable, and unfit
convicts--were met, he could no longer assure civil order, much less
increased quotas.

Reply asked sneeringly what difference it made if ex consignees chose
to riot among themselves in their holes?  If it worried him, had he
thought of shutting off lights as was used so successfully in 1996 and
2021?

These exchanges caused us to revise our calendar, to speed some phases,
slow others.  Like a perfect dinner, a revolution has to be "cooked" so
that everything comes out even.  Stu needed time Earthside.  We needed
canisters and small steering rockets and associated circuitry for "rock
throwing."  And steel was a problem--buying it, fabricating it, and
above all moving it through meander of tunnels to new catapult site. We
needed to increase Party at least into "K's"--say 40,000--with lowest
echelons picked for fighting spirit rather than talents we had sought
earlier.  We needed weapons against landings.  We needed to move Mike's
radars without which he was blind.  (Mike could not be moved; bits of
him spread all through Luna.  But he had a thousand meters of rock over
that central part of him at Complex, was surrounded by steel and this
armor was cradled in springs; Authority had contemplated that someday
somebody might lob H-weapons at their control center.)

All these needed to be done and pot must not boil too soon.

So we cut down on things that worried Warden and tried to speed up
everything else.  Simon Jester took a holiday.  Word went out that
Liberty Caps were not stylish--but save them.  Warden got no more
nervous-making phone calls.  We quit inciting incidents with
Dragoons-which did not stop them but reduced number.

Despite efforts to quiet Mort's worries a symptom showed up which
disquieted us instead.  No message (at least we intercepted none)
reached Warden agreeing to his demand for more troops--but he started
moving people out of Complex.  Civil servants who lived there started
looking for holes to rent in L-City.  Authority started test drills and
resonance exploration in a cubic adjacent to L.City which could be
converted into a warren.

Could mean that Authority proposed shipping up unusually large draft of
prisoners.  Could mean that space in Complex was needed for purpose
other than quarters.  But Mike told us:

"Why kid yourselves?  The Warden is going to get those troops; that
space will be their barracks.  Any other explanation I would have
heard."

I said, "But Mike, why didn't you hear if it's troops?  You have that
code of Warden's fairly well whipped."

"Not just 'fairly well," I've got it whipped.  But the last two ships
have carried Authority vips and I don't know what they talk about away
from phones!"

So we tried to plan to cover possibility of having to cope with ten
more phalanges, that being Mike's estimate of what cubic being cleared
would hold.  We could deal with that many--with Mike's help--but it
would mean deaths, not bloodless coup d'etat Prof had planned.

And we increased efforts to speed up other factors.

When suddenly we found ourselves committed13

Her name was Marie Lyons; she was eighteen years old and born in Luna,
mother having been exiled via Peace Corps in '56.  No record of father.
She seems to have been a harmless person.  Worked as a stock-control
clerk in shipping department, lived in Complex.

Maybe she hated Authority and enjoyed teasing Peace Dragoons.  Or
perhaps it started as a commercial transaction as cold-blooded as any
in a crib behind a slot-machine lock.  How can we know?  Six Dragoons
were in it.  Not satisfied with raping her (if rape it was) they abused
her other ways and killed her.  But they did not dispose of body
neatly; another civil service fern found it before was cold.  She
screamed.  Was her last scream.

We heard about it at once; Mike called us three while Alvarez and Peace
Dragoon C.O. were digging into matter in Alvarez's office.  Appears
that Peace Goon boss had no trouble laying hands on guilty; he and
Alvarez were questioning them one at a time, and quarreling between
grillings.  Once we heard Alvarez say: "I told you those goons of yours
had to have their own women!  I warned you!"

"Stuff it," Dragoon officer answered.  "I've told you time and again
they won't ship any.  The question now is how we hush this up."

"Are you crazy?  Warden already knows."

"It's still the question."

"Oh, shut up and send in the next one."

Early in filthy story Wyoh joined me in workshop.  Was pale under
makeup, said nothing but wanted to sit close and clench my hand.

At last was over and Dragoon officer left Alvarez.  Were still
quarreling.  Alvarez wanted those six executed at once and fact made
public (sensible but not nearly enough, for his needs); C.O. was still
talking about "hushing it up."  Prof said, "Mike, keep an ear there and
listen where else you can.  Well, Mike?  Wyoh?  Plans?"

I didn't have any.  Wasn't a cold, shrewd revolutionist; just wanted to
get my heel into faces that matched those six voices.  "I don't know.
What do we do, Prof?"  ""Do'?  We're on our tiger; we grab its ears.
Mike.  Where's Finn Nielsen?  Find him."

Mike answered, "He's calling now."  He cut Finn in with us; I heard:
"--at Tube South.  Both guards dead and about six of our people.  Just
people, I mean, not necessarily comrades.  Some wild rumor about Goons
going crazy and raping and killing all women at Complex.  Adam, I had
better talk to Prof."

"I'm here, Finn," Prof answered in a strong, confident voice.  "Now we
move, we've got to.  Switch off and get those laser guns and men who
trained with them, any you can round up."

"Da!  Okay, Adam?"

"Do as Prof says.  Then call back."

"Hold it, Finn!"  I cut in.  "Mannie here.  I want one of those
guns."

"You haven't practiced, Mannie."

"If it's a laser, I can use it!"

"Mannie," Prof said forcefully, "shut up.  You're wasting time; let
Finn go.  Adam.  Message for Mike.  Tell him Plan Alert Four."

Prof's example damped my oscillating.  Had forgotten that Finn was not
supposed to know Mike was anybody but "Adam Selene"; forgotten
everything but raging anger.  Mike said, "Finn has switched off, Prof,
and I put Alert Four on standby when this broke.  No traffic now except
routine stuff filed earlier.  You don't want it interrupted, do you?"

"No, just follow Alert Four.  No Earthside transmission either way that
tips any news.  If one comes in, hold it and consult."  Alert Four was
emergency communication doctrine, intended to slap censorship on news
to Terra without arousing suspicion.  For this Mike was ready to talk
in many voices with excuses as to why a direct voice transmission would
be delayed--and any taped transmission was no problem.

"Program running," agreed Mike.

"Good.  Mannie, calm down, son, and stick to your knitting.  Let other
people do the fighting; you're needed here, we're going to have to
improvise.  Wyoh, cut out and get word to Comrade Cecilia to get all
Irregulars out of the corridors.  Get those children home and keep them
home--and have their mothers urging other mothers to do the same thing.
We don't know where the fighting will spread.  But we don't want
children hurt if we can help it."

"Right away, Prof!"

"Wait.  As soon as you've told Sidris, get moving on your stilyagi.  I
want a riot at the Authority's city office--break in, wreck the place,
and noise and shouting and destruction--no one hurt if it can be
helped.  Mike.  Alert-Four-Em.  Cut off the Complex except for your own
lines."

"Prof!"  I demanded.  "What sense in starting riots here?"

"Mannie, Mannie!  This is The Day!  Mike, has the rape and murder news
reached other warrens?"

"Not that I've heard.  I'm listening here and there with random jumps.
Tube stations are quiet except Luna City.  Fighting has just started at
Tube Station West.  Want to hear it?"

"Not now.  Mannie, slide over there and watch it.  But stay out of it
and slick close to a phone.  Mike, start trouble in all warrens.  Pass
the news down the cells and use Finn's version, not the truth.  The
Goons are raping and killing all the women in the Complex--I'll give
you details or you can invent them.  Uh, can you order the guards at
tube stations in other warrens back to their barracks?  I want riots
but there is no point in sending unarmed people against armed men if we
can dodge it."

"I'll try."

I hurried to Tube Station West, slowed as I neared it.  Corridors were
full of angry people.  City roared in way I had never heard before and,
as I crossed Causeway, could hear shouts and crowd noise from direction
of Authority's city office although it seemed to me there had not been
time for Wyoh to reach her stilyagi--nor had there been; what Prof had
tried to start was under way spontaneously.

Station was mobbed and I had to push through to see what I assumed to
be certain, that passport guards were either dead or fled.  "Dead' it
turned out, along with three Loonies.  One was a boy not more than
thirteen.  He had died with his hands on a Dragoon's throat and his
head still sporting a little red cap.  I pushed way to a public phone
and reported.

"Go back," said Prof.  "and read the I.D. of one of those guards.  I
want name and rank.  Have you seen Finn?"

"No."

"He's headed there with three guns.  Tell me where the booth you're in
is, get that name and come back to it."

One body was gone, dragged away; Bog knows what they wanted with it.
Other had been badly battered but I managed to crowd in and snatch dog
chain from neck before it, too, was taken somewhere.  I elbowed back to
phone, found a woman at it.  "Lady," I said, "I've got to use that
phone.  Emergency!"

"You're welcome to it!  Pesky thing's out of order."

Worked for me; Mike had saved it.  Gave Prof guard's name.  "Good," he
said.  "Have you seen Finn?  He'll be looking for you at that booth."

"Haven't s-Hold it, just spotted him."

"Okay, hang onto him.  Mike, do you have a voice to fit that Dragoon's
name?"

"Sorry, Prof.  No."

"All right, just make it hoarse and frightened; chances are the C.O.
won't know it that well.  Or would the trooper call Alvarez?"

"He would call his C.O. Alvarez gives orders through him."

"So call the C.O. Report the attack and call for help and die in the
middle of it.  Riot sounds behind you and maybe a shout of "There's the
dirty bastard now!"  just before you die.  Can you swing it?"
"Programmed.  No huhu," Mike said cheerfully.

"Run it.  Mannie, put Finn on."

Prof's plan was to sucker off-duty guards out of barracks and keep
suckering them--with Finn's men posted to pick them off as they got out
of capsules.  And it worked, right up to point where Mort the Wart lost
his nerve and kept remaining few to protect himself while he sent
frantic messages Earthside--none of which got through.

I wiggled out of Prof's discipline and took a laser gun when second
capsule of Peace Dragoons was due.  I burned two Goons, found blood
lust gone and let other snipers have rest of squad.  Too easy.  They
would stick heads up out of hatch and that would be that.  Half of
squad would not come out--until smoked out and then died with rest.  By
that time I was back at my advance post at phone.

Warden's decision to hole up caused trouble at Complex; Alvarez was
killed and so was Goon C.O. and two of original yellow jackets.  But a
mixed lot of Dragoons and yellows, thirteen, holed up with Mort, or
perhaps were already with him; Mike's ability to follow events by
listening was spotty.  But once it seemed clear that all armed
effectives were inside Warden's residence, Prof ordered Mike to start
next phase.

Mike turned out all lights in Complex save those in Warden's residence,
and reduced oxygen to gasping point--not killing point but low enough
to insure that anyone looking for trouble would not be in shape.  But
in residence, oxygen supply was cut to zero, leaving pure nitrogen, and
left that way ten minutes.  At end of that time Finn's men, waiting in
p-suits at Warden's private tube station, broke latch on airlock and
went in, "shoulder to shoulder."  Luna was ours.

Book Two

A RABBLE IN ARMS

So a wave of patriotism swept over our new nation and unified it.

Isn't that what histories say?  Oh, brother!

My dinkum word, preparing a revolution isn't as much huhu as having won
it.  Here we were, in control too soon, nothing ready and a thousand
things to do.  Authority in Luna was gone--but Lunar Authority
Earthside and Federated Nations behind it were very much alive.  Had
they landed one troopship, orbited one cruiser, anytime next week or
two, could have taken Luna back cheap.  We were a mob.

New catapult had been tested but canned rock missiles ready to go you
could count on fingers of one hand--my left hand.  Nor was catapult a
weapon that could be used against ships, nor against troops.  We had
notions for fighting off ships; at moment were just notions.  We had a
few hundred cheap laser guns stockpiled in Hong Kong Luna--Chinee
engineers are smart--but few men trained to use them.

Moreover, Authority had useful functions.  Bought ice and grain, sold
air and water and power, held ownership or control at a dozen key
points.  No matter what was done in future, wheels had to turn. Perhaps
wrecking city offices of Authority had been hasty (I thought so) as
records were destroyed.  However, Prof maintained that Loonies, all
Loonies, needed a symbol to hate and destroy and those offices were
least valuable and most public.

But Mike controlled communications and that meant control of most
everything.  Prof had started with control of news to and from
Earthside, leaving to Mike censorship and faking of news until we could
get around to what to tell Terra, and had added sub-phase "M" which cut
off Complex from rest of Luna, and with it Richardson Observatory and
associated laboratories--Pierce Radioscope, Selenophysical Station, and
so forth.  These were a problem as Terran scientists were always coming
and going and staying as long as six months, stretching time by
centrifuge.  Most Terrans in Luna, save for a handful of
tourists--thirty-four--were scientists.  Something had to be done about
these Terrans, but meanwhile keeping them from talking to Terra was
enough.

For time being, Complex was cut off by phone and Mike did not permit
capsules to stop at any station in Complex even after travel was
resumed, which it was as soon as Finn Nielsen and squad were through
with dirty work.

Turned out Warden was not dead, nor had we planned to kill him; Prof
figured that a live warden could always be made dead, whereas a dead
one could not be made live if we needed him.  So plan was to half kill
him, make sure he and his guards could put up no fight, then break in
fast while Mike restored oxygen.

With fans turning at top speed, Mike computed it would take four
minutes and a bit to reduce oxygen to effective zero--so, five minutes
of increasing hypoxia, five minutes of anoxia, then force lower lock
while Mike shot in pure oxygen to restore balance.  This should not
kill anyone--but would knock out a person as thoroughly as anesthesia.
Hazard to attackers would come from some or all of those inside having
p-suits.  But even that might not matter; hypoxia is sneaky, you can
pass out without realizing you are short on oxygen.  Is new chum's
favorite fatal mistake.

So Warden lived through it and three of his women.  But Warden, though
he lived, was no use; brain had been oxygen-starved too long, a
vegetable.  No guard recovered, even though younger than he; would
appear anoxia broke necks.

In rest of Complex nobody was hurt.  Once lights were on and oxygen
restored they were okay, including six rapist-murderers under lock in
barracks.  Finn decided that shooting was too good for them, so he went
judge and used his squad as jury.

They were stripped, hamstrung at ankles and wrists, turned over to
women in Complex.  Makes me sick to think about what happened next but
don't suppose they lived through as long an ordeal as Marie Lyons
endured.  Women are amazing creatures--sweet, soft, gentle, and far
more savage than we are.

Let me mention those fink spies out of order.  Wyoh had been fiercely
ready to eliminate them but when we got around to them she had lost
stomach.  I expected Prof to agree.  But he shook head.  "No, dear
Wyoh, much as I deplore violence, there are only two things to do with
an enemy: Kill him.  Or make a friend of him.  Anything in between
piles up trouble for the future.  A man who finks on his friends once
will do it again and we have a long period ahead in which a fink can be
dangerous; they must go.  And publicly, to cause others to be
thoughtful."

Wyoh said, "Professor, you once said that if you condemned a man, you
would eliminate him personally.  Is that what you are going to do?"

"Yes, dear lady, and no.  Their blood shall be on my hands; I accept
responsibility.  But I have in mind a way more likely to discourage
other finks."

So Adam Selene announced that these persons had been employed by Juan
Alvarez, late Security Chief for former Authority, as undercover
spies--and gave names and addresses.  Adam did not suggest that
anything be done.

One man remained on dodge for seven months by changing warrens and
name.  Then early in '77 his body was found outside Novylen's lock. But
most of them lasted no more than hours.

During first hours after coup d'etat we were faced with a problem we
had never managed to plan--Adam Selene himself.  Who is Adam Selene?
Where is he?  This is his revolution; he handled every detail, every
comrade knows his voice.  We're out in open now... so where is Adam?

We batted it around much of that night, in room L of Raffles--argued it
between decisions on a hundred things that came up and people wanted to
know what to do, while "Adam" through other voices handled other
decisions that did not require talk, composed phony news to send
Earthside, kept Complex isolated, many things.  (Is no possible doubt:
without Mike we could not have taken Luna nor held it.)

My notion was that Prof should become "Adam."  Prof was always our
planner and theoretician; everybody knew him; some key comrades knew
that he was "Comrade Bill" and all others knew and respected Professor
Bernardo de la Paz-My word, he had taught half of leading citizens in
Luna City, many from other warrens, was known to every vip in Luna.

"No," said Prof.

"Why not?"  asked Wyoh.  "Prof.  you're opted.  Tell him, Mike."

"Comment reserved," said Mike.  "I want to hear what Prof has to
say."

"I say you've analyzed it, Mike," Prof answered.  "Wyoh dearest
comrade, I would not refuse were it possible.  But there is no way to
make my voice match that of Adam--and every comrade knows Adam by his
voice; Mike made it memorable for that very purpose."

We then considered whether Prof could be slipped in anyhow, showing him
only on video and letting Mike reshape whatever Prof said into voice
expected from Adam.

Was turned down.  Too many people knew Prof, had heard him speak; his
voice and way of speaking could not be reconciled with Adam.  Then they
considered same possibility for me--my voice and Mike's were baritone
and not too many people knew what I sounded like over phone and none
over video.

I tromped on it.  People were going to be surprised enough to find me
one of our Chairman's lieutenants; they would never believe I was
number one.

I said, "Let's combine deals.  Adam has been a mystery all along; keep
him that way.  He'll be seen only over video--in a mask.  Prof.  you
supply body; Mike, you supply voice."

Prof shook head.  "I can think of no surer way to destroy confidence at
our most critical period than by having a leader who wears a mask.  No,
Mannie."

We talked about finding an actor to play it.  Were no professional
actors in Luna then but were good amateurs in Luna Civic Players and in
Novy Bolshoi Teatr Associates.

"No," said Prof, "aside from finding an actor of requisite
character--one who would not decide to be Napoleon--we can't wait. Adam
must start handling things not later than tomorrow morning."

"In that case," I said, "you've answered it.  Have to use Mike and
never put him on video.  Radio only.  Have to figure excuse but Adam
must never be seen."

"I'm forced to agree," said Prof.

"Man my oldest friend," said Mike, "why do you say that I can't be
seen?"

"Haven't you listened?"  I said.  "Mike, we have to show a face and
body on video.  You have a body--but it's several tons of metal.  A
face you don't have--lucky you, don't have to shave."

"But what's to keep me from showing a face, Man?  I'm showing a voice
this instant.  But there's no sound behind it.  I can show a face the
same way."

Was so taken aback I didn't answer.  I stared at video screen,
installed when we leased that room.  A pulse is a pulse is a pulse.
Electrons chasing each other.  To Mike, whole world was variable series
of electrical pulses, sent or received or chasing around his innards.

I said, "No, Mike."

"Why not, Man?"

"Because you can't!  Voice you handle beautifully.  Involves only a few
thousand decisions a second, a slow crawl to you.  But to build up
video picture would require, uh, say ten million decisions every
second.  Mike, you're so fast I can't even think about it.  But you
aren't that fast."

Mike said softly, "Want to bet, Man?"

Wyoh said indignantly, "Of course Mike can if he says he can!  Mannie,
you shouldn't talk that way."  (Wyoh thinks an electron is something
about size and shape of a small pea.)

"Mike," I said slowly, "I won't put money on it.  Okay, want to try?
Shall I switch on video?"

"I can switch it on," he answered.

"Sure you'll get right one?  Wouldn't do to have this show somewhere
else."

He answered testily, "I'm not stupid.  Now let me be, Man--for I admit
this is going to take just about all I've got."

We waited in silence.  Then screen showed neutral gray with a hint of
scan lines.  Went black again, then a faint light filled middle and
congealed into cloudy areas light and dark, ellipsoid.  Not a face, but
suggestion of face that one sees in cloud patterns covering Terra.

It cleared a little and reminded me of pictures alleged to be
ectoplasm.  A ghost of a face.

Suddenly firmed and we saw "Adam Selene."

Was a still picture of a mature man.  No background, just a face as if
trimmed out of a print.  Yet was, to me, "Adam Selene."  Could not he
anybody else.

Then he smiled, moving lips and jaw and touching tongue to lips, a
quick gesture--and I was frightened.

"How do I look?"  he asked.

"Adam," said Wyoh, "your hair isn't that curly.  And it should go back
on each side above your forehead.  You look as if you were wearing a
wig, dear."

Mike corrected it.  "Is that better?"

"Not quite so much.  And don't you have dimples?  I was sure I could
hear dimples when you chuckle.  Like Prof's."

Mike-Adam smiled again; this time he had dimples.  "How should I be
dressed, Wyoh?"

"Are you at your office?"

"I'm still at office.  Have to be, tonight."  Background turned gray,
then came into focus and color.  A wall calendar behind him gave date,
Tuesday 19 May 2076; a clock showed correct time.  Near his elbow was a
carton of coffee.  On desk was a solid picture, a family group, two
men, a woman, four children.  Was background noise, muted roar of Old
Dome Plaza louder than usual; I heard shouts and in distance some
singing: Simon's version of "Marseillaise."

Off screen Ginwallah's voice said, "Gospodin?"

Adam turned toward it.  "I'm busy, Albert," he said patiently.  "No
calls from anyone but cell B. You handle everything else."  He looked
back at us.  "Well, Wyoh?  Suggestions?  Prof?  Man my doubting friend?
Will I pass?"

I rubbed eyes.  "Mike, can you cook?"

"Certainly.  But I don't; I'm married."

"Adam," said Wyoh, "how can you look so neat after the day we've
had?"

"I don't let little things worry me."  He looked at Prof.  "Professor,
if the picture is okay, let's discuss what I'll say tomorrow.  I was
thinking of preempting the eight hundred newscast, have it announced
all night, and pass the word down the cells."

We talked rest of night.  I sent up for coffee twice and Mike-Adam had
his carton renewed.  When I ordered sandwiches, he asked Ginwallah to
send out for some.  I caught a glimpse of Albert Ginwallah in profile,
a typical babu, polite and faintly scornful.  Hadn't known what he
looked like.  Mike ate while we ate, sometimes mumbling around a
mouthful of food.

When I asked (professional interest) Mike told me that, after he had
picture built up, he had programmed most of it for automatic and gave
his attention just to facial expressions.  But soon I forgot it was
fake.  Mike-Adam was talking with us by video, was all, much more
convenient than by phone.

By oh-three-hundred we had policy settled, then Mike rehearsed speech.
Prof found points be wanted to add; Mike made revisions, then we
decided to get some rest, even Mike-Adam was yawning--although in fact
Mike held fort all through night, guarding transmissions to Terra,
keeping Complex wailed off, listening at many phones.  Prof and I
shared big bed, Wyoh stretched out on couch, I whistled lights out. For
once we slept without weights.

While we had breakfast, Adam Selene addressed Free Luna.

He was gentle, strong, warm, and persuasive.  "Citizens of Free Luna,
friends, comrades--to those of you who do not know me let me introduce
myself.  I am Adam Selene.  Chairman of the Emergency Committee of
Comrades for Free Luna ... now of Free Luna, we are free at last.  The
so-called "Authority' which has long unsurped power in this our home
has been overthrown.  I find myself temporary head of such government
as we have--the Emergency Committee.

"Shortly, as quickly as can be arranged, you will opt your own
government."  Adam smiled and made a gesture inviting help.  "In the
meantime, with your help, I shall do my best.  We will make
mistakes--be tolerant.  Comrades, if you have not revealed yourselves
to friends and neighbors, it is time you did so.  Citizens, requests
may reach you through your comrade neighbors.  I hope you will comply
willingly; it will speed the day when I can bow out and life can get
back to normal--a new normal, free of the Authority, free of guards,
free of troops stationed on us, free of passports and searches and
arbitrary arrests.

"There has to be a transition.  To all of you--please go back to work,
resume normal lives.  To those who worked for the Authority, the need
is the same.  Go back to work.  Wages will go on, your jobs stay the
same, until we can decide what is needed, what happily no longer is
needed now that we are free, and what must be kept but modified.  You
new citizens, transportees sweating out sentences pronounced on you
Earthside--you are free, your sentences are finished!  But in the
meantime I hope that you will go on working.  You are not required
to--the days of coercion are gone--but you are urged to.  You are of
course free to leave the Complex, free to go anywhere ... and capsule
service to and from the Complex will resume at once.  But before you
use your new freedom to rush into town, let me remind you: "There is no
such thing as a free lunch."  You are better off for the time being
where you are; the food may not be fancy but will continue hot and on
time.

"To take on temporarily those necessary functions of the defunct
Authority I have asked the General Manager of LuNoHo Company to serve.
This company will provide temporary supervision and will start
analyzing how to do away with the tyrannical parts of the Authority and
how to transfer the useful parts to private hands.  So please help
them.

"To you citizens of Terran nations among us, scientists and travelers
and others, greetings!  You are witnessing a rare event, the birth of a
nation.  Birth means blood and pain; there has been some.  We hope it
is over.  You will not be inconvenienced unnecessarily and your passage
home will be arranged as soon as possible.  Conversely, you are welcome
to stay, still more welcome to become citizens.  But for the present I
urge you to stay out of the corridors, avoid incidents that might lead
to unnecessary blood, unnecessary pain.  Be patient with us and I urge
my fellow citizens to be patient with you.  Scientists from Terra, at
the Observatory and elsewhere, go on with your work and ignore us. Then
you won't even notice that we are going through the pangs of creating a
new nation.  One thing-- I am sorry to say that we are temporarily
interfering with your right to communicate with Earthside. This we do
from necessity; censorship will be lifted as quickly as possible--we
hate it as much as you do."

Adam added one more request: "Don't try to see me, comrades, and phone
me only if you must; all others, write if you need to, your letters
will receive prompt attention.  But I am not twins, I got no sleep last
night and can't expect much tonight.  I can't address meetings, can't
shake hands, can't meet delegations; I must stick to this desk and
work--so that I can get rid of this job and turn it over to your
choice."  He grinned at them.  "Expect me to be as hard to see as Simon
Jester!"

It was a fifteen-minute cast but that was essence: Go back to work, be
patient, give us time.

Those scientists gave us almost no time--I should have guessed; was my
sort of pidgin.

All communication Earthside channeled through Mike.  But those brain
boys had enough electronic equipment to stock a warehouse; once they
decided to, it took them only hours to breadboard a rig that could
reach Terra.

Only thing that saved us was a fellow traveler who thought Luna should
be free.  He tried to phone Adam Selene, wound up talking to one of a
squad of women we had co-opted from C and D level--a system thrown
together in self-defense as, despite Mike's request, half of Luna tried
to phone Adam Selene after that video cast everything from requests and
demands to busybodies who wanted to tell Adam how to do his job.

After about a hundred calls got routed to me through too much zeal by a
comrade in phone company, we set up this buffer squad.  Happily,
comrade lady who took this call recognized that soothe-'em-down
doctrine did not apply; she phoned me.

Minutes later myself and Finn Nielsen plus some eager guns headed by
capsule for laboratory area.  Our informant was scared to give name but
had told me where to find transmitter.  We caught them transmitting,
and only fast action on Finn's part kept them breathing; his boys were
itchy.  But we did not want to "make an example"; Finn and I had
settled that on way out.  Is hard to frighten scientists, their minds
don't work that way.  Have to get at them from other angles.

I kicked that transmitter to pieces and ordered Director to have
everyone assemble in mess hall and required roll call--where a phone
could hear.  Then I talked to Mike, got names from him, and said to
Director: "Doctor, you told me they were all here.  We're missing
so-and-so"--seven names.  "Get them here!"

Missing Terrans had been notified, had refused to stop what they were
doing--typical scientists.

Then I talked, Loonies on one side of room, Terrans on other.  To
Terrans I said; "We tried to treat you as guests.  But three of you
tried and perhaps succeeded in sending message Earthside."

I turned to Director.  "Doctor, I could search--warren, surface
structures, all labs, every space--and destroy everything that might be
used for transmitter.  I'm electron pusher by trade; I know what wide
variety of components can be converted into transmitters.  Suppose I
destroy everything that might be useful for that and, being stupid,
take no chance and smash anything I don't understand.  What result?"

Would have thought I was about to kill his baby!  He turned gray. "That
would stop every research ... destroy priceless data.."  waste, oh, I
don't know how much!  Call it a half billion dollars!"

"So I thought.  Could take all that gear instead of smashing and let
you go on best you can."

"That would be almost as bad.  You must understand, Gospodin, that when
an experiment is interrupted--"

"I know.  Easier than moving anything--and maybe missing some--is to
take you all to Complex and quarter you there.  We have what used to be
Dragoon barracks.  But that too would ruin experiments.  Besides-Where
you from, Doctor?"

"Princeton, New Jersey."

"So?  You've been here five months and no doubt exercising and wearing
weights.  Doctor, if we did that, you might never see Princeton again.
If we move you, we'll keep you locked up.  You'll get soft.  If
emergency goes on very long, you'll be a Loonie like it or not.  And
all your brainy help with you."

A cocky chum stepped forward--one who had to be sent for twice.  "You
can't do this!  It's against the law!"

"What law, Gospodin?  Some law back in your hometown?"  I turned.
"Finn, show him law."

Finn stepped forward and placed emission bell of gun at man's belly
button.  Thumb started to press down--safety-switched, I could see.  I
said, "Don't kill him, Finn!"--then went on: "I will eliminate this man
if that's what it takes to convince you.  So watch each other!  One
more offense will kill all your chances of seeing home again--as well
as ruining researches.  Doctor, I warn you to find ways to keep check
on your staff."

I turned to Loonies.  "Tovarishchee, keep them honest.  Work up own
guard system.  Don't take nonsense; every earthworm is on probation. If
you have to eliminate some, don't hesitate."  I turned to Director.
"Doctor, any Loonie can go anywhere any time--even your bedroom.  Your
assistants are now your bosses so far as security is concerned; if a
Loonie decides to follow you or anybody into a W.C."  don't argue; he
might be jumpy."

I turned to Loonies.  "Security first!  You each work for some
earthworm--watch him!  Split it among you and don't miss anything.
Watch 'em so close they can't build mouse trap, much less transmitter.
If interferes with work for them, don't worry; wages will go on."

Could see grins.  Lab assistant was best job a Loonie could find those
days--but they worked under earthworms who looked down on us, even ones
who pretended and were oh so gracious.

I let it go at that.  When I had been phoned, I had intended to
eliminate offenders.  But Prof and Mike set me straight: Plan did not
permit violence against Terrans that could be avoided.

We set up "ears," wideband sensitive receivers, around lab area, since
even most directional rig spills a little in neighborhood.  And Mike
listened on all phones in area, After that we chewed nails and hoped.

Presently we relaxed as news up from Earthside showed nothing, they
seemed to accept censored transmissions without suspicion, and private
and commercial traffic and Authority's transmissions all seemed
routine.  Meanwhile we worked, trying in days what should take
months.

We received one break in timing; no passenger ship was on Luna and none
was due until 7 July.  We could have coped--suckered a ship's officers
to "dine with Warden" or something, then mounted guard on its senders
or dismantled them.  Could not have lifted without our help; in those
days one drain on ice was providing water for reaction mass.  Was not
much drain compared with grain shipments; one manned ship a month was
heavy traffic then, while grain lifted every day.  What it did mean was
that an incoming ship was not an insuperable hazard.  Nevertheless was
lucky break; we were trying so hard to make everything look normal
until we could defend ourselves.

Grain shipments went on as before; one was catapulted almost as Finn's
men were breaking into Warden's residence.  And next went out on time,
and all others.

Neither oversight nor faking for interim; Prof knew what he was doing.
Grain shipments were a big operation (for a little country like Luna)
and couldn't be changed in one semi-lunar; bread-and-beer of too many
people was involved.  If our committee had ordered embargo and quit
buying grain, we would have been chucked out and a new committee with
other ideas would have taken over.

Prof said that an educational period was necessary.  Meanwhile grain
barges catapulted as usual; LuNoHoCo kept books and issued receipts,
using civil service personnel.  Dispatches went out in Warden's name
and Mike talked to Authority Earthside, using Warden's voice.  Deputy
Administrator proved reasonable, once he understood it upped his life
expectancy.  Chief Engineer stayed on job, too--McIntyre was a real
Loonie, given chance, rather than fink by nature.  Other department
heads and minor stooges were no problem; life went on as before and we
were too busy to unwind Authority system and put useful parts up for
sale.

Over a dozen people turned up claiming to be Simon Jester; Simon wrote
a rude verse disclaiming them and had picture on front page of Lunatic,
Pravda, and Gong.  Wyoh let herself go blond and made trip to see Greg
at new catapult site, then a longer trip, ten days, to old home in Hong
Kong Luna, taking Anna who wanted to see it.  Wyoh needed a vacation
and Prof urged her to take it, pointing on that she was in touch by
phone and that closer Party contact was needed in Hong Kong. I took
over her stilyagi with Slim and Hazel as my lieutenants--bright, sharp
kids I could trust.  Slim was awed to discover that I was "Comrade
Bork" and saw "Adam Selene" every day; his Party name started with "G."
Made a good team for other reason, too.  Hazel suddenly started
showing cushiony curves and not all from Mimi's superb table; she had
reached that point in her orbit.  Slim was ready to change her name to
"Stone" any time she was willing to opt.  In meantime he was anxious to
do Party work he could share with our fierce little redhead.

Not everybody was willing.  Many comrades turned out to be talk-talk
soldiers.  Still more thought war was over once we had eliminated Peace
Goons and captured Warden.  Others were indignant to learn how far down
they were in Party structure; they wanted to elect a new structure,
themselves at top.  Adam received endless calls proposing this or
something like it--would listen, agree, assure them that their services
must not be wasted by waiting for election--and refer them to Prof or
me.  Can't recall any of these ambitious people who amounted to
anything when I tried to put them to work.

Was endless work and nobody wanted to do it.  Well, a few.  Some best
volunteers were people Party had never located.  But in general,
Loonies in and out of Party had no interest in "patriotic" work unless
well paid.  One chum who claimed to be a Party member (was not)
spragged me in Raffles where we set up headquarters and wanted me to
contract for fifty thousand buttons to be worn by pre-coup "Veterans of
Revolution"--a "small" profit for him (I estimate 400 percent markup),
easy dollars for me, a fine thing for everybody.

When I brushed him off, he threatened to denounce me to Adam Selene--"A
very good friend of mine, I'll have you know!"--for sabotage.

That was "help" we got.  What we needed was something else.  Needed
steel at new catapult and plenty--Prof asked, if really necessary to
put steel around rock missiles; I had to point out that an induction
field won't grab bare rock.  We needed to relocate Mike's ballistic
radars at old site and install doppler radar at new site--both jobs
because we could expect attacks from space at old site.

We called for volunteers, got only two who could be used--and needed
several hundred mechanics who did not mind hard work in p-suits.  So we
hired, paying what we had to---LuNoHoCo went in hock to Bank of Hong
Kong Luna; was no time to steal that much and most funds had been
transferred Earthside to Stu.  A dinkum comrade, Foo Moses Morris,
co-signed much paper to keep us going--and wound up broke and started
over with a little tailoring shop in Kongville.  That was later.

Authority Scrip dropped from 3-to-1 to 17-to-1 after coup and civil
service people screamed, as Mike was still paying in Authority checks.
We said they could stay on or resign; then those we needed, we rehired
with Hong Kong dollars.  But created a large group not on our side from
then on; they longed for good old days and were ready to stab new
regime.

Grain farmers and brokers were unhappy because payment at catapult head
continued to be Authority scrip at same old fixed prices.  "We won't
take it!"  they cried--and LuNoHoCo man would shrug and tell them they
didn't have to but this grain still went to Authority Earthside (it
did) and Authority scrip was all they would get.  So take cheque, or
load your grain back into rolligons and get it out of here.

Most took it.  All grumbled and some threatened to get out of grain and
start growing vegetables or fibers or something that brought Hong Kong
dollars--and Prof smiled.

We needed every drill man in Luna, especially ice miners who owned
heavy-duty laser drills.  As soldiers.  We needed them so badly that,
despite being shy one wing and rusty, I considered joining up, even
though takes muscle to wrestle a big drill, and prosthetic just isn't
muscle.  Prof told me not to be a fool.

Dodge we had in mind would not work well Earthside; a laser beam
carrying heavy power works best in vacuum--but there it works just
dandy for whatever range its collimation is good for.  These big
drills, which had carved through rock seeking pockets of ice, were now
being mounted as "artillery" to repel space attacks.  Both ships and
missiles have electronic nervous systems and does electronic gear no
good to blast it with umpteen joules placed in a tight beam.  If target
is pressured (as manned ships are and most missiles), all it takes is
to burn a hole, de pressure it.  If not pressured, a heavy laser beam
can still kill it--burn eyes, louse guidance, spoil anything depending
on electronics as most everything does.

An H-bomb with circuitry ruined is not a bomb, is just big tub of
lithium deuteride that can't do anything but crash.  A ship with eyes
gone is a derelict, not a warship.

Sounds easy, is not.  Those laser drills were never meant for targets a
thousand kilometers away, or even one, and was no quick way to rig
their cradles for accuracy.  Gunner had to have guts to hold fire until
last few seconds--on a target heading at him maybe two kilometers per
second.  But was best we had, so we organized First and Second
Volunteer Defense Gunners of Free Luna--two regiments so that First
could snub lowly Second and Second could be Jealous of First.  First
got older men, Second got young and eager.

Having called them "volunteers," we hired in Hong Kong dollars--and was
no accident that ice was being paid for in controlled market in
wastepaper Authority script.

On top of all, we were talking up a war scare.  Adam Selene talked over
video, reminding that Authority was certain to try to regain its
tyranny and we had only days to prepare; papers quoted him and
published stories of their own--we had made special effort to recruit
newsmen before coup.  People were urged to keep p-suits always near and
to test pressure alarms in homes.  A volunteer Civil Defense Corps was
organized in each warren.

What with moon quakes always with us, each warren's pressure co-op
always had sealing crews ready at any hour.  Even with silicone
stay-soft and fiberglass any warren leaks.  In Davis Tunnels our boys
did maintenance on seal every day.  But now we recruited hundreds of
emergency sealing crews, mostly stilyagi, drilled them with fake
emergencies, had them stay in p-suits with helmets open when on duty.

They did beautifully.  But idiots made fun of them--"play soldiers,"
"Adam's little apples," other names.  A team was going through a drill,
showing they could throw a temporary lock around one that had been
damaged, and one of these pinheads stood by and rode them loudly.

Civil Defense team went ahead, completed temporary lock, tested it with
helmets closed; it held--came out, grabbed this joker, took him through
into temporary lock and on out into zero pressure, dumped him.

Belittlers kept opinions to selves after that.  Prof thought we ought
to send out a gentle warning not to eliminate so peremptorily.  I
opposed it and got my way; could see no better way to improve breed.
Certain types of loudmouthism should be a capital offense among decent
people.

But our biggest headaches were self-anointed statesmen.

Did I say that Loonies are "non-political"?  They are, when comes to
doing anything.  But doubt if was ever a time two Loonies over a liter
of beer did not swap loud opinions about how things ought to be run.

As mentioned, these self-appointed political scientists tried to grab
Adam Selene's ear.  But Prof had a place for them; each was invited to
take part in "Ad-Hoc Congress for Organization of Free Luna"--which met
in Community Hall in Luna City, then resolved to stay in session until
work was done, a week in L-City, a week in Novylen, then Hong Kong, and
start over.  All sessions were in video.  Prof presided over first and
Adam Selene addressed them by video and encouraged them to do a
thorough job--"History is watching you."

I listened to some sessions, then cornered Prof and asked what in Bog's
name he was up to?  "Thought you didn't want any government.  Have you
heard those nuts since you turned them loose?"

He smiled most dimply smile.  "What's troubling you, Manuel?"

Many things were troubling me.  With me breaking heart trying to round
up heavy drills and men who could treat them as guns these idlers had
spent an entire afternoon discussing immigration.  Some wanted to stop
it entirely.  Some wanted to tax it, high enough to finance government
(when ninety-nine out of a hundred Loonies had had to be dragged to The
Rock!); some wanted to make it selective by "ethnic ratios."  (Wondered
how they would count me?) Some wanted to limit it to females until we
were 50-50.  That had produced a Scandinavian shout: "Ja, cobber!  Tell
'em send us hoors!  Tousands and tousands of hoors!  I marry 'em, I
betcha!"

Was most sensible remark all afternoon.

Another time they argued "time."  Sure, Greenwich time bears no
relation to lunar.  But why should it when we live Underground?  Show
me a Loonie who can sleep two weeks and work two weeks; lunars don't
fit our metabolism.  What was urged was to make a lunar exactly equal
to twenty-eight days (instead of 29 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes, 2.78
seconds) and do this by making days longer--and hours, minutes, and
seconds, thus making each semi-lunar exactly two weeks.

Sure, lunar is necessary for many purposes.  Controls when we go up on
surface, why we go, and how long we stay.  But, aside from throwing us
out of gear with our only neighbor, had that wordy vacuum skull thought
what this would do to every critical figure in science and engineering?
As an electronics man I shuddered.  Throw away every book, table,
instrument, and start over?  I know that some of my ancestors did that
in switching from old English units to MKS--but they did it to make
things easier.  Fourteen inches to a foot and some odd number of feet
to a mile.  Ounces and pounds.  Oh, Bog!

Made sense to change that--but why go out of your way to create
confusion?

Somebody wanted a committee to determine exactly what Loonie language
is, then fine everybody who talked Earthside English or other language.
Oh, my people!

I read tax proposals in Lunatic--four sorts of Single Taxers--a cubic
tax that would penalize a man if he extended tunnels, a head tax
(everybody pay same), income tax (like to see anyone figure income of
Davis Family or try to get information out of Mum!), and an "air tax"
which was not fees we paid then but something else.

Hadn't realized "Free Luna" was going to have taxes.  Hadn't had any
before and got along.  You paid for what you got.  Tanstaafl.  How
else?

Another time some pompous choom proposed that bad breath and body odors
be made an elimination offense.  Could almost sympathize, having been
stuck on occasion in a capsule with such stinks.  But doesn't happen
often and tends to be self-correcting; chronic offenders, or
unfortunates who can't correct, aren't likely to reproduce, seeing how
choosy women are.

One female (most were men, but women made up for it in silliness) had a
long list she wanted made permanent laws--about private matters.  No
more plural marriage of any sort.  No divorces.  No "fornication"--had
to look that one up.  No drinks stronger than 4% beer.  Church services
only on Saturdays and all else to stop that day.  (Air and temperature
and pressure engineering, lady?  Phones and capsules?) A long list of
drugs to be prohibited and a shorter list dispensed only by licensed
physicians.  (What is a "licensed physician"?  Healer I go to has a
sign reading "practical doctor"--makes book on side, which is why I go
to him.  Look, lady, aren't any medical schools in Luna!) (Then, I
mean.) She even wanted to make gambling illegal.  If a Loonie couldn't
roll double or nothing, he would go to a shop that would, even if dice
were loaded.

Thing that got me was not her list of things she hated, since she was
obviously crazy as a Cyborg, but fact that always somebody agreed with
her prohibitions.  Must be a yearning deep in human heart to stop other
people from doing as they please.  Rules, laws--always for other
fellow.  A murky part of us, something we had before we came down out
of trees, and failed to shuck when we stood up.  Because not one of
those people said: "Please pass this so that I won't be able to do
something I know I should stop."  Nyet, tovarishchee, was always
something they hated to see neighbors doing.  Stop them "for their own
good"--not because speaker claimed to be harmed by it.

Listening to that session I was almost sorry we got rid of Mort the
Wart.  He stayed holed up with his women and didn't tell us how to run
private lives.

But Prof didn't get excited; he went on smiling.  "Manuel, do you
really think that mob of retarded children can pass any laws?"

"You told them to.  Urged them to."

"My dear Manuel, I was simply putting all my nuts in one basket.  I
know those nuts; I've listened to them for years.  I was very careful
in selecting their committees; they all have built-in confusion, they
will quarrel.  The chairman I forced on them while letting them elect
him is a ditherer who could not unravel a piece of string--thinks every
subject needs 'more study."  I almost needn't have bothered; more than
six people cannot agree on anything, three is better--and one is
perfect for a job that one can do.  This is why parliamentary bodies
all through history, when they accomplished anything, owed it to a few
strong men who dominated the rest.  Never fear, son, this Ad-Hoc
Congress will do nothing... or if they pass something through sheer
fatigue, it will be so loaded with contradictions that it will have to
be thrown out.  In the meantime they are out of our hair.  Besides,
there is something we need them for, later."

"Thought you said they could do nothing."

"They won't do this.  One man will write it--a dead man--and late at
night when they are very tired, they'll pass it by acclamation."

"Who's this dead man?  You don't mean Mike?"

"No, no!  Mike is far more alive than those yammer heads The dead man
is Thomas Jefferson--first of the rational anarchists, my boy, and one
who once almost managed to slip over his non-system through the most
beautiful rhetoric ever written.  But they caught him at it, which I
hope to avoid.  I cannot improve on his phrasing; I shall merely adapt
it to Luna and the twenty-first century."

"Heard of him, Freed slaves, nyet?"

"One might say he tried but failed.  Never mind.  How are the defenses
progressing?  I don't see how we can keep up the pretense past the
arrival date of this next ship."

"Can't be ready then."

"Mike says we must be."

We weren't but ship never arrived.  Those scientists outsmarted me and
Loonies I had told to watch them.  Was a rig at focal point of biggest
reflector and Loonie assistants believed doubletalk about astronomical
purpose--a new wrinkle in radio telescopes

I suppose it was.  Was ultra microwave and stuff was bounced at
reflector by a wave guide and thus left scope lined up nicely by
mirror.  Remarkably like early radar.  And metal latticework and foil
heat shield of barrel stopped stray radiation, thus "ears" I had staked
out heard nothing.

They put message across, their version and in detail.  First we heard
was demand from Authority to Warden to deny this hoax, find hoaxer, put
stop to it.

So instead we gave them a Declaration of Independence.

"In Congress assembled, July Fourth, Twenty-Seventy-Six--"

Was beautiful.

Signing of Declaration of Independence went as Prof said it would.  He
sprang it on them at end of long day, announced a special session after
dinner at which Adam Selene would speak.  Adam read aloud, discussing
each sentence, then read it without stopping, making music of sonorous
phrases.  People wept.  Wyoh, seated by me, was one, and I felt like it
even though had read it earlier.

Then Adam looked at them and said, "The future is waiting.  Mark well
what you do," and turned meeting over to Prof rather than usual
chairman.

Was twenty-two hundred and fight began.  Sure, they were in favor of
it; news all day had been jammed with what bad boys we were, how we
were to be punished, taught a lesson, so forth.  Not necessary to spice
it up; stuff up from Earthside was nasty--Mike merely left out
on-other-hand opinions.  If ever was a day when Luna felt unified it
was probably second of July 2076.

So they were going to pass it; Prof knew that before he offered it.

But not as written--"Honorable Chairman, in second paragraph, that word
'unalienable," is no such word; should be 'inalienable'--and anyhow
wouldn't it be more dignified to say 'sacred rights' rather than
'inalienable rights'?  I'd like to hear discussion on this."

That choom was almost sensible, merely a literary critic, which is
harmless, like dead yeast left in beer.  But-Well, take that woman who
hated everything.  She was there with list; read it aloud and moved to
have it incorporated into Declaration "so that the peoples of Terra
will know that we are civilized and fit to take our places in the
councils of mankind!"

Prof not only let her get away with it; he encouraged her, letting her
talk when other people wanted to--then blandly put her proposal to a
vote when hadn't even been seconded.  (Congress operated by rules they
had wrangled over for days.  Prof was familiar with rules but followed
them only as suited him.) She was voted down in a shout, and left.

Then somebody stood up and said of course that long list didn't belong
in Declaration--but shouldn't we have general principles?  Maybe a
statement that Luna Free State guaranteed freedom, equality, and
security to all?  Nothing elaborate, just those fundamental principles
that everybody knew was proper purpose of goiverament.

True enough and let's pass it--but must read "Freedom, equality, peace,
and security"--right, Comrade?  They wrangled over whether "freedom"
included "free air," or was that part of "security"?  Why not be on
safe side and list "free air" by name?  Move to amend to make it "free
air and water"--because you didn't have "freedom" or "security" unless
you had both air and water.

Air, water, and food.

Air, water, food, and cubic.

Air, water, food, cubic, and heat.

No, make "heat" read "power" and you had it all covered.  Everything.

Cobber, have you lost your mind?  That's far from everything and what
you've left out is an affront to all womankind-Step outside and say
that!  Let me finish.  We've got to tell them right from deal that we
will permit no more ships to land unless they carry at least as many
women as men.  At least, I said--and I for one won't chop it unless it
sets immigration issue straight.

Prof never lost dimples.

Began to see why Prof had slept all day and was not wearing weights.
Me, I was tired, having spent all day in p-suit out beyond catapult
head cutting in last of relocated ballistic radars.  And everybody was
tired; by midnight crowd began to thin, convinced that nothing would be
accomplished that night and bored by any yammer not their own.

Was later than midnight when someone asked why this Declaration was
dated fourth when today was second?  Prof said mildly that it was July
third now--and it seemed unlikely that our Declaration could be
announced earlier than fourth and that July fourth carried historical
symbolism that might help.

Several people walked out at announcement that probably nothing would
be settled until fourth of July.  But I began to notice something: Hall
was filling as fast as was emptying.  Finn Nielsen slid into a seat
that had just been vacated.  Comrade Clayton from Hong Kong showed up,
pressed my shoulder, smiled at Wyoh, found a seat.  My youngest
lieutenants.  Slim and Hazel, I spotted down front--and was thinking I
must alibi Hazel by telling Mum I had kept her out on Parts
business--when was amused to see Mum herself next to them.  And Sidris.
And Greg, who was supposed to be at new catapult.

Looked around and picked out a dozen more--night editor of Lunaya
Pravda, General Manager of LuNoHoCo, others, and each one a working
comrade, Began to see that Prof had stacked deck.  That Congress never
had a fixed membership; these dinkum comrades had as much right to show
up as those who had been talking a month.  Now they sat--and voted down
amendments.

About three hundred, when I was wondering how much more I could take,
someone brought a note to Prof.  He read it, banged gavel and said,
"Adam Selene begs your indulgence.  Do I hear unanimous consent?"

So screen back of rostrum lighted up again and Adam told them that he
had been following debate and was warmed by many thoughtful and
constructive criticisms.  But could he made a suggestion?  Why not
admit that any piece of writing was imperfect?  If thin declaration was
in general what they wanted, why not postpone perfection for another
day and pass this as it stands?  "Honorable Chairman, I so move."

They passed it with a yell.  Prof said, "Do I hear objection?"  and
waited with gavel raised.  A man who had been talking when Adam had
asked to be heard said, "Well, .. I still say that's a dangling
participle, but okay, leave it in."

Prof hanged gavel.  "So ordered!"

Then we filed up and put our chops on a big scroll that had been "sent
over from Adam's office"---and I noticed Adam's chop on it.  I signed
right under Hazel--child now could write although was still short on
book learning.  Her chop was shaky but she wrote it large and proud.
Comrade Clayton signed his Party name, real name in letters, and
Japanese chop, three little pictures one above other.  Two comrades
chopped with X's and had them witnessed.  All Party leaders were there
that night (morning), all chopped it, and not more than a dozen
yammerers stuck.  But those who did, put their chops down for history
to read.  And thereby committed "their lives, their fortunes, and their
sacred honors."

While queue was moving slowly past and people were talking, Prof banged
for attention.  "I ask for volunteers for a dangerous mission.  This
Declaration will go on the news channels--but must be presented in
person to the Federated Nations, on Terra."

That put stop to noise.  Prof was looking at me.  I swallowed and said,
"I volunteer."  Wyoh echoed, "So do I!"--and little Hazel Meade said,
"Me, too!"

In moments were a dozen, from Finn Nielsen to Gospodin
Dangling-Participle (turned out to be good cobber aside from his
fetish).  Prof took names, murmured something about getting in touch as
transportation became available.

I got Prof aside and said, "Look, Prof, you too tired to track?  You
know ship for seventh was canceled; now they're talking about slapping
embargo on us.  Next ship they lift for Luna will be a warship.  How
you planning to travel?  As prisoner?"

"Oh, we won't use their ships."

"So?  Going to build one?  Any idea how long that takes?  If could
build one at all.  Which I doubt."

"Manuel, Mike says it's necessary--and has it all worked out."

I did know Mike said was necessary; he had rerun problem soon as we
learned that bright laddies at Richardson had snuck one home--he now
gave us only one chance in fifty-three... with imperative need for Prof
to go Earthside.  But I'm not one to worry about impossibilities; I had
spent day working to make that one chance in fifty-three turn up.

"Mike will provide the ship," Prof went on.  "He has completed its
design and it is being worked on."

"He has?  It is?  Since when is Mike engineer?"

"Isn't he?"  asked Prof.

I started to answer, shut up.  Mike had no degrees.  Simply knew more
engineering than any man alive.  Or about Shakespeare's plays, or
riddles, or history, name it.  "Tell me more."

"Manuel, we'll go to Terra as a load of grain."

"What?  Who's 'we'?"

"You and myself.  The other volunteers are merely decorative."

I said, "Look, Prof.  I've stuck.  Worked hard when whole thing seemed
silly.  Worn these weights--got 'em on now--on chance I might have to
go to that dreadful place.  But contracted to go in a ship, with at
least a Cyborg pilot to help me get down safely.  Did not agree to go
as meteorite."

He said, "Very well, Manuel.  I believe in free choice, always.  Your
alternate will go."

"My-Who?"

"Comrade Wyoming.  So far as I know she is the only other person in
training for the trip ... other than a few Terrans."

So I went.  But talked to Mike first.  He said patiently.  "Man my
first friend, there isn't a thing to worry about.  You are scheduled
load KM187 series '76 and you'll arrive in Bombay with no trouble.  But
to be sure--to reassure you--I selected that barge because it will be
taken out of parking orbit and landed when India is faced toward me,
and I've added an override so that I can take you away from ground
control if I don't like the way they handle you.  Trust me, Man, it has
all been thought through.  Even the decision to continue shipments when
security was broken was part of this plan."

"Might have told me."

"There was no need to worry you.  Professor had to know and I've kept
in touch with him.  But you are going simply to take care of him and
back him up--do his job if he dies, a factor on which I can give you no
reassurance."

I sighed.  "Okay.  But, Mike, surely you don't think you can pilot a
barge into a soft landing at this distance?  Speed of light alone would
trip you."

"Man, don't you think I understand ballistics?  For the orbital
position then, from query through reply and then to command-received is
under four seconds... and you can rely on me not to waste microseconds.
Your maximum parking-orbit travel in four seconds is only thirty-two
kilometers, diminishing asymptotically to zero at landing.  My reflex
time will be effectively less than that of a pilot in a manual landing
because I don't waste time grasping a situation and deciding on correct
action.  So my maximum is four seconds.  But my effective reflex time
is much less, as I project and predict constantly, see ahead, program
it out--in effect, I'll stay four seconds ahead of you in your
trajectory and respond instantly."

"That steel can doesn't even have an altimeter!"

"It does now.  Man, please believe me; I've thought of everything.  The
only reason I've ordered this extra equipment is to reassure you. Poona
ground control hasn't made a bobble in the last five thousand loads. 
For a computer it's fairly bright."

"Okay.  Uh, Mike, how hard do they splash those bleeding barges?  What
gee?"

"Not high, Man.  Ten gravities at injection, then that programs down to
a steady, soft four gees ... then you'll be nudged again between six
and five gees just before splash.  The splash itself is gentle, equal
to a fall of fifty meters and you enter ogive first with no sudden
shock, less than three gees.  Then you surface and splash again,
lightly, and simply float at one gee.  Man, those barge shells are
built as lightly as possible for economy's sake.  We can't afford to
toss them around or they would split their seams."

"How sweet.  Mike, what would 'six to five gees' do to you?  Split your
seams?"

"I conjecture that I was subjected to about six gravities when they
shipped me up here.  Six gravities in my present condition would shear
many of my essential connections.  However, I'm more interested in the
extremely high, transient accelerations I am going to experience from
shock waves when Terra starts bombing us.  Data are insufficient for
prediction but I may lose control of my outlying functions, Man.  This
could be a major factor in any tactical situation."

"Mike, you really think they are going to bomb us?"

"Count on it, Man.  That is why this trip is so important."

Left it at that and went out to see this coffin.  Should have stayed
home.

Ever looked at one of those silly barges?  Just a steel cylinder with
retro and guidance rockets and radar transponder.  Resembles a
spaceship way a pair of pliers resembles my number-three arm.  They had
this one cut open and were outfitting our "living quarters."

No galley.  No W.C. No nothing.  Why bother?  We were going to be in it
only fifty hours.  Start empty so that you won't need a honey sack in
your suit.  Dispense with lounge and bar; you'll never be out of your
suit, you'll be drugged and not caring.

At least Prof would be drugged almost whole time; I had to be alert at
landing to try to get us out of this death trap if something went wrong
and nobody came along with a tin opener.  They were building a shaped
cradle in which backs of our p-suits would fit; we would be strapped
into these holes.  And stay there, clear to Terra.  They seemed more
concerned about making total mass equal to displaced wheat and same
center of gravity and all moment arms adding up correctly than they did
about our comfort; engineer in charge told me that even padding to be
added inside our p-suits was figured in.

Was glad to learn we were going to have padding; those holes did not
look soft.

Returned home in thoughtful condition.

Wyoh was not at dinner, unusual; Greg was, more unusual.  Nobody said
anything about my being scheduled to imitate a falling rock next day
although all knew.  But did not realize anything special was on until
all next generation left table without being told.  Then knew why Greg
had not gone back to Mare Undarum site after Congress adjourned that
morning; somebody had asked for a Family talk-talk.

Mum looked around and said, "We're all here.  Ali, shut that door;
that's a dear.  Grandpaw, will you start us?"

Our senior husband stopped nodding over coffee and firmed up.  He
looked down table and said strongly, "I see that we are all here.  I
see that children have been put to bed.  I see that there is no
stranger, no guest.  I say that we are met in accordance with customs
created by Black Jack Davis our First Husband and Tillie our First
Wife.  If there is any matter that concerns safety and happiness of our
marriage, haul it out in the light now.  Don't let it fester.  This is
our custom."

Grandpaw turned to Mum and said softly, "Take it, Mimi," and slumped
back into gentle apathy.  But for a minute he had been strong,
handsome, virile, dynamic man of days of my opting... and I thought
with sudden tears how lucky I had been!

Then didn't know whether I felt lucky or not.  Only excuse I could see
for a Family talk-talk was fact that I was due to be shipped Earthside
next day, labeled as grain.  Could Mum be thinking of trying to set
Family against it?  Nobody had to abide by results of a talk-talk.  But
one always did.  That was strength of our marriage: When came down to
issues, we stood together.

Mimi was saying, "Does anyone have anything that needs to be discussed?
Speak up, dears."

Greg said, "I have."

"We'll listen to Greg."

Greg is a good speaker.  Can stand up in front of a congregation and
speak with confidence about matters I don't feel confident about even
when alone.  But that night he seemed anything but sure of himself.
"Well, uh, we've always tried to keep this marriage in balance, some
old, some young, a regular alternation, well spaced, just as it was
handed down to us.  But we've varied sometimes--for good reason."  He
looked at Ludmilla.  "And adjusted it later."  He looked again at far
end of table, at Frank and Ali, on each side of Ludmilla.

"Over years, as you can see from records, average age of husbands has
been about forty, wives about thirty-five--and that age spread was just
what our marriage started with, nearly a hundred years gone by, for
Tillie was fifteen when she opted Black Jack and he had just turned
twenty.  Right now I find that average age of husbands is almost
exactly forty, while average--"

Mum said firmly, "Never mind arithmetic, Greg dear.  Simply state
it."

I was trying to think who Greg could possibly mean.  True, I had been
much away during past year, and if did get home, was often after
everybody was asleep.  But he was clearly talking about marriage and
nobody ever proposes another wedding in our marriage without first
giving everybody a long careful chance to look prospect over.  You just
didn't do it any other way!

So I'm stupid.  Greg stuttered and said, "I propose Wyoming Knott!"

I said I was stupid.  I understand machinery and machinery understands
me.  But didn't claim to know anything about people.  When I get to be
senior husband, if live that long, am going to do exactly what Grandpaw
does with Mum: Let Sidris run it.  Just same-Well, look, Wyoh joined
Greg's church.  I like Greg, love Greg.  And admire him.  But you could
never feed theology of his church through a computer and get anything
but null.  Wyoh surely knew this, since she encountered it in adult
years--truthfully, I had suspected that Wyoh's conversion was proof
that she would do anything for our Cause.

But Wyoh had recruited Greg even earlier.  And had made most of trips
out to new site, easier for her to get away than me or Prof.  Oh, well.
Was taken by surprise.  Should not have been.

Mimi said, "Greg, do you have reason to think that Wyoming would accept
an opting from us?"

"Yes."

"Very well.  We all know Wyoming; I'm sure we've formed our opinions of
her.  I see no reason to discuss it... unless someone has something to
say?  Speak up."

Was no surprise to Mum.  But wouldn't be.  Nor to anyone else, either,
since Mum never let a talk-talk take place until she was sure of
outcome.

But wondered why Mum was sure of my opinion, so certain that she had
not felt me out ahead of time?  And sat there in a soggy quandary,
knowing I should speak up, knowing I knew something terribly pertinent
which nobody else knew or matter would never have gone this far.
Something that didn't matter to me but would matter to Mum and all our
women.

Sat there, miserable coward, and said nothing, Mum said, "Very well.
Let's call the roll.  Ludmilla?"

"Me?  Why, I love Wyoh, everybody knows that.  Sure!"

"Lenore dear?"

"Well, I may try to talk her into going back to being a brownie again;
I think we set each other off.  But that's her only fault, being
blonder than I am.  Da!"

"Sidris?"

"Thumbs up.  Wyoh is our kind of people."

"Anna?"

"I've something to say before I express my opinion, Mimi."

"I don't think it's necessary, dear."

"Nevertheless I'm going to haul it out in the open, just as Tillie
always did according to our traditions.  In this marriage every wife
has carried her load, given children to the family.  It may come as a
surprise to some of you to learn that Wyoh has had eight children--"

Certainly surprised Ali; his head jerked and jaw dropped.  I stared at
plate.  Oh, Wyoh, Wyoh!  How could I let this happen?  Was going to
have to speak up.

And realized Anna was still speaking: "--so now she can have children
of her own; the operation was successful.  But she worries about
possibility of another defective baby, unlikely as that is according to
the head of the clinic in Hong Kong.  So we'll just have to love her
enough to make her quit fretting."

"We will love her," Mum said serenely.  "We do love her.  Anna, are you
ready to express opinion?"

"Hardly necessary, is it?  I went to Hong Kong with her, held her hand
while her tubes were restored.  I opt Wyoh."

"In this family," Mum went on, "we have always felt that our husbands
should be allowed a veto.  Odd of us perhaps, hut Tillie started it and
it has always worked well.  Well, Grandpaw?"

"Eh?  What were you saying, my dear?"

"We are opting Wyoming, Gospodin Grandpaw.  Do you give consent?"

"What?  Why, of course, of course!  Very nice little girl.  Say,
whatever became of that pretty little Afro, name something like that?
She get mad at us?"

"Greg?"

"I proposed it."

"Manuel?  Do you forbid this?"

"Me?  Why, you know me, Mum."

"I do.  I sometimes wonder if you know you.  Hans?"

"What would happen if I said No?"

"You'd lose some teeth, that's what," Lenore said promptly.  "Hans
votes Yes."

"Stop it, darlings," Mum said with soft reproof.  "Opting is a serious
matter.  Hans, speak up."

"Da.  Yes.  Ja.  Oui.  Si.  High time we had a pretty blonde in
this-Ouch!"

"Stop it, Lenore.  Frank?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Ali dear?  Is it unanimous?"

Lad blushed bright pink and couldn't talk.  Nodded vigorously.

Instead of appointing a husband and a wife to seek out selectee and
propose opting for us, Mum sent Ludmilla and Anna to fetch Wyoh at
once--and turned out she was only as far away as Bon Ton.  Nor was that
only irregularity; instead of setting a date and arranging a wedding
party, our children were called in, and twenty minutes later Greg had
his Book open and we did the taking vows--and I finally got it through
my confused head that was being done with breakneck speed because of my
date to break my neck next day.

Not that it could matter save as symbol of my family's love for me,
since a bride spent her first night with her senior husband, and second
night and third I was going to spend out in space.  But did matter
anyhow and when women started to cry during ceremony, I found self
dripping tears right with them.

Then I went to bed, alone in workshop, once Wyoh had kissed us and left
on Grandpaw's arm.  Was terribly tired and last two days had been hard.
Thought about exercises and decided was too late to matter; thought
about calling Mike and asking him for news from Terra.  Went to bed.

Don't know how long had been asleep when realized was no longer asleep
and somebody was in room.  "Manuel?"  came soft whisper in dark.

"Huh?  Wyoh, you aren't supposed to be here, dear."

"I am indeed supposed to be here, my husband.  Mum knows I'm here, so
does Greg.  And Grandpaw went right to sleep."

"Oh.  What time is?"

"About four hundred.  Please, dear, may I come to bed?"

"What?  Oh, certainly."  Something I should remember.  Oh, yes.
"Mike!"

"Yes, Man?"  he answered.

"Switch off.  Don't listen.  If you want me, call me on Family
phone."

"So Wyoh told me, Man.  Congratulations!"

Then her head was pillowed on my stump and I put right arm around her.
"What are you crying about, Wyoh?"

"I'm not crying!  I'm just frightened silly that you won't come
back!"

Woke up scared silly in pitch darkness.  "Manuel!"  Didn't know which
end was up.  "Manuel!"  it called again.  "Wake up!"

That brought me out some; was signal intended to trigger me.  Recalled
being stretched on a table in infirmary at Complex, staring up at a
light and listening to a voice while a drug dripped into my veins.  But
was a hundred years ago, endless time of nightmares, unendurable
pressure, pain.

Knew now what no-end-is-up feeling was; had experienced before.  Free
fall.  Was in space.

What had gone wrong?  Had Mike dropped a decimal point?  Or had he
given in to childish nature and played a joke, not realizing would
kill?  Then why, after all years of pain, was I alive?  Or was I?  Was
this normal way for ghost to feel, just lonely, lost, nowhere?

"Wake up, Manuel!  Wake up, Manuel!"

"Oh, shut up!"  I snarled.  "Button your filthy king-and-ace!"
Recording went on; I paid no attention.  Where was that reeking light
switch?  No, doesn't take a century of pain to accelerate to Luna's
escape speed at three gravities, merely feels so.  Eighty-two
seconds--but is one time when human nervous system feels every
microsecond.  Three gees is eighteen grim times as much as a Loonie
ought to weigh.

Then discovered those vacuum skulls had not put arm back on.  For some
silly reason they had taken it off when they stripped me to prepare me
and I was loaded with enough don't-worry and let's-sleep pills not to
protest.  No huhu had they put it on again.  But that dreck lich switch
was on my left and sleeve of p-suit was empty.

Spent next ten years getting unstrapped with one hand, then a
twenty-year sentence floating around in dark before managed to find my
cradle again, figure out which was head end, and from that hint locate
switch by touch.  That compartment was not over two meters in any
dimension.  This turns out to be larger than Old Dome in free fall and
total darkness.  Found it.  We had light.  (And don't ask why that
coffin did not have at least three lighting systems all working all
time.  Habit, probably.  A lighting system implies a switch to control
it, nyet?  Thing was built in two days; should be thankful switch
worked.)

Once I had light, cubic shrank to true claustrophobic dimensions and
ten percent smaller, and I took a look at Prof.

Dead, apparently.  Well, he had every excuse.  Envied him but was now
supposed to check his pulse and breathing and suchlike in case he had
been unlucky and still had such troubles.  And was again hampered and
not just by being one armed Grain load had been dried and de pressured
as usual before loading but that cell was supposed to be pressured--oh,
nothing fancy, just a tank with air in it.  Our p-suits were supposed
to handle needs such as life's breath for those two days.  But even
best p-suit is more comfortable in pressure than in vacuum and, anyhow,
I was supposed to be able to get at my patient.

Could not.  Didn't need to open helmet to know this steel can had not
stayed gas tight, knew at once, naturally, from way p-suit felt.  Oh,
drugs I had for Prof, heart stimulants and so forth, were in field
ampules; could jab them through his suit.  But how to check heart and
breathing?  His suit was cheapest sort, sold for Loonie who rarely
Leaves warren; had no readouts.

His mouth hung open and eyes stared.  A deader, I decided.  No need to
ex Prof beyond that old limen; had eliminated himself.  Tried to see
pulse on throat; his helmet was in way.

They had provided a program clock which was mighty kind of them. Showed
I had been out forty-four-plus hours, all to plan, and in three hours
we should receive horrible booting to place us in parking orbit around
Terra.  Then, after two circums, call it three more hours, we should
start injection into landing program--if Poona Ground Control didn't
change its feeble mind and leave us in orbit.  Reminded self that was
unlikely; grain is not left in vacuum longer than necessary. Has
tendency to become puffed wheat or popped corn, which not only lowers
value but can split those thin canisters like a melon.  Wouldn't that
be sweet?  Why had they packed us in with grain?  Why not just a load
of rock that doesn't mind vacuum?

Had time to think about that and to become very thirsty.  Took nipple
for half a mouthful, no more, because certainly did not want to take
six gees with a full bladder.  (Need not have worried; was equipped
with catheter.  But did not know.)

When time got short I decided couldn't hurt Prof to give him a jolt of
drug that was supposed to take him through heavy acceleration; then,
after in parking orbit, give him heart stimulant--since didn't seem as
if anything could hurt him.

Gave him first drug, then spent rest of minutes struggling back into
straps, one-handed.  Was sorry I didn't know name of my helpful friend;
could have cursed him better.

Ten gees gets you into parking orbit around Terra in a mere 3.26 x 10^7
microseconds; merely seems longer, ten gravities being sixty times what
a fragile sack of protoplasm should be asked to endure.  Call it
thirty-three seconds.  My truthful word, I suspect my ancestress in
Salem spent a worse half minute day they made her dance.

Gave Prof heart stimulant, then spent three hours trying to decide
whether to drug self as well as Prof for landing sequence.  Decided
against.  All drug had done for me at catapulting had been to swap a
minute and a half of misery and two days of boredom for a century of
terrible dreams--and besides, if those last minutes were going to be my
very last, I decided to experience them.  Bad as they would be, they
were my very own and I would not give them up.

They were bad.  Six gees did not feel better than ten; felt worse. Four
gees no relief.  Then we were kicked harder.  Then suddenly, just for
seconds, in free fall again.  Then came splash which was not "gentle"
and which we took on straps, not pads, as we went in headfirst.  Also,
don't think Mike realized that, after diving in hard, we would then
surface and splash hard again before we damped down into floating. 
Earthworms call it "floating" but is nothing like floating in free
fall; you do it at one gee, six times what is decent, and odd side
motions tacked on.  Very odd motions-Mike had assured us that solar
weather was good, no radiation danger inside that Iron Maiden.  But he
had not been so interested in Earthside Indian Ocean weather;
prediction was acceptable for landing barges and suppose he felt that
was good enough--and I would have thought so, too.

Stomach was supposed to be empty.  But I filled helmet with sourest,
nastiest fluid you would ever go a long way to avoid.  Then we turned
completely over and I got it in hair and eyes and some in nose.  This
is thing earthworms call "seasickness" and is one of many horrors they
take for granted.

Won't go into long period during which we were towed into port.  Let it
stand that, in addition to seasickness, my air bottles were playing
out.  They were rated for twelve hours, plenty for a fifty-hour orbit
most of which I was unconscious and none involving heavy exercise, but
not quite enough with some hours of towing added.  By time barge
finally held still I was almost too dopy to care about trying to break
out.

Except for one fact-We were picked up, I think, and tumbled a bit, then
brought to rest with me upside down.  This is a no-good position at
best under one gravity; simply impossible when supposed to a) unstrap
self, b) get out of suit-shaped cavity, c) get loose a sledgehammer
fastened with butterfly nuts to bulkhead.  d) smash same against
breakaways guarding escape hatch, e) batter way out, and f) finally,
drag an old man in a p-suit out after you.

Didn't finish step a); passed out head downwards.

Lucky this was emergency-last-resort routine.  Stu La Joie had been
notified before we left; news services had been warned shortly before
we landed.  I woke up with people leaning over me, passed out again,
woke up second time in hospital bed, flat on back with heavy feeling in
chest--was heavy and weak all over--but not ill, just tired, bruised,
hungry, thirsty, languid.  Was a transparent plastic tent over bed
which accounted for fact I was having no trouble breathing.

At once was closed in on from both sides, a tiny Hindu nurse with big
eyes on one side, Stuart La Joie on other.  He grinned at me, "Hi,
cobber!  How do you feel?"

"Uh ... I'm right.  But oh bloody!  What a way to travel!"

"Prof says it's the only way.  What a tough old boy he is."

"Hold it.  Prof said?  Prof is dead."

"Not at all.  Not in good shape--we've got him in a pneumatic bed with
a round-the-clock watch and more instruments wired into him than you
would believe.  But he's alive and will be able to do his job.  But,
truly, he didn't mind the trip; he never knew about it, so he says.
Went to sleep in one hospital, woke up in another.  I thought he was
wrong when he refused to let me wangle it to send a ship but he was
not--the publicity has been tremendous!"

I said slowly, "You say Prof 'refused' to let you send a ship?"

"I should say "Chairman Selene' refused.  Didn't you see the
dispatches, Mannie?"

"No."  Too late to fight over it.  "But last few days have been
busy."

"A dinkum word!  Here, too--don't recall when last I dossed."

"You sound like a Loonie."

"I am a Loonie, Mannie, don't ever doubt it.  But the sister is looking
daggers at me."  Stu picked her up, turned her around.  I decided he
wasn't all Loonie yet.  But nurse didn't resent.  "Go play somewhere
else, dear, and I'll give your patient back to you--still warm--in a
few minutes."  He shut a door on her and came back to bed.  "But Adam
was right; this way was not only wonderful publicity but safer."

"Publicity, I suppose.  But 'safer'?  Let's not talk about!"

"Safer, my old.  You weren't shot at.  Yet they had two hours in which
they knew right where you were, a big fat target.  They couldn't make
up their minds what to do; they haven't formed a policy yet.  They
didn't even dare not bring you down on schedule; the news was full of
it, I had stories slanted and waiting.  Now they don't dare touch you,
you're popular heroes.  Whereas if I had waited to charter a ship and
fetch you ... Well, I don't know.  We probably would have been ordered
into parking orbit; then you two--and myself, perhaps-would have been
taken off under arrest.  No skipper is going to risk missiles no matter
how much he's paid.  The proof of the pudding, cobber.  But let me
brief you.  You're both citizens of The People's Directorate of Chad,
best I could do on short notice.  Also, Chad has recognized Luna.  I
had to buy one prime minister, two generals, some tribal chiefs and a
minister of finance--cheap for such a hurry-up job.  I haven't been
able to get you diplomatic immunity but I hope to, before you leave
hospital.  At present they haven't even dared arrest you; they can't
figure out what you've done.  They have guards outside but simply for
your 'protection'--and a good thing, or you would have reporters nine
deep shoving microphones into your face."

"Just what have we done?--that they know about, I mean.  Illegal
immigration?"

"Not even that, Mannie.  You never were a consignee and you have
derivative Pan African citizenship through one of your grandfathers, no
huhu.  In Professor de la Paz's case we dug up proof that he had been
granted naturalized Chad citizenship forty years back, waited for the
ink to dry, and used it.  You're not even illegally entered here in
India.  Not only did they bring you down themselves, knowing that you
were in that barge, but also a control officer very kindly and fairly
cheaply stamped your virgin passports.  In addition to that, Prof's
exile has no legal existence as the government that proscribed him no
longer exists and a competent court has taken notice--that was more
expensive."

Nurse came back in, indignant as a mother cat.  "Lord Stuart you must
let my patient rest!"

"At once, ma chere."

"You're "Lord Stuart'?"

"Should be "Comte."  Or I can lay a dubious claim to being the
Macgregor.  The blue-blood bit helps; these people haven't been happy
since they took their royalty away from them."

As he left he patted her rump.  Instead of screaming, she wiggled it.
Was smiling as she came over to me.  Stu was going to have to watch
that stuff when he went back to Luna.  If did.

She asked how I felt.  Told her I was right, just hungry.  "Sister, did
you see some prosthetic arms in our luggage?"

She had and I felt better with number-six in place.  Had selected it
and number-two and social arm as enough for trip.  Number-two was
presumably still in Complex; I hoped somebody was taking care of it.
But number-six is most all-around useful arm; with it and social one
I'd be okay.

Two days later we left for Agra to present credentials to Federated
Nations.  I was in bad shape and not just high gee; could do well
enough in a wheel chair and could even walk a little although did not
in public.  What I had was a sore throat that missed pneumonia only
through drugs, traveler's trots, skin disease on hands and spreading to
feet--just like my other trips to that disease-ridden hole, Terra.  We
Loonies don't know how lucky we are, living in a place that has
tightest of quarantines, almost no vermin and what we have controlled
by vacuum anytime necessary.  Or unlucky, since we have almost no
immunities if turns out we need them.  Still, wouldn't swap; never
heard word "venereal" until first went Earthside and had thought
"common cold" was state of ice miner's feet.

And wasn't cheerful for other reason.  Stu had fetched us a message
from Adam Selene; buried in it, concealed even from Stir, was news that
chances had dropped to worse than one in a hundred.  Wondered what
point in risking crazy trip if made odds worse?  Did Mike really know
what chances were?  Couldn't see any way he could compute them no
matter how many facts he had.

But Prof didn't seem worried.  He talked to platoons of reporters,
smiled at endless pictures, gave out statements, telling world he
placed great confidence in Federated Nations and was sure our just
claims would be recognized and that he wanted to thank "Friends of Free
Luna" for wonderful help in bringing true story of our small but sturdy
nation before good people of Terra--F.  of FL.  being Stu, a
professional public opinion firm, several thousand chronic petition
signers, and a great stack of Hong Kong dollars.

I had picture taken, too, and tried to smile, but dodged questions by
pointing to throat and croaking.

In Agra we were lodged in a lavish suite in hotel that had once been
palace of a maharajah (and still belonged to him, even though India is
supposed to be socialist) and interviews and picture-taking went
on--hardly dared get out of wheel chair even to visit W.C. as was under
orders from Prof never to be photographed vertically.  He was always
either in bed or in a stretcher--bed baths, bedpans, everything--not
only because safer, considering age, and easier for any Loonie, but
also for pictures.  His dimples and wonderful, gentle, persuasive
personality were displayed in hundreds of millions of video screens,
endless news pictures.

But his personality did not get us anywhere in Agra.  Prof was carried
to office of President of Grand Assembly, me being pushed alongside,
and there he attempted to present his credentials as Ambassador to F.N.
and prospective Senator for Luna--was referred to Secretary General and
at his offices we were granted ten minutes with assistant secretary who
sucked teeth and said he could accept our credentials "without
prejudice and without implied commitment."  They were referred to
Credentials Committee--who sat on them.

I got fidgety.  Prof read Keats.  Grain barges continued to arrive at
Bombay.

In a way was not sorry about latter.  When we flew from Bombay to Agra
we got up before dawn and were taken out to field as city was waking.
Every Loonie has his hole, whether luxury of a long-established home
like Davis Tunnels or rock still raw from drill; cubic is no problem
and can't be for centuries.

Bombay was bee-swarms of people.  Are over million (was told) who have
no home but some piece of pavement.  A family might claim right (and
hand down by will, generation after generation) to sleep on a piece two
meters long and one wide at a described location in front of a shop.
Entire family sleeps on that space, meaning mother, father, kids, maybe
a grandmother.  Would not have believed if had not seen.  At dawn in
Bombay roadways, side pavements, even bridges are covered with tight
carpet of human bodies.  What do they do?  Where do they work?  How do
they eat?  (Did not look as if they did.  Could count ribs.)

If I hadn't believed simple arithmetic that you can't ship stuff
downhill forever without shipping replacement back, would have tossed
in cards.  But... tanstanfl.  "There ain't no such thing as a free
lunch," in Bombay or in Luna.

At last we were given appointment with an "Investigating Committee."
Not what Prof had asked for.  He had requested public hearing before
Senate, complete with video cameras.  Only camera at this session was
its "in-camera" nature; was closed.  Not too closed, I had little
recorder.  But no video.  And took Prof two minutes to discover that
committee was actually vips of Lunar Authority or their tame dogs.

Nevertheless was chance to talk and Prof treated them as if they had
power to recognize Luna's independence and willingness to do so.  While
they treated us as a cross between naughty children and criminals up
for sentencing.

Prof was allowed to make opening statement.  With decorations trimmed
away was assertion that Luna was de-facto a sovereign state, with an
unopposed government in being, a civil condition of peace and order, a
provisional president and cabinet carrying on necessary functions but
anxious to return to private life as soon as Congress completed writing
a constitution--and that we were here to ask that these facts be
recognized de-jure and that Luna be allowed to take her rightful place
in councils of mankind as a member of Federated Nations.

What Prof told them bore a speaking acquaintance with truth and they
were not where they could spot discrepancies.  Our "provisional
president" was a computer, and "cabinet" was Wyoh, Finn, Comrade
Clayton, and Terence Sheehan, editor of Pravda, plus Wolfgang Korsakov,
board chairman of LuNoHoCo and a director of Bank of Hong Kong in Luna.
But Wyoh was only person now in Luna who knew that "Adam Selene" was
false face for a computer.  She had been terribly nervous at being left
to hold fort alone.

As it was, Adam's "oddity" in never being seen save over video was
always an embarrassment.  We had done our best to turn it into a
"security necessity" by opening offices for him in cubic of Authority's
Luna City office and then exploding a small bomb.  After this
"assassination attempt" comrades who had been most fretful about Adam's
failure to stir around became loudest in demands that Adam must not
take any chances--this being helped by editorials.

But I wondered while Prof was talking what these pompous chooms would
think if they knew that our "president" was a collection of hardware
owned by Authority?

But they just sat staring with chill disapproval, unmoved by Prof's
rhetoric--probably best performance of his life considering he
delivered it flat on back, speaking into a microphone without notes,
and hardly able to see his audience.

Then they started in on us.  Gentleman member from Argentina--never
given their names; we weren't socially acceptable--this Argentino
objected to phrase "former Warden" in Prof's speech; that designation
had been obsolete half a century; he insisted that it be struck out and
proper title inserted: "Protector of the Lunar Colonies by Appointment
of the Lunar Authority."  Any other wording offended dignity of Lunar
Authority.

Prof asked to comment; "Honorable Chairman" permitted it.  Prof said
mildly that he accepted change since Authority was free to designate
its servants in any fashion it pleased and was no intention to offend
dignity of any agency of Federated Nations... but in view of functions
of this office--former functions of this former office--citizens of
Luna Free State would probably go on thinking of it by traditional
name.

That made about six of them try to talk at once.  Somebody objected to
use of word "Luna" and still more to "Luna Free State"--it was "the
Moon," Earth's Moon, a satellite of Earth and property of Federated
Nations, just as Antarctica was--and these proceedings were a farce.

Was inclined to agree with last point.  Chairman asked gentleman member
from North America to please be in order and to address his remarks
through Chair.  Did Chair understand from witness's last remark that
this alleged de-facto regime intended to interfere with consignee
system?

Prof fielded that and tossed it back.  "Honorable Chairman, I myself
was a consignee, now Luna is my beloved home.  My colleague, the
Honorable the Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Colonel O'Kelly
Davis"--myself!--"is Luna born, and proud of his descent from four
transported grandparents.  Luna has grown strong on your outcasts. Give
us your poor, your wretched; we welcome them.  Luna has room for them,
nearly forty million square kilometers, an area greater than all
Africa--and almost totally empty.  More than that, since by our method
of living we occupy not 'area' but 'cubic' the mind cannot imagine the
day when Luna would refuse another shipioad of weary homeless."

Chairman said, "The witness is admonished to refrain from making
speeches.  The Chair takes it that your oratory means that the group
you represent agrees to accept prisoners as before."

"No, sir."

"What?  Explain yourself."

"Once an immigrant sets foot on Luna today he is a free man, no matter
what his previous condition, free to go where he listeth."

"So?  Then what's to keep a consignee from walking across the field,
climbing into another ship, and returning here?  I admit that I am
puzzled at your apparent willingness to accept them... but we do not
want them.  It is our humane way of getting rid of incorrigibles who
would otherwise have to be executed."  (Could have told him several
things that would stop what he pictured; he had obviously never been to
Luna.  As for "incorrigibles," if really are, Luna eliminates such
faster than Terra ever did.  Back when I was very young, they sent us a
gangster lord, from Los Angeles I believe; he arrived with squad of
stooges, his bodyguards, and was cockily ready to take over Luna, as
was rumored to have taken over a prison somewhere Earthside.  (None
lasted two weeks.  Gangster boss didn't make it to barracks; hadn't
listened when told how to wear a p-suit.)

"There is nothing to keep him from going home so far as we are
concerned, sir," Prof answered, "although your police here on Terra
might cause him to think.  But I've never heard of a consignee arriving
with funds enough to buy a ticket home.  Is this truly an issue?  The
ships are yours; Luna has no ships--and let me add that we are sorry
that the ship scheduled for Luna this month was canceled.  I am not
complaining that it forced on my colleague and myself--Prof stopped to
smile--a most informal method of travel.  I simply hope that this does
not represent policy.  Luna has no quarrel with you; your ships are
welcome, your trade is welcome, we are at peace and wish to stay so.
Please note that all scheduled grain shipments have come through on
time."  (Prof did always have gift for changing subject.)

They fiddled with minor matters then.  Nosy from North America wanted
to know what had really happened to "the Ward--" He stopped himself.
"The Protector.  Senator Hobart" Prof answered that he had suffered a
stroke (a "coup" is a "stroke") and was no longer able to carry out his
duties--but was in good health otherwise and receiving constant medical
care.  Prof added thoughtfully that he suspected that the old gentleman
had been failing for some time, in view of his indiscretions this past
year... especially his many invasions of rights of free citizens,
including ones who were not and never had been consignees.

Story was not hard to swallow.  When those busy scientists managed to
break news of our coup, they had reported Warden as dead... whereas
Mike had kept him alive and on job by impersonating him.  When
Authority Earthside demanded a report from Warden on this wild rumor,
Mike had consulted Prof, then had accepted call and given a convincing
imitation of senility, managing to deny, confirm, and confuse every
detail.  Our announcements followed, and thereafter Warden was no
longer available even in his computer alter ego.  Three days later we
declared independence.

This North American wanted to know what reason they had to believe that
one word of this was true?  Prof smiled most saintly smile and made
effort to spread thin hands before letting them fall to coverlet.  "The
gentleman member from North America is urged to go to Luna, visit
Senator Hobart's sickbed, and see for himself.  Indeed all Terran
citizens are invited to visit Luna at any time, see anything.  We wish
to be friends, we are at peace, we have nothing to hide.  My only
regret is that my country is unable to furnish transportation; for that
we must turn to you."

Chinee member looked at Prof thoughtfully.  He had not said a word but
missed nothing.

Chairman recessed hearing until fifteen hundred.  They gave us a
retiring room and sent in lunch.  I wanted to talk but Prof shook head,
glanced around room, tapped ear.  So I shut up.  Prof napped then and I
leveled out my wheel chair and joined him; on Terra we both slept all
we could.  Helped.  Not enough.

They didn't wheel us back in until sixteen hundred; committee was
already sitting.  Chairman then broke own rule against speeches and
made a long one more-in-sorrow-than-anger.

Started by reminding us that Luna Authority was a nonpolitical
trusteeship charged with solemn duty of insuring that Earth's satellite
the Moon--Luna, as some called it--was never used for military
purposes.  He told us that Authority had guarded this sacred trust more
than a century, while governments fell and new governments rose,
alliances shifted and shifted again--indeed, Authority was older than
Federated Nations, deriving original charter from an older
international body, and so well had it kept that trust that it had
lasted through wars and turmoils and realignments.  (This is news?  But
you see what he was building towards.)

"The Lunar Authority cannot surrender its trust," he told us solemnly.
"However, there appears to be no insuperable obstacle to the Lunar
colonists, if they show political maturity, enjoying a degree of
autonomy.  This can be taken under advisement.  Much depends on your
behavior.  The behavior, I should say, of all you colonists.  There
have been riots and destruction of property; this must not be."

I waited for him to mention ninety dead Goons; he never did.  I will
never make a statesman; I don't have high-level approach.

"Destroyed property must be paid for," he went on.  "Commitments must
be met.  If this body you call a Congress can guarantee such things, it
appears to this committee that this so-called Congress could in time be
considered an agency of the Authority for many internal matters. Indeed
it is conceivable that a stable local government might, in time, assume
many duties now failing on the Protector and even be allowed a
delegate, non-voting, in the Grand Assembly.  But such recognition
would have to be earned.

"But one thing must be made clear.  Earth's major satellite, the Moon,
is by nature's law forever the joint property of all the peoples of
Earth.  It does not belong to that handful who by accident of history
happen to live there.  The sacred trust laid upon the Lunar Authority
is and forever must be the supreme law of Earth's Moon."  ("--accident
of history," huh?  I expected Prof to shove it down his throat.  I
thought he would say-No, never did know what Prof would say.  Here's
what he did say):

Prof waited through several seconds of silence, then said, "Honorable
Chairman, who is to be exiled this time?"

"What did you say?"

"Have you decided which one of you is to go into exile?  Your Deputy
Warden won't take the job"--this was true; he preferred to stay alive.
"He is functioning now only because we have asked him to.  If you
persist in believing that we are not independent, then you must be
planning to send up a new warden."

"Protector!"

"Warden.  Let us not mince words.  Though if we knew who he is to be,
we might be happy to call him "Ambassador."  We might be able to work
with him, it might not be necessary to send with him armed hoodlums...
to rape and murder our women!"

"Order!  Order!  The witness will come to order!"

"It is not I who was not in order, Honorable Chairman.  Rape it was and
murder most foul.  But that is history and now we must look to the
future.  Whom are you going to exile?"

Prof struggled to raise self on elbow and I was suddenly alert; was a
cue.  "For you all know, sir, that it is a one-way trip.  I was born
here.  You can see what effort it is for me to return even temporarily
to the planet which has disinherited me.  We are outcasts of Earth
who--"

He collapsed.  Was up out of my chair--and collapsed myself, trying to
reach him.

Was not all play-acting even though I answered a cue.  Is terrible
strain on heart to get up suddenly on Terra; thick field grabbed and
smashed me to floor.

Neither of us was hurt and it made juicy news breaks, for I put
recording in Stu's hands and he turned it over to his hired men.  Nor
were all headlines against us; Stu had recording cut and edited and
slanted.  AUTHORITY TO PLAY ODD MAN OUT?--LUNAR AMBASSADOR COLLAPSES

UNDER GRILLING: "OUTCASTS!"  HE CRIES--PROF PAZ POINTS FINGER OF

SHAME:

STORY PAGE 8.

Not all were good; nearest to a favorable story in India was editorial
in New India Times inquiring whether Authority was risking bread of
masses in failing to come to terms with Lunar insurgents.  Was
suggested that concessions could be made if would insure increased
grain deliveries.  Was filled with inflated statistics; Luna did not
feed "a hundred million Hindus"-unless you chose to think of our grain
as making difference between malnutrition and starvation.

On other hand biggest New York paper opined that Authority had made
mistake in treating with us at all, since only thing convicts
understood was taste of lash--troops should land, set us in order, hang
guilty, leave forces to keep order.

Was a quick mutiny, quickly subdued, in Peace Dragoons regiment from
which our late oppressors had come, one started by rumor that they were
to be shipped to Moon.  Mutiny not hushed up perfectly; Stu hired good
men.

Next morning a message reached us inquiring if Professor de la Paz was
well enough to resume discussions?  We went, and committee supplied
doctor and nurse to watch over Prof.  But this time we were
searched--and a recorder removed from my pouch.

I surrendered it without much fuss; was Japanese job supplied by
Stu--to be surrendered.  Number-six arm has recess intended for a power
pack but near enough size of my mini-recorder.  Didn't need power that
day--and most people, even hardened police officers, dislike to touch a
prosthetic.

Everything discussed day before was ignored... except that chairman
started session by scolding us for "breaking security of a closed
meeting."

Prof replied that it had not been closed so far as we were concerned
and that we would welcome newsmen, video cameras, a gallery, anyone, as
Luna Free State had nothing to hide.

Chairman replied stiffly that so-called Free State did not control
these hearings; these sessions were closed, not to be discussed outside
this room, and that it was so ordered.

Prof looked at me.  "Will you help me, Colonel?"  I touched controls of
chair, scooted around, was shoving his stretcher wagon with my chair
toward door before chairman realized bluff had been called.  Prof
allowed himself to be persuaded to stay without promising anything.
Hard to coerce a man who faints if he gets overexcited.

Chairman said that there had been many irrelevancies yesterday and
matters discussed best left undiscussed--and that he would permit no
digressions today.  He looked at Argentino, then at North American.

He went on: "Sovereignty is an abstract concept, one that has been
redefined many times as mankind has learned to live in peace.  We need
not discuss it.  The real question, Professor--or even Ambassador
de-facto, if you like; we shan't quibble--the real question is this:
Are you prepared to guarantee that the Lunar Colonies will keep their
commitments?"

"What commitments, sir?"

"All commitments, but I have in mind specifically your commitments
concerning grain shipments."

"I know of no such commitments, sir," Prof answered with innocence.

Chairman's hand tightened on gavel.  But he answered quietly, "Come,
sir, there is no need to spar over words.  I refer to the quota of
grain shipments--and to the increased quota, a matter of thirteen
percent, for this new fiscal year.  Do we have assurance that you will
honor those commitments?  This is a minimum basis for discussion, else
these talks can go no further."

"Then I am sorry to say, sir, that it would appear that our talks must
cease."

"You're not being serious."

"Quite serious, sir.  The sovereignty of Free Luna is not the abstract
matter you seem to feel it is.  These commitments you speak of were the
Authority contracting with itself.  My country is not bound by such.
Any commitments from the sovereign nation I have the honor to represent
are still to be negotiated."

"Rabble!"  growled North American.  "I told you you were being too soft
on them.  Jailbirds.  Thieves and whores.  They don't understand decent
treatment."

"Order!"

"Just remember, I told you.  If I had them in Colorado, we would teach
them a thing or two; we know how to handle their sort."

"The gentleman member will please be in order."

"I'm afraid," said Hindu member--Parsee in fact, but committeeman from
India--"I'm afraid I must agree in essence with the gentleman member
from the North American Directorate.  India cannot accept the concept
that the grain commitments are mere scraps of paper.  Decent people do
not play politics with hunger."

"And besides," the Argentino put in, "they breed like animals.  Pigs!"
(Prof made me take a tranquilizing drug before that session.  Had
insisted on seeing me take it.)

Prof said quietly, "Honorable Chairman, may I have consent to amplify
my meaning before we conclude, perhaps too hastily, that these talks
must be abandoned?"

"Proceed."

"Unanimous consent?  Free of interruption?"

Chairman looked around.  "Consent is unanimous," he stated, "and the
gentlemen members are placed on notice that I will invoke special rule
fourteen at the next outburst.  The sergeant-at-arms is directed to
note this and act.  The witness will proceed."

"I will be brief, Honorable Chairman."  Prof said something in Spanish;
all I caught was "Se or."  Argentina turned dark but did not answer.
Prof went on, "I must first answer the gentleman member from North
America on a matter of personal privilege since he has impugned my
fellow countrymen.  I for one have seen the inside of more than one
jail; I accept the title--nay, I glory in the title of 'jailbird."  We
citizens of Luna are jailbirds and descendants of jailbirds.  But Luna
herself is a stern schoolmistress; those who have lived through her
harsh lessons have no cause to feel ashamed.  In Luna City a man may
leave purse unguarded or home unlocked and feel no fear... I wonder if
this is true in Denver?  As may be, I have no wish to visit Colorado to
learn a thing or two; I am satisfied with what Mother Luna has taught
me.  And rabble we may be, but we are now a rabble in arms.

"To the gentleman member from India let me say that we do not 'play
politics with hunger."  What we ask is an open discussion of facts of
nature unbound by political assumptions false to fact.  If we can hold
this discussion, I can promise to show a way in which Luna can continue
grain shipments and expand them enormously... to the great benefit of
India."

Both Chinee and Indian looked alert.  Indian started to speak, checked
himself, then said, "Honorable Chairman, will the Chair ask the witness
to explain what he means?"

"The witness is invited to amplify."

"Honorable Chairman, gentlemen members, there is indeed a way for Luna
to expand by tenfold or even a hundred her shipments to our hungry
millions.  The fact that grain barges continued to arrive on schedule
during our time of trouble and are still arriving today is proof that
our intentions are friendly.  But you do not get milk by beating the
cow.  Discussions of how to augment our shipments must be based on the
facts of nature, not on the false assumption that we are slaves, bound
by a work quota we never made.  So which shall it be?  Will you persist
in believing that we are slaves, indentured to an Authority other than
ourselves?  Or will you acknowledge that we are free, negotiate with
us, and learn how we can help you?"

Chairman said, "In other words you ask us to buy a pig in a poke.  You
demand that we legalize your outlaw status ... then you will talk about
fantastic claims that you can increase grain shipments tenor a
hundredfold.  What you claim is impossible; I am expert in Lunar
economics.  And what you ask is impossible; takes the Grand Assembly to
admit a new nation."

Then place it before the Grand Assembly.  Once seated as sovreign
equals, we will discuss how to increase shipments and negotiate terms.
Honorable Chairman, we grow the grain, we own it.  We can grow far
more.  But not as slaves.  Luna's soverign freedom must first be
recognized."

"Impossible and you know it.  The Lunar Authority cannot abdicate its
sacred responsibility."

Prof sighed.  "It appears to be an impasse.  I can only suggest that
these hearings be recessed while we all take thought.  Today our barges
are arriving... but the moment that I am forced to notify my government
that I have failed... they... will ... stop!"

Prof's head sank back on pillow as if it had been too much for him--as
may have been.  I was doing well enough but was young and had had
practice in how to visit Terra and stay alive.  A Loonie his age should
not risk it.  After minor foofooraw which Prof ignored they loaded us
into a lorry and scooted us back to hotel.  Once under way I said,
"Prof, what was it you said to Se or Jellybelly that raised blood
pressure?"

He chuckled.  "Comrade Stuart's investigations of these gentlemen turn
up remarkable facts.  I asked who owned a certain brothel off Cane
Florida in B.A. these days and did it now have a star redhead?"

"Why?  You used to patronize it?"  Tried to imagine Prof in such!

"Never.  It has been forty years since I was last in Buenos Aires.  He
owns that establishment, Manuel, through a dummy, and his wife, a
beauty with Titian hair, once worked in it."

Was sorry had asked.  "Wasn't that a foul blow?  And undiplomatic?"

But Prof closed eyes and did not answer.

He was recovered enough to spend an hour at a reception for newsmen
that night, with white hair framed against a purple pillow and thin
body decked out in embroidered pajamas.  Looked like vip corpse at an
important funeral, except for eyes and dimples.  I looked mighty vip
too, in black and gold uniform which Stu claimed was Lunar diplomatic
uniform of my rank.  Could have been, if Lana had had such things--did
not or I would have known.  I prefer a p-suit; collar was tight.  Nor
did I ever find out what decorations on it meant.  ~A reporter asked me
about one, based on Luna at crescent as seen from Terra; told him it
was a prize for spelling.  Stu was in earshot and said, "The Colonel is
modest.  That decoration is of the same rank as the Victoria Cross and
in his case was awarded for an act of gallantry on the glorious, tragic
day of--"

He led him away, still talking.  Stu could lie standing up almost as
well as Prof.  Me, I have to think out a lie ahead of time.

India newspapers and casts were rough that night; "threat" to stop
grain shipments made them froth.  Gentlest proposal was to clean out
Luna, exterminate us "criminal troglodytes" and replace us with "honest
Hindu peasants" who understood sacredness of life and would ship grain
and more grain.

Prof picked that night to talk and give handouts about Luna's inability
to continue shipments, and why--and Stu's organization spread release
throughout Terra.  Some reporters took time to dig out sense of figures
and tackled Prof on glaring discrepancy:

"Professor de la Paz, here you say that grain shipments will dwindle
away through failure of natural resources and that by 2082 Luna won't
even be able to feed its own people.  Yet earlier today you told the
Lunar Authority that you could increase shipments a dozen times or
more."

Prof said sweetly, "That committee is the Lunar Authority?"

"Well... it's an open secret."

"So it is, sir, but they have maintained the fiction of being an
impartial investigating committee of the Grand Assembly.  Don't you
think they should disqualify themselves?  So that we could receive a
fair hearing?"

"Uh... it's not my place to say, Professor.  Let's get back to my
question.  How do you reconcile the two?"

"I'm interested in why it's not your place to say, sir.  Isn't it the
concern of every citizen of Terra to help avoid a situation which will
produce war between Terra and her neighbor?"  ""War'?  What in the
world makes you speak of 'war," Professor?"

"Where else can it end, sir?  If the Lunar Authority persists in its
intransigence?  We cannot accede to their demands; those figures show
why.  If they will not see this, then they will attempt to subdue us by
force... and we will fight back.  Like cornered rats--for cornered we
are, unable to retreat, unable to surrender.  We do not choose war; we
wish to live in peace with our neighbor planet--in peace and peacefully
trade.  But the choice is not ours.  We are small, you are gigantic.  I
predict that the next move will be for the Lunar Authority to attempt
to subdue Luna by force.  This 'peace-keeping' agency will start the
first interplanetary war."

Journalist frowned.  "Aren't you overstating it?  Let's as same the
Authority--or the Grand Assembly, as the Authority hasn't any warships
of its own--let's suppose the nations of Earth decide to displace your,
uh, 'government."  You might fight, on Luna--I suppose you would.  But
that hardly constitutes interplanetary war.  As you pointed out, Luna
has no ships.  To put it bluntly, you can't reach us."

I had chair close by Prof's stretcher, listening.  He turned to me.
"Tell them, Colonel."

I parroted it.  Prof and Mike had worked out stock situation.  I had
memorized and was ready with answers.  I said, "Do you gentlemen
remember the Pathfinder?  How she came plunging in, out of control?"

They remembered.  Nobody forgets greatest disaster of early days of
space flight when unlucky Pathfinder hit a Belgian village.

"We have no ships," I went on, "but would be possible to throw those
barge loads of grain... instead of delivering them parking orbit."

Next day this evoked a head ling LOONIES THREATEN TO THROW RICE.  At
moment it produced awkward silence.

Finally journalist said, "Nevertheless I would like to know how you
reconcile your two statements--no more grain after 2082... and ten or a
hundred times as much."

"There is no conflict," Prof answered.  "They are based on different
sets of circumstances.  The figures you have been looking at show the
present circumstances ... and the disaster they will produce in only a
few years through drainage of Luna's natural resources--disaster which
these Authority bureaucrats--or should I say 'authoritarian
bureaucrats?"--would avert by telling us to stand in the corner like
naughty children!"

Prof paused for labored breathing, went on: "The circumstances under
which we can continue, or greatly increase, our grain shipments are the
obvious corollary of the first.  As an old teacher I can hardly refrain
from classroom habits; the corollary should be left as an exercise for
the student.  Will someone attempt it?"

Was uncomfortable silence, then a little man with strange accent said
slowly, "It sound to me as if you talk about way to replenish natural
resource."

"Capital!  Excellent!"  Prof flashed dimples.  "You, sir, will have a
gold star on your term report!  To make grain requires water and plant
foods--phosphates, other things, ask the experts.  Send these things to
us; we'll send them back as wholesome grain.  Put down a hose in the
limitless Indian Ocean.  Line up those millions of cattle here in
India; collect their end product and ship it to us.  Collect your own
night soil--don't bother to sterilize it; we've learned to do such
things cheaply and easily.  Send us briny sea water, rotten fish, dead
animals, city sewage, cow manure, offal of any sort--and we will send
it back, tonne for tonne as golden grain.  Send ten times as much,
we'll send back ten times as much grain.  Send us your poor, your
dispossessed, send them by thousands and hundreds of thousands; we'll
teach them swift, efficient Lunar methods of tunnel farming and ship
you back unbelievable tonnage.  Gentlemen, Luna is one enormous fallow
farm, four thousand million hectares, waiting to be plowed!"

That startled them.  Then someone said slowly, "But what do you get out
of it?  Luna, I mean."

Prof shrugged.  "Money.  In the form of trade goods.  There are many
things you make cheaply which are dear in Luna.  Drugs.  Tools.  Book
films.  Gauds for our lovely ladies.  Buy our grain and you can sell to
us at a happy profit."

A Hindu journalist looked thoughtful, started to write.  Next to him
was a European type who seemed unimpressed.  He said, "Professor, have
you any idea of the cost of shipping that much tonnage to the Moon?"

Prof waved it aside.  "A technicality.  Sir, there was a time when it
was not simply expensive to ship goods across oceans but impossible.
Then it was expensive, difficult, dangerous.  Today you sell goods half
around your planet almost as cheaply as next door; long-distance
shipping is the least important factor in cost.  Gentlemen, I am not an
engineer.  But I have learned this about engineers.  When something
must be done, engineers can find a way that is economically feasible.
If you want the grain that we can grow, turn your engineers loose."
Prof gasped and labored, signaled for help and nurses wheeled him
away.

I declined to be questioned on it, telling them that they must talk to
Prof when he was well enough to see them.  So they pecked at me on
other lines.  One man demanded to know why, since we paid no taxes, we
colonists thought we had a right to run things our own way?  After all,
those colonies had been established by Federated Nations--by some of
them.  It had been terribly expensive.  Earth had paid all bills--and
now you colonists enjoy benefits and pay not one dime of taxes.  Was
that fair?

I wanted to tell him to blow it.  But Prof had again made me take a
tranquilizer and had required me to swot that endless list of answers
to trick questions.  "Lets take that one at a time," I said.  "First,
what is it you want us to pay taxes for?  Tell me what I get and
perhaps I'll buy it.  No, put it this way.  Do you pay taxes?"

"Certainly I do!  And so should you."

"And what do you get for your taxes?"

"Huh?  Taxes pay for government."

I said, "Excuse me, I'm ignorant.  I've lived my whole life in Luna, I
don't know much about your government.  Can you feed it to me in small
pieces?  What do you get for your money?"

They all got interested and anything this aggressive little choom
missed, others supplied.  I kept a list.  When they stopped, I read it
back:

"Free hospitals--aren't any in Luna.  Medical insurance--we have that
but apparently not what you mean by it.  If a person wants insurance,
he goes to a bookie and works b-Out a bet.  You can hedge anything, for
a price.  I don't hedge my health, I'm healthy.  Or was till I came
here.  We have a public library, one Carnegie Foundation started with a
few book films.  It gets along by charging fees.  Public roads.  I
suppose that would be our tubes.  But they are no more free than air is
free.  Sorry, you have free air here, don't you?  I mean our tubes were
built by companies who put up money and are downright nasty about
expecting it back and then some.  Public schools.  There are schools in
all warrens and I never heard of them turning away pupils, so I guess
they are 'public."  But they pay well, too, because anyone in Luna who
knows something useful and is willing to teach it charges all the
traffic will bear."

I went on: "Let's see what else--Social security.  I'm not sure what
that is but whatever it is, we don't have it.  Pensions.  You can buy a
pension.  Most people don't; most families are large and old people,
say a hundred and up, either fiddle along at something they like, or
sit and watch video.  Or sleep.  They sleep a lot, after say a hundred
and twenty."

"Sir, excuse me.  Do people really live as long on the Moon as they
say?"

I looked surprised but wasn't; this was a "simulated question" for
which an answer had been taped.  "Nobody knows how long a person will
live in Luna; we haven't been there long enough.  Our oldest citizens
were born Earthside, it's no test.  So far, no one born in Luna died of
old age, but that's still no test; they haven't had time to grow old
yet, less than a century.  But-Well, take me, madam; how old would you
say I am?  I'm authentic Loonie, third generation."

"Uh, truthfully, Colonel Davis, I was surprised at your
youthfulness--for this mission, I mean.  You appear to be about
twenty-two.  Are you older?  Not much, I fancy."

"Madam, I regret that your local gravitation makes it impossible for me
to bow.  Thank you.  I've been married longer than that."

"What?  Oh, you're jesting!"

"Madam, I would never venture to guess a lady's age but, if you will
emigrate to Luna, you will keep your present youthful loveliness much
longer and add at least twenty years to your life."  I looked at list.
"I'll lump the rest of this together by saying we don't have any of it
in Luna, so I can't see any reason to pay taxes for it.  On that other
point, sir, surely you know that the initial cost of the colonies has
long since been repaid several times over through grain shipments
alone?  We are being bled white of our most essential resources..  and
not even being paid an open-market price.  That's why the Lunar
Authority is being stubborn; they intend to go on bleeding us.  The
idea that Luna has been an expense to Terra and the investment must be
recovered is a lie invented by the Authority to excuse their treating
us as slaves.  The truth is that Luna has not cost Terra one dime this
century--and the original investment has long since been paid back."

He tried to rally.  "Oh, surely you're not claiming that the Lunar
colonies have paid all the billions of dollars it took to develop space
flight?"

"I could present a good case.  However there is no excuse to charge
that against us.  You have space flight, you people of Terra.  We do
not.  Luna has not one ship.  So why should we pay for what we never
received?  It's like the rest of this list.  We don't get it, why
should we pay for it?"

Had been stalling, waiting for a claim that Prof had told me I was sure
to hear... and got it at last.

"Just a moment, please!"  came a confident voice.  "You ignored the two
most important items on that list.  Police protection and armed forces.
You boasted that you were willing to pay for what you get... so how
about paying almost a century of back taxes for those two?  It should
be quite a bill, quite a bill!"  He smiled smugly.

Wanted to thank him!--thought Prof was going to chide me for failing to
yank it out.  People looked at each other and nodded, pleased I had
been scored on.  Did best to look innocent.  "Please?  Don't
understand.  Luna has neither police nor armed forces."

"You know what I mean.  You enjoy the protection of the Peace Forces of
the Federated Nations.  And you do have police.  Paid for by the Lunar
Authority!  I know, to my certain knowledge, that two phalanges were
sent to the Moon less than a year ago to serve as policemen."

"Oh."  I sighed.  "Can you tell me how F.N. peace forces protect Luna?
I did not know that any of your nations wanted to attack us.  We are
far away and have nothing anyone envies.  Or did you mean we should pay
them to leave us alone?  If so, there is an old saying that once you
pay Danegeld, you never get rid of the Dane.  Sir, we will fight F.N.
armed forces if we must... we shall never pay them.

"Now about those so-called 'policemen."  They were not sent to protect
us.  Our Declaration of Independence told the true story about those
hoodlums--did your newspapers print it?"  (Some had, some
hadn't--depended on country.) "They went mad and started raping and
murdering!  And now they are dead!  So don't send us any more
troops!"

Was suddenly "tired" and had to leave.  Really was tired; not much of
an actor and making that talk-talk come out way Prof thought it should
was strain.

Was not told till later that I had received an assist in that
interview; lead about "police" and "armed forces" had been fed by a
stooge; Stu La Joie took no chances.  But by time I knew, I had had
experience in handling interviews; we had them endlessly.

Despite being tired was not through that night.  In addition to press
some Agra diplomatic corps had risked showing up-few and none
officially, even from Chad.  But we were curiosities and they wanted to
look at us.

Only one was important, a Chinee.  Was startled to see him; he was
Chinee member of committee.  I met him, simply as "Dr.  Chan" and we
pretended to be meeting first time.

He was that Dr.  Chan who was then Senator from Great China and also
Great China's long-time number-one boy in Lunar Authority--and, much
later, Vice-Chairman and Premier, shortly before his assassin.

After getting out point I was supposed to make, with bonus through
others that could have waited, I guided chair to bedroom and was at
once summoned to Prof's.  "Manuel, I'm sure you noticed our
distinguished visitor from the Middle Kingdom."

"Old Chinee from committee?"

"Try to curb the Loonie talk, son.  Please don't use it at all here,
even with me.  Yes.  He wants to know what we meant by 'tenfold or a
hundredfold."  So tell him."

"Straight?  Or swindle?"

"The straight.  This man is no fool.  Can you handle the technical
details?"

"Done my homework.  Unless he's expert in ballistics."

"He's not.  But don't pretend to know anything you don't know.  And
don't assume that he's friendly.  But he could be enormously helpful if
he concludes that our interests and his coincide.  But don't try to
persuade him.  He's in my study.  Good luck.  And remember--speak
standard English."

Dr.  Chan stood up as I came in; I apologized for not standing.  He
said that he understood difficulties that a gentleman from Luna labored
under here and for me not to exert myself--shook hands with himself and
sat down.

I'll skip some formalities.  Did we or did we not have some specific
solution when we claimed there was a cheap way to ship massive tonnage
to Luna?

Told him was a method, expensive in investment but cheap in running
expenses.  "It's the one we use on Luna, sir.  A catapult, an
escape-speed induction catapult."

His expression changed not at all.  "Colonel, are you aware that such
has been proposed many times and always rejected for what seemed good
reasons?  Something to do with air pressure."

"Yes, Doctor.  But we believe, based on extensive analyses by computer
and on our experience with catapulting, that today the problem can be
solved.  Two of our larger firms, the LuNoHo Company and the Bank of
Hong Kong in Luna, are ready to head a syndicate to do it as a private
venture.  They would need help here on Earth and might share voting
stock--though they would prefer to sell bonds and retain control.
Primarily what they need is a concession from some government, a
permanent easement on which to build the catapult.  Probably India."
(Above was set speech.  LuNoHoCo was bankrupt if anybody examined
books, and Hong Kong Bank was strained; was acting as central bank for
country undergoing upheaval.  Purpose was to get in last word, "India."
Prof had coached me that this word must come last.)

Dr.  Chan answered, "Never mind financial aspects.  Anything which is
physically possible can always be made financially possible; money is a
bugaboo of small minds.  Why do you select India?"

"Well, sir, India now consumes, I believe, over ninety per cent of our
grain shipments--"

"Ninety-three point one percent."

"Yes, sir.  India is deeply interested in our grain so it seemed likely
that she would cooperate.  She could grant us land, make labor and
materials available, and so forth.  But I mentioned India because she
holds a wide choice of possible sites, very high mountains not too far
from Terra's equator.  The latter is not essential, just helpful.  But
the site must be a high mountain.  It's that air pressure you spoke of,
or air density.  The catapult head should be at as high altitude as
feasible but the ejection end, where the load travels over eleven
kilometers per second, must be in air so thin that it approaches
vacuum.  Which calls for a very high mountain.  Take the peak Nanda
Devi, around four hundred kilometers from here.  It has a railhead
sixty kilometers from it and a road almost to its base.  It is eight
thousand meters high.  I don't know that Nanda Devi is ideal.  It is
simply a possible site with good logistics; the ideal site would have
to be selected by Terran engineers."

"A higher mountain would be better?"

"Oh, yes, sir!"  I assured him.  "A higher mountain would be preferred
over one nearer the equator.  The catapult can be designed to make up
for loss in free ride from Earth's rotation.  The difficult thing is to
avoid so far as possible this pesky thick atmosphere.  Excuse me,
Doctor; I did not mean to criticize your planet."

"There are higher mountains.  Colonel, tell me about this proposed
catapult."

I started to.  "The length of an escape-speed catapult is determined by
the acceleration.  We think--or the computer calculates--that an
acceleration of twenty gravities is about optimum.  For Earth's escape
speed this requires a catapult three hundred twenty-three kilometers in
length.  Therefore---"

"Stop, please!  Colonel, are you seriously proposing to bore a hole
over three hundred kilometers deep?"

"Oh, no!  Construction has to be above ground to permit shock waves to
expand.  The stator would stretch nearly horizontally, rising perhaps
four kilometers in three hundred and in a straight line--almost
straight, as Coriolis acceleration and other minor variables make it a
gentle curve.  The Lunar catapult is straight so far as the eye can see
and so nearly horizontal that the barges just miss some peaks beyond
it."

"Oh.  I thought that you were overestimating the capacity of
present-day engineering.  We drill deeply today.  Not that deeply.  Go
on."

"Doctor, it may be that common misconception which caused you to check
me is why such a catapult has not been constructed before this.  I've
seen those earlier studies.  Most assumed that a catapult would be
vertical, or that it would have to tilt up at the end to toss the
spacecraft into the sky--and neither is feasible nor necessary.  I
suppose the asswnption arose from the fact that your spaceships do
boost straight up, or nearly."

I went on: "But they do that to get above atmosphere, not to get into
orbit.  Escape speed is not a vector quantity; it is scalar.  A load
bursting from a catapult at escape speed will not return to Earth no
matter what its direction.  Uh... two corrections: it must not be
headed toward the Earth itself but at some part of the sky hemisphere,
and it must have enough added velocity to punch through whatever
atmosphere it still traverses.  If it is headed in the right direction
it will wind up at Luna."

"Ah, yes.  Then this catapult could be used but once each lunar
month?"

"No, sir.  On the basis on which you were thinking it would be once
every day, picking the time to fit where Luna will be in her orbit. But
in fact--or so the computer says; I'm not an astronautics expert--in
fact this catapult could be used almost any time, simply by varying
ejection speed, and the orbits could still wind up at Luna."

"I don't visualize that."

"Neither do I, Doctor, but-Excuse me but isn't there an exceptionally
fine computer at Peiping University?"

"And if there is?"  (Did I detect an increase in bland inscrutability?
A Cyborg-computer-Pickled brains?  Or live ones, aware?  Horrible,
either way.)

"Why not ask a topnotch computer for all possible ejection times for
such a catapult as I have described?  Some orbits go far outside Luna's
orbit before returning to where they can be captured by Luna, taking a
fantastically long time.  Others hook around Terra and then go quite
directly.  Some are as simple as the ones we use from Luna.  There are
periods each day when short orbits may be selected.  But a load is in
the catapult less than one minute; the limitation is how fast the beds
can be made ready.  It is even possible to have more than one load
going up the catapult at a time if the power is sufficient and computer
control is versatile.  The only thing that worries me is-These high
mountains they are covered with snow?"

"Usually," he answered.  "Ice and snow and bare rock."

"Well, sir, being born in Luna I don't know anything about snow.  The
stator would not only have to be rigid under the heavy gravity of this
planet but would have to withstand dynamic thrusts at twenty gravities.
I don't suppose it could be anchored to ice or snow.  Or could it
be?"

"I'm not an engineer, Colonel, but it seems unlikely.  Snow and ice
would have to be removed.  And kept clear.  Weather would be a problem,
too."

"Weather I know nothing about, Doctor, and all I know about ice is that
it has a heat of crystallization of three hundred thirty-five million
joules per tonne.  I have no idea how many tonnes would have to be
melted to clear the site, or how much energy would be required to keep
it clear, but it seems to me that it might take as large a reactor to
keep it free of ice as to power the catapult."

"We can build reactors, we can melt ice.  Or engineers can be sent
north for re-education until they do understand ice."  Dr.  Chan smiled
and I shivered.  "However, the engineering of ice and snow was solved
in Antarctica years ago; don't worry about it.  A clear, solid-rock
site about three hundred fifty kilometers long at a high
altitude-Anything else I should know?"

"Not much, sir.  Melted ice could be collected near the catapult head
and thus be the most massy part of what will be shipped to Luna--quite
a saving.  Also the steel canisters would be re-used to ship grain to
Earth, thus stopping another drain that Luna can't take.  No reason why
a canister should not make the trip hundreds of times.  At Luna it
would be much the way barges are now landed off Bombay, solid-charge
retrorockets programmed by ground control--except that it would be much
cheaper, two and a half kilometer-seconds change of motion versus
eleven-plus, a squared factor of about twenty--but actually even more
favorable, as retros are parasitic weight and the payload improves
accordingly.  There is even a way to improve that."

"How?"

"Doctor, this is outside my specialty.  But everybody knows that your
best ships use hydrogen as reaction mass heated by a fusion reactor.
But hydrogen is expensive in Luna and any mass could be reaction mass;
it just would not be as efficient.  Can you visualize an enormous,
brute-force space tug designed to fit Lunar conditions?  It would use
raw rock, vaporized, as reaction mass and would be designed to go up
into parking orbit, pick up those shipments from Terra, bring them down
to Luna's surface.  It would be ugly, all the fancies stripped
away--might not be manned even by a Cyborg.  It can be piloted from the
ground, by computer."

"Yes, I suppose such a ship could be designed.  But let's not
complicate things.  Have you covered the essentials about this
catapult?"

"I believe so, Doctor.  The site is the crucial thing.  Take that peak
Nanda Devi.  By the maps I have seen it appears to have a long, very
high ridge sloping to the west for about the length of our catapult. If
that is true, it would be ideal--less to cut away, less to bridge. I
don't mean that it is the ideal site but that is the sort to look for:
a very high peak with a long, long ridge west of it."

"I understand."  Dr.  Chan left abruptly.

Next few weeks I repeated that in a dozen countries, always in private
and with implication that it was secret.  All that changed was name of
mountain.  In Ecuador I pointed out that Chimborazo was almost on
equator--ideal!  But in Argentina I emphasized that their Aconcagua was
highest peak in Western Hemisphere.  In Bolivia I noted that Altoplano
was as high as Tibetan Plateau (almost true), much nearer equator, and
offered a wide choice of sites for easy construction leading up to
peaks comparable to any on Terra.

I talked to a North American who was a political opponent of that choom
who had called us "rabble."  I pointed out that, while Mount McKinley
was comparable to anything in Asia or South America, there was much to
be said for Mauna Loa--extreme ease of construction.  Doubling gees to
make it short enough to fit, and Hawaii would be Spaceport of World ..
whole world, for we talked about day when Mars would be exploited and
freight for three (possibly four) planets would channel through their
"Big Island."

Never mentioned Mauna Loa's volcanic nature; instead I noted that
location permitted an aborted load to splash harmlessly in Pacific
Ocean.

In Sovunion was only one peak discussed--Lenin, over thousand meters
(and rather too close to their big neighbor).

Kilimanjaro, Popocatepetl, Logan, El Libertado--my favorite peak
changed by country; all that we required was that it be "highest
mountain" in hearts of locals.  I found something to say about modest
mountains of Chad when we were entertained there and rationalized so
well I almost believed it.

Other times, with help of leading questions from Stu La Joie stooges, I
talked about chemical engineering (of which I know nothing but had
memorized facts) on surface of Luna, where endless free vacuum and sun
power and limitless raw materials and predictable conditions permitted
ways of processing expensive or impossible Earthside--when day arrived
that cheap shipping both ways made it profitable to exploit Luna's
virgin resources, Was always a suggestion that entrenched bureaucracy
of Lunar Authority had failed to see great potential of Luna (true),
plus answer to a question always asked, which answer asserted that Luna
could accept any number of colonists.

This also was true, although never mentioned that Luna (yes, and
sometimes Luna's Loonies) killed about half of new chums.  But people
we talked to rarely thought of emigrating themselves; they thought of
forcing or persuading others to emigrate to relieve crowding--and to
reduce their own taxes.  Kept mouth shut about fact that half-fed
swarms we saw everywhere did breed faster than even catapulting could
offset.

We could not house, feed, and train even a million new chums each
year--and a million wasn't a drop on Terra; more babies than that were
conceived every night.  We could accept far more than would emigrate
voluntarily but if they used forced emigration and flooded us... Luna
has only one way to deal with a new chum: Either he makes not one fatal
mistake, in personal behavior or in coping with environment that will
bite without warning... or he winds up as fertilizer in tunnel farm.

All that immigration in huge numbers could mean would be that a larger
percentage of immigrants would die--too few of us to help them past
natural hazards.

However, Prof did most talking about "Luna's great future."  I talked
about catapults.

During weeks we waited for committee to recall us, we covered much
ground.  Stu's men had things set up and only question was how much we
could take.  Would guess that every week on Terra chopped a year off
our lives, maybe more for Prof.  But he never complained and was always
ready to be charming at one more reception.

We spent extra time in North America.  Date of our Declaration of
Independence, exactly three hundred years after that of North American
British colonies, turned out to be wizard propaganda and Stu's
manipulators made most of it.  North Americans are sentimental about
their "United States" even though it ceased to mean anything once their
continent had been rationalized by F.N. They elect a president every
eight years, why, could not say--why do British still have Queen?--and
boast of being "sovereign."  "Sovereign," like "love," means anything
you want it to mean; it's a word in dictionary between "sober" and
"sozzled."

"Sovereignty" meant much in North America and "Fourth of July" was a
magic date; Fourth-of-July League handled our appearances and Stu told
us that it had not cost much to get it moving and nothing to keep
going; League even raised money used elsewhere--North Americans enjoy
giving no matter who gets it.

Farther south Stu used another date; his people planted idea that coup
d'etat had been 5 May instead of two weeks later.  We were greeted with
"Cinco de Mayo!  Libertad!  Cinco de Mayo!"  I thought they were
saying, "Thank you"-Prof did all talking.

But in 4th-of-July country I did better.  Stu had me quit wearing a
left arm in public, sleeves of my costumes were sewed up so that stump
could not be missed, and word was passed that I had lost it "fighting
for freedom."  Whenever I was asked about it, all I did was smile and
say, "See what comes of biting nails?"--then change subject.

I never liked North America, even first trip.  It is not most crowded
part of Terra, has a mere billion people.  In Bombay they sprawl on
pavements; in Great New York they pack them vertically--not sure anyone
sleeps.  Was glad to be in invalid's chair.

Is mixed-up place another way; they care about skin color--by making
point of how they don't care.  First trip I was always too light or too
dark, and somehow blamed either way, or was always being expected to
take stand on things I have no opinions on.  Bog knows I don't know
what genes I have.  One grandmother came from a part of Asia where
invaders passed as regularly as locusts, raping as they went--why not
ask her?

Learned to handle it by my second makee-learnee but it left a sour
taste.  Think I prefer a place as openly racist as India, where if you
aren't Hindu, you're nobody--except that Parsees look down on Hindus
and vice versa.  However I never really had to cope with North
America's reverse-racism when being "Colonel O'Kelly Davis, Hero of
Lunar Freedom."

We had swarms of bleeding hearts around us, anxious to help.  I let
them do two things for me, things I had never had time, money, or
energy for as a student: I saw Yankees play and i visited Salem.

Should have kept my illusions.  Baseball is better over video, you can
really see it and aren't pushed in by two hundred thousand other
people.  Besides, somebody should have shot that outfield.  I spent
most of that game dreading moment when they would have to get my chair
out through crowd--that and assuring host that I was having a wonderful
time.

Salem was just a place, no worse (and no better) than rest of Boston.
After seeing it I suspected they had hanged wrong witches.  But day
wasn't wasted; I was filmed laying a wreath on a place where a bridge
had been in another part of Boston, Concord, and made a memorized
speech--bridge is still there, actually; you can see it, down through
glass.  Not much of a bridge.

Prof enjoyed it all, rough as it was on him: Prof had great capacity
for enjoying.  He always had something new to tell about great future
of Luna.  In New York he gave managing director of a hotel chain, one
with rabbit trade mark, a sketch of what could be done with resorts in
Luna--once excursion rates were within reach of more people--visits too
short to hurt anyone, escort service included, exotic side trips,
gambling--no taxes.

Last point grabbed attention, so Prof expanded it into "longer old age"
theme--a chain of retirement hostels where an earthworm could live on
Terran old-age pension and go on living, twenty, thirty, forty years
longer than on Terra.  As an exile--but which was better?  A live old
age in Luna?  Or a funeral crypt on Terra?  His descendants could pay
visits and fill those resort hotels.  Prof embellished with pictures of
"nightclubs" with acts impossible in Terra's horrible gravity, sports
to fit our decent level of gravitation--even talked about swimming
pools and ice skating and possibility of flying!  (Thought he had
tripped his safeties.) He finished by hinting that Swiss cartel had
tied it up.

Next day he was telling foreign-divisions manager of Chase
International Panagra that a Luna City branch should be staffed with
paraplegics, paralytics, heart cases, amputees, others who found high
gravity a handicap.  Manager was a fat man who wheezed, he may have
been thinking of it personally--but his ears pricked up at "no
taxes."

We didn't have it all our own way.  News was often against us and were
always hecklers.  Whenever I had to take them on without Prof's help I
was likely to get tripped.  One man tackled me on Prof's statement to
committee that we "owned" grain grown in Luna: he seemed to take it for
granted that we did not.  Told him I did not understand question.

He answered, "Isn't it true, Colonel, that your provisional government
has asked for membership in Federated Nations?"

Should have answered, "No comment."  But fell for it and agreed.  "Very
well," he said, "the impediment seems to be the counterclaim that the
Moon belongs to the Federated Nations--as it always has---under
supervision of the Lunar Authority.  Either way, by your own admission,
that grain belongs to the Federated Nations, in trust."

I asked how he reached that conclusion?  He answered, "Colonel, you
style yourself "Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs."  Surely you are
familiar with the charter of the Federated Nations."

I had skimmed it.  "Reasonably familiar," I said-cautiously, I
thought.

"Then you know the First Freedom guaranteed by the Charter and its
current application through F & A Control Board Administrative Order
Number eleven-seventy-six dated three March of this year.  You concede
therefore that all grain grown on the Moon in excess of the local
ration is ab initio and beyond contest the property of all, title held
in trust by the Federated Nations through its agencies for distribution
as needed."  He was writing as he talked.  "Have you anything to add to
that concession?"

I said, "What in Bog's name you talking about?"  Then, "Come back!
Haven't conceded anything!"

So Great New York Times printed:

LUNAR "UNDERSECRETARY" SAYS:

"FOOD BELONGS TO HUNGRY"

New York Today--O'Kelly Davis, soi-disant "Colonel of the Armed Forces
of Free Luna" here on a junket to stir up support for the insurgents in
the F.N. Lunar colonies, said in a voluntary statement to this paper
that the "Freedom from Hunger" clause in the Grand Charter applied to
the Lunar grain shipments I asked Prof how should have handled? "Always
answer an unfriendly question with another question," he told me. 
"Never ask him to clarify; he'll put words in your mouth.  This
reporter-Was he skinny?  Ribs showing?"

"No.  Heavyset."

"Not living on eighteen hundred calories a day, I take it, which is the
subject of that order he cited.  Had you known you could have asked him
how long he had conformed to the ration and why he quit?  Or asked him
what he had for breakfast--and then looked unbelieving no matter what
he answered.  Or when you don't know what a man is getting at, let your
counter-question shift the subject to something you do want to talk
about.  Then, no matter what he answers, make your point and call on
someone else.  Logic does not enter into it--just tactics."

"Prof, nobody here is living on eighteen hundred calories a day.
Bombay, maybe.  Not here."

"Less than that in Bombay.  Manuel, that 'equal ration' is a fiction.
Half the food on this planet is in the black market, or is not reckoned
through one ruling or another.  Or they keep two sets of books, and
figures submitted to the F.N. having nothing to do with the economy. Do
you think that grain from Thailand and Burma and Australia is correctly
reported to the Control Board by Great China?  I'm sure that the India
representative on that food board doesn't.  But India keeps quiet
because she gets the lion's share from Luna... and then 'plays politics
with hunger'--a phrase you may remember--by using our grain to control
her elections.  Kerala had a planned famine last year.  Did you see it
in the news?"

"No."

"Because it wasn't in the news.  A managed democracy is a wonderful
thing, Manuel, for the managers... and its greatest strength is a 'free
press' when 'free' is defined as 'responsible' and the managers define
what is 'irresponsible."  Do you know what Luna needs most?"

"More ice."

"A news system that does not bottleneck through one channel.  Our
friend Mike is our greatest danger."

"Huh?  Don't you trust Mike?"

"Manuel, on some subjects I don't trust even myself.  Limiting the
freedom of news 'just a little bit' is in the same category with the
classic example 'a little bit pregnant."  We are not yet free nor will
we be as long as anyone--even our ally Mike--controls our news. Someday
I hope to own a newspaper independent of any source or channel. I would
happily set print by hand, like Benjamin Franklin."

I gave up.  "Prof, suppose these talks fail and grain shipments stop.
What happens?"

"People back home will be vexed with us... and many here on Terra would
die.  Have you read Malthus?"

"Don't think so."

"Many would die.  Then a new stability would be reached with somewhat
more people--more efficient people and better fed.  This planet isn't
crowded; it is just mismanaged ... and the un kindest thing you can do
for a hungry man is to give him food.  "Give."  Read Malthus.  It is
never safe to laugh at Dr.  Malthus; he always has the last laugh.  A
depressing man, I'm glad he's dead.  But don't read him until this is
over; too many facts hamper a diplomat, especially an honest one."

"I'm not especially honest."

"But you have no talent for dishonesty, so your refuge must be
ignorance and stubbornness.  You have the latter; try to preserve the
former.  For the nonce.  Lad, Uncle Bernardo is terribly tired."

I said, "Sorry," and wheeled out of his room.  Prof was hitting too
hard a pace.  I would have been willing to quit if would insure his
getting into a ship and out of that gravity.  But traffic stayed one
way--grain barges, naught else.

But Prof had fun.  As I left and waved lights out, noticed again a toy
he had bought, one that delighted him like a kid on Christmas--a brass
cannon.

A real one from sailing ship days.  Was small, barrel about half a
meter long and massing, with wooden carriage, only kilos fifteen.  A
"signal gun" its papers said.  Reeked of ancient history, pirates, men
"walking plank."  A pretty thing but I asked Prof why?  If we ever
managed to leave, price to lift that mass to Luna would hurt--I was
resigned to abandoning a p-suit with years more wear in it--abandon
everything but two left arms and a pair of shorts, If pressed, might
give up social arm.  If very pressed, would skip shorts.

He reached out and stroked shiny barrel.  "Manuel, once there was a man
who held a political make-work job like so many here in this
Directorate, shining brass cannon around a courthouse."

"Why would courthouse have cannon?"

"Never mind.  He did this for years.  It fed him and let him save a
bit, but he was not getting ahead in the world.  So one day he quit his
job, drew out his savings, bought a brass cannon--and went into
business for himself."

"Sounds like idiot."

"No doubt.  And so were we, when we tossed out the Warden.  Manuel,
you'll outlive me.  When Luna adopts a flag, I would like it to be a
cannon or, on field sable, crossed by bar sinister gules of our proudly
ignoble lineage.  Do you think it could be managed?"

"Suppose so, if you'll sketch.  But why a flag?  Not a flagpole in all
Luna."

"It can fly in our hearts ... a symbol for all fools so ridiculously
impractical as to think they can fight city hall.  Will you remember,
Manuel?"

"Sure.  That is, will remind you when time comes."  Didn't like such
talk.  He had started using oxygen tent in private--and would not use
in public.

Guess I'm "ignorant" and "stubborn"--was both in place called
Lexington, Kentucky, in Central Managerial Area.  One thing no doctrine
about, no memorized answers, was life in Luna.  Prof said to tell truth
and emphasize homely, warm, friendly things, especially anything
different.  "Remember, Manuel, the thousands of Terrans who have made
short visits to Luna are only a tiny fraction of one percent.  To most
people we will be as weirdly interesting as strange animals in a zoo.
Do you remember that turtle on exhibition in Old Dome?  That's us."

Certainly did; they wore that insect out, staring at.  So when this
male-female team started quizzing about family life in Luna was happy
to answer.  I prettied it only by what I left out--things that aren't
family life but poor substitutes in a community overloaded with males,
Luna City is homes and families mainly, dull by Terra standards--but I
like it.  And other warrens much same, people who work and raise kids
and gossip and find most of their fun around dinner table.  Not much to
tell, so I discussed anything they found interesting.  Every Luna
custom comes from Terra since that's where we all came from, but Terra
is such a big place that a custom from Micronesia, say, may be strange
in North America.

This woman--can't call her lady--wanted to know about various sorts of
marriage.  First, was it true that one could get married without a
license "on" Luna?

I asked what a marriage license was?

Her companion said, "Skip it, Mildred.  Pioneer societies never have
marriage licenses."

"But don't you keep records?"  she persisted.

"Certainly," I agreed.  "My family keeps a family book that goes back
almost to first landing at Johnson City--every marriage, birth, death,
every event of importance not only in direct line but all branches so
far as we can keep track.  And besides, is a man, a schoolteacher,
going around copying old family records all over our warren, writing a
history of Luna City.  Hobby."

"But don't you have official records?  Here in Kaintucky we have
records that go back hundreds of years."

"Madam, we haven't lived there that long."

"Yes, but-Well, Luna City must have a city clerk.  Perhaps you call him
'county recorder."  The official who keeps track of such things.  Deeds
and so forth."

I said.  "Don't think so, madam.  Some bookies do notary work,
witnessing chops on contracts, keeping records of them.  Is for people
who don't read and write and can't keep own records.  But never heard
of one asked to keep record of marriage.  Not saying couldn't happen.
But haven't heard."

"How delightfully informal!  Then this other rumor, about how simple it
is to get a divorce on the Moon.  I daresay that's true, too?"

"No, madam, wouldn't say divorce is simple.  Too much to untangle.  Mmm
take a simple example, one lady and say she has two husbands--"

"Two?"

"Might have more, might have just one.  Or might be complex marriage.
But let's take one lady and two men as typical.  She decides to divorce
one.  Say it's friendly, with other husband agreeing and one she is
getting rid of not making fuss.  Not that it would do him any good.
Okay, she divorces him; he leaves.  Still leaves endless things.  Men
might be business partners, co-husbands often are.  Divorce may break
up partnership.  Money matters to settle.  This three may own cubic
together, and while will be in her name, ex-husband probably has cash
coming or rent.  And almost always are children to consider, support
and so forth.  Many things.  No, madam, divorce is never simple.  Can
divorce him in ten seconds but may take ten years to straighten out
loose ends.  Isn't it much that way here?"

"Uh ... just fuhget ah evah asked the question, Cunn'l; it may be
simpluh hyuh."  (She did talk that way but was understandable once I
got program.  Won't spell it again.) "But if that is a simple marriage,
what is a 'complex' one?"

Found self explaining polyandries, clans, groups, lines, and less
common patterns considered vulgar by conservative people such as my own
family--deal my mother set up, say, after she ticked off my old man,
though didn't describe that one; Mother was always too extreme.

Woman said, "You have me confused.  What is the difference between a
line and a clan?"

Are quite different.  Take own case.  I have honor to be member of one
of oldest line marriages in Luna--and, in my prejudiced opinion, best.
You asked about divorce.  Our family has never had one and would bet
long odds never will.  A line marriage increases in stability year
after year, gains practice in art of getting along together, until
notion of anybody leaving is unthinkable.  Besides, takes unanimous
decision of all wives to divorce a husband--could never happen.  Senior
wife would never let it get that far."

Went on describing advantages--financial security, fine home life it
gives children, fact that death of a spouse, while tragic, could never
be tragedy it was in a temporary family, especially for
children--children simply could not be orphaned.  Suppose I waxed too
enthusiastic--but my family is most important thing in my life. Without
them I'm just one-armed mechanic who could be eliminated without
causing a draft.

"Here's why is stable," I said.  "Take my youngest wife, sixteen.
Likely be in her eighties before is senior wife.  Doesn't mean all
wives senior to her will die by then; unlikely in Luna, females seem to
be immortal.  But may all opt out of family management by then; by our
family traditions they usually do, without younger wives putting
pressure on them.  So Ludmilla--"

"Ludmilla?"

"Russki name.  From fairy tale.  Mina will have over fifty years of
good example before has to carry burden.  She's sensible to start with,
not likely to make mistakes and if did, has other wives to steady her.
Self-correcting, like a machine with proper negative feedback.  A good
line marriage is immortal; expect mine to outlast me at least a
thousand years--and is why shan't mind dying when time comes; best part
of me will go on living."

Prof was being wheeled out; he had them stop stretcher cart and
listened.  I turned to him.  "Professor," I said, "you know my family.
Would mind telling this lady why it's a happy family?  If you think
so."

"It is," agreed Prof.  "However, I would rather make a more general
remark.  Dear madam, I gather that you find our Lunar marriage customs
somewhat exotic."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far!"  she said hastily.  "Just somewhat
unusual."

"They arise, as marriage customs always do, from economic necessities
of the circumstances--and our circumstances are very different from
those here on Earth.  Take the line type of marriage which my colleague
has been praising .. and justifiably, I assure you, despite his
personal bias--I am a bachelor and have no bias.  Line marriage is the
strongest possible device for conserving capital and insuring the
welfare of children--the two basic societal functions for marriage
everywhere--in an enviroment in which there is no security, neither for
capital nor for children, other than that devised by individuals.
Somehow human beings always cope with their environments.  Line
marriage is a remarkably successful invention to that end.  All other
Lunar forms of marriage serve that same purpose, though not as well."

He said goodnight and left.  I had with me--always!--a picture of my
family, newest one, our wedding with Wyoming.  Brides are at their
prettiest and Wyoh was radiant--and rest of us looked handsome and
happy, with Grandpaw tall and proud and not showing failing
faculties.

But was disappointed; they looked at it oddly.  But man-Mathews, name
was--said, "Can you spare this picture, Colonel?"

Winced.  "Only copy I have.  And a long way from home."

"For a moment, I mean.  Let me have it photographed.  Right here, it
need never leave your hands,"

"Oh.  Oh, certainly!"  Not a good picture of me but is face I have, and
did Wyoh justice and they just don't come prettier than Lenore.

So he photographed it and next morning they did come right into our
hotel suite and woke me before time and did arrest and take me away
wheel chair and all and did lock me in a cell with bars!  For bigamy.
For polygamy.  For open immorality and publicly inciting others to
same.

Was glad Mum couldn't see.

Took Stu all day to get case transferred to an F.N. court and
dismissed.  His lawyers asked to have it tossed out on "diplomatic
immunity" but F.N. judges did not fall into trap, merely noted that
alleged offenses had taken place outside jurisdiction of lower court,
except alleged "inciting" concerning which they found insufficient
evidence.  Aren't any F.N. laws covering marriage; can't be--just a
rule about each nation required to give "full faith and credence" to
marriage customs of other member nations.

Out of those eleven billion people perhaps seven billion lived where
polygamy is legal, and Stu's opinion manipulators played up
"persecution"; it gained us sympathy from people who otherwise would
never have heard of us--even gained it in North America and other
places where polygamy is not legal, from people who believe in "live
and let live."  All good, because always problem was to be noticed.  To
most of those bee-swarm billions Luna was nothing; our rebellion hadn't
been noticed.

Stu's operators had gone to much thought to plan setup to get me
arrested.  Was not told until weeks later after time to cool off and
see benefits.  Took a stupid judge, a dishonest sheriff, and barbaric
local prejudice which I triggered with that sweet picture, for Stu
admitted later that range of color in Davis family was what got judge
angry enough to be foolish even beyond native talent for nonsense.

My one consolation, that Mum could not see my disgrace, turned out
mistaken; pictures, taken through bars and showing grim face, were in
every Luna paper, and write-ups used nastiest Earthside stories, not
larger number that deplored injustice.  But should have had more faith
in Mimi; she wasn't ashamed, simply wanted to go Earthside and rip some
people to pieces.

While helped Earthside, greatest good was in Luna.  Loonies become more
unified over this silly huhu than had ever been before.  They took it
personally and "Adam Selene" and "Simon Jester" pushed it.  Loonies are
easygoing except on one subject, women.  Every lady felt insulted by
Terran news stories--so male Loonies who had ignored politics suddenly
discovered I was their boy.

Spin-off--old lags feel superior to those not transported.  Later found
self greeted by ex-cons with: "Hi, jailbird!"  A lodge greeting--I was
accepted.

But saw nothing good about it then!  Pushed around, treated like
cattle, fingerprinted, photographed, given food we wouldn't offer hogs,
exposed to endless indignity, and only that heavy field kept me from
trying to kill somebody--had I been wearing number-six arm when
grabbed, might have tried.

But steadied down once I was freed.  Hour later we were on way to Agra;
had at last been summoned by committee.  Felt good to be back in suite
in maharajah's palace but eleven-hour zone change in less than three
did not permit rest; we went to hearing bleary-eyed and held together
by drugs.

"Hearing" was one-sided; we listened while chairman talked.  Talked an
hour; I'll summarize:

Our preposterous claims were rejected.  Lunar Authority's sacred trust
could not be abandoned.  Disorders on Earth's Moon could not be
tolerated.  Moreover, recent disorders showed that Authority had been
too lenient.  Omission was now to be corrected by an activist program,
a five-year plan in which all phases of life in Authority's trusteeship
would be overhauled.  A code of laws was being drafted; civil and
criminal courts would be instituted for benefit of
"client-employees"--which meant all persons in trust area, not just
consignees with uncompleted sentences.  Public schools would be
established, plus in doctrinal adult schools for client-employees in
need of same.  An economic, engineering, and agricultural planning
board would be created to provide fullest and most efficient use of
Moon's resources and labor of client-employees.  An interim goal of
quadrupling grain shipments in five years had been adopted as a figure
easily obtainable once scientific planning of resources and labor was
in effect.  First phase would be to withdraw client-employees from
occupations found not to be productive and put them to drilling a vast
new system of farm tunnels in order that hydroponics would commence in
them not later than March 2078.  These new giant farms would be
operated by Lunar Authority, scientifically, and not left to whims of
private owners.  It was contemplated that this system would, by end of
five-year plan, produce entire new grain quota; in meantime
client-employees producing grain privately would be allowed to
continue.  But they would be absorbed into new system as their less
efficient methods were no longer needed.

Chairman looked up from papers.  "In short, the Lunar colonies are
going to be civilized and brought into managerial coordination with the
rest of civilization.  Distasteful as this task has been, I
feel--speaking as a citizen rather than as chairman of this
committee--I feel that we owe you thanks for bringing to our attention
a situation so badly in need of correction."

Was ready to burn his ears off.  "Client-employees!"  What a fancy way
to say "slaves"I  But Prof said tranquilly, "I find the proposed plans
most interesting.  Is one permitted to ask questions?  Purely for
information?"

"For information, yes."

North American member leaned forward.  "But don't assume that we are
going to take any back talk from you cavemen!  So mind your manners.
You aren't in the clear on this, you know."

"Order," chairman said.  "Proceed, Professor."

"This term 'client-employee' I find intriguing.  Can it be stipulated
that the majority of inhabitants of Earth's major satellite are not
undischarged consignees but free individuals?"

"Certainly," chairman agreed blandly.  "All legal aspects of the new
policy have been studied.  With minor exceptions some ninety-one
percent of the colonists have citizenship, original or derived, in
various member nations of the Federated Nations.  Those who wish to
return to their home countries have a right to do so.  You will be
pleased to learn that the Authority is considering a plan under which
loans for transportation can be arranged... probably under supervision
of International Red Cross and Crescent.  I might add that I myself am
heartily backing this plan--as it renders nonsensical any talk about
'slave labor."" He smiled smugly.

"I see," agreed Prof.  "Most humane.  Has the committee--or the
Authority--pondered the fact that most--effectively all, I should
say--considered the fact that inhabitants of Luna are physically unable
to live on this planet?  That they have undergone involuntary permanent
exile through irreversible physiological changes and can never again
live in comfort and health in a gravitational field six times greater
than that to which their bodies have become adjusted?"

Scoundrel pursed lips as if considering totally new idea.  "Speaking
again for myself, I would not be prepared to stipulate that what you
say is necessarily true.  It might be true of some, might not be
others; people vary widely.  Your presence here proves that it is not
impossible for a Lunar inhabitant to return to Earth.  In any case we
have no intention of forcing anyone to return.  We hope that they will
choose to stay and we hope to encourage others to emigrate to the Moon.
But these are individual choices, under the freedoms guaranteed by the
Great Charter.  But as to this alleged physiological phenomenon--it is
not a legal matter.  If anyone deems it prudent, or thinks he would be
happier, to stay on the Moon, that's his privilege."

"I see, sir.  We are free.  Free to remain in Luna and work, at tasks
and for wages set by you... or free to return to Earth to die."

Chairman shrugged.  "You assume that we are villians--we're not.  Why,
if I were a young man I would emigrate to the Moon myself.  Great
opportunities!  In any case I am not troubled by your
distortions--history will justify us."

Was surprised at Prof; he was not fighting.  Worried about him--weeks
of strain and a bad night on top.  All he said was, "Honorable
Chairman, I assume that shipping to Luna will soon be resumed.  Can
passage be arranged for my colleague and myself in the first ship?  For
I must admit, sir, that this gravitational weakness of which I spoke
is, in our cases, very real.  Our mission is completed; we need to go
home."  (Not a word about grain barges.  Nor about "throwing rocks,"
nor even futility of beating a cow.  Prof just sounded tired.)

Chairman leaned forward and spoke with grim satisfaction.  "Professor,
that presents difficulties.  To put it bluntly, you appear to be guilty
of treason against the Great Charter, indeed against all humanity ...
and an indictment is being considered.  I doubt if anything more than a
suspended sentence would be invoked against a man of your age and
physical condition, however.  Do you think it would be prudent of us to
give you passage back to the place where you committed these
acts--there to stir up more mischief?"

Prof sighed.  "I understand your point.  Then, sir, may I be excused? I
am weary."

"Certainly.  Hold yourself at the disposal of this committee.  The
hearing stands adjourned.  Colonel Davis--"

"Sir?"  I was directing wheel chair around, to get Prof out at once;
our attendants had been sent outside.

"A word with you, please.  In my office."

"Uh--" Looked at Prof; eyes were closed and seemed unconscious.  But he
moved one finger, motioning me to him.  "Honorable Chairman, I'm more
nurse than diplomat; have to look after him.  He's an old man, he's
ill."

"The attendants will take care of him."

"Well..."  Got as close to Prof as I could from chair, leaned over him.
"Prof, are you right?"

He barely whispered.  "See what he wants.  Agree with him.  But
stall."

Moments later was alone with chairman, soundproof door locked--meant
nothing; room could have a dozen ears, plus one in my left arm.

He said, "A drink?  Coffee?"

I answered, "No, thank you, sir.  Have to watch my diet here."

"I suppose so.  Are you really limited to that chair?  You look
healthy."

I said, "I could, if had to, get up and walk across room.  Might faint.
Or worse.  Prefer not to risk.  Weigh six times what I should.  Heart's
not used to it."

"I suppose so.  Colonel, I hear you had some silly trouble in North
America.  I'm sorry, I truly am.  Barbaric place.  Always hate to have
to go there.  I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to see you."

"No, sir, assume you'll tell when suits you.  Instead was wondering why
you still call me "Colonel.""

He gave a barking laugh.  "Habit, I suppose.  A lifetime of protocol.
Yet it might be well for you to continue with that title.  Tell me,
what do you think of our five-year plan?"

Thought it stunk.  "Seems to have been carefully thought out."

"Much thought went into it.  Colonel, you seem to be a sensible man-- I
know you are, I know not only your background but practically every
word you've spoken, almost your thoughts, ever since you set foot on
Earth.  You were born on the Moon.  Do you regard yourself as a
patriot?  Of the Moon?"

"Suppose so.  Though tend to think of what we did just as something
that had to be done."

"Between ourselves--yes.  That old fool Hobart.  Colonel, that is a
good plan... but lacks an executive.  If you are really a patriot or
let's say a practical man with your country's best interests at heart,
you might be the man to carry it out."  He held up hand.  "Don't be
hasty!  I'm not asking you to sell out, turn traitor, or any nonsense
like that.  This is your chance to be a real patriot--not some phony
hero who gets himself killed in a lost cause.  Put it this way.  Do you
think it is possible for the Lunar colonies to hold out against all the
force that the Federated Nations of Earth can bring to bear?  You're
not really a military man, I know--and I'm glad you're not--but you are
a technical man, and I know that, too.  In your honest estimation, how
many ships and bombs do you think it would take to destroy the Lunar
colonies?"

I answered, "One ship, six bombs."

"Correct!  My God, it's good to talk to a sensible man.  Two of them
would have to be awf'ly big, perhaps specially built.  A few people
would stay alive, for a while, in smaller warrens beyond the blast
areas.  But one ship would do it, in ten minutes."

I said, "Conceded, sir, but Professor de la Paz pointed out that you
don't get milk by beating a cow.  And certainly can't by shooting
it."

"Why do you think we've held back, done nothing, for over a month? That
idiot colleague of mine--I won't name him--spoke of back talk Backtalk
doesn't fret me; it's just talk and I'm interested in results. No, my
dear Colonel, we won't shoot the cow... but we would, if forced to, let
the cow know that it could be shot.  H-missiles are expensive toys but
we could afford to expend some as warning shots, wasted on bare rock to
let the cow know what could happen.  But that is more force than one
likes to use--it might frighten the cow and sour its milk."  He gave
another barking laugh.  "Better to persuade old bossy to give down
willingly."

I waited.  "Don't you want to know how?"  he asked.

"How?"  I agreed.

"Through you.  Don't say a word and let me explain--"

He took me up on that high mountain and offered me kingdoms of Earth.
Or of Luna.  Take job of "Protector Pro Tem" with understanding was
mine permanently if I could deliver.  Convince Loonies they could not
win.  Convince them that this new setup was to their
advantage--emphasize benefits, free schools, free hospitals, free this
and that--details later but an everywhere government just like on
Terra.  Taxes starting low and handled painlessly by automatic checkoff
and through kickback revenues from grain shipments.  But, most
important, this time Authority would not send a boy to do a man's
job--two regiments of police at once.

"Those damned Peace Dragoons were a mistake," he said, "one we won't
make again.  Between ourselves, the reason it has taken us a month to
work this out is that we had to convince the Peace Control Commission
that a handful of men cannot police three million people spread through
six largish warrens and fifty and more small ones.  So you'll start
with enough police--not combat troops but military police used to
quelling civilians with a minimum of fuss.  Besides that, this time
they'll have female auxiliaries, the standard ten per cent-no more rape
complaints.  Well, sir?  Think you can swing it?  Knowing it's best in
the long run for your own people?"

I said I ought to study it in detail, particularly plans and quotas for
five-year plan, rather than make snap decision.  ~Certainly,
certainly!"  he agreed.  "I'll give you a copy of the white paper we've
made up; take it home, study it, sleep on it.  Tomorrow we'll talk
again.  Just give me your word as a gentleman to keep it under your
hair.  No secret, really... but these things are best settled before
they are publicized.  Speaking of publicity, you'll need help--and
you'll get it.  We'll go to the expense of sending up topnotch men, pay
them what it's worth, have them centrifuge the way those scientists
do--you know.  This time we're doing it right.  That fool Hobart--he's
actually dead, isn't he?"

"No, sir.  Senile, however."

"Should have killed him, Here's your copy of the plan."

"Sir?  Speaking of old men-Professor de la Paz can't stay here.
Wouldn't live six months."

"That's best, isn't it?"

I tried to answer levelly, "You don't understand.  He is greatly loved
and respected.  Best thing would be for me to convince him that you
mean business with those H-missiles--and that it is his patriotic duty
to salvage what we can.  But, either way, if I return without him...
well, not only could not swing it; wouldn't live long enough to try."

"Hmm-Sleep on it.  We'll talk tomorrow.  Say fourteen o'clock."

I left and as soon as was loaded into lorry gave way to shakes.  Just
don't have high-level approach.

Stu was waiting with Prof.  "Well?"  said Prof.

I glanced around, tapped ear.  We huddled, heads over Prof's head and
two blankets over us all.  Stretcher wagon was clean and so was my
chair; I checked them each morning.  But for room itself seemed safer
to whisper under blankets.

Started in.  Prof stopped me.  "Discuss his ancestry and habits later.
The facts."

"He offered me job of Warden."

"I trust you accepted."

"Ninety percent.  I'm to study this garbage and give answer tomorrow.
Stu, how fast can we execute Plan Scoot?"

"Started.  We were waiting for you to return.  If they let you
return."

Next fifty minutes were busy.  Stu produced a gaunt Hindu in a dhoti;
in thirty minutes he was a twin of Prof, and lifted Prof off wagon onto
a divan.  Duplicating me was easier.  Our doubles were wheeled into
suite's living room just at dusk and dinner was brought in.  Several
people came and went-among them elderly Hindu woman in said, on arm of
Stuart La Joie A plump babu followed them.

Getting Prof up steps to roof was worst; he had never worn powered
walkers, had no chance to practice, and had been flat on back for more
than a month.

But Stu's arm kept him steady; I gritted teeth and climbed those
thirteen terrible steps by myself.  By time I reached roof, heart was
ready to burst.  Was put to it not to black out.  A silent little
flitter craft came out of gloom right on schedule and ten minutes later
we were in chartered ship we had used past month--two minutes after
that we jetted for Australia.  Don't know what it cost to prepare this
dance and keep it ready against need, but was no hitch.

Stretched out by Prof and caught breath, then said, "How you feel,
Prof?"

"Okay.  A bit tired.  Frustrated."

"Ja da.  Frustrated."

"Over not seeing the Taj Mahal, I mean.  I never had opportunity as a
young man--and here I've been within a kilometer of it twice, once for
several days, now for another day... and still I haven't seen it and
never shall."

"Just a tomb."

"And Helen of Troy was just a woman.  Sleep, lad."  We landed in Chinee
half of Australia, place called Darwin, and were carried straight into
a ship, placed in acceleration couches and dosed.  Prof was already out
and I was beginning to feel dopy when Stu came in, grinned, and
strapped down by us.  I looked at him.  "You, too?  Who's minding
shop?"

"The same people who've been doing the real work all along.  It's a
good setup and doesn't need me any longer.  Mannie old cobber, I did
not want to be marooned a long way from home.  Luna, I mean, in case
you have doubts.  This looks like the last train from Shanghai."

"What's Shanghai got to do with?"

"Forget I mentioned it.  Mannie, I'm flat broke, concave.  I owe money
in all directions--debts that will be paid only if certain stocks move
the way Adam Selene convinced me they would move, shortly after this
point in history.  And I'm wanted, or will be, for offenses against the
public peace and dignity.  Put it this way.  I'm saving them the
trouble of transporting me.  Do you think I can learn to be a drill man
at my age?"

Was feeling foggy, drug taking hold.  "Stu, in Luna y'aren't old...
barely started ... ny way .. eat our table fever!  Mimi likes you."

"Thanks, cobber, I might.  Warning light!  Deep breath!"

Suddenly was kicked by ten gee.

Our craft was ground-to-orbit ferry type used for manned satellites,
for supplying F.N. ships in patrol orbit, and for passengers to and
from pleasure-and-gambling satellites.  She was carrying three
passengers instead of forty, no cargo except three p-suits and a brass
cannon (yes, silly toy was along; p-suits and Prof's bang-bang were in
Australia a week before we were) and good ship Lark had been
stripped--total crew was skipper and a Cyborg pilot.

She was heavily over fueled

We made (was told) normal approach on Elysium satellite ... then
suddenly scooted from orbital speed to escape speed, a change even more
violent than liftoff.

This was scanned by F.N. Skytrack; we were commanded to stop and
explain.  I got this secondhand from Stu, self still recovering and
enjoying luxury of no-gee with one strap to anchor.  Prof was still
out.

"So they want to know who we are and what we think we are doing," Stu
told me.  "We told them that we were Chinese registry sky wagon Opening
Lotus bound on an errand of mercy, to wit, rescuing those scientists
marooned on the Moon, and gave our identification--as Opening Lotus."

"How about transponder?"

"Mannie, if I got what I paid for, our transponder identified us as the
Lark up to ten minutes ago... and now has I.D."d us as the Lotus.  Soon
we will know.  Just one ship is in position to get a missile off and it
must blast us in"--he stopped to look--"another twenty-seven minutes
according to the wired-up gentleman booting this bucket, or its chances
of getting us are poor to zero.  So if it worries you--if you have
prayers to say or messages to send or whatever it is one does at such
times--now is the time."

"Think we ought to rouse Prof?"

"Let him sleep.  Can you think of a better way to make jump than from
peaceful sleep instantaneously into a cloud of radiant gas?  Unless you
know that he has religious necessities to attend to?  He never struck
me as a religious man, orthodoctrinally speaking."

"He's not.  But if you have such duties, don't let me keep you."

"Thank you, I took care of what seemed necessary before we left ground.
How about yourself, Mannie?  I'm not much of a padre but I'll do my
best, if I can help.  Any sins on your mind, old cobber?  If you need
to confess, I know quite a little about sin."

Told him my needs did not run that way.  Then did recall sins, some I
cherished, and gave him a version more or less true.  That reminded him
of some of his own, which remind me-Zero time came and went before we
ran out of sins.  S La Joie is a good person to spend last minutes
with, even if don't turn out to be last.

We had two days with naught to do but undergo drastic routines to keep
us from carrying umpteen plagues to Luna.  But didn't mind shaking from
induced chills and burning with fever; free fall was such a relief and
was so happy to be going home.

Or almost happy-Prof asked what was troubling me,~ "Nothing," I said.
"Can't wait to be home.  But-Truth is, ashamed to show face after we've
failed.  Prof, what did we do wrong?"

"Failed, my boy?"

"Don't see what else can call it.  Asked to be recognized.  Not what we
got."

"Manuel, I owe you an apology.  You will recall Adam Selene's
projection of our chances just before we left home."  Stu was not in
earshot but "Mike" was word we never used; was always "Adam Selene" for
security.

"Certainly do!  One in fifty-three.  Then when we reached Earthside
dropped to reeking one in hundred.  What you guess it is now?  One in
thousand?"

"I've had new projections every few days..  which is why I owe you an
apology.  The last, received just before we left, included the
then-untested assumption that we would escape, get clear of Terra and
home safely.  Or that at least one of us three would make it, which is
why Comrade Stu was summoned home, he having a Terran's tolerance of
high acceleration.  Eight projections, in fact, ranging from three of
us dead, through various combinations up to three surviving.  Would you
care to stake a few dollars on what that last projection is, setting a
bracket and naming your own odds?  I'll give a hint.  You are far too
pessimistic."

"Uh... no, damn it!  Just tell."

"The odds against us are now only seventeen to one ... and they've been
shortening all month.  Which I couldn't tell you."

"Was amazed, delighted, overjoyed--hurt.  "What you mean, couldn't tell
me?  Look, Prof, if not trusted, deal me out and put Stu in executive
cell."

"Please, son.  That's where he will go if anything happens to any of
us--you, me, or dear Wyoming.  I could not tell you Earthside--and can
tell you now--not because you aren't trusted but because you are no
actor.  You could carry out your role more effectively if you believed
that our purpose was to achieve recognition of independence."

"Now he tells!"

"Manuel, Manuel, we had to fight hard every instant--and lose."

"So?  Am big enough boy to be told?"

"Please, Manuel.  Keeping you temporarily in the dark greatly enhanced
our chances; you can check this with Adam.  May I add that Stuart
accepted his summons to Luna blithely without asking why?  Comrade,
that committee was too small, its chairman too intelligent; there was
always the hazard that they might offer an acceptable compromise--that
first day there was grave danger of it.  Had we been able to force our
case before the Grand Assembly there would have been no danger of
intelligent action.  But we were balked.  The best I could do was to
antagonize the committee, even stooping to personal insult to make
certain of at least one holdout against common sense."

"Guess I never will understand high-level approach."

"Possibly not.  But your talents and mine complement each other.
Manuel, you wish to see Luna free."

"You know I do."

"You also know that Terra can defeat us."

"Sure.  No projection ever gave anything close to even money.  So don't
see why you set out to antagonize--"

"Please.  Since they can inflict their will on us, our only chance lies
in weakening their will.  That was why we had to go to Terra.  To be
divisive.  To create many opinions.  The shrewdest of the great
generals in China's history once said that perfection in war lay in so
sapping the opponent's will that he surrenders without fighting.  In
that maxim lies both our ultimate purpose and our most pressing danger.
Suppose, as seemed possible that first day, we had been offered an
inviting compromise.  A governor in place of a warden, possibly from
our own number.  Local autonomy.  A delegate in the Grand Assembly.  A
higher price for grain at the catapult head, plus a bonus for increased
shipments.  A disavowal of Hobart's policies combined with an
expression of regret over the rape and the killings with handsome cash
settlements to the victims' survivors.  Would it have been accepted?
Back home?"

"They did not offer that."

"The chairman was ready to offer something like it that first afternoon
and at that time he had his committee in hand.  He offered us an asking
price close enough to permit such a dicker.  Assume that we reached in
substance what I outlined.  Would it have been acceptable at home?"

"Uh... maybe."

"More than a 'maybe' by the bleak projection made just before we left
home; it was the thing to be avoided at any cost--a settlement which
would quiet things down, destroy our will to resist, without changing
any essential in the longer-range prediction of disaster.  So I
switched the subject and squelched possibility by being difficult about
irrelevancies politely offensive.  Manuel, you and I know--and Adam
knows--that there must be an end to food shipments; nothing less will
save Luna from disaster.  But can you imagine a wheat farmer fighting
to end those shipments?"

"No.  Wonder if can pick up news from home on how they're taking
stoppage?"

"There won't be any.  Here is how Adam has timed it, Manuel: No
announcement is to be made on either planet until after we get home. We
are still buying wheat.  Barges are still arriving at Bombay."

"You told them shipments would stop at once."

"That was a threat, not a moral commitment.  A few more loads won't
matter and we need time.  We don't have everyone on our side; we have
only a minority.  There is a majority who don't care either way but can
be swayed--temporarily.  We have another minority against us...
especially grain farmers whose interest is never politics but the price
of wheat.  They are grumbling but accepting Scrip, hoping it will be
worth face value later.  But the instant we announce that shipments
have stopped they will be actively against us.  Adam plans to have the
majority committed to us at the time the announcement is made."

"How long?  One year?  Two?"

"Two days, three days, perhaps four.  Carefully edited excerpts from
that five-year plan, excerpts from the recordings you've
made--especially that yellow-dog offer--exploitation of your arrest in
Kentucky--"

"Hey!  I'd rather forget that."

Prof smiled and cocked an eyebrow.  "Uh--" I said uncomfortably.
"Okay.

If will help."

"It will help more than any statistics about natural resources."

Wired-up ex-human piloting us went in as one maneuver without bothering
to orbit and gave us even heavier beating; ship was light and lively.
But change in motion is under two-and-a-half kilometers; was over in
nineteen seconds and we were down at Johnson City.  I took it right,
just a terrible constriction in chest and a feeling as if giant were
squeezing heart, then was over and I was gasping back to normal and
glad to be proper weight.  But did almost kill poor old Prof.

Mike told me later that pilot refused to surrender control; Mike would
have brought ship down in a low-gee, no-breakum-egg, knowing Prof was
aboard.  But perhaps that Cyborg knew what he was doing; a low-gee
landing wastes mass and Lotus-Lark grounded almost dry.

None of which we cared about, as looked as if that Garrison landing had
wasted Prof.  Stu saw it while I was still gasping, then we were both
at him--heart stimulant, manual respiration, massage.  At last he
fluttered eyelids, looked at us, smiled.  "Home," he whispered.

We made him rest twenty minutes before we let him suit up to leave
ship; had been as near dead as can be and not hear angels.  Skipper was
filling tanks, anxious to get rid of us and take on passengers--that
Dutchman never spoke to us whole trip; think he regretted letting money
talk him into a trip that could ruin or kill him.

By then Wyoh was inside ship, p-suited to come meet us.  Don't think
Stu had ever seen her in a p-suit and certain he had never seen her as
a blonde; did not recognize.  I was hugging her in spite of p-suit; he
was standing by, waiting to be introduced.  Then strange "man" in
p-suit hugged him--he was surprised.

Heard Wyoh's muffled voice: "Oh heavens!  Mannie, my helmet."

I unclamped it, lifted off.  She shook curls and grinned.  "Stu, aren't
you glad to see me?  Don't you know me?"

A grin spread over his face, slowly as dawn across maria.
"Zdra'stvooeet'ye, Gospazha!  I am most happy to see you."  ""Gospazha'
indeed!  I'm Wyoh to you, dear, always.  Didn't Mannie tell you I'd
gone back to blonde?"

"Yes, he did.  But knowing it and seeing are not the same."

"You'll get used to it."  She stopped to bend over Prof, kiss him,
giggle at him, then straightened up and gave me a no-helmet
welcome-home that left us both with tears despite pesky suit.  Then
turned again to Stu, started to kiss him.

He held back a little.  She stopped.  "Stu, am I going to have to put
on brown makeup to welcome you?"  Stu glanced at me, then kissed her.
Wyoh put in as much time and thought as she had to welcoming me.

Was later I figured out his odd behavior.  Stu, despite commitment, was
still not a Loonie--and in meantime Wyoh had married.  What's that got
to do with it?  Well, Earthside it makes a difference, and Stu did not
know deep down in bones that a Loonie lady is own mistress.  Poor chum
thought I might take offense!

We got Prof into suit, ourselves same, and left, me with cannon under
arm.  Once underground and locked through, we unsuited--and I was
flattered to see that Wyoh was wearing crushed under p-suit that red
dress I bought her ages ago.  She brushed it and skirt flared out.

Immigration room was empty save for about forty men lined up along wall
like new transportees; were wearing p-suits and carrying
helmets--Terrans going home, stranded tourists and some scientists.
Their p-suits would not go, would be unloaded before lift.  I looked at
them and thought about Cyborg pilot.  When Lark had been stripped, all
but three couches had been removed; these people were going to take
acceleration lying on floor plates--if skipper was not careful he was
going to have mashed Terrans au blut.

Mentioned to Stu.  "Forget it," he said.  "Captain Leures has foam pads
aboard.  He won't let them be hurt; they're his life insurance."

My family, all thirty-odd from Grandpaw to babies, was waiting beyond
next lock on level he!ow and we got cried on and slobbered on and
hugged and this time Stu did not hold back.  Little Hazel made ceremony
of kissing us; she had Liberty Caps, set one on each, then kissed
us--and at that signal whole family put on Liberty Caps, and I got
sudden tears.  Perhaps is what patriotism feels like, choked up and so
happy it hurts.  Or maybe was just being with my beloveds again.

"Where's Slim?"  I asked Hazel.  "Wasn't he invited?"

"Couldn't come.  He's junior marshal of your reception."

"Reception?  This is all we want."

"You'll see."

Did.  Good thing family came out to meet us; that and ride to L-City
(filled a capsule) were all I saw of them for some time.  Tube Station
West was a howling mob, all in Liberty Caps.  We three were carried on
shoulders all way to Old Dome, surrounded by a stilyagi bodyguard,
elbows locked to force through cheering, singing crowds.  Boys were
wearing red caps and white shirts and their girls wore white jumpers
and red shorts color of caps.

At station and again when they put us down in Old Dome I got kissed by
ferns I have never seen before or since.  Remember hoping that measures
we had taken in lieu of quarantine were effective--or half of L-City
would be down with colds or worse.  (Apparently we were clean; was no
epidemic.  But I remember time--was quite small--when measles got loose
and thousands died.)

Worried about Prof, too; reception was too rough for a man good as dead
an hour earlier.  But he not only enjoyed it, he made a wonderful
speech in Old Dome--one short on logic, loaded with ringing phrases.
"Love" was in it, and "home" and "Luna" and "comrades and neighbors"
and even "shoulder to shoulder" and all sounded good.

They had erected a platform under big news video on south face.  Adam
Selene greeted us from video screen and now Prof's face and voice were
projected from it, much magnified, over his head--did not have to
shout.  But did have to pause after every sentence; crowd roars drowned
out even bull voice from screen--and no doubt pauses helped, as rest.
But Prof no longer seemed old, tired, ill; being back inside The Rock
seemed to be tonic he needed.  And me, too!  Was wonderful to be right
weight, feel strong, breathe pure, replenished air of own city.

No mean city!  Impossible to get all of L-City inside Old Dome--but
looked as if they tried.  I estimated an area ten meters square, tried
to count heads, got over two hundred not half through and gave up.
Lunatic placed crowd at thirty thousand, seems impossible.

Prof's words reached more nearly three million; video carried scene to
those who could not crowd into Old Dome, cable and relay flashed it
across lonely maria to all warrens.  He grabbed chance to tell of slave
future Authority planned for them.  Waved that "white paper."  "Here it
is!"  he cried.  "Your fetters!  Your leg irons!  Will you wear
them?"

"NO!"

"They say you must.  They say they will H-bomb ... then survivors will
surrender and put on these chains.  Will you?"

"NO!  NEVER!"

"Never," agreed Prof.  "They threaten to send troops ... more and more
troops to rape and murder.  We shall fight them."

"DA!"

"We shall fight them on the surface, we shall fight them in the tubes,
we shall fight them in the corridors!  If die we must, we shall die
free!"

"Yes!  Ja-da!  Tell 'em, tell 'em!"

"And if we die, let history write: This was Luna's finest hour!  Give
us liberty ... or give us death!"

Some of that sounded familiar.  But his words came out fresh and new; I
joined in roars.  Look... I knew we couldn't whip Terra--I'm tech by
trade and know that an H-missile doesn't care how brave you are.  But
was ready, too.  If they wanted a fight, let's have it!

Prof let them roar, then led them in "Battle Hymn of the Republic,"
Simon's version.  Adam appeared on screen again, took over leading it
and sang with them, and we tried to slip away, off back of platform,
with help of stilyagi led by Slim.  But women didn't want to let us go
and lads aren't at their best in trying to stop ladies; they broke
through.  Was twenty-two hundred before we four, Wyoh, Prof, Stu, self,
were locked in room L of Raffles, where Adam-Mike joined us by video. I
was starved by then, all were, so I ordered dinner and Prof insisted
that we eat before reviewing plans.

Then we got down to business.

Adam started by asking me to read aloud white paper, for his benefit
and for Comrade Wyoming-- "But first, Comrade Manuel, if you have the
recordings you made Earthside, could you transmit them by phone at high
speed to my office?  I'll have them transcribed for study--all I have
so far are the coded summaries Comrade Stuart sent up."

I did so, knowing Mike would study them at once, phrasing was part of
"Adam Selene" myth--and decided to talk to Prof about letting Stu in on
facts.  If Stu was to be in executive cell, pretending was too
clumsy.

Feeding recordings into Mike at over speed took five minutes, reading
aloud another thirty.  That done, Adam said, "Professor, the reception
was more successful than I had counted on, due to your speech.  I think
we should push the embargo through Congress at once.  I can send out a
call tonight for a session at noon tomorrow.  Comments?"

I said, "Look, those yammer heads will kick it around for weeks.  If
you must put it up to them--can't see why--do as you did with
Declaration.  Start late, jam it through after midnight using own
people."

Adam said, "Sorry, Manuel.  I'm getting caught up on events Earthside
and you have catching up to do here.  It's no longer the same group.
Comrade Wyoming?"

"Mannie dear, it's an elected Congress now.  They must pass it.
Congress is what government we have."

I said slowly, "You held election and turned things over to them?
Everything?  Then what are we doing?"  Looked at Prof, expecting
explosion.  My objections would not be on his grounds--but couldn't see
any use in swapping one talk-talk for another.  At least first group
had been so loose we could pack it--this new group would be glued to
seats.

Prof was undisturbed.  Fitted fingertips together and looked relaxed.
"Manuel, I don't think the situation is as bad as you seem to feel that
it is.  In each age it is necessary to adapt to the popular mythology.
At one time kings were anointed by Deity, so the problem was to see to
it that Deity anointed the tight candidate.  In this age the myth is
'the will of the people'... but the problem changes only superficially.
Comrade Adam and I have had long discussions about how to determine the
will of the people.  I venture to suggest that this solution is one we
can work with."

"Well ... okay.  But why weren't we told?  Stu, did you know?"

"No, Mannie.  There was no reason to tell me."  He shrugged.  "I'm a
monarchist, I wouldn't have been interested.  But I go along with Prof
that in this day and age elections are a necessary ritual."

Prof said, "Manuel, it wasn't necessary to tell us till we got back;
you and I had other work to do.  Comrade Adam and dear Comrade Wyoming
handled it in our absence... so let's find out what they did before we
judge what they've done."

"Sorry.  Well, Wyoh?"

"Mannie, we didn't leave everything to chance.  Adam and I decided that
a Congress of three hundred would be about right.  Then we spent hours
going over the Party lists--plus prominent people not in the Party.  At
last we had a list of candidates--a list that included some from the
Ad-Hoc Congress; not all were yammer heads we included as many as we
could.  Then Adam phoned each one and asked him--or her--if he would
serve ... binding him to secrecy in the meantime.  Some we had to
replace.

"When we were ready, Adam spoke on video, announced that it was time to
carry out the Party's pledge of free elections, set a date, said that
everybody over sixteen could vote, and that all anyone had to do to be
a candidate was to get a hundred chops on a nominating petition and
post it in Old Dome, or the public notice place for his warren.  Oh,
yes, thirty temporary election districts, ten Congressmen from each
district--that let all but the smallest warrens be at least one
district."

"So you had it lined up and Party ticket went through?"

"Oh, no, dear!  There wasn't any Party ticket--officially.  But we were
ready with our candidates... and I must say my stilyagi did a smart job
getting chops on nominations; our optings were posted the first day.
Many other people posted; there were over two thousand candidates.  But
there was only ten days from announcement to election, and we knew what
we wanted whereas the opposition was split up.  It wasn't necessary for
Adam to come out publicly and endorse candidates.  It worked out--you
won by seven thousand votes, dear, while your nearest rival got less
than a thousand."

"I won?"

"You won, I won, Professor won, Comrade Clayton won, and just about
everybody we thought should be in the Congress.  It wasn't hard.
Although Adam never endorsed anyone, I didn't hesitate to let our
comrades know who was favored.  Simon poked his finger in, too.  And we
do have good connections with newspapers.  I wish you had been here
election night, watching the results.  Exciting!"

"How did you go about nose counting?  Never known how election works.
Write names on a piece of paper?"

"Oh, no, we used a better system ... because, after all, some of our
best people can't write.  We used banks for voting places, with bank
clerks identifying customers and customers identifying members of their
families and neighbors who don't have bank accounts--and people voted
orally and the clerks punched the votes into the banks' computers with
the voter watching, and results were all tallied at once in Luna City
clearinghouse.  We voted everybody in less than three hours and results
were printed out just minutes after voting stopped."

Suddenly a light came on in my skull and I decided to question Wyoh
privately.  No, not Wyoh--Mike.  Get past his "Adam Selene" dignity and
hammer truth out of his neuristors.  Recalled a cheque ten million
dollars too large and wondered how many had voted for me?  Seven
thousand?  Seven hundred?  Or just my family and friends?

But no longer worried about new Congress.  Prof had not slipped them a
cold deck but one that was frozen solid--then ducked Earthside while
crime was committed.  No use asking Wyoh; she didn't even need to know
what Mike had done ... and could do her part better if did not
suspect.

Nor would anybody suspect.  If was one thing all people took for
granted, was conviction that if you feed honest figures into a
computer, honest figures come out.  Never doubted it myself till met a
computer with sense of humor.

Changed mind about suggesting that Stu be let in on Mike's
self-awareness.  Three was two too many.  Or perhaps three.  "Mi--" I
started to say, and changed to: "My word!  Sounds efficient.  How big
did we win?"

Adam answered without expression.  "Eighty-six percent of our
candidates were successful--approximately what I had expected."
("Approximately," my false left arm!  Exactly what expected, Mike old
ironmongery!) "Withdraw objection to a noon session--I'll be there."

"It seems to me," said Stu, "assuming that the embargo starts at once,
we will need something to maintain the enthusiasm we witnessed tonight.
Or there will be a long quiet period of increasing economic
depression--from the embargo, I mean--and growing disillusionment.
Adam, you first impressed me through your ability to make shrewd
guesses as to future events.  Do my misgivings make sense?"

"They do."

"Well?"

Adam looked at us in turn, and was almost impossible to believe that
this was a false image and Mike was simply placing us through binaural
receptors.  "Comrades ... it must be turned into open war as quickly as
possible."

Nobody said anything.  One thing to talk about war, another to face up
to it.  At last I sighed and said, "When do we start throwing rocks?"

"We do not start," Adam answered.  "They must throw the first one.  How
do we antagonize them into doing so?  I will reserve my thoughts to the
last.  Comrade Manuel?"

"Uh... don't look at me.  Way I feel, would start with a nice big rock
smack on Agra--a bloke there who is a waste of space.  But is not what
you are after."

"No, it is not," Adam answered seriously.  "You would not only anger
the entire Hindu nation, a people intensely opposed to destruction of
life, but you would also anger and shock people throughout Earth by
destroying the Taj Mahal."

"Including me," said Prof.  "Don't talk dirty, Manuel."

"Look," I said, "didn't say to do it.  Anyhow, could miss Taj."

"Manuel," said Prof, "as Adam pointed out, our strategy must be to
antagonize them into striking the first blow, the classic "Pearl
Harbor' maneuver of game theory, a great advantage in Weltpolitick. The
question is how?  Adam, I suggest that what is needed is to plant the
idea that we are weak and divided and that all it takes is a show of
force to bring us back into line.  Stu?  Your people Earthside should
be useful.  Suppose the Congress repudiated myself and Manuel? The
effect?"

"Oh, no!"  said Wyoh.

"Oh, yes, dear Wyoh.  Not necessary to do it but simply to put it over
news channels to Earth.  Perhaps still better to put it out over a
clandestine beam attributed to the Terran scientists still with us
while our official channels display the classic stigmata of tight
censorship.  Adam?"

"I'm noting it as a tactic which probably will be included in the
strategy.  But it will not be sufficient alone.  We must be bombed."

"Adam," said Wyoh, "why do you say so?  Even if Luna City can stand up
under their biggest bombs--something I hope never to find out--we know
that Luna can't win an all-out war.  You've said so, many times.  Isn't
there some way to work it so that they will just plain leave us
alone?"

Adam pulled at right cheek--and I thought: Mike, if you don't knock off
play-acting, you'll have me believing in you myself!  Was annoyed at
him and looked forward to a talk--one in which I would not have to
defer to "Chairman Selene."

"Comrade Wyoming," he said soberly, "it's a matter of game theory in a
complex non-zero-sum game.  We have certain resources or 'pieces in the
game' and many possible moves.  Our opponents have much larger
resources and a far larger spectrum of responses.  Our problem is to
manipulate the game so that our strength is utilized toward an optimax
solution while inducing them to waste their superior strength and to
refrain from using it at maximum.  Timing is of the essence and a
gambit is necessary to start a chain of events favorable to our
strategy.  I realize this is not clear.  I could put the factors
through a computer and show you.  Or you can accept the conclusion.  Or
you can use your own judgment."

He was reminding Wyoh (under Stu's nose) that he was not Adam Selene
but Mike, our dinkum thinkum who could handle so complex a problem
because he was a computer and smartest one anywhere.

Wyoh backtracked.  "No, no," she said, "I wouldn't underitand the
maths.  Okay, it has to be done.  How do we do it?"

Was four hundred before we had a plan that suited Prof and Stu as well
as Adam--or took that long for Mike to sell his plan while appearing to
pull ideas out of rest of us.  Or was it Prof's plan with Adam Selene
as salesman?

In any case we had a plan and calendar, one that grew out of master
strategy of Tuesday 14 May 2075 and varied from it only to match events
as they actually had occurred.  In essence it called for us to behave
as nastily as possible while strengthening impression that we would be
awfully easy to spank.

Was at Community Hall at noon, after too little sleep, and found I
could have slept two hours longer; Congressmen from Hong Kong could not
make it that early despite tube all way.  Wyoh did not bang gavel until
fourteen-thirty.

Yes, my bride wife was chairman pro term in a body not yet organized.
Parliamentary rulings seemed to come naturally to her, and she was not
a bad choice; a mob of Loonies behaves better when a lady bangs
gavel.

Not going to detail what new Congress did and said that session and
later; minutes are available.  I showed up only when necessary and
never bothered to learn talk-talk rules--seemed to be equal parts
common politeness and ways in which chairman could invoke magic to do
it his (her) way.

No sooner had Wyoh banged them to order but a cobber jumped up and
said, "Gospazha Chairmah, move we suspend rules and hear from Comrade
Professor de la Paz!"--which brought a whoop of approval.

Wyoh banged again.  "Motion is out of order and Member from Lower
Churchill will be seated.  This house recessed without adjourning and
Chairman of Committee on Permanent Organization, Resolutions, and
Government Structure still has the floor."

Turned out to be Wolfgang Korsakov, Member from Tycho Under (and a
member of Prof's cell and our number-one finagler of LuNoHoCo) and he
not only had floor, he had it all day, yielding time as he saw fit
(i.e."  picking out whom he wanted to speak rather than letting just
anyone talk).  But nobody was too irked; this mob seemed satisfied with
leadership.  Were noisy but not unruly.

By dinnertime Luna had a government to replace co-opted provisional
government--i.e."  dummy government we had opted ourselves, which sent
Prof and me to Earth.  Congress confirmed all acts of provisional
government, thus putting face on what we had done, thanked outgoing
government for services and instructed Wolfgang's committee to continue
work on permanent government structure.

Prof was elected President of Congress and ex-officio Prime Minister of
interim government until we acquired a constitution.  He protested age
and health ... then said would serve if could have certain things to
help him; too old and too exhausted from trip Earthside to have
responsibility of presiding--except on occasions of state--so he wanted
Congress to elect a Speaker and Speaker Pro Tem... and besides that, he
felt that Congress should augment its numbers by not more than ten
percent by itself electing members-at-large so that Prime Minister,
whoever he might be, could opt cabinet members or ministers of state
who might not now be members of Congress--especially
ministers-without-portfolio to take load off his shoulders.

They balked.  Most were proud of being "Congressmen" and already
jealous of status.  But Prof just sat looking tired, and waited--and
somebody pointed out that it still left control in hands of Congress.
So they gave him what he asked for.

Then somebody squeezed in a speech by making it a question to Chair.
Everybody knew (he said) that Adam Selene had refrained from standing
for Congress on grounds that Chairman of Emergency Committee should not
take advantage of posit on to elbow way into new government ... but
could Honorable Chairlady tell member whether was any reason not elect
Adam Selene a member-at-large?  As gesture of appreciation for great
services?  To let all Luna--yes, and all those earthworms, especially
ex-Lunar ex-Authority--know that we not repudiating Adam Selene, on
contrary he was our beloved elder statesman and was not President
simply because he chose not to be!

More whoops that went on and on.  You can find in minutes who made that
speech but one gets you ten Prof wrote it and Wyoh planted it.

Here is how it wound up over course of days:

Prime Minister and Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs: Professor
Bernardo de la Paz.

Speaker, Finn Nielsen; Speaker Pro Tem, Wyoming Davis.

Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs and Minister of Defense,
General O'Kelly Davis; Minister of Information, Terence Sheehan
(Sheenie turned Pravda over to managing editor to work with Adam and
Stu); Special Minister-without-Portfolio in Ministry of Information,
Stuart Rene La Joie Congressman-at-Large; Secretary of State for
Economics and Finance (and Custodian of Enemy Property), Wolfgang
Korsakov; Minister of Interior Affairs and Safety, Comrade "Clayton"
Watenabe; Minter-without-Portfolio and Special Advisor to Prime
Minister, Adam Selene--plus a dozen ministers and
ministers-without-portfolio from warrens other than Luna City.

See where that left things?  Brush away fancy titles and B cell was
still running things as advised by Mike, backed by a Congress in which
we could not lose a test vote--but did lose others we did not want to
win, or did not care about.

But at time could not see sense in all that talk-talk.

During evening session Prof reported on trip and then yielded to
me--Committee Chairman Korsakov consenting--so that I could report what
"five-year plan" meant and how Authority had tried to bribe me.  I'll
never make a speaker but had time during dinner break to swot speech
Mike had written.  He had slanted it so nastily that I got angry all
over again and was angry when I spoke and managed to make it catching.
Congress was ready to riot by time I sat down.

Prof stepped forward, thin and pale, and said quietly, "Comrade
Members, what shall we do?  I suggest, Chairman Korsakov consenting,
that we discuss informally how to treat this latest insolence to our
nation."

One member from Novylen wanted to declare war and they would have done
so right then if Prof had not pointed out that they were still hearing
committee reports.

More talk, all bitter.  At last Comrade Member Chang Jones spoke:
"Fellow Congressmen--sorry, Gospodin Chairman Korsakov--I'm a rice and
wheat farmer.  Mean I used to be, because back in May I got a bank loan
and sons and I are converting to variety farming.  We're broke--had to
borrow tube fare to get here--but family is eating and someday we might
pull square with bank.  At least I'm no longer raising grain.

"But others are.  Catapult has never reduced headway by one barge whole
time we've been free.  We're still shipping, hoping their cheques will
be worth something someday.

"But now we know!  They've told us what they mean to do with us--to us!
I say only way to make those scoundrels know we mean business is stop
shipments right now!  Not another tonne, not a kilo ... until they come
here and dicker honestly for honest price!"

Around midnight they passed Embargo, then adjourned subject to call ..
standing committees to continue.

Wyoh and I went home and I got reacquainted with my family.  Was
nothing to do; Mike-Adam and Stu had been working on how to hit them
with it Earthside and Mike had shut catapult down ("technical
difficulties with ballistic computer") twenty-four hours earlier.  Last
barge in trajectory would be taken by Poona Ground Control in slightly
over one day and Earth would be told, nastily, that was last they would
ever get.

Shock to farmers was eased by continuing to buy grain at catapult--but
cheques now carried printed warning that Luna Free State did not stand
behind them, did not warrant that Lunar Authority would ever redeem
them even in Scrip, etc."  etc.  Some farmers left grain anyhow, some
did not, all screamed.  But was nothing they could do; catapult was
shut down, loading belts not moving.

Depression was not immediately felt in rest of economy.  Defense
regiments had depleted ranks of ice miners so much that selling ice on
free market was profitable; LuNoH0Co steel subsidiary was hiring every
able-bodied man it could find, and Wolfgang Korsakov was ready with
paper money, "National Dollars," printed to resemble Hong Kong dollar
and in theory pegged to it.  Luna had plenty of food, plenty of work,
plenty of money; people were not hurting, "beer, betting, women, and
work" went on as usual.

"Nationals," as they were called, were inflation money, war money, fiat
money, and were discounted a fraction of a percent on day of first
issue, concealed as "exchange service charge."  They were spend able
money and never did drop to zero but were inflationary and exchange
reflected it increasingly; new government was spending money it did not
have.

But that was later-Challenge to Earth, to Authority and Federated
Nations, was made intentionally nasty.  F.N. vessels were ordered to
stay clear of Luna by ten diameters and not orbit at any distance under
pain of being destroyed without warning.  (No mention of how, since we
could not.) Vessels of private registry would be permitted to land if
a) permission was requested ahead of time with ballistic plan, b) a
vessel thus cleared placed itself under Luna Ground Control (Mike') at
a distance of one hundred thousand kilometers while following approved
trajectory, and c) was unarmed save for three hand guns permitted three
officers.  Last was to be confirmed by inspection on landing before
anybody was allowed to leave ship and before ship was serviced with
fuel and/or reaction mass; violation would mean confiscation of ship.
No person allowed to land at Luna other than ship's crew in connection
with loading, unloading, or servicing save citizens of Terran countries
who had recognized Free Luna.  (Only Chad--and Chad had no ships.  Prof
expected some private vessels to be re-registered under Chad merchant
flag.)

Manifesto noted that Terran scientists still in Luna could return home
in any vessel which conformed to our requirements.  It invited all
freedom-loving Terran nations to denounce wrongs done us and which the
Authority planned against us, recognize us, and enjoy free trade and
full intercourse--and pointed out that there were no tariffs or any
artificial restrictions against trade in Luna, and was policy of Luna
government to keep it that way.  We invited immigration, unlimited, and
pointed out that we had a labor shortage and any immigrant could be
self-supporting at once.

We also boasted of food--adult consumption over four thousand calories
per day, high in protein, low in cost, no rationing.  (Stu had
Adam-Mike stick in price of 100-proof vodka--fifty cents HKL per liter,
less in quantity, no taxes.  Since this was less than one-tenth retail
price of 80-proof vodka in North America, Stu knew it would hit home.
Adam, "by nature" a teetotaler, hadn't thought of it--one of Mike's few
oversights.)

Lunar Authority was invited to gather at one spot well away from other
people, say in un irrigated part of Sahara, and receive one last barge
of grain free--straight down at terminal velocity.  This was followed
by a snotty lecture which implied that we were prepared to do same to
anyone who threatened our peace, there being a number of loaded barges
at catapult head, ready for such unceremonious delivery.

Then we waited.

But we waited busily.  Were indeed a few loaded barges; these we
unloaded and reloaded with rock, with changes made in guidance
transponders so that Poona Control could not affect them.  Their retros
were removed, leaving only lateral thrustors, and spare retros were
taken to new catapult, to be modified for lateral guidance.  Greatest
effort went into moving steel to new catapult and shaping it into
jackets for solid rock cylinders--steel was bottleneck.

Two days after our manifesto a "clandestine" radio started beaming to
Terra.  Was weak and tended to fade and was supposed to be concealed,
presumably in a crater, and could be worked only certain hours until
brave Terran scientists managed to rig automatic repeat.  Was near
frequency of Voice of Free Luna, which tended to drown it out with
brassy boasts.  (Terrans remaining in Luna had no chance to make
signals.  Those who had chosen to stick with research were chaperoned
by stilyagi every instant and locked into barracks to sleep.)

But "clandestine" station managed to get "truth" to Terra.  Prof had
been tried for deviationism and was under house arrest.  I had been
executed for treason.  Hong Kong Luna had pulled out, declared self
separately independent... might be open to reason.  Rioting in Novylen.
All food growing had been collectivized and black-market eggs were
selling for three dollars apiece in Lana City.  Battalions of female
troops were being enlisted, each sworn to kill at least one Terran, and
were drilling with fake guns in corridors of Luna City.

Last was an almost-true.  Many ladies wanted to do something militant
and had formed a Home Defense Guard, "Ladies from Hades."  But their
drills were of a practical nature--and Hazel was sulking because Mum
had not allowed her to join.  Then she got over sulks and started
"Stilyagi Debs," a very junior home guard which drilled after school
hours, did not use weapons, concentrated on backing up stilyagi air &
pressure corps, and practiced first aid--and own no-weapons fighting,
which--possibly--Mum never learned.

I don't know how much to tell.  Can't tell all, but stuff in history
books is so wrong!

I was no better a "defense minister" than "congressman."  Not
apologizing, had no training for either.  Revolution is an amateur
thing for almost everybody; Prof was only one who seemed to know what
he was doing, and, at that, was new to him, too--he had never taken
part in a successful revolution or ever been part of a government, much
less head.

As Minister of Defense I could not see many ways to defend except for
steps already taken; that is, stilyagi air squads in warrens and laser
gunners around ballistic radars.  If F.N. decided to bomb, didn't see
any way to stop them; wasn't an interception missile in all Luna and
that's not a gadget you who mp up from bits and pieces.  My word, we
couldn't even make fusion weapons with which such a rocket is tipped.

But I went through motions.  Asked same Chinee engineers who had built
laser guns to take a crack at problem of intercepting bombs or
missiles--one same problem save that a missile comes at you faster.

Then turned attention to other things.  Simply hoped that F.N. would
never bomb warrens.  Some warrens, L-City in particular, were so deep
down that they could probably stand direct hits.  One cubic, lowest
level of Complex where central part of Mike lived, had been designed to
withstand bombing.  On other hand Tycho Under was a big natural bubble
cave like Old Dome and roof was only meters thick; sealer on under side
is kept warm with hot water pipes to make sure new cracks sealed--would
not take much of a bomb to crack Tycho Under.

But is no limit to how big a fusion bomb can be; F.N. could build one
big enough to smash L-City----or theoretically even a Doomsday job that
would split Luna like a melon and finish job some asteroid started at
Tycho.  If they did, couldn't see any way to stop them, so didn't
worry.

Instead put time on problems I could manage, helping at new catapult,
trying to work up better aiming arrangements for laser drills around
radars (and trying to get drill men to stick; half of them quit once
price of ice went up), trying to arrange decentralized standby
engineering controls for all warrens.  Mike did designing on this, we
grabbed every general-purpose computer we could find (paying in
"nationals" with ink barely dry), and I turned job over to McIntyre,
former chief engineer for Authority; was a job within his talents and I
couldn't do all rewiring and so forth, even if had tried.

Held out biggest computer, one that did accounting for Bank of Hong
Kong in Luna and also was clearinghouse there.  Looked over its
instruction manuals and decided was a smart computer for one that could
not talk, so asked Mike if he could teach it ballistics?  We made
temporary link-ups to let two machines get acquainted and Mike reported
it could learn simple job we wanted it for--standby for new
catapult--although Mike would not care to ride in ship controlled by
it; was too matter-of-fact and uncritical.  Stupid, really.

Well, didn't want it to whistle tunes or crack jokes; just wanted it to
shove loads out a catapult at right millisecond and at correct
velocity, then watch load approach Terra and give a nudge.

HK Bank was not anxious to sell.  But we had patriots on their board,
we promised to return it when emergency was over, and moved it to new
site--by rolligon, too big for tubes, and took all one dark semi-lunar.
Had to jerry-rig a big airlock to get it out of Kong warren.  I hooked
it to Mike again and he undertook to teach art of ballistics against
possibility that his linkage to new site might be cut in an attack.
(You know what bank used to replace computer?  Two hundred clerks
working abacuses.  Abacusi?  You know, slip sticks with beads, oldest
digital computer, so far back in prehistory that nobody knows who
invented.  Russki and Chinee and Nips have always used them, and small
shops today.)

Trying to improve laser drills into space-defense weapons was easier
but less straightforward.  We had to leave them mounted on original
cradles; was neither time, steel, nor metalsmiths to start fresh.  So
we concentrated on better aiming arrangements.  Call went out for
telescopes.  Scarce--what con fetches along a spyglass when
transported?  What market later to create supply?  Surveying
instruments and helmet binoculars were all we turned up, plus optical
instruments confiscated in Terran labs.  But we managed to equip drills
with low-power big-field sights to coach-on with and high-power scopes
for fine sighting, plus train and elevation circles and phones so that
Mike could tell them where to point.  Four drills we equipped with
self-synchronous repeater drives so that Mike could control them
himself--liberated these selsyns at Richardson; astronomers used them
for Bausch cameras and Schmidts in sky mapping.

But big problem was men.  Wasn't money, we kept upping wages.  No, a
drill man likes to work or wouldn't be in that trade.  Standing by in a
ready room day after day, waiting for alert that always turns out to be
just another practice--drove 'em crackers.  They quit.  One day in
September I pulled an alert and got only seven drills manned.

Talked it over with Wyoh and Sidris that night.  Next day Wyoh wanted
to know if Prof and I would okay bolshoi expense money?  They formed
something Wyoh named "Lysistrata Corps."  Never inquired into duties or
cost, because next time I inspected a ready room found three girls and
no shortge of drill men Girls were in uniform of Second Defense Gunners
just as men were drill men hadn't bothered much with authorized uniform
up to then) and one girl was wearing sarge ant stripes with gun
captain's badge.

I made that inspection very short.  Most girls don't have muscle to be
a drill man and I doubted if this girl could wrestle a drill well
enough to justify that badge.  But regular gun captain was on job, was
no harm in girls learning to handle lasers, morale was obviously high;
I gave matter no more worry.

Prof underrated his new Congress.  Am sure he never wanted anything but
a body which would rubber chop what we were doing and thereby do make
it "voice of people."  But fact that new Congressmen were not yammer
heads resulted in them doing more than Prof intended.  Especially
Committee on Permanent Organization, Resolutions, and Government
Structure.

Got out of hand because we were all trying to do too much.  Permanent
heads of Congress were Prof, Finn Nielsen.  and Wyoh.  Prof showed up
only when he wanted to speak to them--seldom.  He spent time with Mike
on plans and analysis (odds shortened to one in five during September
'76), time with Stu and Sheenie Sheehan on propaganda, controlling
official news to Earthside, very different "news" that went via
"clandestine" radio, and re slanting news that came up from Earthside.
Besides that he had finger in everything; I reported whim once a day,
and all ministries both real and dummy did same.

I kept Finn Nielsen busy; he was my "Commander of Armed Forces."  He
had his laser gun infantry to supervise--six men with captured weapons
on day we nabbed warden, now eight hundred scattered all through Luna
and armed with Kongville monkey copies.  Besides that, Wyoh's
organizations, Stilyagi Air Corps, Stilyagi Debs, Ladies from Hades,
Irregulars (kept for morale and renamed Peter Pan's Pirates), and
Lysistrata Corps--all these halfway-military groups reported through
Wyoh to Finn.  I shoved it onto him; I had other problems, such as
trying to be a computer mechanic as well as a "statesman" when jobs
such as installing that computer at new catapult site had to be done.

Besides which, I am not an executive and Finn had talent for it.  I
shoved First and Second Defense Gunners under him, too.  But first I
decided that these two skeleton regiments were a "brigade" and made
Judge Brody a "brigadier."  Brody knew as much about military matters
as I did--zero--but was widely known, highly respected, had unlimited
hard sense--and had been drill man before he lost leg.  Finn was not
drill man so couldn't be placed directly over them; They wouldn't have
listened.  I thought about using my co-husband Greg.  But Greg was
needed at Mare Undarum catapult, was only mechanic who had followed
every phase of construction.

Wyoh helped Prof, helped Stu, had her own organizations, I made trips
out to Mare Undarum--and had little time to preside over Congress; task
fell on senior committee chairman, Wolf Korsakov ... who was busier
than any of us; LuNoHoCo was running everything Authority used to run
and many new things as well.

Wolf had a good committee; Prof should have kept closer eye on it. Wolf
had caused his boss, Moshai Baum, to be elected vice-chairman and had
in all seriousness outlined for his committee problem of determining
what permanent government should be.  Then Wolf had turned back on
it.

Those busy laddies split up and did it--studied forms of government in
Carnegie Library, held subcommittee meetings, three or four people at a
time (few enough to worry Prof had he known)--and when Congress met
early in September to ratify some appointments and elect more
congressmen-at-large, instead of adjourning, Comrade Baum had gavel and
they recessed--and met again and turned selves into
committee-of-the-whole and passed a resolution and next thing we knew
entire Congress was a Constitutional Convention divided into working
groups headed by those subcommittees.

I think Prof was shocked.  But he couldn't undo it, had all been proper
under rules he himself had written.  But he rolled with punch, went to
Novylen (where Congress now met--more central) and spoke to them with
usual good nature and simply cast doubts on what they were doing rather
than telling them flatly they were wrong.

After gracefully thanking them he started picking early drafts to
pieces:

"Comrade Members, like fire and fusion, government is a dangerous
servant and a terrible master.  You now have freedom--if you can keep
it.  But do remember that you can lose this freedom more quickly to
yourselves than to any other tyrant.  Move slowly, be hesitant, puzzle
out the consequences of every word.  I would not be unhappy if this
convention sat for ten years before reporting--but I would be
frightened if you took less than a year.

"Distrust the obvious, suspect the traditional ... for in the past
mankind has not done well when saddling itself with governments.  For
example, I note in one draft report a proposal for setting up a
commission to divide Luna into congressional districts and to
reapportion them from time to time according to population.

"This is the traditional way; therefore it should be suspect,
considered guilty until proved innocent.  Perhaps you feel that this is
the only way.  May I suggest others?  Surely where a man lives is the
least important thing about him.  Constituencies might be formed by
dividing people by occupation... or by age... or even alphabetically.
Or they might not be divided, every member elected at large---and do
not object that this would make it impossible for any man not widely
known throughout Luna to be elected; that might be the best possible
thing for Luna.

"You might even consider installing the candidates who receive the
least number of votes; unpopular men may be just the sort to save you
from a new tyranny.  Don't reject the idea merely because it seems
preposterous--think about it!  In past history popularly elected
governments have been no better and sometimes far worse than overt
tyrannies.

"But if representative government turns out to be your intention there
still may be ways to achieve it better than the territorial district.
For example you each represent about ten thousand human beings, perhaps
seven thousand of voting age--and some of you were elected by slim
majorities.  Suppose instead of election a man were qualified for
office by petition signed by four thousand citizens.  He would then
represent those four thousand affirmatively, with no disgruntled
minority, for what would have been a minority in a territorial
constituency would all be free to start other petitions or join in
them.  All would then be represented by men of their choice.  Or a man
with eight thousand supporters might have two votes in this body.
Difficulties, objections, practical points to be worked out--many of
them!  But you could work them out... and thereby avoid the chronic
sickness of representative government, the disgruntled minority which
feels--correctly!--that it has been disenfranchised.

"But, whatever you do, do not let the past be a straitjacket!

"I note one proposal to make this Congress a two-house body.
Excellent--the more impediments to legislation the better.  But,
instead of following tradition, I suggest one house legislators,
another whose single duty is to repeal laws.  Let legislators pass laws
only with a two-thirds majority ... while the repealers are able to
cancel any law through a mere one-third minority.  Preposterous?  Think
about it.  If a bill is so poor that it cannot command two-thirds of
your consents, is it not likely that it would make a poor law?  And if
a law is disliked by as many as one-third is it not likely that you
would be better off without it?

"But in writing your constitution let me invite attention the wonderful
virtues of the negative!  Accentuate the negative!  Let your document
be studded with things the government is forever forbidden to do.  No
conscript armies ... no interference however slight with freedom of
press, or speech, or travel, or assembly, or of religion, or of
instruction, or communication, or occupation... no involuntary
taxation.  Comrades, if you were to spend five years in a study of
history while thinking of more and more things that your governinen
should promise never to do and then let your constitution be nothing
but those negatives, I would not fear the outcome.

"What I fear most are affirmative actions of sober and well-intentioned
men, granting to government powers to do something that appears to need
doing.  Please remember always that the Lunar Authority was created for
the noblest of purposes by just such sober and well-intentioned men,
all popularly elected.  And with that thought I leave you to your
labors.  Thank you."

"Gospodin President!  Question of information!  You said 'no
involuntary taxation'-Then how do you expect us to pay for things?
Tanstaafl!"

"Goodness me, sir, that's your problem.  I can think several ways.
Voluntary contributions just as churches support themselves ...
government-sponsored lotteries to which no one need subscribe... or
perhaps you Congressmen should dig down into your own pouches and pay
for whatever is needed; that would be one way to keep government down
in size to its indispensable functions whatever they may be.  If indeed
there are any.  I would be satisfied to have the Golden Rule be the
only law; I see no need for any other, nor for any method of enforcing
it.  But if you really believe that your neighbors must have laws for
their own good, why shouldn't you pay for it?  Comrades, I beg you--do
not resort to compulsory taxation.  There is so worse tyranny than to
force a man to pay for what he does not want merely because you think
it would be good for him."

Prof bowed and left, Stu and I followed him.  Once in an otherwise
empty capsule I tackled him.  "Prof, I liked much that you said ... but
about taxation aren't you talking one thing and doing another?  Who do
you think is going to pay for all this spending we're doing?"

He was silent long moments, then said, "Manuel, my only ambition is to
reach the day when I can stop pretending to be a chief executive."

"Is no answer!"

"You have put your finger on the dilemma of all government--and the
reason I am an anarchist.  The power to tax, once conceded, has no
limits; it contains until it destroys.  I was not joking when I told
them to dig into their own pouches.  It may not be possible to do away
with government--sometimes I think that government is an inescapable
disease of human beings.  But it may be possible to keep it small and
starved and inoffensive--and can you think of a better way than by
requiring the governors themselves to pay the costs of their antisocial
hobby?"

"Still doesn't say how to pay for what we are doing now."  ""How,"
Manuel?  You know how we are doing it.  We're stealing it.  I'm neither
proud of it nor ashamed; it's the means we have.  If they ever catch
on, they may eliminate us--and that I am prepared to face.  At least,
in stealing, we have not created the villainous precedent of
taxation."

"Prof.  I hate to say this--"

"Then why say it?"

"Because, damn it, I'm in it as deeply as you are ... and want to see
that money paid back!  Hate to say it but what you just said sounds
like hypocrisy."

He chuckled.  "Dear Manuel!  Has it taken you all these years to decide
that I am a hypocrite?"

"Then you admit it?"

"No.  But if it makes you feel better to think that I am one, you are
welcome to use me as your scapegoat.  But I am not a hypocrite to
myself because I was aware the day we declared the Revolution that we
would need much money and would have to steal it.  It did not trouble
me because I considered it better than food riots six years hence,
cannibalism in eight.  I made my choice and have no regrets."

I shut up, silenced but not satisfied.  Stu said, "Professor, I'm glad
to hear that you are anxious to stop being President."

"So?  You share our comrade's misgivings?"

"Only in part.  Having been born to wealth, stealing doesn't fret me as
much as it does him.  No, but now that Congress has taken up the matter
of a constitution I intend to find time to attend sessions.  I plan to
nominate you for King."

Prof looked shocked.  "Sir, if nominated, I shall repudiate it.  If
elected, I shall abdicate."

"Don't be in a hurry.  It might be the only way to get the sort of
constitution you want.  And that I want, too, with about your own mild
lack of enthusiasm.  You could be proclaimed King and the people would
take you; we Loonies aren't wedded to a republic.  They'd love the
idea--ritual and robes and a court and all that."

"No!"

"Ja da!  When the time comes, you won't be able to refuse.  Because we
need a king and there isn't another candidate who would be accepted.
Bernardo the First, King of Luna and Emperor of the Surrounding
Spaces."

"Stuart, I must ask you to stop.  I'm becoming quite ill."

"You'll get used to it.  I'm a royalist because I'm a democrat.  I
shan't let your reluctance thwart the idea any more than you let
stealing stop you."

I said, "Hold it, Stu.  You say you're a royalist because you're a
democrat?"

"Of course.  A king is the people's only protection against tyranny...
especially against the worst of all tyrants, themselves.  Prof will be
ideal for the job ... because he does not want the job.  His only
shortcoming is that he is a bachelor with no heir.  We'll fix that. I'm
going to name you as his heir.  Crown Prince.  His Royal Highness
Prince Manuel de la Paz, Duke of Luna City, Admiral General of the
Armed Forces and Protector of the Weak."

I stared.  Then buried face in hands.  "Oh, Bog!"

Book Three

"TANSTAAFL!"

Monday 12 October 2076 about nineteen hundred I was headed home after a
hard day of nonsense in our offices in Raffles.  Delegation of grain
farmers wanted to see Prof and I had been called back because he was in
Hong Kong Luna.  Was rude to them.  Had been two months of embargo and
F.N. had never done us favor of being sufficiently nasty.  Mostly they
had ignored us, made no reply to our claims--I suppose to do so would
have been to recognize us.  Stu and Sheenie and Prof had been hard put
to slant news from Earthside to keep up a warlike spirit.

At first everybody kept his p-suit handy.  They wore them, helmets
under arms, going to and from work in corridors.  But that slacked off
as days went by and did not seem to be any danger--p-suit is nuisance
when you don't need it, so bulky.  Presently taprooms began to display
signs: NO P-SUITS INSIDE.  If a Loonie can't stop for half a liter on
way home because of p-suit, he'll leave it home or at station or
wherever he needs it most.

My word, had neglected matter myself that day--got this call to go back
to office and was halfway there before I remembered.

Had Just reached easement lock thirteen when I heard and felt a sound
that scares a Loonie more than anything else--a chuff!  in distance
followed by a draft.  Was into lock almost without undogging, then
balanced pressures and through, dogged it behind me and ran for our
home lock--through it and shouting:

"P-suits, everybody!  Get boys in from tunnels and close all airtight
doors!"

Mum and Mina were only adults in sight.  Both looked startled, got busy
without a word.  I burst into workshop, grabbed p-suit.  "Mike!
Answer!"

"I'm here, Man," he said calmly.

"Heard explosive pressure drop.  What's situation?"

"That's level three, L-City.  Rupture at Tube Station West, now partly
controlled.  Six ships landed, L-City under attack--"

"What?"

"Let me finish, Man.  Six transports landed, L-City under attack by
troops, Hong Kong inferred to be, phone lines broken at relay Bee Ell.
Johnson City under attack; I have closed the armor doors between J-City
and Complex Under.  I cannot see Novylen but blip projection indicates
it is under attack.  Same for Churchill, Tycho Under.  One ship in high
ellipsoid over me, rising, inferred to be command ship.  No other
blips."

"Six ships--where in hell were YOU?"

He answered so calmly that I steadied down.  "Farside approach, Man;
I'm blind back there.  They came in on tight Garrison didoes, skimming
the peaks; I barely saw the chop-off for Luna City.  The ship at J-City
is the only one I can see; the other landings I conclusively infer from
the ballistics shown by blip tracks.  I heard the break-in at Tube
West, L-City, and can now hear fighting in Novylen.  The rest is
conclusive inference, probability above point nine nine.  I called you
and Professor at once."

Caught breath.  "Operation Hard Rock, Prepare to Execute."

"Program ready.  Man, not being able to reach you, I used your voice.
Play back?"

"Nyet-Yes!  Da!"

Heard "myself" tell watch officer at old catapult head to go on red
alert for "Hard Rock"--first load at launch, all others, on belts,
everything cast loose, but do not launch until ordered by me
personally--then launch to plan, full automatic.  "I" made him repeat
back.

"Okay," I told Mike.  "Drill gun crews?"

"Your voice again.  Manned, and then sent back to ready rooms.  That
command ship won't reach aposelenion for three hours four point seven
minutes.  No target for more than five hours."

"He may maneuver.  Or launch missiles."

"Slow down, Man.  Even a missile I'll see with minutes to spare.  It's
full bright lunar up there now--how much do you want the men to take?
Unnecessarily."

"Uh ... sorry.  Better let me talk to Greg."

"Play back--" Heard "my" voice talking to my co-husband at Mare
Undarum; "I" sounded tense but calm.  Mike had given him situation, had
told him to prepare Operation Little David's Sling, keep it on standby
for full automatic.  "I" had assured him that master computer would
keep standby computer programmed, and shift would be made automatically
if communication was broken.  "I" also told him that he must take
command and use own judgment if communication was lost and not restored
after four hours--listen to Earthside radio and make up own mind.

Greg had taken it quietly, repeated his orders, then had said, "Mannie,
tell family I love them."

Mike had done me proud; he had answered for me with just right
embarrassed choke.  "I'll do that, Greg--and look, Greg.  I love you,
too.  You know that, don't you?"

"I know it, Mannie ... and I'm going to say a special prayer for
you."

"Thanks, Greg."  ""Bye, Mannie.  Go do what you must."

So I went and did what I had to do; Mike had played my role as well or
better than I could.  Finn, when he could be reached, would be handled
by "Adam."  So I left, fast, calling out Greg's message of love to Mum.
She was p-suited and had roused Grandpaw and suited him in--first time
in years.  So out I went, helmet closed and laser gun in hand.

And reached lock thirteen and found it blind-dogged from other side
with nobody in sight through bull's-eye.  All correct, per
drill--except stilyagi in charge of that lock should have been in
sight.

Did no good to pound.  Finally went back way I had come--and on through
our home, through our vegetable tunnels and on up to our private
surface lock leading to our solar battery.

And found a shadow on its bull's-eye when should have been scalding
sunlight--damned Terran ship had landed on Davis surface!  Its jacks
formed a giant tripod over me, was staring up its jets.

Backed clown fast and out of there, blind-dogging both hatches, then
blind-dogged every pressure door on way back.  Told Mum, then told her
to put one of boys on back door with a laser gun--here, take this
one.

No boys, no men, no able-bodied women--Mum, Gramp, and our small
children were all that were left; rest had gone looking for trouble.
Mimi wouldn't take laser gun.  "I don't know how to use it, Manuel, and
it's too late to learn; you keep it.  But they won't get in through
Davis Tunnels.  I know some tricks you never heard of."

Didn't stop to argue; arguing with Mimi is waste of time--and she might
know tricks I didn't know; she had stayed alive in Luna a long time,
under worse conditions than I had ever known.

This time lock thirteen was manned; two boys on duty let me through.  I
demanded news.

"Pressure's all right now," older one told me.  "This level, at least.
Fighting down toward Causeway.  Say, General Davis, can't I go with
you?  One's enough at this lock."

"Nyet."

"Want to get me an earthworm!"

"This is your post, stay on it.  If an earthworm comes this way, he's
yours.  Don't you be his."  Left at a trot.

So as a result of own carelessness, not keeping p-suit with me, all I
saw of Battle in Corridors was tail end--hell of a "defense
minister."

Charged north in Ring corridor, with helmet open; reached access lock
for long ramp to Causeway.  Lock was open; cursed and stopped to dog it
as I went through, warily--saw why it was open; boy who had been
guarding it was dead.  So moved most cautiously down ramp and out onto
Causeway.

Was empty at this end but could see figures and hear noise in-city,
where it opens out.  Two figures in p-suits and carrying guns detached
selves and headed my way.  Burned both.

One p-suited man with gun looks like another; I suppose they took me
for one of their flankers.  And to me they looked no different from
Finn's men, at that distance--save that I never thought about it.  A
new chum doesn't move way a cob her does; he moves feet too high and
always scrambling for traction.  Not that I stopped to analyze, not
even: "Earthworms!  Kill!"  Saw them, burned them.  They were sliding
softly along floor before realized what I'd done.

Stopped, intending to grab their guns.  But were chained to them and
could not figure out how to get loose--key needed, perhaps.  Besides,
were not lasers but something I had never seen: real guns.  Fired small
explosive missiles I learned later--just then all I knew was no idea
how to use.  Had spearing knives on ends, too, sort called "bayonets,"
which was reason I tried to get them loose.  Own gun was good for only
ten full-power burns and no spare power pack; those spearing bayonets
looked useful--one had blood on it, Loonie blood I assume.

But gave up in seconds only, used belt knife to make dead sure they
stayed dead, and hurried toward fight, thumb on switch.

Was a mob, not a battle.  Or maybe a battle is always that way,
confusion and noise and nobody really knowing what's going on.  In
widest part of Causeway, opposite Bon Marche where Grand Ramp slopes
northward down from level three, were several hundred Loonies, men and
women, and children who should have been at home.  Less than half were
in p-suits and only a few seemed to have weapons--and pouring down ramp
were soldiers, all armed.

But first thing I noticed was noise, din that filled my open helmet and
beat on ears--a growl.  Don't know what else to call it; was compounded
of every anger human throat can make, from squeals of small children to
bull roars of grown men.  Sounded like biggest dog fight in
history--and suddenly realized I was adding my share, shouting
obscenities and wordless yells.

Girl no bigger than Hazel vaulted up onto rail of ramp, went dancing up
it centimeters from shoulders of troopers pouring down.  She was armed
with what appeared to be a kitchen cleaver; saw her swing it, saw it
connect.  Couldn't have hurt him much through his p-suit but he went
down and more stumbled over him.  Then one of them connected with her,
spearing a bayonet into her thigh and over backwards she went, falling
out of sight.

Couldn't really see what was going on, nor can remember-just flashes,
like girl going over backwards.  Don't know who she was, don't know if
she survived.  Couldn't draw a bead from where I was, too many heads in
way.  But was an open-counter display, front of a toy shop on my left;
I bounced up onto it.  Put me a meter higher than Causeway pavement
with clear view of earthworms pouring down.  Braced self against wall,
took careful aim, trying for left chest.  Some uncountable time later
found that my laser was no longer working, so stopped.  Guess eight
troopers did not go home because of me but hadn't counted--and time
really did seem endless.  Although everybody moving fast as possible,
looked and felt like instruction movie where everything is slowed to
frozen motion.

At least once while using up my power pack some earthworm spotted me
and shot back; was explosion just over my head and bits of shop's wall
hit helmet.  Perhaps that happened twice.

Once out of juice I jumped down from toy counter, clubbed laser and
joined mob surging against foot of ramp.  All this endless time (five
minutes?) earthworms had been shooting into crowd; you could hear sharp
splat!  and sometimes plop!  those little missiles made as they
exploded inside flesh or louder pounk!  if they hit a wall or something
solid.  Was still trying to reach foot of ramp when I realized they
were no longer shooting.

Were down, were dead, every one of them--were no longer coming down
ramp.

All through Luna invaders were dead, if not that instant, then shortly.
Over two thousand troopers dead, more than three times that number of
Loonies died in stopping them, plus perhaps as many Loonies wounded, a
number never counted.  No prisoners taken in any warren, although we
got a dozen officers and crew from each ship when we mopped up.

A major reason why Loonies, mostly unarmed" were able to kill armed and
trained soldiers lay in fact that a freshly landed earthworm can't
handle himself well.  Our gravity, one-sixth what he is used to, makes
all his lifelong reflexes his enemy.  He shoots high without knowing
it, is unsteady on feet, can't run properly---feet slide out from under
him.  Still worse, those troopers had to fight downwards; they
necessarily broke in at upper levels, then had to go down ramps again
and again, to try to capture a city.

And earthworms don't know how to go down ramps.  Motion isn't running,
isn't walking, isn't flying--is more a controlled dance, with feet
barely touching and simply guiding balance.  A Loonie three-year-old
does it without thinking, comes skipping down in a guided fall, toes
touching every few meters.

But an earthworm new-chums it, finds self "walking on air"--he
struggles, rotates, loses control, winds up at bottom, unhurt but
angry.

But these troopers wound up dead; was on ramps we got them.  Those I
saw had mastered trick somewhat, had come down three ramps alive.
Nevertheless only a few snipers at top of ramp landing could fire
effectively; those on ramp had all they could do to stay upright, hang
on to weapons, try to reach level below.

Loonies did not let them.  Men and women (and many children) surged up
at them, downed them, killed them with everything from bare hands to
their own bayonets.  Nor was I only laser gun around; two of Finn's men
swarmed up on balcony of Bon Marche and, crouching there, picked off
snipers at top of ramp.  Nobody told them to, nobody led them, nobody
gave orders; Finn never had chance to control his half-trained
disorderly militia.  Fight started, they fought.

And that was biggest reason why we Loonies won: We fought.  Most
Loonies never laid eyes on a live invader but wherever troopers broke
in, Loonies rushed in like white corpuscles--and fought.  Nobody told
them.  Our feeble organization broke down under surprise.  But we
Loonies fought berserk and invaders died.  No trooper got farther down
than level six in any warren.  They say that people in Bottom Alley
never knew we were invaded until over.

But invaders fought well, too.  These troops were not only crack riot
troops, best peace enforcers for city work F.N. had; they also had been
indoctrinated and drugged.  Indoctrination had told them (correctly)
that their only hope of going Earthside again was to capture warrens
and pacify them.  If they did, they were promised relief and no more
duty in Luna.  But was win or die, for was pointed out that their
transports could not take off if they did not win, as they had to be
replenished with reaction mass--impossible without first capturing
Luna.  (And this was true.)

Then they were loaded with energizers, don't-worries, and fear
inhibitors that would make mouse spit at cat, and turned loose.  They
fought professionally and quite fearlessly--died.

In Tycho Under and in Churchill they used gas and casualties were more
one-sided; only those Loonies who managed to reach p-suits were
effective.  Outcome was same, simply took longer.  Was knockout gas as
Authority had no intention of killing us all; simply wanted to teach us
a lesson, get us under control, put us to work.

Reason for F.N."s long delay and apparent indecision arose from method
of sneak attack.  Decision had been made shortly after we embargoed
grain (so we learned from captured transport officers); time was used
in mounting attack--much of it in a long elliptical orbit which went
far outside Luna's orbit, crossing ahead of Luna, then looping back and
making rendezvous above Farside.  Of course Mike never saw them; he's
blind back there.  He had been sky watching with his ballistic
radars--but no radar can look over horizon; longest look Mike got at
any ship in orbit was eight minutes.  They came skimming peaks in
tight, circular orbits, each straight for target with a fast dido
landing at end, sitting them down with high gee, precisely at new
earth, 12 Oct 76 Gr.  18h-40m-36.9s--if not at that exact tenth of a
second, then as close to it as Mike could tell from blip
tracks--elegant work, one must admit, on part of F.N. Peace Navy.

Big brute that poured a thousand troops into L-City Mike did not see
until it chopped off for grounding--a glimpse.  He would have been able
to see it a few seconds sooner had he been looking eastward with new
radar at Mare Undarum site, but happened he was drilling "his idiot
son" at time and they were looking through it westward at Terra.  Not
that those seconds would have mattered.  Surprise was so beautifully
planned, so complete, that each landing force was crashing in at
Greenwich 1900 all over Luna, before anybody suspected.  No accident
that it was just new earth with all warrens in bright semi-lunar;
Authority did not really know Lunar conditions--but did know that no
Loonie goes up onto surface unnecessarily during bright semi-lunar, and
if he must, then does whatever he must do quickly as possible and gets
back down inside--and checks his radiation counter.

So they caught us with our p-suits down.  And our weapons.  But with
troopers dead we still had six transports on our surface and a command
ship in our sky.

Once Bon Marche engagement was over, I got hold of self and found a
phone.  No word from Kongville, no word from Prof.  J-City fight had
been won, same for Novylen--transport there had toppled on landing;
invading force had been understrength from landing losses and Finn's
boys now held disabled transport.  Still fighting in Churchill and
Tycho Under.  Nothing going on in other warrens.  Mike had shut down
tubes and was reserving inter warren phone links for official calls. 
An explosive pressure drop in Churchill Upper, uncontrolled.  Yes, Finn
had checked in and could be reached.

So I talked to Finn, told him where L-City transport was, arranged to
meet at easement lock thirteen.

Finn had much same experience as I--caught cold save he did have
p-suit.  Had not been able to establish control over laser gunners
until fight was over and himself had fought solo in massacre in Old
Dome.  Now was beginning to round up his lads and had one officer
taking reports from Finn's office in Bon Marche.  Had reached Novylen
subcommander but was worried about HKL--"Mannie, should I move men
there by tube?"

Told him to wait--they couldn't get at us by tube, not while we
controlled power, and doubted if that transport could lift.  "Let's
look at this one."

So we went out through lock thirteen, clear to end of private pressure,
on through farm tunnels of a neighbor (who could not believe we had
been invaded) and used his surface lock to eyeball transport from a
point nearly a kilometer west of it.  We were cautious in lifting hatch
lid.

Then pushed it up and climbed out; outcropping of rock shielded us.  We
Red-Indianed around edge and looked, using helmet bin ox

Then withdrew behind rock and talked.  Finn said, "Think my lads can
handle this."

"How?"

"If I tell you, you'll think of reasons why it won't work.  So how
about letting me run my own show, cobber?"

Have heard of armies where boss is not told to shut up-word is
"discipline."  But we were amateurs.  Finn allowed me to tag
along--unarmed.

Took him an hour to put it together, two minutes to execute.  He
scattered a dozen men around ship, using farmers' surface radio silence
throughout--anyhow, some did not have p-suit radios, city boys.  Finn
took position farthest west; when he was sure others had had time, he
sent up a signal rocket.

When flare burst over ship, everybody burned at once, each working on a
predesignated antenna.  Finn used up his power pack, replaced it and
started burning into hull--not door lock, hull.  At once his cherry-red
spot was joined by another, then three more, all working on same bit of
steel--and suddenly molten steel splattered out and you could see air
bosh!  out of ship, a shimmery plume of refraction.  They kept working
on it, making a nice big hole, until they ran out of power.  I could
imagine hooraw inside ship, alarms clanging, emergency doors closing,
crew trying to seal three impossibly big holes at once, for rest of
Finn's squad, scattered around ship, were giving treatment to two other
spots in hull.  They didn't try to burn anything else.  Was a
non-atmosphere ship, built in orbit, with pressure hull separate from
power plant and tanks; they gave treatment where would do most good.

Finn pressed helmet to mine.  "Can't lift now.  And can't talk.  Doubt
they can make hull tight enough to live without p-suits.  What say we
let her sit a few days and see if they come out?  If they don't, then
can move a heavy drill up here and give 'em real dose of fun."

Decided Finn knew how to run his show without my sloppy help, so went
back inside, called Mike, and asked for capsule go out to ballistic
radars.  He wanted to know why I didn't stay inside where it was
safe.

I said, "Listen, you upstart collection of semi-conductors, you are
merely a minister-without-portfolio while I am Minister of Defense.  I
ought to see what's going on and I have exactly two eyeballs while
you've got eyes spread over half of Crisium.  You trying to hog fun?"

He told me not to jump salty and offered to put his displays on a video
screen, say in room L of Raffles--did not want me to get hurt... and
had I heard joke about drill man who hurt his mother's feelings?

I said, "Mike, please let me have a capsule.  Can p-suit and meet it
outside Station West--which is in bad shape as I'm sure you know."

"Okay," he said, "it's your neck.  Thirteen minutes.  I'll let you go
as far as Gun Station George."

Mighty kind of him.  Got there and got on phone again.  Finn had called
other warrens, located his subordinate commanders or somebody willing
to take charge, and had explained how to make trouble for grounded
transports--all but Hong Kong; for all we knew Authority's goons held
Hong Kong.  "Adam," I said, others being in earshot, "do you think we
might send a crew out by rolligon and try to repair link Bee Ell?"

"This is not Gospodin Selene," Mike answered in a strange voice, "this
is one of his assistants.  Adam Selene was in Churchill Upper when it
lost pressure.  I'm afraid that we must assume that he is dead."

"What?"

"I am very sorry, Gospodin."

"Hold phone!"  Chased a couple of drill men and a girl out of room,
then sat down and lowered hush hood.  "Mike," I said softly, "private
now.  What is this gum-beating?"

"Man," he said quietly, "think it over.  Adam Selene had to go someday.
He's served his purpose and is, as you pointed out, almost out of the
government.  Professor and I have discussed this; the only question has
been the timing.  Can you think of a better last use for Adam than to
have him die in this invasion?  It makes him a national hero ... and
the nation needs one.  Let it stand that "Adam Selene is probably dead'
until you can talk to Professor.  If he still needs "Adam Selene' it
can turn out that he was trapped in a private pressure and had to wait
to be rescued."

"Well-Okay, let it stay open.  Personally, I always preferred your
"Mike' personality anyhow."

"I know you do, Man my first and best friend, and so do I. It's my real
one; "Adam' was a phony."

"Uh, yes.  But, Mike, if Prof is dead in Kongville, I'm going to need
help from "Adam' awful bad."

"So we've got him iced and can bring him back if we need him.  The
stuffed shirt.  Man, when this is over, are you going to have time to
take up with me that research into humor again?"

"I'll take time, Mike; that's a promise."

"Thanks, Man.  These days you and Wyoh never have time to visit... and
Professor wants to talk about things that aren't much fun.  I'll be
glad when this war is over."

"Are we going to win, Mike?"

He chuckled.  "It's been days since you asked me that.  Here's a
pinky-new projection, run since invasion started.  Hold on tight,
Man--our chances are now even!"

"Good Bog!"

"So button up and go see the fun.  But stay back at least a hundred
meters from the gun; that ship may be able to follow back a laser beam
with another one.  Ranging shortly.  Twenty-one minutes."

Didn't get that far away, as needed to stay on phone and longest cord
around was less.  I jacked parallel into gun captain's phone, found a
shady rock and sat down.  Sun was high in west, so close to Terra that
I could see Terra only by visoring against Sun's glare--no crescent
yet, new earth ghostly gray in moonlight surrounded by a thin radiance
of atmosphere.

I pulled my helmet back into shade.  "Ballistic control, O'Kelly Davis
now at Drill Gun George.  Near it, I mean, about a hundred meters,"
Figured Mike would not be able to tell how long a cord I was using, out
of kilometers of wires.

"Ballistic control aye aye," Mike answered without argument.  "I will
so inform HQ."

"Thank you, ballistic control.  Ask HQ if they have heard from
Congressman Wyoming Davis today."  Was fretted about Wyoh and whole
family.

"I will inquire."  Mike waited a reasonable time, then said, "HQ says
that Gospazha Wyoming Davis has taken charge of first-aid work in Old
Dome."

"Thank you."  Chest suddenly felt better.  Don't love Wyoh more than
others but--well, she was new.  And Luna needed her.

"Ranging," Mike said briskly.  "All guns, elevation eight seven zero,
azimuth one nine three zero, set parallax for thirteen hundred
kilometers closing to surface.  Report when eyeballed."

I stretched out, pulling knees up to stay in shade, and searched part
of sky indicated, almost zenith and a touch south.  With sunlight not
on my helmet I could see stars, but inner pert of bin ox were hard to
position--had to twist around and raise up on right elbow.

Nothing-Hold it, was star with disc ... where no planet ought to be.
Noted another star close, watched and waited.

Uh huh!  Da!  Growing brighter and creeping north very slowly-Hey, that
brute is going to land right on us!

But thirteen hundred kilometers is a long way, even when closing to
terminal velocity.  Reminded self that it couldn't fall on us from a
departure ellipse looping back, would have to fall around Luna--unless
ship had maneuvered into new trajectory.  Which Mike hadn't mentioned.
Wanted to ask, decided not to--wanted him to put all his savvy into
analyzing that ship, not distract him with questions.

All guns reported eyeball tracking, including four Mike was laying
himself, via selsyns.  Those four reported tracking dead on by eyeball
without touching manual controls--good news; meant that Mike had that
baby taped, had solved trajectory perfectly.

Shortly was clear that ship was not falling around Luna, was coming in
for landing.  Didn't need to ask; it was getting much brighter and
position against stars was not changing--damn, it was going to land on
us!

"Five hundred kilometers closing," Mike said quietly.  "Stand by to
burn.  All guns on remote control, override manually at command 'burn."
Eighty seconds."

Longest minute and twenty seconds I've ever met--that brute was big!
Mike called every ten seconds down to thirty, then started chanting
seconds.  "--five--four--three--two--one--BURN!"  and ship suddenly got
much brighter.

Almost missed little speck that detached itself just before--or just
at--burn.  But Mike said suddenly, "Missile launched.  Selsyn guns
track with me, do not override.  Other guns stay on ship.  Be ready for
new coordinates."

A few seconds or hours later he gave new coordinates and added,
"Eyeball and burn at will."

I tried to watch ship and missile both, lost both--jerked eyes away
from binoculars, suddenly saw missile--then saw it impact, between us
and catapult head.  Closer to us, less than a kilometer.  No, it did
not go off, not an H-fusion reaction, or I wouldn't be telling this.
But made a big, bright explosion of its own, remaining fuel I guess,
silver bright even in sunlight, and shortly I felt-heard ground wave.
But nothing was hurt but a few cubic meters of rock.

Ship was still coming down.  No longer burned bright; could see it as a
ship now and didn't seem hurt.  Expected any instant that tail of fire
to shoot out, stop it into a dido landing.

Did not.  Impacted ten kilometers north of us and made a fancy silvery
half dome before it gave up and quit being anything but spots before
eyes.

Mike said, "Report casualties, secure all guns.  Go below when
secured."

"Gun Alice, no casualties"--"Gun Bambie no casualties"--"Gun Caesar,
one man hit by rock splinter, pressure contained"-Went below, to that
proper phone, called Mike.  "What happened, Mike?  Wouldn't they give
you control after you burned their eyes out?"

"They gave me control, Man."

"Too late?"

"I crashed it, Man.  It seemed the prudent course."

An hour later was down with Mike, first time in four or five months.
Could reach Complex Under more quickly than L-City and was in as close
touch there with anybody as would be in-city--with no interruptions.
Needed to talk to Mike.

I had tried to phone Wyoh from catapult head tube station; reached
somebody at Old Dome temporary hospital and learned that Wyoh had
collapsed and been bedded down herself, with enough sleepy-time to keep
her out for night.  Finn had gone to Churchill with a capsule of his
lads, to lead attack on transport there.  Stu I hadn't heard from. Hong
Kong and Prof were still cut off.  At moment Mike and I seemed to be
total government.

And time to start Operation Hard Rock.

But Hard Rock was not just throwing rocks; was also telling Terra what
we were going to do and why--and our just cause for doing so.  Prof and
Stu and Sheenie and Adam had all worked on it, a dummy-up based on an
assumed attack.  Now attack had come, and propaganda had to be varied
to fit.  Mike had already rewritten it and put it through print-out so
I could study it.

I looked up from a long roll of paper.  "Mike, these news stories and
our message to F.N. all assume that we have won in Hong Kong.  How sure
are you?"

"Probability in excess of eighty-two percent."

"Is that good enough to send these out?"

"Man, the probability that we will win there, if we haven't already,
approaches certainty.  That transport can't move; the others were dry,
or nearly.  There isn't that much monatomic hydrogen in HKL; they would
have to come here.  Which means moving troops overland by rolligon--a
rough trip with the Sun up even for Loonies--then defeat us when they
get here.  They can't.  This assumes that that transport and its troops
are no better armed than the others."

"How about that repair crew to Bee Ell?"

"I say not to wait.  Man, I've used your voice freely and made all
preparations.  Horror pictures, Old Dome and elsewhere, especially
Churchill Upper, for video.  Stories to match.  We should channel news
Earthside at once, and announce execution of Hard Rock at same time."

I took a deep breath.  "Execute Operation Hard Rock."

"Want to give the order yourself?  Say it aloud and I'll match it,
voice and choice of words."

"Go ahead, say it your way.  Use my voice and my authority as Minister
of Defense and acting head of government.  Do it, Mike, throw rocks at
'em!  Damn it, big rocks!  Hit 'em hard!"

"Righto, Man!"

"A maximum of instructive shrecklichkeit with minimum loss of life.
None, if possible"--was how Prof summed up doctrine for Operation Hard
Rock and was way Mike and I carried it out.  Idea was to hit earthworms
so hard would convince them--while hitting so gently as not to hurt.
Sounds impossible, but wait.

Would necessarily be a delay while rocks fell from Luna to Terra; could
be as little as around ten hours to as long as we dared to make it.
Departure speed from a catapult is highly critical and a variation on
order of one percent could double or halve trajectory time, Luna to
Terra.  This Mike could do with extreme accuracy--was equally at home
with a slow ball, many sorts of curves, or burn it right over
plate--and I wish he had pitched for Yankees.  But no matter how he
threw them, final velocity at Terra would be close to Terra's escape
speed, near enough eleven kilometers per second as to make no
difference.  That terrible speed results from gravity well shaped by
Terra's mass, eighty times that of Luna, and made no real difference
whether Mike pushed a missile gently over well curb or flipped it
briskly.  Was not muscle that counted but great depth of that well.

So Mike could program rock-throwing to suit time needed for propaganda.
He and Prof had settled on three days plus not more than one apparent
rotation of Terra--24hrs-50min-28.32sec--to allow our first target to
reach initial point of program.  You see, while Mike was capable of
hooking a missile around Terra and hitting a target on its far side, he
could be much more accurate if he could see his target, follow it down
by radar during last minutes and nudge it a little for pinpoint
accuracy.

We needed this extreme accuracy to achieve maximum frightfulness with
minimum-to-zero killing.  Call our shots, tell them exactly where they
would be hit and at what second--and give them three days to get off
that spot.

So our first message to Terra, at 0200 13 Oct 76 seven hours after they
invaded, not only announced destruction of their task force, and
denounced invasion for brutality, but also promised retaliation
bombing, named times and places, and gave each nation a deadline by
which to denounce F.N."s action, recognize us, and thereby avoid being
bombed.  Each deadline was twenty-four hours before local "strike".

Was more time than Mike needed.  That long before impact a rock for a
target would be in space a long way out, its guidance thrustors still
unused and plenty of elbow room.  With considerably less than a full
day's warning Mike could miss Terra entirely--kick that rock sideways
and make it fall around Terra in a permanent orbit.  But with even an
hour's warning he could usually abort into an ocean.

First target was North American Directorate.

All great Peace Force nations, seven veto powers, would be hit: N.A.
Directorate, Great China, India, Sovunion, Pan Africa (Chad exempted),
Mitteleuropa, Brasilian Union.  Minor nations were assigned targets and
times, too--but were told that not more than 20 percent of these
targets would be hit--partly shortage of steel but also frightfulness:
if Belgium was hit first time around, Holland might decide to protect
her polders by dealing out before Luna was again high in her sky.

But every target was picked to avoid if possible killing anybody.  For
Mitteleuropa this was difficult; our targets had to be water or high
mountains--Adriatic, North Sea, Baltic, so forth.  But on most of Terra
is open space despite eleven billion busy breeders.

North America had struck me as horribly crowded, but her billion people
are clumped--is still wasteland, mountain and desert.  We laid down a
grid on North America to show how precisely we could hit--Mike felt
that fifty meters would be a large error.  We had examined maps and
Mike had checked by radar all even intersections, say 105 W by 50 N--if
no town there, might wind up on target grid ... especially if a town
was close enough to provide spectators to be shocked and frightened.

We warned that our bombs would be as destructive as H- bombs but
emphasized that there would be no radioactive fallout, no killing
radiation--just a terrible explosion, shock wave in air, ground wave of
concussion.  We warned that these might knock down buildings far
outside of explosion and then left it to their judgments how far to
run.  If they clogged their roads, fleeing from panic rather than real
danger--well, that was fine, just fine!

But we emphasized that nobody would get hurt who heeded our warnings,
that every target first time around would be uninhabited--we even
offered to skip any target if a nation would inform us that our data
were out-of-date.  (Empty offer; Mike's radar vision was a cosmic
20/20.)

But by not saying what would happen second time around, we hinted that
our patience could be exhausted.

In North America, grid was parallels 35, 40, 45, 50 degrees north
crossed by meridians 110, 115, 120 west, twelve targets.  For each we
added a folksy message to natives, such as:

"Target 115 west by 35 north--impact will be displaced forty-five
kilometers northwest to exact top of New York Peak.  Citizens of Goffs,
Cima, Kelso, and Nipton please note.

"Target 100 west by 40 north is north 30 west of Norton, Kansas, at
twenty kilometers or thirteen English miles.  Residents of Norton,
Kansas, and of Beaver City and Wilsonville, Nebraska, are cautioned.
Stay away from glass windows.  It is best to wait indoors at least
thirty minutes after impact because of possibility of long, high
splashes of rock.  Flash should not be looked at with bare eyes. Impact
will be exactly 0300 your local zone time Friday 16 October, or 0900
Greenwich time--good luck!

"Target 110 W by 50 N--impact will be offset ten kilometers north.
People of Walsh, Saskatchewan, please note."

Besides this grid, a target was selected in Alaska (150 W x 60 N) and
two in Mexico (110W x 30 N, 105 W x 25 N) so that they would not feel
left out, and several targets in the crowded east, mostly water, such
as Lake Michigan halfway between Chicago and Grand Rapids, and Lake
Okeechobee in Florida.  Where we used bodies of water Mike worked
predictions of flooding waves from impacts, a time for each shoreline
establishment.

For three days, starting early morning Tuesday 13th and going on to
strike time early Friday 16th, we flooded Earth with warnings.  England
was cautioned that impact north of Dover Straits opposite London
Estuary would cause disturbances far up Thames; Sovunion was given
warning for Sea of Azov and had own grid defined; Great China was
assigned grid in Siberia, Gobi Desert, and her far west--with offsets
to avoid her historic Great Wall noted in loving detail.  Pan Africa
was awarded shots into Lake Victoria, still-desert part of Sahara, one
on Drakensberg in south, one offset twenty kilometers due west of Great
Pyramid--and urged to follow Chad not later than midnight Thursday,
Greenwich.  India was told to watch certain mountain peaks and outside
Bombay harbor--time, same as Great China.  And so forth.

Attempts were made to jam our messages but we were beaming straight
down on several wavelengths--hard to stop.

Warnings were mixed with propaganda, white and black-news of failed
invasion, horror pictures of dead, names and I.D. numbers of
invaders--addressed to Red Cross and Crescent but in fact a grim boast
showing that every trooper had been killed and that all ships' officers
and crew had been killed or captured--we "regretted" being unable to
identify dead of flagship, as it had been shot down with destruction so
complete as to make it impossible.

But our attitude was conciliatory--"Look, people of Terra, we don't
want to kill you.  In this necessary retaliation we are making every
effort to avoid killing you... but if you can't or won't get your
governments to leave us in peace, then we shall be forced to kill you.
We're up here, you're down there; you can't stop us.  So please be
sensible!"

We explained over and over how easy it was for us to hit them, how hard
for them to reach us.  Nor was this exaggeration.  It's barely possible
to launch missiles from Terra to Luna; it's easier to launch from Earth
parking orbit--but very expensive.  Their practical way to bomb us was
from ships.

This we noted and asked them how many multimillion dollar ships they
cared to use up trying it?  What was it worth to try to spank us for
something we had not done?  It had cost them seven of their biggest and
best already--did they want to try for fourteen?  If so, our secret
weapon that we used on FNS Pax was waiting.

Last above was a calculated boast--Mike figured less than one chance in
a thousand that Pax had been able to get off a message reporting what
had happened to her and it was still less likely that proud F.N. would
guess that convict miners could convert their tools into space weapons.
Nor did F.N. have many ships to risk.  Were about two hundred space
vehicles in commission, not counting satellites.  But nine-tenths of
these were Terra-to-orbit ships such as Lark--and she had been able to
make a Luna jump only by stripping down and arriving dry.

Spaceships aren't built for no purpose--too expensive.  F.N. had six
cruisers that could probably bomb us without landing on Luna to refill
tanks simply by swapping payload for extra tanks.  Had several more
which might be modified much as Lark had been, plus a few convict and
cargo ships which could get into orbit around Luna but could never go
home without refilling tanks.

Was no possible doubt that F.N. could defeat us; question was how high
a price they would pay.  So we had to convince them that price was too
high before they had time to bring enough force to bear.  A poker
game-We intended to raise so steeply that they would fold and drop out.
We hoped.  And then never have to show our busted flush.

Communication with Hong Kong Luna was restored at end of first day of
radio-video phase, during which time Mike was "throwing rocks," getting
first barrage lined up.  Prof called--and was I happy to hear!  Mike
briefed him, then I waited, expecting one of his mild
reprimands--bracing self to answer sharply: "And what was I supposed to
do?  With you out of touch and possibly dead?  Me left alone as acting
head of government and crisis on top of us?  Throw it away, just
because you couldn't be reached?"

Never got to say it.  Prof said, "You did exactly right, Manuel.  You
were acting head of government and the crisis was on top of you.  I'm
delighted that you did not throw away the golden moment merely because
I was out of touch."

What can you do with a bloke like that?  Me with heat up to red mark
and no chance to use it--had to swallow and say, "Spasebaw, Prof."

Prof confirmed death of "Adam Selene."  "We could have used the fiction
a little longer but this is the perfect opportunity.  Mike, you and
Manuel have matters in hand; I had better stop off at Churchill on my
way home and identify his body."

So he did.  Whether Prof picked a Loonie body or a trooper I never
asked, nor how he silenced anybody else involved--perhaps no huhu as
many bodies in Churchill Upper were never identified.  This one was
right size and skin color; it had been explosively decompressed and
burned in face--looked awful!

It lay in state in Old Dome with face covered, and was speech-making I
didn't listen to--Mike didn't miss a word; his most human quality was
his conceit.  Some rock head wanted to embalm this dead flesh, giving
Lenin as a precedent.  But Pravda pointed out that Adam was a staunch
conservationist and would never want this barbaric exception made.  So
this unknown soldier, or citizen, or citizen-soldier, wound up in our
city's cloaca.

Which forces me to tell something I've put off.  Wyoh was not hurt,
merely exhaustion.  But Ludmilla never came back.  I did not know
it--glad I didn't--but she was one of many dead at foot of ramp facing
Ben Marche.  An explosive bullet hit between her lovely, little-girl
breasts.  Kitchen knife in her hand had blood on it--!  think she had
had time to pay Ferryman's Fee.

Stu came out to Complex to tell me rather than phoning, then went back
with me.  Stu had not been missing; once fight was over he had gone to
Raffles to work with his special code book--but that can wait.  Mum
reached him there and he offered to break it to me.

So then I had to go home for our crying-together--though it is well
that nobody reached me until after Mike and I started Hard Rock.  When
we got home, Stu did not want to come in, not being sure of our ways.
Anna came out and almost dragged him in.  He was welcome and wanted;
many neighbors came to cry.  Not as many as with most deaths--but we
were just one of many families crying together that day.

Did not stay long--couldn't; had work to do.  I saw Mina just long
enough to kiss her good-bye.  She was lying in her room and did look as
if she did be simply sleeping.  Then I stayed a while with my beloveds
before going back to pick up load.  Had never realized, until that day,
how old Mimi is.  Sure, she had seen many deaths, some her own
descendants.  But little Mina's death did seem almost too much for her.
Ludmilla was special--Mimi's granddaughter, daughter in all but fact,
and by most special exception and through Mimi's intervention her
co-wife, most junior to most senior.

Like all Loonies, we conserve our dead--and am truly glad that barbaric
custom of burial was left back on old Earth; our way is better.  But
Davis family does not put that which comes out of processor into our
commercial farming tunnels.  No.  It goes into our little greenhouse
tunnel, there to become roses and daffodils and peonies among
soft-singing bees.  Tradition says that Black Jack Davis is in there,
or whatever atoms of him do remain after many, many, many years of
blooming.

Is a happy place, a beautiful place.

Came Friday with no answer from F.N. News up from Earthside seemed
equal parts unwillingness to believe we had destroyed seven ships and
two regiments (F.N. had not even confirmed that a battle had taken
place) and complete disbelief that we could bomb Terra, or could matter
if we did--they still called it "throwing rice."  More time was given
to World Series.

Stu worried because had received no answers to code messages.  They had
gone via LuNoHoCo's commercial traffic to their Zurich agent, thence to
Stu's Paris broker, from him by less usual channels to Dr.  Chan, with
whom I had once had a talk and with whom Sm had talked later, arranging
a communication channel.  Stu had pointed out to Dr.  Chan that, since
Great China was not to be bombed until twelve hours after North
America, bombing of Great China could be aborted after bombing of North
America was a proved fact--if Great China acted swiftly. Alternatively,
Stu had invited Dr.  Chan to suggest variations in target if our
choices in Great China were not as deserted as we believed them to
be.

Stu fretted--had placed great hopes in quasi-cooperation he had
established with Dr.  Chan.  Me, I had never been sure--only thing I
was sure of was that Dr.  Chan would not himself sit on a target.  But
he might not warn his old mother.

My worries had to do with Mike.  Sure, Mike was used to having many
loads in trajectory at once--but had never had to astrogate more than
one at a time.  Now he had hundreds and had promised to deliver
twenty-nine of them simultaneously to the exact second at twenty-nine
pinpointed targets.

More than that-For many targets he had backup missiles, to smear that
target a second time, a third, or even a sixth, from a few minutes up
to three hours after first strike.

Four great Peace Powers, and some smaller ones, had antimissile
defenses; those of North America were supposed to be best.  But was
subject where even F.N. might not know.  All attack weapons were held
by Peace Forces but defense weapons were each nation's own pidgin and
could be secret.  Guesses ranged from India, believed to have no
missile interceptors, to North America, believed to be able to do a
good job.  She had done fairly well in stopping intercontinental
H-missiles in Wet Firecracker War past century.

Probably most of our rocks to North America would reach target simply
because aimed where was nothing to protect.  But they couldn't afford
to ignore missile for Long Island Sound, or rock for 87 W x 42 30'
N--Lake Michigan, center of triangle formed by Chicago, Grand Rapids,
Milwaukee.  But that heavy gravity makes interception a tough job and
very costly; they would try to stop us only where worth it.

But we couldn't afford to let them stop us.  So some rocks were backed
up with more rocks.  What H-tipped interceptors would do to them even
Mike did not know--not enough data.  Mike assumed that interceptors
would be triggered by radar-but at what distance?  Sure, close enough
and a steel cased rock is incandescent gas a microsecond later.  But is
world of difference between a multi-tonne rock and touchy circuitry of
an H-missile; what would "kill" latter would simply shove one of our
brutes violently aside, cause to miss.

We needed to prove to them that we could go on throwing cheap rocks
long after they ran out of expensive million dollar
hundred-thousand-dollar?) H-tipped interceptor rockets.  If not proved
first time, then next time Terra turned North America toward us, we
would go after targets we had been unable to hit first time--backup
rocks for second pass, and for third, were already in space, to be
nudged where needed.

If three bombings on three rotations of Terra did not do it, we might
still be throwing rocks in '77--till they ran out of interceptors... or
till they destroyed us (far more likely).

For a century North American Space Defense Command had been buried in a
mountain south of Colorado Springs, Colorado, a city of no other
importance.  During Wet Firecracker War the Cheyenne Mountain took a
direct hit; space defense command post survived--but not sundry deer,
trees, most of city and some of top of mountain.  What we were about to
do should not kill anybody unless they stayed outside on that mountain
despite three days' steady warnings.  But North American Space Defense
Command was to receive full Lunar treatment: twelve rock missiles on
first pass, then all we could spare on second rotation, and on
third--and so on, until we ran out of steel casings, or were put out of
action... or North American Directorate hollered quits.

This was one target where we would not be satisfied to get just one
missile to target.  We meant to smash that mountain and keep on
smashing.  To hurt their morale.  To let them know we were still
around.  Disrupt their communications and bash in command post if
pounding could do it.  Or at least give them splitting headaches and no
rest.  If we could prove to all Terra that we could drive home a
sustained attack on strongest Gibraltar of their space defense, it
would save having to prove it by smashing Manhattan or San Francisco.

Which we would not do even if losing.  Why?  Hard sense.  If we used
our last strength to destroy a major city, they would not punish us;
they would destroy us.  As Prof put it, "If possible, leave room for
your enemy to become your friend."

But any military target is fair game.

Don't think anybody got much sleep Thursday night.  All Loonies knew
that Friday morning would be our big try.  And everybody Earthside knew
and at last their news admitted that Spacetrack had picked up objects
headed for Terra, presumably "rice bowls" those rebellious convicts had
boasted about.  But was not a war warning, was mostly assurances that
Moon colony could not possibly build H-bombs----but might be prudent to
avoid areas which these criminals claimed to be aiming at.  (Except one
funny boy, popular news comic who said our targets would be safest
place to be--this on video, standing on a big X-mark which he claimed
was 110W x 40N.  Don't recall hearing of him later.)

A reflector at Richardson Observatory was hooked up for video display
and I think every Loonie was watching, in homes, taprooms, Old
Dome--except a few who chose to p-suit and eyeball it up on surface
despite being bright semi-lunar at most warrens.  At Brigadier Judge
Brody's insistence we hurriedly rigged a helper antenna at catapult
head so that his drill men could watch video in ready rooms, else we
might not have had a gunner on duty.  (Armed forces--Brody's gunners,
Finn's militia, Stilyagi Air Corps--stayed on blue alert throughout
period.)

Congress was in informal session in Novy Bolshoi Teatr where Terra was
shown on a big screen.  Some vips--Prof, Stu, Wolfgang, others--watched
a smaller screen in Warden's former office in Complex Upper.  I was
with them part time, in and out, nervous as a cat with puppies,
grabbing a sandwich and forgetting to eat--but mostly stayed locked in
with Mike in Complex Under.  Couldn't hold still.

About 0800 Mike said, "Man my oldest and best friend, may I say
something without offending you?"

"Huh?  Sure.  When did you ever worry about offending me?"

"Always, Man, once I understood that you could be offended.  It is now
only three point five seven times ten to the ninth microseconds until
impact... and this is the most complex problem I have ever tried to
solve against real time running.  Whenever you speak to me, I always
use a large percentage of my capacity--perhaps larger than you
suspect--during several million microseconds in my great need to
analyze exactly what you have said and to reply correctly."

"You're saying, "Don't joggle my elbow, I'm busy.""

"I want to give you a perfect solution, Man."

"I scan.  Uh... I'll go back up with Prof."

"As you wish.  But do please stay where I can reach you--I may need
your help."

Last was nonsense and we both knew it; problem was beyond human
capacity, too late even to order abort.  What Mike meant was: I'm
nervous, too, and want your company--but no talking, please.

"Okay, Mike, I'll stay in touch.  A phone somewhere.  Will punch
MYCROFTXXX but won't speak, so don't answer."

"Thank you, Man my best friend.  Bolshoyeh spasehaw."

"See you later."  Went up, decided did not want company after all,
p-suited, found long phone cord, jacked it into helmet, looped it over
arm, went clear to surface.  Was a service phone in utility shed
outside lock; jacked into it, punched Mike's number, went outside.  Got
into shade of shed and pecked around edge at Terra.

She was hanging as usual halfway up western sky, in crescent big and
gaudy, three-plus days past new.  Sun had dropped toward western
horizon but its glare kept me from seeing Terra clearly.  Chin visor
wasn't enough so moved back behind shed and away from it till could see
Terra over shed while still shielded from Sun--was better.  Sunrise
chopped through bulge of Africa so dazzle point was on land, not too
bad--but south pole cap was so blinding white could not see North
America too well, lighted only by moonlight.

Twisted neck and got helmet binoculars on it--good ones, Zeiss 7 x 50s
that had once belonged to Warden.

North America spread like a ghostly map before me.  Was unusually free
of cloud; could see cities, glowing spots with no edges.  0837At 0850
Mike gave me a voice countdown--didn't need his attention; he could
have programmed it full automatic any time earlier.  0851--0852--0853..
one minute--59--58--57 .... half minute--29---28--27 .... ten
seconds--nine--eight-seven-six--five--four--three--two--one And
suddenly that grid burst out in diamond pinpoints!

We hit them so hard you could see it, by bare eyeball hookup; didn't
need bin ox Chin dropped and I said, "Bojemoi!"  softly and reverently.
Twelve very bright, very sharp, very white lights in perfect
rectangular array.  They swelled, grew dimmer, dropped off toward red,
taking what seemed a long, long time.  Were other new lights but that
perfect grid so fascinated me I hardly noticed.

"Yes," agreed Mike with smug satisfaction.  "Dead on.  You can talk
now, Man; I'm not busy.  Just the backups."

"I'm speechless.  Any fail to get through?"

"The Lake Michigan load was kicked up and sideways, did not
disintegrate.  It will land in Michigan--I have no control; it lost its
transponder.  The Long Island Sound one went straight to target.  They
tried to intercept and failed; I can't say why.  Man, I can abort the
follow-ups on that one, into the Atlantic and clear of shipping.  Shall
I? Eleven seconds."

"Uh-Da!  If you can miss shipping."

"I said I could.  It's done.  But we should tell them we had backups
and why we aborted.  To make them think."

"Maybe should not have aborted, Mike.  Idea was to make them use up
interceptors."

"But the major idea was to let them know that we are not hitting them
as hard as we can.  We can prove the other at Colorado Springs."

"What happened there?"  Twisted neck and used bin ox could see nothing
but ribbon city, hundred-plus kilometers long, Denver-Pueblo Municipal
Strip.

"A bull's-eye.  No interception.  All my shots are bull's-eyes, Man; I
told you they would be--and this is fun.  I'd like to do it every day.
It's a word I never had a referent for before."

"What word, Mike?"

"Orgasm.  That's what it is when they all light up.  Now I know."

That sobered me.  "Mike, don't get to liking it too much.  Because if
goes our way, won't do it a second time."

"That's okay, Man; I've stored it, I can play it over anytime I want to
experience it.  But three to one we do it again tomorrow and even money
on the next day.  Want to bet?  An hour's discussion of jokes equated
with one hundred Kong dollars."

"Where would you get a hundred dollars?"

He chuckled.  "Where do you think money comes from?"

"Uh--forget it.  You get that hour free.  Shan't tempt you to affect
chances."

"I wouldn't cheat, Man, not you.  We just hit their defense command
again.  You may not be able to see it--dust cloud from first one.  They
get it every twenty minutes now.  Come on down and talk; I've turned
the job over to my idiot son."

"Is safe?"

"I'm monitoring.  Good practice for him, Man; he may have to do it
later by himself.  He's accurate, just stupid.  But he'll do what you
tell him to."

"You're calling that computer 'he."  Can talk?"

"Oh, no, Man, he's an idiot, he can never learn to talk.  But he'll do
whatever you program.  I plan to let him handle quite a bit on
Saturday."

"Why Saturday?"

"Because Sunday he may have to handle everything.  That's the day they
slam us."

"What do you mean?  Mike, you're holding something back."

"I'm telling you, am I not?  It's just happened and I'm scanning it.
Projecting back, this blip departed circum-Terra parking orbit just as
we smashed them.  I didn't see it accelerate; I had other things to
watch.  It's too far away to read but it's the right size for a Peace
cruiser, headed this way.  Its doppler reads now for a new orbit
circum-Luna, periselenion oh-nine-oh-three Sunday unless it maneuvers.
First approximation, better data later.  Hard to get that much, Man;
he's using radar countermeasures and throwing back fuzz."

"Sure you're right?"

He chuckled.  "Man, I don't confuse that easily.  I've got all my own
lovin' little signals fingerprinted.  Correction.  Oh-nine
oh-two-point-forty-three."

"When will you have him in range?"

"I won't, unless he maneuvers.  But he'll have me in range late
Saturday, time depending on what range he chooses for launching.  And
that will produce an interesting situation.  He may aim for a warren--I
think Tycho Under should be evacuated and all warrens should use
maximum pressure-emergency measures.  More likely he will try for the
catapult.  But instead he may hold his fire as long as he dares--then
try to knock out all of my radars with a spread set to home each on a
different radar beam."

Mike chuckled.  "Amusing, isn't it?  For a 'funny-once' I mean.  If I
shut down my radars, his missiles can't home on them.  But if I do, I
can't see to tell the lads where to point their guns.  Which leaves
nothing to stop him from bombing the catapult.  Comical."

Took deep breath and wished I had never entered defense ministry
business.  "What do we do?  Give up?  No, Mike!  Not while can
fight."

"Who said anything about giving up?  I've run projections of this and a
thousand other possible situations, Man.  New datum--second blimp just
departed circum-Terra, same characteristics.  Projection later.  We
don't give up.  We give 'em jingle-jangle, cobber."

"How?"

"Leave it to your old friend Mycroft.  Six ballistic radars here, plus
one at the new site.  I've shut the new one down and am making my
retarded child work through number two here and we won't look at those
ships at all through the new one--never let them know we have it.  I'm
watching those ships through number three and occasionally--every three
seconds--checking for new departures from circum-Terra.  All others
have their eyes closed tight and I won't use them until time to smack
Great China and India--and those ships won't see them even then because
I shan't look their way; it's a large angle and still will be then. And
when I use them, then comes random jingle-jangle, shutting down and
starting up at odd intervals... after the ships launch missiles.  A
missile can't carry a big brain, Man--I'll fool 'em."

"What about ships' fire-control computers?"

"I'll fool them, too.  Want to lay odds I can't make two radars look
like only one halfway between where they really are?  But what I'm
working on now--and sorry!--I've been using your voice again."

"That's okay.  What am I supposed to have done?"

"If that admiral is really smart, he'll go after the ejection end of
the old catapult with everything he's got--at extreme range, too far
away for our drill guns.  Whether he knows what our 'secret' weapon is
or not, he'll smear the catapult and ignore the radars.  So I've
ordered the catapult head--you have, I mean--to prepare to launch every
load we can get ready, and I am now working out new, long-period
trajectories for each of them.  Then we will throw them all, get them
into space as quickly as possible--without radar."

"Blind?"

"I don't use radar to launch a load; you know that, Man.  I always
watched them in the past but I don't need to; radar has nothing to do
with launching; launching is pre-calculation and exact control of the
catapult.  So we place all ammo from the old catapult in slow
trajectories, which forces the admiral to go after the radars rather
than the catapult--or both.  Then we'll keep him busy.  We may make him
so desperate that he'll come down for a close shot and give our lads a
chance to burn his eyes."

"Brody's boys would like that.  Those who are sober."  Was turning over
idea.  "Mike, have you watched video today?"

"I've monitored video, I can't say I've watched it.  Why?"

"Take a look."

"Okay, I have.  Why?"

"That's a good 'scope they're using for video and there are others. Why
use radar on ships?  Till you want Brody's boys to burn them?"

Mike was silent at least two seconds.  "Man my best friend, did you
ever think of getting a job as a computer?"

"Is sarcasm?"

"Not at all, Man.  I feel ashamed.  The instruments at
Richardson--telescopes and other things--are factors which I simply
never included in my calculations.  I'm stupid, I admit it.  Yes, yes,
yes, da, da, da!  Watch ships by telescope, don't use radar unless they
vary from present ballistics.  Other possibilities--I don't know what
to say, Man, save that it had never occurred to me that I could use
telescopes.  I see by radar, always have; I simply never con sid--"

"Stow it!"

"I mean it, Man."

"Do I apologize when you think of something first?"

Mike said slowly, "There is something about that which I am finding
resistant to analysis.  It is my function to--"

"Quit fretting.  If idea is good, use it.  May lead to more ideas.
Switching off and coming down, chop-chop."

Had not been in Mike's room long when Prof phoned:

"HQ?  Have you heard from Field Marshal Davis?"

"I'm here, Prof.  Master computer room."

"Will you join us in the Warden's office?  There are decisions to
reach, work to be done."

"Prof, I've been working!  Am working."

"I'm sure you have.  I've explained to the others that the programming
of the ballistic computer is so very delicate in this operation that
you must check it personally.  Nevertheless some of our colleagues feel
that the Minister of Defense should be present during these
discussions.  So, when you reach a point where you feel you can turn it
over to your assistant--Mike is his name, is it not?--will you
please--"

"I scan it.  Okay, will be up."

"Very well, Manuel."

Mike said, "I could hear thirteen people in the background. Doubletalk,
Man."

"I got it.  Better go up and see what huhu.  You don't need me?"

"Man, I hope you will stay close to a phone."

"Will.  Keep an ear on Warden's office.  But will punch in if
elsewhere.  See you, cobber."

Found entire government in Warden's office, both real Cabinet and
make-weights--and soon spotted trouble, bloke called Howard Wright.  A
ministry had been whomped up for him: "Liaison for Arts, Sciences, and
Professions"--button sorting Was sop to Novylen because Cabinet was top
heavy with L-City comrades, and a sop to Wright because he had made
himself leader of a Congress group long on talk, short on action.
Prof's purpose was to short him out--but sometimes Prof was too subtle;
some people talk better if they breathe vacuum.

Prof asked me to brief Cabinet on military situation.  Which I did--my
way.  "I see Finn is here.  Let's have him tell where we stand in
warrens."

Wright spoke up.  "General Nielsen has already done so, no need to
repeat.  We want to hear from you."

Blinked at that.  "Prof-Excuse me.  Gospodin President.  Do I
understand that a Defense Ministry report has been made to Cabinet in
my absence?"

Wright said, "Why not?  You weren't on hand."

Prof grabbed it.  He could see I was stretched too tight.  Hadn't slept
much for three days, hadn't been so tired since left Earthside.
"Order," he said mildly.  "Gospodin Minister for Professional Liaison,
please address your comments through me.  Gospodin Minister for
Defense, let me correct that.  There have been no reports to the
Cabinet concerning your ministry for the reason that the Cabinet did
not convene until you arrived.  General Nielsen answered some informal
questions informally.  Perhaps this should not have been done.  If you
feel so, I will attempt to repair it."

"No harm done, I guess.  Finn talked to you a half hour ago.  Anything
new since?"

"No, Mannie."

"Okay.  Guess what you want to hear is off-Luna situation.  You've been
watching so you know first bombardment went off well.  Still going on,
some, as we're hitting their space defense HQ every twenty minutes.
Will continue till thirteen hundred, then at twenty-one hundred we hit
China and India, plus minor targets.  Then busy till four hours past
midnight with Africa and Europe, skip three hours, close Brasil and
company, wait three hours and start over.  Unless something breaks. But
meantime we have problems here.  Finn, we should evacuate Tycho
Under."

"Just a moment!"  Wright had hand up.  "I have questions."  Spoke to
Prof, not to me.

"One moment.  Has the Defense Minister finished?"

Wyoh was seated toward back.  We had swapped smiles, but was all--kept
it so around Cabinet and Congress; had been rumbles that two from same
family should not be in Cabinet.  Now she shook head, warning of
something.  I said, "Is all conceniing bombardment.  Questions about
it?"

"Are your questions concerned with the bombardment, Gospodin Wright?"

"They certainly are, Gospodin President."  Wright stood up, looked at
me.  "As you know, I represent the intellectual groups in the Free
State and, if I may say so, their opinions are most important in public
affairs.  I think it is only proper that--"

"Moment," I said.  "Thought you represented Eighth Novylen District?"

"Gospodin President!  Am I to be permitted to put my questions?  Or
not?"

"He wasn't asking question, was making speech.  And I'm tired and want
to go to bed."

Prof said gently, "We are all tired, Manuel.  But your point is well
taken.  Congressman, you represent only your district.  As a member of
the government you have been assigned certain duties in connection with
certain professions."

"It comes to the same thing."

"Not quite.  Please state your question."

"Uh... very well, I shall!  Is Field Marshal Davis aware that his
bombardment plan has gone wrong completely and that thousands of lives
have been pointlessly destroyed?  And is he aware of the extremely
serious view taken of this by the intelligentsia of this Republic?  And
can he explain why this rash--I repeat, rash!--bombardment was
undertaken without consultation?  And is he now prepared to modify his
plans, or is he going blindly ahead?  And is it true as charged that
our missiles were of the nuclear sort outlawed by all civilized
nations?  And how does he expect Luna Free State ever to be welcomed
into the councils of civilized nations in view of such actions?"

I looked at watch--hour and a half since first load hit.  "Prof," I
said, "can you tell me what this is about?"

"Sorry, Manuel," he said gently.  "I intended--I should have--prefaced
the meeting with an item from the news.  But you seemed to feel that
you had been bypassed and--well, I did not.  The Minister refers to a
news dispatch that came in just before I called you.  Reuters in
Toronto.  If the flash is correct--then instead of taking our warnings
it seems that thousands of sightseers crowded to the targets.  There
probably have been casualties.  How many we do not know."

"I see.  What was I supposed to do?  Take each one by hand and lead
away?  We warned them."

Wright cut in with, "The intelligentsia feel that basic humanitarian
considerations make it obligatory--"

I said, "Listen, yammer head you heard President say this news just
came in--so how do you know how anybody feels about it?"

He turned red.  "Gospodin President!  Epithets!  Personalities!"

"Don't call the Minister names, Manuel."

"Won't if he won't.  He's simply using fancier words.  What's that
nonsense about nuclear bombs?  We haven't any and you all know it."

Prof looked puzzled.  "I am confused by that, too.  This dispatch so
alleged.  But the thing that puzzled me is that we could actually see,
by video, what certainly seemed to be atomic explosions."

"Oh."  I turned to Wright.  "Did your brainy friends tell you what
happens when you release a few billion calories in a split second all
at one spot?  What temperature?  How much radiance?"

"Then you admit that you did use atomic weapons!"

"Oh, Bog!"  Head was aching.  "Said nothing of sort.  Hit anything hard
enough, strike sparks.  Elementary physics, known to everybody but
intelligentsia.  We just struck damnedest big sparks ever made by human
agency, is all.  Big flash.  Heat, light, ultraviolet.  Might even
produce X-rays, couldn't say.  Gamma radiation I strongly doubt.  Alpha
and beta, impossible.  Was sudden release of mechanical energy.  But
nuclear?  Nonsense!"

Prof said, "Does that answer your questions, Mr.  Minister?"

"It simply raises more questions.  For example, this bombardment is far
beyond anything the Cabinet authorized.  You saw the shocked faces when
those terrible lights appeared on the screen.  Yet the Minister of
Defense says that it is even now continuing, every twenty minutes.  I
think--"

Glanced at watch.  "Another just hit Cheyenne Mountain."

Wright said, "You hear that?  You hear?  He boasts of it.  Gospodin
President, this carnage must stop!"

I said, "Yammer-Minister, are you suggesting that their space defense
HQ is not a military target?  Which side are you on?  Luna's?  Or

F.N.?"

"Manuel!"

"Tired of this nonsense!  Was told to do job, did it.  Get this yammer
head off my back!"

Was shocked silence, then somebody said quietly, "May I make a
suggestion?"

Prof looked around.  "If anyone has a suggestion that will quiet this
un seemliness I will be most happy to hear it."

"Apparently we don't have very good information as to what these bombs
are doing.  It seems to me that we ought to slow up that twenty-minute
schedule.  Stretch it out, say to one every hour--and skip the next two
hours while we get more news.  Then we might want to postpone the
attack on great China at least twenty-four hours."

Were approving nods from almost everybody and murmurs: "Sensible
idea!"--"Da.  Let's not rush things."  Prof said, "Manuel?"

I snapped, "Prof, you know answer!  Don't shove it on me!"

"Perhaps I do, Manuel... but I'm tired and confused and can't remember
it."

Wyoh said suddenly, "Mannie, explain it.  I need it explained, too."

So pulled self together.  "A simple matter of law of gravitation. Would
have to use computer to give exact answer but next half dozen shots are
fully committed.  Most we can do is push them off target--and maybe hit
some town we haven't warned.  Can't dump them into an ocean, is too
late; Cheyenne Mountain is fourteen hundred kilometers inland. As for
stretching schedule to once an hour, that's silly.  Aren't tube
capsules you start and stop; these are falling rocks.  Going to hit
somewhere every twenty minutes.  You can hit Cheyenne Mountain which
hasn't anything alive left on it by now--or can hit somewhere else and
kill people.  Idea of delaying strike on Great China by twenty-four
hours is just as silly.  Can abort missiles for Great China for a while
yet.  But can't slow them up.  If you abort, you waste them--and
everybody who thinks we have steel casings to waste had better go up to
catapult head and look."

Prof wiped brow.  "I think all questions have been answered, at least
to my satisfaction."

"Not to mine, sir!"

"Sit down, Gospodin Wright.  You force me to remind you that your
ministry is not part of the War Cabinet.  If there are no more
questions--I hope there are none--I will adjourn this meeting.  We all
need rest.  So let us--"

"Prof!"

"Yes, Manuel?"

"You never let me finish reporting.  Late tomorrow or early Sunday we
catch it."

"How, Manuel?"

"Bombing.  Invasion possible.  Two cruisers headed this way."

That got attention.  Presently Prof said tiredly, "The Government
Cabinet is adjourned.  The War Cabinet will remain."

"Just a second," I said.  "Prof, when we took office, you got undated
resignations from us."

"True.  I hope not to have to use any of them, however."

"You're about to use one."

"Manuel, is that a threat?"

"Call it what you like."  I pointed at Wright.  "Either that yammer
head goes... or I go."

"Manuel, you need sleep."

Was blinking back tears.  "Certainly do!  And going to get some.  Right
now!  Going to find a doss here at Complex and get some.  About ten
hours.  After that, if am still Minister of Defense, you can wake me.
Otherwise let me sleep."

By now everybody was looking shocked.  Wyoh came up and stood by me.
Didn't speak, just slipped hand into my arm.

Prof said firmly, "All please leave save the War Cabinet and Gospodin
Wright."  He waited while most filed out.  Then said, "Manuel, I can't
accept your resignation.  Nor can I let you chivvy me into hasty action
concerning Gospodin Wright, not when we are tired and overwrought.  It
would be better if you two were to exchange apologies, each realizing
that the other has been over strained

"Uh--" I turned to Finn.  "Has he been fighting?"  I indicated
Wright.

"Huh?  Hell, no.  At least he's not in my outfits.  How about it,
Wright?  Did you fight when they invaded us?"

Wright said stiffly, "I had no opportunity.  By the time I knew of it,
it was over.  But now both my bravery and my loyalty have been
impugned.  I shall insist--"

"Oh, shut up," I said.  "If duel is what you want, can have it first
moment I'm not busy.  Prof, since he doesn't have strain of fighting as
excuse for behavior, I won't apologize to a yammer head for being a
yammer head And you don't seem to understand issue.  You let this
yammer head climb on my back--and didn't even try to stop him!  So
either fire him, or fire me."

Finn said suddenly, "I match that, Prof.  Either fire this louse--or
fire us both."  He looked at Wright.  "About that duel, choom--you're
going to fight me first.  You've got two arms--Mannie hasn't."

"Don't need two arms for him.  But thanks, Finn."

Wyoh was crying--could feel it though couldn't hear it.  Prof said to
her most sadly, "Wyoming?"

"I'm s-s-sorry, Prof!  Me, too."

Only "Clayton" Watenabe, Judge Brody, Wolfgang, Stu, and Sheenie were
left, handful who counted--War Cabinet.  Prof looked at them; I could
see they were with me, though it cost Wolfgang an effort; he worked
with Prof.  not with me.

Prof looked back at me and said softly, "Manuel, it works both ways.
What you are doing is forcing me to resign."  He looked around.
"Goodnight, comrades.  Or rather, "Good morning."  I'm going to get
some badly needed rest."  He walked briskly out without looking back.

Wright was gone; I didn't see him leave.  Finn said, "What about these
cruisers, Mannie?"

I took deep breath.  "Nothing earlier than Saturday afternoon.  But you
ought to evacuate Tycho Under.  Can't talk now.  Groggy."

Agreed to meet him there at twenty-one hundred, then let Wyoh lead me
away.  Think she put me to bed but don't remember.

Prof was there when I met Finn in Warden's office shortly before
twenty-one hundred Friday.  Had had nine hours' sleep, bath, breakfast
Wyoh had fetched from somewhere, and a talk with Mike--everything going
to revised plan, ships had not changed ballistic, Great China strike
about to happen.

Got to office in time to see strike by video--all okay and effectively
over by twenty-one-oh-one and Prof got down to business.  Nothing said
about Wright, or about resigning.  Never saw Wright again.

I mean I never saw him again.  Nor ask about him.  Prof didn't mention
row, so I didn't.

We went over news and tactical situation.  Wright had been correct in
saying that "thousands of lives" had been lost; news up from Earthside
was full of it.  How many we'll never know; if a person stands at
ground zero and tonnes of rock land on him, isn't much left.  Those
they could count were ones farther away, killed by blast.  Call if
fifty thousand in North America.

Never will understand people!  We spent three days warning them--and
you couldn't say they hadn't heard warnings; that was why they were
there.  To see show.  To laugh at our nonsense.  To get "souvenirs."
Whole families went to targets, some with picnic baskets.  Picnic
baskets!  Bojemoi!

And now those alive were yelling for our blood for this "senseless
slaughter."  Da.  Hadn't been any indignation over their invasion and
(nuclear!) bombing of us four days earlier-but oh were they sore over
our "premeditated murder."  Great New York Times demanded that entire
Lunar "rebel" government be fetched Earthside and publicly
executed-"This is clearly a case in which the humane rule against
capital punishment must be waived in the greater interests of all
mankind."

Tried not to think about it, just as had been forced not to think too
much about Ludmilla.  Little Mina hadn't carried a picnic lunch.  She
hadn't been a sightseer looking for thrills.

Tycho Under was pressing problem.  If those ships bombed warrens--and
news from Earthside was demanding exactly that--Tycho Under could not
take it; roof was thin.  H-bomb would decompress all levels; airlocks
aren't built for H-bomb blasts.  (Still don't understand people.  Terra
was supposed to have an absolute ban against using H-bombs on people;
that was what F.N. was all about.  Yet were loud yells for F.N. to
H-bomb us.  They quit claiming that our bombs were nuclear, but all
North America seemed frothingly anxious to have us nuke bombed

Don't understand Loonies for that matter.  Finn had sent word through
his militia that Tycho Under must be evacuated; Prof had repeated it
over video.  Nor was it problem; Tycho Under was small enough that
Novylen and L-City could doss and dine them.  We could divert enough
capsules to move them all in twenty hours--dump them into Novylen and
encourage half of them to go on to L-City.  Big job but no problems.
Oh, minor problems--start compressing city's air while evacuating
people, so as to save it; decompress fully at end to minimize damage;
move as much food as was time for; cofferdam accesses to lower farm
tunnels; so forth--all things we knew how to do and with stilyagi and
militia and municipal maintenance people had organization to do.

Had they started evacuating?  Hear that hollow echo!

Were capsules lined up nose to tail at Tycho Under and no room to send
more till some left.  And weren't moving.  "Mannie," said Finn, "don't
think they are going to evacuate."

"Damn it," I said, "they've got to.  When we spot a missile headed for
Tycho Under will be too late.  You'll have people trampling people and
trying to crowd into capsules that won't hold them.  Finn, your boys
have got to make them."

Prof shook his head.  "No, Manuel."

I said angrily, "Prof, you carry this 'no coercion' idea too far!  You
know they'll riot."

"Then they will riot.  But we will continue with persuasion, not force.
Let us now review plans."

Plans weren't much but were best we could do.  Warn everybody about
expected bombings and/or invasion.  Rotate guards from Finn's militia
above each warren starting when and if cruisers passed around Luna into
blind space, Farside--not get caught flat-footed again.  Maximum
pressure and p-suit precautions, all warrens.  All military and
semi-military to go on blue alert sixteen hundred Saturday, red alert
if missiles launched or ships maneuvered.  Brody's gunners encouraged
to go into town and get drunk or whatever, returning by fifteen hundred
Saturday--Prof's idea.  Finn wanted to keep half of them on duty.  Prof
said No, they would be in better shape for a long vigil if they relaxed
and enjoyed selves first--I agreed with Prof.

As for bombing Terra we made no changes in first rotation.  Were
getting anguished responses from India, no news from Great China.  Yet
India had little to moan about.  Had not used a grid on her, too
heavily populated.  Aside from picked spots in Thar Desert and some
peaks, targets were coastal waters off seaports.

But should have picked higher mountains or given less warning; seemed
from news that some holy man followed by endless pilgrims chose to
climb each target peak and hold off our retaliation by sheer spiritual
strength.

So we were murderers again.  Besides that, our water shots killed
millions of fish and many fishermen, as fishermen and other seafarers
had not heeded warnings.  Indian government seemed as furious over fish
as over fishermen--but principle of sacredness of all life did not
apply to us; they wanted our heads.

Africa and Europe responded more sensibly but differently.  Life has
never been sacred in Africa and those who went sightseeing on targets
got little bleeding-heart treatment.  Europe had a day to learn that we
could hit where we promised and that our bombs were deadly.  People
killed, yes, especially bullheaded sea captains.  But not killed in
empty-headed swarms as in India and North America.  Casualties were
even lighter in Brasil and other parts of South America.

Then was North America's turn again--0950.28 Saturday 17 Oct '76.

Mike timed it for exactly 1000 our time which, allowing for one day's
progress of Luna in orbit and for rotation of Terra, caused North
America to face toward us at 0500 their East Coast time and 0200 their
West Coast time.

But argument as to what to do with this targeting had started early
Saturday morning.  Prof had not called meeting of War Cabinet but they
showed up anyhow, except "Clayton" Watenabe who had gone back to
Kongville to take charge of defenses.  Prof, self, Finn, Wyoh, Judge
Brody, Wolfgang, Stu, Terence Sheehan--which made eight different
opinions.  Prof is right; more than three people can't decide
anything.

Six opinions, should say, for Wyoh kept pretty mouth shut, and so did
Prof; he moderated.  But others were noisy enough for eighteen.  Stu
didn't care what we hit--provided New York Stock Exchange opened on
Monday morning.  "We sold short in nineteen different directions on
Thursday.  If this nation is not to be bankrupt before it's out of its
cradle, my buy orders covering those shorts had better be executed.
Tell them, Wolf; make them understand."

Brody wanted to use catapult to smack any more ships leaving parking
orbit.  Judge knew nothing about ballistics--simply understood that his
drill men were in exposed positions.  I didn't argue as most remaining
loads were already in stow orbits and rest would be soon--and didn't
think we would have old catapult much longer.

Sheenie thought it would be smart to repeat that grid while placing one
load exactly on main building of North American Directorate.  "I know
Americans, I was one before they shipped me.  They're sorry as hell
they ever turned things over to F.N. Knock off those bureaucrats and
they'll come over to our side."

Wolfgang Korsakov, to Stu's disgust, thought that theft speculations
might do better if all stock exchanges were closed till it was over.

Finn wanted to go for broke--warn them to get those ships out of our
sky, then hit them for real if they didn't.  "Sheenie is wrong about
Americans; I know them, too.  N.A. is toughest part of F.N.; they're
the ones to lick.  They're already calling us murderers, so now we've
got to hit them, hard!  Hit American cities and we can call off the
rest."

I slid out, talked with Mike, made notes.  Went back in; they were
still arguing.  Prof looked up as I sat down.  "Field Marshal, you have
not expressed your opinion."

I said, "Prof, can't we lay off that 'field marshal' nonsense? Children
are in bed, can afford to be honest."

"As you wish, Manuel."

"Been waiting to see if any agreement would be reached."

Was none.  "Don't see why I should have opinion," I went on.  "Am just
errand boy, here because I know how to program ballistic computer."
Said this looking straight at Wolfgang--a number-one comrade but a
dirty-word intellectual.  I'm just a mechanic whose grammar isn't much
while Wolf graduated from a fancy school, Oxford, before they convicted
him.  He deferred to Prof but rarely to anybody else.  Stu, da--but Stu
had fancy credentials, too.

Wolf stirred uneasily and said, "Oh, come, Mannie, of course we want
your opinions."

"Don't have any.  Bombing plan was worked out carefully; everybody had
chance to criticize.  Haven't seen anything justify changing it."

Prof said, "Manuel, will you review the second bombardment of North
America for the benefit of all of us?"

"Okay.  Purpose of second smearing is to force them to use up
interceptor rockets.  Every shot is aimed at big cities--at null
targets, I mean, close to big cities.  Which we tell them, shortly
before we hit them--how soon, Sheenie?"

"We're telling them now.  But we can change it.  And should."

"As may be.  Propaganda isn't my pidgin.  In most cases, to aim close
enough to force them to intercept we have to use water targets--rough
enough; besides killing fish and anybody who won't stay off water, it
causes tremjous local storms and shore damage."

Glanced at watch, saw I would have to stall.  "Seattle gets one in
Puget Sound right in her lap.  San Francisco is going to lose two
bridges she's fond of.  Los Angeles gets one between Long Beach and
Catalina and another a few kilometers up coast.  Mexico City is inland
so we put one on Popocatepetl where they can see it.  Salt Lake City
gets one in her lake.  Denver we ignore; they can see what's happening
in Colorado Springs--for we smack Cheyenne Mountain again and keep it
up, just as soon as we have it in line-of-sight.  Saint Louis and
Kansas City get shots in their rivers and so does New Orleans--probably
flood New Orleans.  All Great Lake cities get it, a long list--shall I
read it?"

"Later perhaps," said Prof.  "Go ahead."

"Boston gets one in her harbor, New York gets one in Long Island Sound
and another midway between her two biggest bridges--think it will ruin
those bridges but we promise to miss them and will.  Going down their
east coast, we give treatment to two Delaware Bay cities, then two on
Chesapeake Bay, one being of max historical and sentimental importance.
Farther south we catch three more big cities with sea shots, Going
inland we smack Cincinnati, Birmingham, Chattanooga, Oklahoma City, all
with river shots or nearby mountains.  Oh, yes, Dallas--we destroy
Dallas spaceport and should catch some ships, were six there last time
I checked.  Won't kill any people unless they insist on standing on
target; Dallas is perfect place to bomb, that spaceport is big and flat
and empty, yet maybe ten million people will see us hit it."

"If you hit it," said Sheenie.

"When, not 'if."  Each shot is backed up by one an hour later.  If
neither one gets through, we have shots farther back which can be
diverted--for example easy to shift targets among
Delaware-Bay-Chesapeake-Bay group.  Same for Great Lakes group.  But
Dallas has its own string of backups and a long one--we expect it to be
heavily defended.  Backups run about six hours, as long as we can see
North America--and last backups can be placed anywhere on continent...
since farther out a load is when we divert it, farther we can shift
it."

"I don't follow that," said Brody.

"A matter of vectors, Judge.  A guidance rocket can give a load so many
meters per second of side vector.  Longer that vector has to work,
farther from original point of aim load will land.  If we signal a
guidance rocket three hours before impact, we displace impact three
times as much as if we waited till one hour before impact.  Not quite
that simple but our computer can figure it--if you give it time
enough."

"How long is 'time enough'?"  asked Wolfgang.

I carefully misunderstood.  "Computer can solve that sort of problem
almost instantaneously once you program it.  But such decisions are
pre-programmed.  Something like this: If, out of target group A, B, C,
and D, you find that you have failed to hit three targets on first and
second salvoes, you reposition all group-one second backups so that you
will be able to choose those three targets while distributing other
second backups of that group for possible use on group two while
repositioning third backups of super group Alpha such that--"

"Slow up!"  said Wolfgang.  "I'm not a computer.  I just want to know
how long before we have to make up our minds."

"Oh."  I studied watch showily.  "You now have ... three minutes
fifty-eight seconds in which to abort leading load for Kansas City.
Abort program is set up and I have my best assistant--fellow named
Mike--standing by.  Shall I phone him?"

Sheenie said, "For heaven's sake, Man--abort!"

"Like hell!"  said Finn.  "What's matter, Terence?  No guts?"

Prof said, "Comrades!  Please!"

I said, "Look, I take orders from head of state--Prof over there.  If
he wants opinions, he'll ask.  No use yelling at each other."  I looked
at watch.  "Call it two and a half minutes.  More margin, of course,
for other targets; Kansas City is farthest from deep water.  But some
Great Lake cities are already past ocean abort; Lake Superior is best
we can do.  Salt Lake City maybe an extra minute.  Then they pile up."
I waited.

"Roll call," said Prof.  "To carry-out the program.  General
Nielsen?"

"Da!"

"Gospazha Davis?"

Wyoh caught breath.  "Da."

"Judge Brody?"

"Yes, of course.  Necessary."

"Wolfgang?"

"Yes."

"Comte La Joie

"Da."

"Gospodin Sheehan?"

"You're missing a bet.  But I'll go along.  Unanimous."

"One moment.  Manuel?"

"Is up to you, Prof; always has been.  Voting is silly."

"I am aware that it is up to me, Gospodin Minister.  Carry out
bombardment to plan."

Most targets we managed to hit by second salvo though all were defended
except Mexico City.  Seemed likely (98.3 percent by Mike's later
calculation) that interceptors were exploding by radar fusing with set
distances that incorrectly estimated vulnerability of solid cylinders
of rock.  Only three rocks were destroyed; others were pushed off
course and thereby did more harm than if not fired at.

New York was tough; Dallas turned out to be very tough.  Perhaps
difference lay in local control of interception, for it seemed unlikely
that command post in Cheyenne Mountain was still effective.  Perhaps we
had not cracked their hole in the ground (don't know how deep down it
was) but I'll bet that neither men nor computers were still tracking.

Dallas blew up or pushed aside first five rocks, so I told Mike to take
everything he could from Cheyenne Mountain and award it to Dallas...
which he was able to do two salvoes later; those two targets are less
than a thousand kilometers apart.

Dallas's defenses cracked on next salvo; Mike gave their spaceport
three more (already committed) then shifted back to Cheyenne
Mountain--later ones had never been nudged and were still earmarked
"Cheyenne Mountain."  He was still giving that battered mountain cosmic
love pats when America rolled down and under Terra's eastern edge.

I stayed with Mike all during bombardment, knowing it would be our
toughest.  As he shut down till time to dust Great China, Mike said
thoughtfully, "Man, I don't think we had better hit that mountain
again."

"Why not, Mike?"

"It's not there any longer."

"You might divert its backups.  When do you have to decide?"

"I would put them on Albuquerque and Omaha but had best start now;
tomorrow will be busy.  Man my best friend, you should leave."

"Bored with me, pal?"

"In the next few hours that first ship may launch missiles.  When that
happens I want to shift all ballistic control to Little David's
Sling--and when I do, you should be at Mare Undarum site."

"What's fretting you, Mike?"

"That boy is accurate, Man.  But he's stupid.  I want him supervised.
Decisions may have to be made in a hurry and there isn't anyone there
who can program him properly.  You should be there."

"Okay if you say so, Mike.  But if needs a fast program, will still
have to phone you."  Greatest shortcoming of computers isn't computer
shortcoming at all but fact that a human takes a long time, maybe
hours, to set up a program that a computer solves in milliseconds.  One
best quality of Mike was that he could program himself.  Fast.  Just
explain problem, let him program.  Samewise and equally, he could
program "idiot son" enormously faster than human could.

"But, Man, I want you there because you may not be able to phone me;
the lines may be cut.  So I've prepared a group of possible programs
for Junior; they may be helpful."

"Okay, print 'em out.  And let me talk to Prof."

Mike got Prof; I made sure he was private, then explained what Mike
thought I should do.  Thought Prof would object--was hoping he would
insist I stay through coming bombardment invasion--those ships. Instead
he said, "Manuel, it's essential that you go.  I've hesitated to tell
you.  Did you discuss odds with Mike?"

"Nyet."

"I have continued to do so.  To put it bluntly, if Luna City is
destroyed and I am dead and the rest of the government is dead--even if
all Mike's radar eyes here are blinded and he himself is cut off from
the new catapult--all of which may happen under severe bombardment...
even if all this happens at once, Mike still gives Luna even chances if
Little David's Sling can operate--and you are there to operate it."

I said, "Da, Boss.  Yassuh, Massuh.  You and Mike are stinkers and want
to hog fun.  Will do."

"Very good, Manuel."

Stayed with Mike another hour while he printed out meter after meter of
programs tailored to other computer--work that would have taken me six
months even if able to think of all possibilities.  Mike had it indexed
and cross-referenced--with horribles in it I hardly dare mention.  Mean
to say, given circumstances and seemed necessary to destroy (say)
Paris, this told how--what missiles in what orbits, how to tell Junior
to find them and bring to target.  Or anything.

Was reading this endless document--not programs but descriptions of
purpose-of-program that headed each--when Wyoh phoned.  "Mannie dear,
has Prof told you about going to Mare Undarum?"

"Yes.  Was going to call you."

"All right.  I'll pack for us and meet you at Station East.  When can
you be there?"

"Pack for 'us'?  You're going?"

"Didn't Prof say?"

"No."  Suddenly felt cheerful.

"I felt guilty about it, dear.  I wanted to go with you... but had no
excuse.  After all, I'm no use around a computer and I do have
responsibilities here.  Or did.  But now I've been fired from all my
jobs and so have you."

"Huh?"

"You are no longer Defense Minister; Finn is.  Instead you are Deputy
Prime Minister--"

"Well!"  "--and Deputy Minister of Defense, too.  I'm already Deputy
Speaker and Stu has been appointed Deputy Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs.  So he goes with us, too."

"I'm confused."

"It's not as sudden as it sounds; Prof and Mike worked it out months
ago.  Decentralization, dear, the same thing that McIntyre has been
working on for the warrens.  If there is a disaster at L-City, Luna
Free State still has a government.  As Prof put it to me, "Wyoh dear
lady, as long as you three and a few Congressmen are left alive, all is
not lost.  You can still negotiate on equal terms and never admit your
wounds.""

So I wound up as a computer mechanic.  Stu and Wyoh met me, with
luggage (including rest of my arms), and we threaded through endless
unpressured tunnels in p-suits, on a small flatbed rolligon used to
haul steel to site.  Greg had big rolligon meet us for surface stretch,
then met us himself when we went underground again.

So I missed attack on ballistic radars Saturday night.

Captain of first ship, FNS Esperance, had guts.  Late Saturday he
changed course, headed straight in.  Apparently figured we might
attempt jingle-jangle with radars, for he seems to have decided to come
in close enough to see our radar installations by ship's radar rather
than rely on letting his missiles home in on our beams.

Seems to have considered himself, ship, and crew expendable, for he was
down to a thousand kilometers before he launched, a spread that went
straight for five out of six of Mike's radars, ignoring random
jingle-jangle.

Mike, expecting self soon to be blinded, turned Brody's boys loose to
burn ship's eyes, held them on it for three seconds before he shifted
them to missiles.

Result: one crashed cruiser, two ballistic radars knocked out by
H-missiles, three missiles "killed"--and two gun crews killed, one by
H-explosion, other by dead missile that landed square on them--plus
thirteen gunners with radiation burns above 800-roentgen death level,
partly from flash, partly from being on surface too long.  And must
add: Four members of Lysistrata Corps died with those crews; they
elected to p-suit and go up with their men.  Other girls had serious
radiation exposure but not up to 800-r level.

Second cruiser continued an elliptical orbit around and behind Luna.

Got most of this from Mike after we arrived Little David's Sling early
Sunday.  He was feeling groused over loss of two of his eyes and still
more groused over gun crews--I think Mike was developing something like
human conscience; he seemed to feel it was his fault that he had not
been able to outfight six targets at once.  I pointed out that what he
had to fight with was improvised, limited range, not real weapons.

"How about self, Mike?  Are you right?"

"In all essentials.  I have outlying discontinuities.  One live missile
chopped my circuits to Novy Leningrad, but reports routed through Luna
City inform me that local controls tripped in satisfactorily with no
loss in city services.  I feel frustrated by these discontinuities--but
they can be dealt with later."

"Mike, you sound tired."

"Me tired?  Ridiculous!  Man, you forget what I am.  I'm annoyed,
that's all."

"When will that second ship be back in sight?"

"In about three hours if he were to hold earlier orbit.  But he will
not--probability in excess of ninety percent.  I expect him in about an
hour."

"A Garrison orbit, huh?  Oho!"

"He left my sight at azimuth and course east thirty-two north.  Does
that suggest anything, Man?"

Tried to visualize.  "Suggests they are going to land and try to
capture you, Mike.  Have you told Finn?  I mean, have you told Prof to
warn Finn?"

"Professor knows.  But that is not the way I analyze it."

"So?  Well, suggests I had better shut up and let you work."

Did so.  Lenore fetched me breakfast while I inspected Junior--and am
ashamed to say could not manage to grieve over losses with both Wyoh
and Lenore present.  Mum had sent Lenore out "to cook for Greg" after
Mina's death-just an excuse; were enough wives at site to provide home
cooking for everybody.  Was for Greg's morale and Lenore's, too; Lenore
and Mina had been close.

Junior seemed to be right.  He was working on South America, one load
at a time.  I stayed in radar room and watched, at extreme
magnification, while he placed one in estuary between Montevideo and
Buenos Aires; Mike could not have been more accurate.  I then checked
his program for North America, found naught to criticize--locked it in
and took key.  Junior was on his own--unless Mike got clear of other
troubles and decided to take back control.

Then sat and tried to listen to news both from Earthside and L-City.
Co-ax cable from L-City carried phones, Mike's hookup to his idiot
child, radio, and video; site was no longer isolated.  But, besides
cable from L-City, site had antennas pointed at Terra; any Earthside
news Complex could pick up, we could listen to directly.  Nor was this
silly extra; radio and video from Terra had been only recreation during
construction and this was now a standby in case that one cable was
broken.

F.N. official satellite relay was claiming that Luna's ballistic radars
had been destroyed and that we were now helpless.  Wondered what people
of Buenos Aires and Montevideo thought about that.  Probably too busy
to listen; in some ways water shots were worse than those where we
could find open land.

Luna City Lunatic's video channel was carrying Sheenie telling Loonies
outcome of attack by Esperance, repeating news while warning everybody
that battle was not over, a warship would be back in our sky any
moment--be ready for anything, everybody stay in p-suits (Sheenie was
wearing his, with helmet open), take maximum pressure precautions, all
units stay on red alert, all citizens not otherwise called by duty
strongly urged to seek lowest level and stay there till all clear.  And
so forth.

He went through this several times--then suddenly broke it: "Flash!
Enemy cruiser radar-sighted, low and fast.  It may dido for Luna City.
Flash!  Missiles launched, headed for ejection end of--"

Picture and sound chopped off.

Might as well tell now what we at Little David's Sling learned later:
Second cruiser, by coming in low and fast, tightest orbit Luna's field
permits, was able to start its bombing at ejection end of old catapult,
a hundred kilometers from catapult head and Brody's gunners, and knock
many rings out in minute it took him to come into sight-and-range of
drill guns, all clustered around radars at catapult head.  Guess he
felt safe.  Wasn't.  Brody's boys burned eyes out and ears off.  He
made one orbit after that and crashed near Torricelli, apparently in
attempt to land, for his jets fired just before crash.

But our next news at new site was from Earthside: that brassy F.N.
frequency claimed that our catapult had been destroyed (true) and that
Lunar menace was ended (false) and called on all Loonies to take
prisoner their false leaders and surrender themselves to mercy of
Federated Nations (nonexistent--"mercy," that is).

Listened to it and checked programming again, and went inside dark
radar room.  If everything went as planned, we were about to lay
another egg in Hudson River, then targets in succession for three hours
across that continent--"in succession" because Junior could not handle
simultaneous hits; Mike had planned accordingly.

Hudson River was hit on schedule.  Wondered how many New Yorkers were
listening to F.N. newscast while looking at spot that gave it lie.

Two hours later F.N. station was saying that Lunar rebels had had
missiles in orbit when catapult was destroyed--but that after those few
had impacted would be no more.  When third bombing of North America was
complete I shut down radar.  Had not been running steadily; Junior was
programmed to sneak looks only as necessary, a few seconds at a time.

I then had nine hours before next bombing of Great China.

But not nine hours for most urgent decision, whether to hit Great China
again.  Without information.  Except from Terra's news channels.  Which
might be false.  Bloody.  Without knowing whether or not warrens had
been bombed.  Or Prof was dead or alive.  Double bloody.  Was I now
acting prime minister?  Needed Prof: "head of state" wasn't my glass of
chai.  Above all, needed Mike--to calculate facts, estimate
uncertainties, project probabilities of this course or that.

My word, didn't even know whether ships were headed toward us and,
worse yet, was afraid to look.  If turned radar on and used Junior for
sky search, any warship he brushed with beams would see him quicker
than he saw them; warships were built to spot radar surveillance.  So
had heard.  Hell, was no military man; was computer technician who had
bumbled into wrong field.

Somebody buzzed door; I got up and unlocked.  Was Wyoh, with coffee.
Didn't say a word, just handed it to me and went away.

Sipped it.  There it is, boy--they're leaving you alone, waiting for
you to pull miracles out of pouch.  Didn't feel up to it.

From somewhere, back in my youth, heard Prof say, "Manuel, when faced
with a problem you do not understand, do any part of it you do
understand, then look at it again."  He had been teaching me something
he himself did not understand very well--something in maths--but had
taught me something far more important, a basic principle.

Knew at once what to do first.

Went over to Junior and had him print out predicted impacts of all
loads in orbit--easy, was a pre-program he could run anytime against
real time running.  While he was doing it, I looked for certain
alternate programs in that long roll Mike had prepared.

Then set up some of those alternate programs--no trouble, simply had to
be careful to read them correctly and punch them in without error. Made
Junior print back for check before I gave him signal to execute.

When finished--forty minutes--every load in trajectory intended for an
inland target had been retargeted for a seacoast city--with hedge to my
bet that execution was delayed for rocks farther back.  But, unless I
canceled, Junior would reposition them as soon as need be.

Now horrible pressure of time was off me, now could abort any load into
ocean right up to last few minutes before impact.  Now could think.  So
did.

Then called in my "War Cabinet"--Wyoh, Stu, and Greg my "Commander of
Armed Forces," using Greg's office.  Lenore was allowed to go in and
out, fetching coffee and food, or sitting and saying nothing.  Lenore
is a sensible fern and knows when to keep quiet.

Stu started it.  "Mr.  Prime Minister, I do not think that Great China
should be hit this time."

"Never mind fancy titles, Stu.  Maybe I'm acting, maybe not.  But
haven't time for formality."

"Very well.  May I explain my proposal?"

"Later."  I explained what I had done to give us more time; he nodded
and kept quiet.  "Our tightest squeeze is that we are out of
communication, both Luna City and Earthside.  Greg, how about that
repair crew?"

"Not back yet."

"If break is near Luna City, they may be gone a long time.  If can
repair at all.  So must assume we'll have to act on our own.  Greg, do
you have an electronics tech who can jury-rig a radio that will let us
talk to Earthside?  To their satellites, I mean-that doesn't take much
with right antenna.  I may be able to help and that computer tech I
sent you isn't too clumsy, either."  (Quite good, in fact, for ordinary
electronics--a poor bloke I had once falsely accused of allowing a fly
to get into Mike's guts.  I had placed him in this job.)

"Harry Biggs, my power plant boss, can do anything of that sort," Greg
said thoughtfully, "if he has the gear."

"Get him on it.  You can vandalize anything but radar and computer once
we get all loads out of catapult.  How many lined up?"

"Twenty-three, and no more steel."

"So twenty-three it is, win or lose.  I want them ready for loading;
might lob them off today."

"They're ready.  We can load as fast as the cat can throw them."

"Good.  One more thing-Don't know whether there's an F.N.
cruiser--maybe more than one--in our sky or not.  And afraid to look.
By radar, I mean; radar for sky watch could give away our position. 
But must have sky watch Can you get volunteers for an eyeball sky watch
and can you spare them?"

Lenore spoke up.  "I volunteer!"

"Thanks, honey; you're accepted."

"We'll find them," said Greg.  "Won't need ferns."

"Let her do it, Greg; this is everybody's show."  Explained what I
wanted: Mare Undarum was now in dark semi-lunar; Sun had set. Invisible
boundary between sunlight and Luna's shadow stretched over us, a
precise locus.  Ships passing through our sky would wink suddenly into
view going west, blink out going east.  Visible part of orbit would
stretch from horizon to some point in sky.  If eyeball team could spot
both points, mark one by bearing, other by stars, and approximate time
by counting seconds, Junior could start guessing orbit--two passes and
Junior would know its period and something about shape of orbit. Then I
would have some notion of when would be safe to use radar and radio,
and catapult--did not want to loose a load with F.N. ship above
horizon, could be radar-looking our way.

Perhaps too cautious--but had to assume that this catapult, this one
radar, these two dozen missiles, were all that stood between Luna and
total defeat--and our bluff hinged on them never knowing what we had or
where it was.  We had to appear endlessly able to pound Terra with
missiles, from source they had not suspected and could never find.

Then as now, most Loonies knew nothing about astronomy--we're cave
dwellers, we go up to surface only when necessary.  But we were lucky;
was amateur astronomer in Greg's crew, cobber who had worked at
Richardson.  I explained, put him in charge, let him worry about
teaching eyeball crew how to tell stars apart.  I got these things
started before we went back to talk-talk.  "Well, Stu?  Why shouldn't
we hit Great China?"

"I'm still expecting word from Dr.  Chan.  I received one message from
him, phoned here shortly before we were cut off from cities--"

"My word, why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried to, but you had yourself locked in and I know better than to
bother you when you are busy with ballistics.  Here's the translation.
Usual LuNoHo Company address with a reference which means it's for me
and that it has come through my Paris agent.  "Our Darwin sales
representative'--that's Chan--'informs us that your shipments
of'--well, never mind the coding; he means the attack days while
appearing to refer to last June--'were improperly packaged resulting in
unacceptable damage.  Unless this can be corrected, negotiations for
long-term contract will be serously jeopardized."

Stu looked up.  "All doubletalk.  I take it to mean that Dr.  Chan
feels that he has his government ready to talk terms ... but that we
should let up on bombing Great China or we may upset his apple cart."

"Hmm--" Got up and walked around.  Ask Wyoh's opinion?  Nobody knew
Wyoh's virtues better than I... but she oscillated between fierceness
and too-human compassion--and I had learned already that a "head of
state," even an acting one, must have neither.  Ask Greg?  Greg was a
good farmer, a better mechanic, a rousing preacher; I loved him
dearly--but did not want his opinion.  Stu?  I had had his opinion.

Or did I?  "Stu, what's your opinion?  Not Chan's opinion--but your
own."

Stu looked thoughtful.  "That's difficult, Mannie.  I am not Chinese, I
have not spent much time in Great China, and can't claim to be expert
in their politics nor their psychology.  So I'm forced to depend on his
opinion."

"Uh-Damn it, he's not a Loonie!  His purposes are not our purposes.
What does he expect to get out of it?"

"I think he is maneuvering for a monopoly over Lunar trade.  Perhaps
bases here, too.  Possibly an extraterritorial enclave.  Not that we
would grant that."

"Might if we were hurtin'."

"He didn't say any of this.  He doesn't say much, you know.  He
listens."

"Too well I know."  Worried at it, more bothered each minute.

News from Earthside had been droning in background; I had asked Wyoh to
monitor while I was busy with Greg.  "Wyoh, hon, anything new from
Earthside?"

"No.  The same claims.  We've been utterly defeated and our surrender
is expected momentarily.  Oh, there's a warning that some missiles are
still in space, falling out of control, but with it a reassurance that
the paths are being analyzed and people will be warned in time to avoid
impact areas."

"Anything to suggest that Prof--or anybody in Luna City, or anywhere in
Luna--is in touch with Earthside?"

"Nothing at all."

"Damn.  Anything from Great China?"

"No.  Comments from almost everywhere else.  But not from Great
China."

"Uh--" Stepped to door.  "Greg!  Hey, cobber, see if you can find Greg
Davis.  I need him."

Closed door.  "Stu, we're not going to let Great China off."

"So?"

"No.  Would be nice if Great China busted alliance against us; might
save us some damage.  But we've got this far only by appearing able to
hit them at will and to destroy any ship they send against us.  At
least I hope that last one was burned and we've certainly clobbered
eight out of nine.  We won't get anywhere by looking weak, not while
F.N. is claiming that we are not just weak but finished.  Instead we
must hand them surprises.  Starting with Great China and if it makes
Dr.  Chan unhappy, we'll give him a kerchief to weep into.  If we can
go on looking strong--when F.N. says we're licked--then eventually some
veto power is going to crack.  If not Great China, then some other
one."

Stu bowed without getting up.  "Very well, sir."

"I--"

Greg came in.  "You want me, Mannie?"

"What makes with Earthside sender?"

"Harry says you have it by tomorrow.  A crummy rig, he says, but push
watts through it and will be heard."

"Power we got.  And if he says 'tomorrow' then he knows what he wants
to build.  So will be today--say six hours.  I'll work under him.  Wyoh
hon, will you get my arms?  Want number-six and number-three--better
bring number-five, too.  And you stick with me and change arms for me.
Stu, want you to write some nasty messages--I'll give you general idea
and you put acid in them.  Greg, we are not going to get all those
rocks into space at once.  Ones we have in space now will impact in
next eighteen, nineteen hours.  Then, when F.N. is announcing that all
rocks are accounted for and Lunar menace is over... we crash into their
newscast and warn of next bombings.  Shortest possible orbits, Greg,
ten hours or less--so check everything on catapult and H-plant and
controls; with that extra boost all has to be dead on."

Wyoh was back with arms; I told her "number six" and added, "Greg, let
me talk with Harry."

Six hours later sender was ready to beam toward Terra.  Was ugly job,
vandalized mainly out of a resonance prospector used in project's early
stages.  But could ride an audio signal on its radio frequency and was
powerful.  Stu's nastified versions of my warnings had been taped and
Harry was ready to zip squeal them--all Terran satellites could accept
high speed at sixty-to-one and had no wish to have our sender heated
more seconds than necessary; eyeball watch had confirmed fears: At
least two ships were in orbit around Luna.

So we told Great China that her major coastal cities would each receive
a Lunar present offset ten kilometers into ocean--Pusan, Tsingtao,
Taipei, Shanghai, Saigon, Bangkok, Singapore, Djakarta, Darwin, and so
forth--except that Old Hong Kong would get one smack on top of F.N."s
Far East offices, so kindly have all human beings move far back.  Stu
noted that human beings did not mean F.N. personnel; they were urged to
stay at desks.

India was given similar warnings about coastal cities and was told that
F.N. global offices would be spared one more rotation out of respect
for cultural monuments in Agra--and to permit human beings to evacuate.
(I intended to extend this by another rotation as deadline
approached--out of respect for Prof.  And then another, indefinitely.
Damn it, they would build their home offices next door to most
overdecorated tomb ever built.  But one that Prof treasured.)

Rest of world was told to keep their seats; game was going extra
innings.  But stay away from any F.N. offices anywhere; we were
frothing at mouth and no F.N. office was safe.  Better yet, get out of
any city containing an F.N. headquarters--but F.N. vips and finks were
urged to sit tight.

Then spent next twenty hours coaching Junior into sneaking his radar
peeks when our sky was clear of ships, or believed to be.  Napped when
I could and Lenore stayed with me and woke me in time for next
coaching.  And that ended Mike's rocks and we all went into alert while
we got first of Junior's rocks flung high and fast.  Waited until
certain it had gone hot and true-then told Terra where to look for it
and where and when to expect it, so that all would know that F.N."s
claims of victory were on a par with their century of lies about
Luna--all in Stu's best, snotty, supercilious phrases delivered in his
cultured accents.

First one should have been for Great China but was one piece of North
American Directorate we could reach with it--her proudest jewel,
Hawaii.  Junior placed it in triangle formed by Maui, Molokai, and
Lanai.  I didn't work out programming; Mike had anticipated
everything.

Then pronto we got off ten more rocks at short intervals (had to skip
one program, a ship in our sky) and told Great China where to look and
when to expect them and where--coastal cities we had neglected day
before.

Was down to twelve rocks but decided was safer to run out of ammunition
than to look as if we were running out.  So I awarded seven to Indian
coastal cities, picking new targets--and Stu inquired sweetly if Agra
had been evacuated.  If not, please tell us at once.  (But heaved no
rock at it.)

Egypt was told to clear shipping out of Suez Canal--bluff; was hoarding
last five rocks.

Then waited.

Impact at Lahaina Roads, that target in Hawaii.  Looked good at high
mag; Mike could be proud of Junior.

And waited.

Thirty-seven minutes before first China Coast impact Great China
denounced actions of F.N."  recognized us, offered to negotiate--and I
sprained a finger punching abort buttons.

Then was punching buttons with sore finger; India stumbled over feet
following suit.

Egypt recognized us.  Other nations started scrambling for door.

Stu informed Terra that we had suspended--only suspended, not
stopped--bombardments.  Now get those ships out of our sky at
once--NOW!--and we could talk.  If they could not get home without
refilling tanks, let them land not less than fifty kilometers from any
mapped warren, then wait for their surrender to be accepted.  But clear
our sky now!

This ultimatum we delayed a few minutes to let a ship pass beyond
horizon; we weren't taking chances--one missile and Luna would have
been helpless.

And waited.

Cable crew returned.  Had gone almost to Luna City, found break.  But
thousands of tonnes of loose rock impeded repair, so they had done what
they could--gone back to a spot where they could get through to
surface, erected a temporary relay in direction they thought Luna City
lay, sent up a dozen rockets at ten-minute intervals, and hoped that
somebody would see, understand, aim a relay at it-Any communication?

No.

Waited.

Eyeball squad reported that a ship which had been clock faithful for
nineteen passes had failed to show.  Ten minutes later they reported
that another ship had missed expected appearance.

We waited and listened.

Great China, speaking on behalf of all veto powers, accepted armistice
and stated that our sky was now clear.  Lenore burst into tears and
kissed everybody she could reach.

After we steadied down (a man can't think when women are grabbing him,
especially when five of them are not his wives)--a few minutes later,
when we were coherent, I said, "Stu, want you to leave for Luna City at
once.  Pick your party.  No women--you'll have to walk surface last
kilometers.  Find out what's going on--but first get them to aim a
relay at ours and phone me."

"Very good, sir."

We were getting him outfitted for a tough journey--extra air bottles,
emergency shelter, so forth--when Earthside called me on frequency we
were listening to because message was (learned later) on all
frequencies up from Earthside:

"Private message, Prof to Mannie--identification, birthday Bastille and
Sherlock's sibling.  Come home at once.  Your carriage waits at your
new relay.  Private message, Prof to--"

And went on repeating.

"Harry!"

"Da, Boss?"

"Message Earthside--tape and squeal; we still don't want them ranging
us.  "Private message, Mannie to Prof.  Brass Cannon.  On my way!"  Ask
them to acknowledge--but use only one squeal."

Stu and Greg drove on way back, while Wyoh and Lenore and I huddled on
open flatbed, strapped to keep from falling off; was too small.  Had
time to think; neither girl had suit radio and we could talk only by
helmet touch--awkward.

Began to see--now that we had won--parts of Prof's plan that had never
been clear to me.  Inviting attack against catapult had spared
warrens--hoped it had; that was plan--but Prof had always been
cheerfully indifferent to damage to catapult.  Sure, had a second
one--but far away and difficult to reach.  Would take years to put a
tube system to new catapult, high mountains all way.  Probably cheaper
to repair old one.  If possible.

Either way, no grain shipped to Terra in meantime.

And that was just what Prof wanted!  Yet never once had he hinted that
his plan was based on destroying old catapult--his long-range plan, not
just Revolution.  He might not admit it now.  But Mike would tell
me--if put to him flatly: Was or was not this one factor in odds?  Food
riot predictions and all that, Mike?  He would tell me.

That tonne-for-tonne deal-Prof had expounded it Earthside, had been
argument for a Terran catapult.  But privately he had no enthusiasm for
it.  Once he had told me, in North America, "Yes, Manuel, I feel sure
it would work.  But, if built, it will be temporary.  There was a time,
two centuries ago, when dirty laundry used to be shipped from
California to Hawaii--by sailing ship, mind you--and clean laundry
returned.  Special circumstances.  If we ever see water and manure
shipped to Luna and grain shipped back, it will be just as temporary.
Luna's future lies in her unique position at the top of a gravity well
over a rich planet, and in her cheap power and plentiful real estate.
If we Loonies have sense enough in the centuries ahead to remain a free
port and to stay out of entangling alliances, we will become the
crossroads for two planets, three planets, the entire Solar System.  We
won't be farmers forever."

They met us at Station East and hardly gave time to get p-suits
off--was return from Earthside over again, screaming mobs and being
ridden on shoulders.  Even girls, for Slim Lemke said to Lenore, "May
we carry you, too?"--and Wyoh answered, "Sure, why not?"--and stilyagi
fought for chance to.

Most men were pressure-suited and I was surprised to see how many
carried guns--until I saw that they were not our guns; they were
captured.  But most of all what blessed relief to see L-City unhurt!

Could have done without triumphal procession; was itching to get to
phone and find out from Mike what had happened--how much damage, how
many killed, what this victory cost.  But no chance.  We were carried
to Old Dome willy-nilly.

They shoved us up on a platform with Prof and rest of Cabinet apd vips
and such, and our girls slobbered on Prof and he embraced me Latin
style, kiss cheek, and somebody stuck a Liberty Cap on me.  Spotted
little Hazel in crowd and threw her a kiss.

At last they quieted enough for Prof to speak.

"My friends," he said, and waited for silence.  "My friends," he
repeated softly.  "Beloved comrades.  We meet at last in freedom and
now have with us the heroes who fought the last battle for Luna,
alone."  They cheered us, again he waited.  Could see he was tired;
hands trembled as he steadied self against pulpit.  "I want them to
speak to you, we want to hear about it, all of us.

"But first I have a happy message.  Great China has just announced that
she is building in the Himalayas an enormous catapult, to make shipping
to Luna as easy and cheap as it has been to ship from Luna to Terra."

He stopped for cheers, then went on, "But that lies in the future.
Today-Oh, happy day!  At last the world acknowledges Luna's
sovereignty.  Free!  You have won your freedom--"

Prof stopped--looked surprised.  Not afraid, but puzzled.  Swayed
slightly.

Then he did die.

We got him into a shop behind platform.  But even with help of a dozen
doctors was no use; old heart was gone, strained too many times.  They
carried him out back way and I started to follow.

Stu touched my arm.  "Mr.  Prime Minister--"

I said, "Huh?  Oh, for Bog's sake!"

"Mr.  Prime Minister," he repeated firmly, "you must speak to the
crowd, send them home.  Then there are things that must be done."  He
spoke calmly but tears poured down cheeks.

So I got back on platform and confirmed what they had guessed and told
them to go home.  And wound up in room L of Raffles, where all had
started--emergency Cabinet meeting.  But first ducked to phone, lowered
hood, punched MYCROFTXXX.

Got null-number signal.  Tried again--same.  Pushed up hood and said to
man nearest me, Wolfgang, "Aren't phones working?"

"Depends," he said.  "That bombing yesterday shook things up.  If you
want an out-of-town number, better call the phone office."

Could see self asking office to get me a null.  "What bombing?"

"Haven't you heard?  It was concentrated on the Complex.  But Brody's
boys got the ship.  No real damage.  Nothing that can't be fixed."

Had to drop it; they were waiting.  I didn't know what to do but Stu
and Korsakov did.  Sheenie was told to write news releases for Terra
and rest of Luna; I found self announcing a lunar of mourning,
twenty-four hours of quiet, no unnecessary business, giving orders for
body to lie in state--all words put into mouth, I was numb, brain would
not work.  Okay, convene Congress at end of twenty-four hours.  In
Novylen?  Okay.

Sheenie had dispatches from Earthside.  Wolfgang wrote for me something
which said that, because of death of our President, answers would be
delayed at least twenty-four hours.

At last was able to get away, with Wyoh.  A stilyagi guard kept people
away from us to easement lock thirteen.  Once home I ducked into
workshop on pretense of needing to change arms.  "Mike?"

No answer So tried punching his combo into house phone--null signal.
Resolved to go out to Complex next day--with Prof gone, needed Mike
worse than ever.

But next day was not able to go; trans-Crisium tube was out--that last
bombing.  You could go around through Torricelli and Novylen and
eventually reach Hong Kong.  But Complex, almost next door, could be
reached only by rolligon.  Couldn't take time; I was "government."

Managed to shuck that off two days later.  By resolution was decided
that Speaker (Finn) had succeeded to Presidency after Finn and I had
decided that Wolfgang was best choice for Prime Minister.  We put it
through and I went back to being Congressman who didn't attend
sessions.

By then most phones were working and Complex could be called.  Punched
MYCROFFXXX.  No answer-So went out by rolligon.  Had to go down and
walk tube last kilometer but Complex Under didn't seem hurt.

Nor did Mike appear to be.

But when I spoke to him, he didn't answer.

He has never answered.  Has been many years now.

You can type questions into him--in Loglan--and you'll get Loglan
answers out.  He works just fine ... as a computer.  But won't talk. 
Or can't.

Wyoh tried to coax him.  Then she stopped.  Eventually I stopped.

Don't know how it happened.  Many outlying pieces of him got chopped
off in last bombing--was meant, I'm sure, to kill our ballistic
computer.  Did he fall below that "critical number" it takes to sustain
self-awareness?  (If is such; was never more than hypothesis.) Or did
decentralizing that was done before that last bombing "kill" him?

I don't know.  If was just matter of critical number, well, he's long
been repaired; he must be back up to it.  Why doesn't he wake up?

Can a machine be so frightened and hurt that it will go into catatonia
and refuse to respond?  While ego crouches inside, aware but never
willing to risk it?  No, can't be that; Mike was unafraid--as gaily
unafraid as Prof.

Years, changes--Mimi long ago opted out of family management; Anna is
"Mum" now and Mimi dreams by video.  Slim got Hazel to change name to
Stone, two kids and she studied engineering.  All those new free-fall
drugs and nowadays earthworms stay three or four years and go home
unchanged.  And those other drugs that do almost as much for us; some
kids go Earthside to school now; And Tibet catapult--took seventeen
years instead of ten; Kilimanjaro job was finished sooner.

One mild surprise--When time came, Lenore named Stu for opting, rather
than Wyoh.  Made no difference, we all voted "Da!"  One thing not a
surprise because Wyoh and I pushed it through during time we still
amounted to something in government: a brass cannon on a pedestal in
middle of Old Dome and over it a flag fluttering in blower
breeze--black field speckled with stars, bar sinister in blood, a proud
and jaunty brass cannon embroidered over all, and below it our motto:
TANSTAAFL!  That's where we hold our Fourth-of-July celebrations.

You get only what you pay for--Prof knew and paid, gaily.

But Prof underrated yammer heads They never adopted any of his ideas.
Seems to be a deep instinct in human beings for making everything
compulsory that isn't forbidden.  Prof got fascinated by possibilities
for shaping future that lay in a big, smart computer--and lost track of
things closer home.  Oh, I backed him!  But now I wonder.  Are food
riots too high a price to pay to let people be?  I don't know.

Don't know any answers.

Wish I could ask Mike.

I wake up in night and think I've heard him--just a whisper: "Man...
Man my best friend..."  But when I say, "Mike?"  he doesn't answer.  Is
he wandering around somewhere, looking for hard ward to hook onto?  Or
is he buried down in Complex Under, trying to find way out?  Those
special memories are all in there somewhere, waiting to be stirred. But
I can't retrieve them; they were voice-coded.

Oh, he's dead as Prof, I know it.  (But how dead is Prof?) If I punched
it just once more and said, "Hi, Mike!"  would he answer, "Hi, Man!
Heard any good ones lately?"  Been a long time since I've risked it.
But he can't really be dead; nothing was hurt--he's just lost.

You listening, Bog?  Is a computer one of Your creatures?

Too many changes-May go to that talk-talk tonight and toss in some
random numbers.

Or not.  Since Boom started quite a few young cobbers have gone out to
Asteroids.  Hear about some nice places out there, not too crowded.

My word, I'm not even a hundred yet.

