The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (8 page)

“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
apfelstrudel
.”

“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 fem 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?”

“Chai
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!”