The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (19 page)

I
said, “Psst, doll baby. Eyeball young fem 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 shopwindows 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 Crèche 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 Crèche 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 Crèche, 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
crèche 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 crèche; 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 W.C.s, 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
alarums 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.