The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (20 page)

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:

  —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
importado; 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 drillman 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
.”