The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (23 page)

Codes
do not have same weakness. Let’s say that codebook 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 codebook, 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 codebook, 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, scietitific 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 be 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 exconsignees 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 committed—

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 fem 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.”