The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (29 page)

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 onearmed. Grain
load had been dried and depressured 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 LaJoie 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 LaJoie 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
PanAfrican 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 all 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 Stu, 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 F.L. 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.