The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (37 page)

“Uh
… no, damn it! Just tell.”

“The
odds against us are now only seventeen to one … and they’ve been
shortening all month. Which I couldn’t tell you.”

“Was
amazed, delighted, overjoyed—hurt. “What you mean, couldn’t
tell me? Look, Prof, if not trusted, deal me out and put Stu in executive
cell.”

“Please,
son. That’s where he will go if anything happens to any of us—you,
me, or dear Wyoming. I could not tell you Earthside—and can tell you
now—not because you aren’t trusted but because you are no actor.
You could carry out your role more effectively if you believed that our purpose
was to achieve recognition of independence.”

“Now
he tells!”

“Manuel,
Manuel, we had to fight hard every instant—and lose.”

“So?
Am big enough boy to be told?”

“Please,
Manuel. Keeping you temporarily in the dark greatly enhanced our chances; you
can check this with Adam. May I add that Stuart accepted his summons to Luna
blithely without asking why? Comrade, that committee was too small, its
chairman too intelligent; there was always the hazard that they might offer an
acceptable compromise—that first day there was grave danger of it. Had we
been able to force our case before the Grand Assembly there would have been no
danger of intelligent action. But we were balked. The best I could do was to
antagonize the committee, even stooping to personal insult to make certain of
at least one holdout against common sense.”

“Guess
I never will understand high-level approach.”

“Possibly
not. But your talents and mine complement each other. Manuel, you wish to see
Luna free.”

“You
know I do.”

“You
also know that Terra can defeat us.”

“Sure.
No projection ever gave anything close to even money. So don’t see why
you set out to antagonize—”

“Please.
Since they can inflict their will on us, our only chance lies in weakening
their will. That was why we had to go to Terra. To be divisive. To create many
opinions. The shrewdest of the great generals in China’s history once
said that perfection in war lay in so sapping the opponent’s will that he
surrenders without fighting. In that maxim lies both our ultimate purpose and
our most pressing danger. Suppose, as seemed possible that first day, we had
been offered an inviting compromise. A governor in place of a warden, possibly
from our own number. Local autonomy. A delegate in the Grand Assembly. A higher
price for grain at the catapult head, plus a bonus for increased shipments. A
disavowal of Hobart’s policies combined with an expression of regret over
the rape and the killings with handsome cash settlements to the victims’
survivors. Would it have been accepted? Back home?”

“They
did not offer that.”

“The
chairman was ready to offer something like it that first afternoon and at that
time he had his committee in hand. He offered us an asking price close enough
to permit such a dicker. Assume that we reached in substance what I outlined.
Would it have been acceptable at home?”

“Uh
… maybe.”

“More
than a ‘maybe’ by the bleak projection made just before we left
home; it was the thing to be avoided at any cost—a settlement which would
quiet things down, destroy our will to resist, without changing any essential
in the longer-range prediction of disaster. So I switched the subject and
squelched possibility by being difficult about irrelevancies politely
offensive. Manuel, you and I know—and Adam knows—that there must be
an end to food shipments; nothing less will save Luna from disaster. But can
you imagine a wheat farmer fighting to end those shipments?”

“No.
Wonder if can pick up news from home on how they’re taking
stoppage?”

“There
won’t be any. Here is how Adam has timed it, Manuel: No announcement is
to be made on either planet until after we get home. We are still buying wheat.
Barges are still arriving at Bombay.”

“You
told them shipments would stop at once.”

“That
was a threat, not a moral commitment. A few more loads won’t matter and
we need time. We don’t have everyone on our side; we have only a
minority. There is a majority who don’t care either way but can be
swayed—temporarily. We have another minority against us … especially
grain farmers whose interest is never politics but the price of wheat. They are
grumbling but accepting Scrip, hoping it wili be worth face value later. But
the instant we announce that shipments have stopped they will be actively
against us. Adam plans to have the majority committed to us at the time the
announcement is made.”

“How
long? One year? Two?”

“Two
days, three days, perhaps four. Carefully edited excerpts from that five-year
plan, excerpts from the recordings you’ve made—especially that
yellow-dog offer—exploitation of your arrest in Kentucky—”

“Hey!
I’d rather forget that.”

Prof
smiled and cocked an eyebrow. “Uh—” I said uncomfortably.
“Okay. If will help.”

“It
will help more than any statistics about natural resources.”

Wired-up
ex-human piloting us went in as one maneuver without bothering to orbit and
gave us even heavier beating; ship was light and lively. But change in motion
is under two-and-a-half kilometers; was over in nineteen seconds and we were
down at Johnson City. I took it right, just a terrible constriction in chest
and a feeling as if giant were squeezing heart, then was over and I was gasping
back to normal and glad to be proper weight. But did almost kill poor old Prof.

Mike
told me later that pilot refused to surrender control; Mike would have brought
ship down in a low-gee, no-breakum-egg, knowing Prof was aboard. But perhaps
that Cyborg knew what he was doing; a low-gee landing wastes mass and
Lotus-Lark grounded almost dry.

None
of which we cared about, as looked as if that Garrison landing had wasted Prof.
Stu saw it while I was still gasping, then we were both at him—heart
stimulant, manual respiration, massage. At last he fluttered eyelids, looked at
us, smiled. “Home,” he whispered.

We
made him rest twenty minutes before we let him suit up to leave ship; had been
as near dead as can be and not hear angels. Skipper was filling tanks, anxious
to get rid of us and take on passengers—that Dutchman never spoke to us
whole trip; think he regretted letting money talk him into a trip that could
ruin or kill him.

By
then Wyoh was inside ship, p-suited to come meet us. Don’t think Stu had
ever seen her in a p-suit and certain he had never seen her as a blonde; did
not recognize. I was hugging her in spite of p-suit; he was standing by,
waiting to be introduced. Then strange “man” in p-suit hugged
him—he was surprised.

Heard
Wyoh’s muffled voice: “Oh heavens! Mannie, my helmet.”

I
unclamped it, lifted off. She shook curls and grinned. “Stu, aren’t
you glad to see me? Don’t you know me?”

A
grin spread over his face, slowly as dawn across maria. “
Zdra’stvooeet’ye,
Gospazha
! I am most happy to see you.”

“‘Gospazha’
indeed! I’m Wyoh to you, dear, always. Didn’t Mannie tell you
I’d gone back to blonde?”

“Yes,
he did. But knowing it and seeing are not the same.”

“You’ll
get used to it.” She stopped to bend over Prof, kiss him, giggle at him,
then straightened up and gave me a no-helmet welcome-home that left us both
with tears despite pesky suit. Then turned again to Stu, started to kiss him.

He
held back a little. She stopped. “Stu, am I going to have to put on brown
makeup to welcome you?” Stu glanced at me, then kissed her. Wyoh put in
as much time and thought as she had to welcoming me.

Was
later I figured out his odd behavior. Stu, despite commitment, was still not a
Loonie—and in meantime Wyoh had married. What’s that got to do with
it? Well, Earthside it makes a difference, and Stu did not know deep down in
bones that a Loonie lady is own mistress. Poor chum thought I might take
offense!

We
got Prof into suit, ourselves same, and left, me with cannon under arm. Once
underground and locked through, we unsuited—and I was flattered to see
that Wyoh was wearing crushed under p-suit that red dress I bought her ages
ago. She brushed it and skirt flared out.

Immigration
room was empty save for about forty men lined up along wall like new
transportees; were wearing p-suits and carrying helmets—Terrans going
home, stranded tourists and some scientists. Their p-suits would not go, would
be unloaded before lift. I looked at them and thought about Cyborg pilot. When
Lark had been stripped, all but three couches had been removed; these people
were going to take acceleration lying on floorplates—if skipper was not
careful he was going to have mashed Terrans
au blut
.

Mentioned
to Stu. “Forget it,” he said. “Captain Leures has foam pads
aboard. He won’t let them be hurt; they’re his life
insurance.”

My
family, all thirty-odd from Grandpaw to babies, was waiting beyond next lock on
level he!ow and we got cried on and slobbered on and hugged and this time Stu
did not hold back. Little Hazel made ceremony of kissing us; she had Liberty
Caps, set one on each, then kissed us—and at that signal whole family put
on Liberty Caps, and I got sudden tears. Perhaps is what patriotism feels like,
choked up and so happy it hurts. Or maybe was just being with my beloveds
again.

“Where’s
Slim?” I asked Hazel. “Wasn’t he invited?”

“Couldn’t
come. He’s junior marshal of your reception.”

“Reception?
This is all we want.”

“You’ll
see.”

Did.
Good thing family came out to meet us; that and ride to L-City (filled a
capsule) were all I saw of them for some time. Tube Station West was a howling
mob, all in Liberty Caps. We three were carried on shoulders all way to Old
Dome, surrounded by a stilyagi bodyguard, elbows locked to force through
cheering, singing crowds. Boys were wearing red caps and white shirts and their
girls wore white jumpers and red shorts color of caps.

At
station and again when they put us down in Old Dome I got kissed by fems I have
never seen before or since. Remember hoping that measures we had taken in lieu
of quarantine were effective—or half of L-City would be down with colds
or worse. (Apparently we were clean; was no epidemic. But I remember
time—was quite small—when measles got loose and thousands died.)

Worried
about Prof, too; reception was too rough for a man good as dead an hour
earlier. But he not only enjoyed it, he made a wonderful speech in Old
Dome—one short on logic, loaded with ringing phrases. “Love”
was in it, and “home” and “Luna” and “comrades
and neighbors” and even “shoulder to shoulder” and all
sounded good.

They
had erected a platform under big news video on south face. Adam Selene greeted
us from video screen and now Prof’s face and voice were projected from
it, much magnified, over his head—did not have to shout. But did have to
pause after every sentence; crowd roars drowned out even bull voice from
screen—and no doubt pauses helped, as rest. But Prof no longer seemed
old, tired, ill; being back inside The Rock seemed to be tonic he needed. And
me, too! Was wonderful to be right weight, feel strong, breathe pure,
replenished air of own city.

No
mean city! Impossible to get all of L-City inside Old Dome—but looked as
if they tried. I estimated an area ten meters square, tried to count heads, got
over two hundred not half through and gave up. Lunatic placed crowd at thirty
thousand, seems impossible.

Prof’s
words reached more nearly three million; video carried scene to those who could
not crowd into Old Dome, cable and relay flashed it across lonely maria to all
warrens. He grabbed chance to tell of slave future Authority planned for them.
Waved that “white paper.” “Here it is!” he cried.
“Your fetters! Your leg irons! Will you wear them?”

“NO!”

“They
say you must. They say they will H-bomb … then survivors will surrender
and put on these chains. Will you?”

“NO!
NEVER!”

“Never,”
agreed Prof. “They threaten to send troops … more and more troops
to rape and murder. We shall fight them.”

“DA!”

“We
shall fight them on the surface, we shall fight them in the tubes, we shall
fight them in the corridors! If die we must, we shall die free!”

“Yes!
Ja-da! Tell ‘em, tell ‘em!”

“And
if we die, let history write: This was Luna’s finest hour! Give us
liberty … or give us death!”

Some
of that sounded familiar. But his words came out fresh and new; I joined in
roars. Look … I knew we couldn’t whip Terra—I’m tech by
trade and know that an H-missile doesn’t care how brave you are. But was
ready, too. If they wanted a fight, let’s have it!

Prof
let them roar, then led them in “Battle Hymn of the Republic,”
Simon’s version. Adam appeared on screen again, took over leading it and
sang with them, and we tried to slip away, off back of platform, with help of
stilyagi led by Slim. But women didn’t want to let us go and lads
aren’t at their best in trying to stop ladies; they broke through. Was
twenty-two hundred before we four, Wyoh, Prof, Stu, self, were locked in room L
of Raffles, where Adam-Mike joined us by video. I was starved by then, all
were, so I ordered dinner and Prof insisted that we eat before reviewing plans.

Then
we got down to business.

Adam
started by asking me to read aloud white paper, for his benefit and for Comrade
Wyoming—“But first, Comrade Manuel, if you have the recordings you
made Earthside, could you transmit them by phone at high speed to my office?
I’ll have them transcribed for study—all I have so far are the
coded summaries Comrade Stuart sent up.”

I
did so, knowing Mike would study them at once, phrasing was part of “Adam
Selene” myth—and decided to talk to Prof about letting Stu in on
facts. If Stu was to be in executive cell, pretending was too clumsy.