The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (42 page)

And
that was biggest reason why we Loonies won: We fought. Most Loonies never laid
eyes on a live invader but wherever troopers broke in, Loonies rushed in like
white corpuscles—and fought. Nobody told them. Our feeble organization
broke down under surprise. But we Loonies fought berserk and invaders died. No
trooper got farther down than level six in any warren. They say that people in
Bottom Alley never knew we were invaded until over.

But
invaders fought well, too. These troops were not only crack riot troops, best
peace enforcers for city work F.N. had; they also had been indoctrinated and
drugged. Indoctrination had told them (correctly) that their only hope of going
Earthside again was to capture warrens and pacify them. If they did, they were
promised relief and no more duty in Luna. But was win or die, for was pointed
out that their transports could not take off if they did not win, as they had
to be replenished with reaction mass—impossible without first capturing
Luna. (And this was true.)

Then
they were loaded with energizers, don’t-worries, and fear inhibitors that
would make mouse spit at cat, and turned loose. They fought professionally and
quite fearlessly—died.

In
Tycho Under and in Churchill they used gas and casualties were more one-sided;
only those Loonies who managed to reach p-suits were effective. Outcome was
same, simply took longer. Was knockout gas as Authority had no intention of
killing us all; simply wanted to teach us a lesson, get us under control, put
us to work.

Reason
for F.N.’s long delay and apparent indecision arose from method of sneak
attack. Decision had been made shortly after we embargoed grain (so we learned
from captured transport officers); time was used in mounting attack—much
of it in a long elliptical orbit which went far outside Luna’s orbit,
crossing ahead of Luna, then looping back and making rendezvous above Farside.
Of course Mike never saw them; he’s blind back there. He had been
skywatching with his ballistic radars—but no radar can look over horizon;
longest look Mike got at any ship in orbit was eight minutes. They came
skimming peaks in tight, circular orbits, each straight for target with a fast
dido landing at end, sitting them down with high gee, precisely at new earth,
12 Oct 76 Gr. 18h-40m-36.9s—if not at that exact tenth of a second, then
as close to it as Mike could tell from blip tracks—elegant work, one must
admit, on part of F.N. Peace Navy.

Big
brute that poured a thousand troops into L-City Mike did not see until it
chopped off for grounding—a glimpse. He would have been able to see it a
few seconds sooner had he been looking eastward with new radar at Mare Undarum
site, but happened he was drilling “his idiot son” at time and they
were looking through it westward at Terra. Not that those seconds would have
mattered. Surprise was so beautifully planned, so complete, that each landing
force was crashing in at Greenwich 1900 all over Luna, before anybody
suspected. No accident that it was just new earth with all warrens in bright
semi-lunar; Authority did not really know Lunar conditions—but did know
that no Loonie goes up onto surface unnecessarily during bright semi-lunar, and
if he must, then does whatever he must do quickly as possible and gets back
down inside—and checks his radiation counter.

So
they caught us with our p-suits down. And our weapons. But with troopers dead
we still had six transports on our surface and a command ship in our sky.

Once
Bon Marche engagement was over, I got hold of self and found a phone. No word
from Kongville, no word from Prof. J-Clty fight had been won, same for Novylen—transport
there had toppled on landing; invading force had been understrength from
landing losses and Finn’s boys now held disabled transport. Still
fighting in Churchill and Tycho Under. Nothing going on in other warrens. Mike
had shut down tubes and was reserving interwarren phone links for official
calls. An explosive pressure drop in Churchill Upper, uncontrolled. Yes, Finn
had checked in and could be reached.

So
I talked to Finn, told him where L-City transport was, arranged to meet at
easement lock thirteen.

Finn
had much same experience as I—caught cold save he did have p-suit. Had
not been able to establish control over laser gunners until fight was over and
himself had fought solo in massacre in Old Dome. Now was beginning to round up
his lads and had one officer taking reports from Finn’s office in Bon
Marche. Had reached Novylen subcommander but was worried about
HKL—“Mannie, should I move men there by tube?”

Told
him to wait—they couldn’t get at us by tube, not while we
controlled power, and doubted if that transport could lift. “Let’s
look at this one.”

So
we went out through lock thirteen, clear to end of private pressure, on through
farm tunnels of a neighbor (who could not believe we had been invaded) and used
his surface lock to eyeball transport from a point nearly a kilometer west of
it. We were cautious in lifting hatch lid.

Then
pushed it up and climbed out; outcropping of rock shielded us. We Red-Indianed
around edge and looked, using helmet binox.

Then
withdrew behind rock and talked. Finn said, “Think my lads can handle
this.”

“How?”

“If
I tell you, you’ll think of reasons why it won’t work. So how about
letting me run my own show, cobber?”

Have
heard of armies where boss is not told to shut up—word is
“discipline.” But we were amateurs. Finn allowed me to tag
along—unarmed.

Took
him an hour to put it together, two minutes to execute. He scattered a dozen
men around ship, using farmers’ surface radio silence
throughout—anyhow, some did not have p-suit radios, city boys. Finn took
position farthest west; when he was sure others had had time, he sent up a
signal rocket.

When
flare burst over ship, everybody burned at once, each working on a
predesignated antenna. Finn used up his power pack, replaced it and started
burning into hull—not door lock, hull. At once his cherry-red spot was
joined by another, then three more, all working on same bit of steel—and
suddenly molten steel splattered out and you could see air whoosh! out of ship,
a shimmery plume of refraction. They kept working on it, making a nice big
hole, until they ran out of power. I could imagine hooraw inside ship, alarms
clanging, emergency doors closing, crew trying to seal three impossibly big
holes at once, for rest of Finn’s squad, scattered around ship, were giving
treatment to two other spots in hull. They didn’t try to burn anything
else. Was a non-atmosphere ship, built in orbit, with pressure hull separate
from power plant and tanks; they gave treatment where would do most good.

Finn
pressed helmet to mine. “Can’t lift now. And can’t talk.
Doubt they can make hull tight enough to live without p-suits. What say we let
her sit a few days and see if they come out? If they don’t, then can move
a heavy drill up here and give ‘em real dose of fun.”

Decided
Finn knew how to run his show without my sloppy help, so went back inside,
called Mike, and asked for capsule go out to ballistic radars. He wanted to
know why I didn’t stay inside where it was safe.

I
said, “Listen, you upstart collection of semi-conductors, you are merely
a minister-without-portfolio while I am Minister of Defense. I ought to see
what’s going on and I have exactly two eyeballs while you’ve got
eyes spread over half of Crisium. You trying to hog fun?”

He
told me not to jump salty and offered to put his displays on a video screen,
say in room L of Raffles—did not want me to get hurt … and had I
heard joke about drillman who hurt his mother’s feelings?

I
said, “Mike, please let me have a capsule. Can p-suit and meet it outside
Station West—which is in bad shape as I’m sure you know.”

“Okay,”
he said, “it’s your neck. Thirteen minutes. I’ll let you go
as far as Gun Station George.”

Mighty
kind of him. Got there and got on phone again. Finn had called other warrens,
located his subordinate commanders or somebody willing to take charge, and had
explained how to make trouble for grounded transports—all but Hong Kong;
for all we knew Authority’s goons held Hong Kong. “Adam,” I
said, others being in earshot, “do you think we might send a crew out by
rolligon and try to repair link Bee Ell?”

“This
is not Gospodin Selene,” Mike answered in a strange voice, “this is
one of his assistants. Adam Selene was in Churchill Upper when it lost
pressure. I’m afraid that we must assume that he is dead.”

“What?”

“I
am very sorry, Gospodin.”

“Hold
phone!” Chased a couple of drillmen and a girl out of room, then sat down
and lowered hush hood. “Mike,” I said softly, “private now.
What is this gum-beating?”

“Man,”
he said quietly, “think it over. Adam Selene had to go someday.
He’s served his purpose and is, as you pointed out, almost out of the
government. Professor and I have discussed this; the only question has been the
timing. Can you think of a better last use for Adam than to have him die in
this invasion? It makes him a national hero … and the nation needs one.
Let it stand that ‘Adam Selene is probably dead’ until you can talk
to Professor. If he still needs ‘Adam Selene’ it can turn out that
he was trapped in a private pressure and had to wait to be rescued.”

“Well—Okay,
let it stay open. Personally, I always preferred your ‘Mike’
personality anyhow.”

“I
know you do, Man my first and best friend, and so do I. It’s my real one;
‘Adam’ was a phony.”

“Uh,
yes. But, Mike, if Prof is dead in Kongville, I’m going to need help from
‘Adam’ awful bad.”

“So
we’ve got him iced and can bring him back if we need him. The stuffed
shirt. Man, when this is over, are you going to have time to take up with me
that research into humor again?”

“I’ll
take time, Mike; that’s a promise.”

“Thanks,
Man. These days you and Wyoh never have time to visit … and Professor
wants to talk about things that aren’t much fun. I’ll be glad when
this war is over.”

“Are
we going to win, Mike?”

He
chuckled. “It’s been days since you asked me that. Here’s a
pinky-new projection, run since invasion started. Hold on tight, Man—our
chances are now even!”

“Good
Bog!”

“So
button up and go see the fun. But stay back at least a hundred meters from the
gun; that ship may be able to follow back a laser beam with another one. Ranging
shortly. Twenty-one minutes.”

Didn’t
get that far away, as needed to stay on phone and longest cord around was less.
I jacked parallel into gun captain’s phone, found a shady rock and sat
down. Sun was high in west, so close to Terra that I could see Terra only by
visoring against Sun’s glare—no crescent yet, new earth ghostly
gray in moonlight surrounded by a thin radiance of atmosphere.

I
pulled my helmet back into shade. “Ballistic control, O’Kelly Davis
now at Drill Gun George. Near it, I mean, about a hundred meters,”
Figured Mike would not be able to tell how long a cord I was using, out of
kilometers of wires.

“Ballistic
control aye aye,” Mike answered without argument. “I will so inform
HQ.”

“Thank
you, ballistic control. Ask HQ if they have heard from Congressman Wyoming
Davis today.” Was fretted about Wyoh and whole family.

“I
will inquire.” Mike waited a reasonable time, then said, “HQ says
that Gospazha Wyoming Davis has taken charge of first-aid work in Old
Dome.”

“Thank
you.” Chest suddenly felt better. Don’t love Wyoh more than others
but—well, she was new. And Luna needed her.

“Ranging,”
Mike said briskly. “All guns, elevation eight seven zero, azimuth one
nine three zero, set parallax for thirteen hundred kilometers closing to
surface. Report when eyeballed.”

I
stretched out, pulling knees up to stay in shade, and searched part of sky
indicated, almost zenith and a touch south. With sunlight not on my helmet I
could see stars, but inner pert of binox were hard to position—had to
twist around and raise up on right elbow.

Nothing—Hold
it, was star with disc … where no planet ought to be. Noted another star
close, watched and waited.

Uh
huh! Da! Growing brighter and creeping north very slowly—Hey, that brute
is going to land right on us!

But
thirteen hundred kilometers is a long way, even when closing to terminal
velocity. Reminded self that it couldn’t fall on us from a departure
ellipse looping back, would have to fall around Luna—unless ship had
maneuvered into new trajectory. Which Mike hadn’t mentioned. Wanted to
ask, decided not to—wanted him to put all his savvy into analyzing that
ship, not distract him with questions.

All
guns reported eyeball tracking, including four Mike was laying himself, via
selsyns. Those four reported tracking dead on by eyeball without touching
manual controls—good news; meant that Mike had that baby taped, had
solved trajectory perfectly.

Shortly
was clear that ship was not falling around Luna, was coming in for landing.
Didn’t need to ask; it was getting much brighter and position against
stars was not changing—damn, it was going to land on us!

“Five
hundred kilometers closing,” Mike said quietly. “Stand by to burn.
All guns on remote control, override manually at command ‘burn.’
Eighty seconds.”

Longest
minute and twenty seconds I’ve ever met—that brute was big! Mike
called every ten seconds down to thirty, then started chanting seconds.
“—five—four—three—two—one—BURN!”
and ship suddenly got much brighter.

Almost
missed little speck that detached itself just before—or just
at—burn. But Mike said suddenly, “Missile launched. Selsyn guns
track with me, do not override. Other guns stay on ship. Be ready for new
coordinates.”

A
few seconds or hours later he gave new coordinates and added, “Eyeball
and burn at will.”