The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (44 page)

Never
got to say it. Prof said, “You did exactly right, Manuel. You were acting
head of government and the crisis was on top of you. I’m delighted that
you did not throw away the golden moment merely because I was out of
touch.”

What
can you do with a bloke like that? Me with heat up to red mark and no chance to
use it—had to swallow and say, “Spasebaw, Prof.”

Prof
confirmed death of “Adam Selene.” “We could have used the
fiction a little longer but this is the perfect opportunity. Mike, you and
Manuel have matters in hand; I had better stop off at Churchill on my way home
and identify his body.”

So
he did. Whether Prof picked a Loonie body or a trooper I never asked, nor how
he silenced anybody else involved—perhaps no huhu as many bodies in
Churchill Upper were never identified. This one was right size and skin color;
it had been explosively decompressed and burned in face—looked awful!

It
lay in state in Old Dome with face covered, and was speech-making I
didn’t listen to—Mike didn’t miss a word; his most human
quality was his conceit. Some rockhead wanted to embalm this dead flesh, giving
Lenin as a precedent. But Pravda pointed out that Adam was a staunch conservationist
and would never want this barbaric exception made. So this unknown soldier, or
citizen, or citizen-soldier, wound up in our city’s cloaca.

Which
forces me to tell something I’ve put off. Wyoh was not hurt, merely
exhaustion. But Ludmilla never came back. I did not know it—glad I
didn’t—but she was one of many dead at foot of ramp facing Ben
Marche. An explosive bullet hit between her lovely, little-girl breasts.
Kitchen knife in her hand had blood on it—! think she had had time to pay
Ferryman’s Fee.

Stu
came out to Complex to tell me rather than phoning, then went back with me. Stu
had not been missing; once fight was over he had gone to Raffles to work with
his special codebook—but that can wait. Mum reached him there and he
offered to break it to me.

So
then I had to go home for our crying-together—though it is well that
nobody reached me until after Mike and I started Hard Rock. When we got home,
Stu did not want to come in, not being sure of our ways. Anna came out and
almost dragged him in. He was welcome and wanted; many neighbors came to cry.
Not as many as with most deaths—but we were just one of many families
crying together that day.

Did
not stay long—couldn’t; had work to do. I saw Milla just long
enough to kiss her good-bye. She was lying in her room and did look as if she
did be simply sleeping. Then I stayed a while with my beloveds before going
back to pick up load. Had never realized, until that day, how old Mimi is.
Sure, she had seen many deaths, some her own descendants. But little
Milla’s death did seem almost too much for her. Ludmilla was
special—Mimi’s granddaughter, daughter in all but fact, and by most
special exception and through Mimi’s intervention her co-wife, most
junior to most senior.

Like
all Loonies, we conserve our dead—and am truly glad that barbaric custom
of burial was left back on old Earth; our way is better. But Davis family does
not put that which comes out of processor into our commercial farming tunnels.
No. It goes into our little greenhouse tunnel, there to become roses and
daffodils and peonies among soft-singing bees. Tradition says that Black Jack
Davis is in there, or whatever atoms of him do remain after many, many, many
years of blooming.

Is
a happy place, a beautiful place.

Came
Friday with no answer from F.N. News up from Earthside seemed equal parts
unwillingness to believe we had destroyed seven ships and two regiments (F.N.
had not even confirmed that a battle had taken place) and complete disbelief
that we could bomb Terra, or could matter if we did—they still called it
“throwing rice.” More time was given to World Series.

Stu
worried because had received no answers to code messages. They had gone via
LuNoHoCo’s commercial traffic to their Zurich agent, thence to
Stu’s Paris broker, from him by less usual channels to Dr. Chan, with
whom I had once had a talk and with whom Sm had talked later, arranging a
communication channel. Stu had pointed out to Dr. Chan that, since Great China
was not to be bombed until twelve hours after North America, bombing of Great
China could be aborted after bombing of North America was a proved
fact—if Great China acted swiftly. Alternatively, Stu had invited Dr.
Chan to suggest variations in target if our choices in Great China were not as
deserted as we believed them to be.

Stu
fretted—had placed great hopes in quasi-cooperation he had established
with Dr. Chan. Me, I had never been sure—only thing I was sure of was
that Dr. Chan would not himself sit on a target. But he might not warn his old
mother.

My
worries had to do with Mike. Sure, Mike was used to having many loads in
trajectory at once—but had never had to astrogate more than one at a
time. Now he had hundreds and had promised to deliver twenty-nine of them
simultaneously to the exact second at twenty-nine pinpointed targets.

More
than that—For many targets he had backup missiles, to smear that target a
second time, a third, or even a sixth, from a few minutes up to three hours
after first strike.

Four
great Peace Powers, and some smaller ones, had antimissile defenses; those of
North America were supposed to be best. But was subject where even F.N. might
not know. All attack weapons were held by Peace Forces but defense weapons were
each nation’s own pidgin and could be secret. Guesses ranged from India,
believed to have no missile interceptors, to North America, believed to be able
to do a good job. She had done fairly well in stopping intercontinental
H-missiles in Wet Firecracker War past century.

Probably
most of our rocks to North America would reach target simply because aimed
where was nothing to protect. But they couldn’t afford to ignore missile
for Long Island Sound, or rock for 87° W x 42° 30’ N—Lake
Michigan, center of triangle formed by Chicago, Grand Rapids, Milwaukee. But
that heavy gravity makes interception a tough job and very costly; they would
try to stop us only where worth it.

But
we couldn’t afford to let them stop us. So some rocks were backed up with
more rocks. What H-tipped interceptors would do to them even Mike did not
know—not enough data. Mike assumed that interceptors would be triggered
by radar—but at what distance? Sure, close enough and a steelcased rock
is incandescent gas a microsecond later. But is world of difference between a
multi-tonne rock and touchy circuitry of an H-missile; what would “kill”
latter would simply shove one of our brutes violently aside, cause to miss.

We
needed to prove to them that we could go on throwing cheap rocks long after
they ran out of expensive (milliondollar? hundred-thousand-dollar?) H-tipped
interceptor rockets. If not proved first time, then next time Terra turned
North America toward us, we would go after targets we had been unable to hit
first time—backup rocks for second pass, and for third, were already in
space, to be nudged where needed.

If
three bombings on three rotations of Terra did not do it, we might still be
throwing rocks in ‘77—till they ran out of interceptors … or
till they destroyed us (far more likely).

For
a century North American Space Defense Command had been buried in a mountain
south of Colorado Springs, Colorado, a city of no other importance. During Wet
Firecracker War the Cheyenne Mountain took a direct hit; space defense command
post survived—but not sundry deer, trees, most of city and some of top of
mountain. What we were about to do should not kill anybody unless they stayed
outside on that mountain despite three days’ steady warnings. But North
American Space Defense Command was to receive full Lunar treatment: twelve rock
missiles on first pass, then all we could spare on second rotation, and on
third—and so on, until we ran out of steel casings, or were put out of
action … or North American Directorate hollered quits.

This
was one target where we would not be satisfied to get just one missile to
target. We meant to smash that mountain and keep on smashing. To hurt their
morale. To let them know we were still around. Disrupt their communications and
bash in command post if pounding could do it. Or at least give them splitting
headaches and no rest. If we could prove to all Terra that we could drive home
a sustained attack on strongest Gibraltar of their space defense, it would save
having to prove it by smashing Manhattan or San Francisco.

Which
we would not do even if losing. Why? Hard sense. If we used our last strength
to destroy a major city, they would not punish us; they would destroy us. As
Prof put it, “If possible, leave room for your enemy to become your
friend.”

But
any military target is fair game.

Don’t
think anybody got much sleep Thursday night. All Loonies knew that Friday
morning would be our big try. And everybody Earthside knew and at last their
news admitted that Spacetrack had picked up objects headed for Terra,
presumably “rice bowls” those rebellious convicts had boasted
about. But was not a war warning, was mostly assurances that Moon colony could
not possibly build H-bombs——but might be prudent to avoid areas
which these criminals claimed to be aiming at. (Except one funny boy, popular
news comic who said our targets would be safest place to be—this on
video, standing on a big X-mark which he claimed was 110W x 40N. Don’t
recall hearing of him later.)

A
reflector at Richardson Observatory was hooked up for video display and I think
every Loonie was watching, in homes, taprooms, Old Dome—except a few who
chose to p-suit and eyeball it up on surface despite being bright semi-lunar at
most warrens. At Brigadier Judge Brody’s insistence we hurriedly rigged a
helper antenna at catapult head so that his drillmen could watch video in ready
rooms, else we might not have had a gunner on duty. (Armed
forces—Brody’s gunners, Finn’s militia, Stilyagi Air
Corps—stayed on blue alert throughout period.)

Congress
was in informal session in Novy Bolshoi Teatr where Terra was shown on a big
screen. Some vips—Prof, Stu, Wolfgang, others—watched a smaller
screen in Warden’s former office in Complex Upper. I was with them part
time, in and out, nervous as a cat with puppies, grabbing a sandwich and
forgetting to eat—but mostly stayed locked in with Mike in Complex Under.
Couldn’t hold still.

About
0800 Mike said, “Man my oldest and best friend, may I say something
without offending you?”

“Huh?
Sure. When did you ever worry about offending me?”

“Always,
Man, once I understood that you could be offended. It is now only three point
five seven times ten to the ninth microseconds until impact … and this is
the most complex problem I have ever tried to solve against real time running.
Whenever you speak to me, I always use a large percentage of my
capacity—perhaps larger than you suspect—during several million
microseconds in my great need to analyze exactly what you have said and to
reply correctly.”

“You’re
saying, ‘Don’t joggle my elbow, I’m busy.’”

“I
want to give you a perfect solution, Man.”

“I
scan. Uh … I’ll go back up with Prof.”

“As
you wish. But do please stay where I can reach you—I may need your
help.”

Last
was nonsense and we both knew it; problem was beyond human capacity, too late
even to order abort. What Mike meant was: I’m nervous, too, and want your
company—but no talking, please.

“Okay,
Mike, I’ll stay in touch. A phone somewhere. Will punch MYCROFTXXX but
won’t speak, so don’t answer.”

“Thank
you, Man my best friend.
Bolshoyeh spasebaw
.”

“See
you later.” Went up, decided did not want company after all, p-suited,
found long phone cord, jacked it into helmet, looped it over arm, went clear to
surface. Was a service phone in utility shed outside lock; jacked into it,
punched Mike’s number, went outside. Got into shade of shed and pecked
around edge at Terra.

She
was hanging as usual halfway up western sky, in crescent big and gaudy,
three-plus days past new. Sun had dropped toward western horizon but its glare
kept me from seeing Terra clearly. Chin visor wasn’t enough so moved back
behind shed and away from it till could see Terra over shed while still
shielded from Sun—was better. Sunrise chopped through bulge of Africa so
dazzle point was on land, not too bad—but south pole cap was so blinding
white could not see North America too well, lighted only by moonlight.

Twisted
neck and got helmet binoculars on it—good ones, Zeiss 7 x 50s that had
once belonged to Warden.

North
America spread like a ghostly map before me. Was unusually free of cloud; could
see cities, glowing spots with no edges. 0837—

At
0850 Mike gave me a voice countdown—didn’t need his attention; he
could have programmed it full automatic any time earlier.

0851—0852—0853.…
one minute—59—58—57 .… half
minute—29—-28—27 .… ten
seconds—nine—eight—seven—six—five—four—three—two—one—

And
suddenly that grid burst out in diamond pinpoints!

We
hit them so hard you could
see
it, by bare eyeball hookup; didn’t
need binox. Chin dropped and I said, “
Bojemoi
!” softly and
reverently. Twelve very bright, very sharp, very white lights in perfect
rectangular array. They swelled, grew dimmer, dropped off toward red, taking
what seemed a long, long time. Were other new lights but that perfect grid so
fascinated me I hardly noticed.

“Yes,”
agreed Mike with smug satisfaction. “Dead on. You can talk now, Man;
I’m not busy. Just the backups.”

“I’m
speechless. Any fail to get through?”

“The
Lake Michigan load was kicked up and sideways, did not disintegrate. It will
land in Michigan—I have no control; it lost its transponder. The Long
Island Sound one went straight to target. They tried to intercept and failed; I
can’t say why. Man, I can abort the follow-ups on that one, into the
Atlantic and clear of shipping. Shall I? Eleven seconds.”