The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (48 page)

So
I wound up as a computer mechanic. Stu and Wyoh met me, with luggage (including
rest of my arms), and we threaded through endless unpressured tunnels in
p-suits, on a small flatbed rolligon used to haul steel to site. Greg had big
rolligon meet us for surface stretch, then met us himself when we went
underground again.

So
I missed attack on ballistic radars Saturday night.

Captain
of first ship, FNS Esperance, had guts. Late Saturday he changed course, headed
straight in. Apparently figured we might attempt jingle-jangle with radars, for
he seems to have decided to come in close enough to see our radar installations
by ship’s radar rather than rely on letting his missiles home in on our
beams.

Seems
to have considered himself, ship, and crew expendable, for he was down to a
thousand kilometers before he launched, a spread that went straight for five
out of six of Mike’s radars, ignoring random jingle-jangle.

Mike,
expecting self soon to be blinded, turned Brody’s boys loose to burn
ship’s eyes, held them on it for three seconds before he shifted them to
missiles.

Result:
one crashed cruiser, two ballistic radars knocked out by H-missiles, three
missiles “killed”—and two gun crews killed, one by
H-explosion, other by dead missile that landed square on them—plus
thirteen gunners with radiation burns above 800-roentgen death level, partly
from flash, partly from being on surface too long. And must add: Four members
of Lysistrata Corps died with those crews; they elected to p-suit and go up
with their men. Other girls had serious radiation exposure but not up to 800-r
level.

Second
cruiser continued an elliptical orbit around and behind Luna.

Got
most of this from Mike after we arrived Little David’s Sling early
Sunday. He was feeling groused over loss of two of his eyes and still more
groused over gun crews—I think Mike was developing something like human
conscience; he seemed to feel it was his fault that he had not been able to
outfight six targets at once. I pointed out that what he had to fight with was
improvised, limited range, not real weapons.

“How
about self, Mike? Are you right?”

“In
all essentials. I have outlying discontinuities. One live missile chopped my
circuits to Novy Leningrad, but reports routed through Luna City inform me that
local controls tripped in satisfactorily with no loss in city services. I feel
frustrated by these discontinuities—but they can be dealt with
later.”

“Mike,
you sound tired.”

“Me
tired? Ridiculous! Man, you forget what I am. I’m annoyed, that’s
all.”

“When
will that second ship be back in sight?”

“In
about three hours if he were to hold earlier orbit. But he will
not—probability in excess of ninety percent. I expect him in about an
hour.”

“A
Garrison orbit, huh? Oho!”

“He
left my sight at azimuth and course east thirty-two north. Does that suggest
anything, Man?”

Tried
to visualize. “Suggests they are going to land and try to capture you,
Mike. Have you told Finn? I mean, have you told Prof to warn Finn?”

“Professor
knows. But that is not the way I analyze it.”

“So?
Well, suggests I had better shut up and let you work.”

Did
so. Lenore fetched me breakfast while I inspected Junior—and am ashamed
to say could not manage to grieve over losses with both Wyoh and Lenore
present. Mum had sent Lenore out “to cook for Greg” after
Milla’s death—just an excuse; were enough wives at site to provide
homecooking for everybody. Was for Greg’s morale and Lenore’s, too;
Lenore and Milla had been close.

Junior
seemed to be right. He was working on South America, one load at a time. I
stayed in radar room and watched, at extreme magnification, while he placed one
in estuary between Montevideo and Buenos Aires; Mike could not have been more
accurate. I then checked his program for North America, found naught to
criticize—locked it in and took key. Junior was on his own—unless
Mike got clear of other troubles and decided to take back control.

Then
sat and tried to listen to news both from Earthside and L-City. Co-ax cable
from L-City carried phones, Mike’s hookup to his idiot child, radio, and
video; site was no longer isolated. But, besides cable from L-City, site had
antennas pointed at Terra; any Earthside news Complex could pick up, we could
listen to directly. Nor was this silly extra; radio and video from Terra had
been only recreation during construction and this was now a standby in case
that one cable was broken.

F.N.
official satellite relay was claiming that Luna’s ballistic radars had
been destroyed and that we were now helpless. Wondered what people of Buenos
Aires and Montevideo thought about that. Probably too busy to listen; m some
ways water shots were worse than those where we could find open land.

Luna
City Lunatic’s video channel was carrying Sheenie telling Loonies outcome
of attack by Esperance, repeating news while warning everybody that battle was
not over, a warship would be back in our sky any moment—be ready for
anything, everybody stay in p-suits (Sheenie was wearing his, with helmet
open), take maximum pressure precautions, all units stay on red alert, all
citizens not otherwise called by duty strongly urged to seek lowest level and
stay there till all clear. And so forth.

He
went through this several times—then suddenly broke it: “Flash!
Enemy cruiser radar-sighted, low and fast. It may dido for Luna City. Flash!
Missiles launched, headed for ejection end of—”

Picture
and sound chopped off.

Might
as well tell now what we at Little David’s Sling learned later: Second
cruiser, by coming in low and fast, tightest orbit Luna’s field permits,
was able to start its bombing at ejection end of old catapult, a hundred
kilometers from catapult head and Brody’s gunners, and knock many rings out
in minute it took him to come into sight-and-range of drill guns, all clustered
around radars at catapult head. Guess he felt safe. Wasn’t. Brody’s
boys burned eyes out and ears off. He made one orbit after that and crashed
near Torricelli, apparently in attempt to land, for his jets fired just before
crash.

But
our next news at new site was from Earthside: that brassy F.N. frequency
claimed that our catapult had been destroyed (true) and that Lunar menace was
ended (false) and called on all Loonies to take prisoner their false leaders
and surrender themselves to mercy of Federated Nations
(nonexistent—“mercy,” that is).

Listened
to it and checked programming again, and went inside dark radar room. If
everything went as planned, we were about to lay another egg in Hudson River,
then targets in succession for three hours across that
continent—“in succession” because Junior could not handle
simultaneous hits; Mike had planned accordingly.

Hudson
River was hit on schedule. Wondered how many New Yorkers were listening to F.N.
newscast while looking at spot that gave it lie.

Two
hours later F.N. station was saying that Lunar rebels had had missiles in orbit
when catapult was destroyed—but that after those few had impacted would
be no more. When third bombing of North America was complete I shut down radar.
Had not been running steadily; Junior was programmed to sneak looks only as
necessary, a few seconds at a time.

I
then had nine hours before next bombing of Great China.

But
not nine hours for most urgent decision, whether to hit Great China again.
Without information. Except from Terra’s news channels. Which might be
false. Bloody. Without knowing whether or not warrens had been bombed. Or Prof
was dead or alive. Double bloody. Was I now acting prime minister? Needed Prof:
“head of state” wasn’t my glass of chai. Above all, needed
Mike—to calculate facts, estimate uncertainties, project probabilities of
this course or that.

My
word, didn’t even know whether ships were headed toward us and, worse
yet, was afraid to look. If turned radar on and used Junior for sky search, any
warship he brushed with beams would see him quicker than he saw them; warships
were built to spot radar surveillance. So had heard. Hell, was no military man;
was computer technician who had bumbled into wrong field.

Somebody
buzzed door; I got up and unlocked. Was Wyoh, with coffee. Didn’t say a
word, just handed it to me and went away.

Sipped
it. There it is, boy—they’re leaving you alone, waiting for you to
pull miracles out of pouch. Didn’t feel up to it.

From
somewhere, back in my youth, heard Prof say, “Manuel, when faced with a
problem you do not understand, do any part of it you do understand, then look
at it again.” He had been teaching me something he himself did not
understand very well—something in maths—but had taught me something
far more important, a basic principle.

Knew
at once what to do first.

Went
over to Junior and had him print out predicted impacts of all loads in
orbit—easy, was a pre-program he could run anytime against real time running.
While he was doing it, I looked for certain alternate programs in that long
roll Mike had prepared.

Then
set up some of those alternate programs—no trouble, simply had to be
careful to read them correctly and punch them in without error. Made Junior print
back for check before I gave him signal to execute.

When
finished—forty minutes—every load in trajectory intended for an
inland target had been retargeted for a seacoast city—with hedge to my
bet that execution was delayed for rocks farther back. But, unless I canceled,
Junior would reposition them as soon as need be.

Now
horrible pressure of time was off me, now could abort any load into ocean right
up to last few minutes before impact. Now could think. So did.

Then
called in my ‘War Cabinet”—Wyoh, Stu, and Greg my
“Commander of Armed Forces,” using Greg’s office. Lenore was
allowed to go in and out, fetching coffee and food, or sitting and saying
nothing. Lenore is a sensible fem and knows when to keep quiet.

Stu
started it. “Mr. Prime Minister, I do not think that Great China should
be hit this time.”

“Never
mind fancy titles, Stu. Maybe I’m acting, maybe not. But haven’t
time for formality.”

“Very
well. May I explain my proposal?”

“Later.”
I explained what I had done to give us more time; he nodded and kept quiet.
“Our tightest squeeze is that we are out of communication, both Luna City
and Earthside. Greg, how about that repair crew?”

“Not
back yet.”

“If
break is near Luna City, they may be gone a long time. If can repair at all. So
must assume we’ll have to act on our own. Greg, do you have an
electronics tech who can jury-rig a radio that will let us talk to Earthside?
To their satellites, I mean—that doesn’t take much with right
antenna. I may be able to help and that computer tech I sent you isn’t
too clumsy, either.” (Quite good, in fact, for ordinary
electronics—a poor bloke I had once falsely accused of allowing a fly to
get into Mike’s guts. I had placed him in this job.)

“Harry
Biggs, my power plant boss, can do anything of that sort,” Greg said
thoughtfully, “if he has the gear.”

“Get
him on it. You can vandalize anything but radar and computer once we get all
loads out of catapult. How many lined up?”

“Twenty-three,
and no more steel.”

“So
twenty-three it is, win or lose. I want them ready for loading; might lob them
off today.”

“They’re
ready. We can load as fast as the cat can throw them.”

“Good.
One more thing—Don’t know whether there’s an F.N.
cruiser—maybe more than one—in our sky or not. And afraid to look.
By radar, I mean; radar for skywatch could give away our position. But must
have skywatch. Can you get volunteers for an eyeball skywatch and can you spare
them?”

Lenore
spoke up. “I volunteer!”

“Thanks,
honey; you’re accepted.”

“We’ll
find them,” said Greg. “Won’t need fems.”

“Let
her do it, Greg; this is everybody’s show.” Explained what I
wanted: Mare Undarum was now in dark semi-lunar; Sun had set. Invisible
boundary between sunlight and Luna’s shadow stretched over us, a precise
locus. Ships passing through our sky would wink suddenly into view going west,
blink out going east. Visible part of orbit would stretch from horizon to some
point in sky. If eyeball team could spot both points, mark one by bearing,
other by stars, and approximate time by counting seconds, Junior could start
guessing orbit—two passes and Junior would know its period and something
about shape of orbit. Then I would have some notion of when would be safe to
use radar and radio, and catapult—did not want to loose a load with F.N.
ship above horizon, could be radar-looking our way.

Perhaps
too cautious—but had to assume that this catapult, this one radar, these
two dozen missiles, were all that stood between Luna and total defeat—and
our bluff hinged on them never knowing what we had or where it was. We had to
appear endlessly able to pound Terra with missiles, from source they had not
suspected and could never find.

Then
as now, most Loonies knew nothing about astronomy—we’re cave
dwellers, we go up to surface only when necessary. But we were lucky; was
amateur astronomer in Greg’s crew, cobber who had worked at Richardson. I
explained, put him in charge, let him worry about teaching eyeball crew how to
tell stars apart. I got these things started before we went back to talk-talk.
“Well, Stu? Why shouldn’t we hit Great China?”

“I’m
still expecting word from Dr. Chan. I received one message from him, phoned
here shortly before we were cut off from cities—”

“My
word, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I
tried to, but you had yourself locked in and I know better than to bother you
when you are busy with ballistics. Here’s the translation. Usual LuNoHo
Company address with a reference which means it’s for me and that it has
come through my Paris agent. ‘Our Darwin sales representative’—that’s
Chan—’informs us that your shipments of’—well, never
mind the coding; he means the attack days while appearing to refer to last
June—’were improperly packaged resulting in unacceptable damage.
Unless this can be corrected, negotiations for long-term contract will be
serously jeopardized.”