The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (9 page)

She
smiled, over her mad. “‘Thanks, Professor. But don’t bother.
Nobody here but comrades.”

“Señorita,
the day I let politics interfere with my appreciation of beauty, that day I
retire from politics. But you are gracious.” He looked away, glanced
closely around room.

I
said, “Prof, quit checking for evidence, you dirty old man. Last night
was politics, nothing but politics.”

“That’s
not true!” Wyoh flared up. “I struggled for hours! But he was too
strong for me. Professor—what’s the party discipline in such cases?
Here in Luna City?”

Prof
tut-tutted and rolled blank eye. “Manuel, I’m surprised. It’s
a serious matter, my dear—elimination, usually. But it must be
investigated. Did you come here willingly?”

“He
drugged me.”

“‘Dragged,’
dear lady. Let’s not corrupt the language. Do you have bruises to
show?”

I
said, “Eggs getting cold. Can’t we eliminate me after
breakfast?”

“An
excellent thought,” agreed Prof. “Manuel, could you spare your old
teacher a liter of water to make himself more presentable?”

“All
you want, in there. Don’t drag or you’ll get what littlest pig
got.”

“Thank
you, sir.”

He
retired; were sounds of brushing and washing. Wyoh and I finished arranging
table. “‘Bruises,’” I said. “Struggled all
night.’”

“You
deserved it, you insulted me.”

“How?”

“You
failed to insult me, that’s how. After you drugged me here.”

“Mmm.
Have to get Mike to analyze that.”

“Michelle
would understand it. Mannie, may I change my mind and have a little piece of
that ham?”

“Half
is yours, Prof is semi-vegetarian.” Prof came out and, while did not look
his most debonair, was neat and clean, hair combed, dimples back and happy
sparkle in eye—fake cataract gone. “Prof, how do you do it?”

“Long
practice, Manuel; I’ve been in this business far longer than you young
people. Just once, many years ago in Lima—a lovely city—I ventured
to stroll on a fine day without such forethought … and it got me
transported. What a beautiful table!”

“Sit
by me, Prof,” Wyoh invited. “I don’t want to sit by him.
Rapist.”

“Look,”
I said, “first we eat, then we eliminate me. Prof, fill plate and tell
what happened last night.”

“May
I suggest a change in program? Manuel, the life of a conspirator is not an easy
one and I learned before you were born not to mix provender and politics.
Disturbs the gastric enzymes and leads to ulcers, the occupational disease of
the underground. Mmm! That fish smells good.”

“Fish?”

“That
pink salmon,” Prof answered, pointing at ham.

A
long, pleasant time later we reached coffee/tea stage. Prof leaned back, sighed
and said, “
Bolshoyeh spasebaw, Gospazha
ee Gospodin
.
Tak
for mat
, it was wonderfully good. I don’t know when I’ve felt
more at peace with the world. Ah yes! Last evening—I saw not too much of
the proceedings because, just as you two were achieving an admirable retreat, I
lived to fight another day—I bugged out. Made it to the wings in one long
flat dive. When I did venture to peek out, the party was over, most had left,
and all yellow jackets were dead.”

(Note:
Must correct this; I learned more later. When trouble started, as I was trying
to get Wyoh through door, Prof produced a hand gun and, firing over heads,
picked off three bodyguards at rear main door, including one wearing bull
voice. How he smuggled weapon up to The Rock—or managed to liberate it
later—I don’t know. But Prof’s shooting joined with
Shorty’s work to turn tables; not one yellow jacket got out alive.
Several people were burned and four were killed—but knives, hands, and
heels finished it in seconds.)

“Perhaps
I should say, ‘All but one,’” Prof went on. “Two
cossacks at the door through which you departed had been given quietus by our
brave comrade Shorty Mkrum … and I am sorry to say that Shorty was lying
across them, dying—”

“We
knew.”

“So.
Dulcet et Decorum
. One guard in that doorway had a damaged face but
was still moving; I gave his neck a treatment known in professional circles
Earthside as the Istanbul twist. He joined his mates. By then most of the
living had left. Just myself, our chairman of the evening Finn Nielsen, a
comrade known as ‘Mom,’ that being what her husbands called her. I
consulted with Comrade Finn and we bolted all doors. That left a cleaning job.
Do you know the arrangements backstage there?”

“Not
me,” I said. Wyoh shook head.

“There
is a kitchen and pantry, used for banquets. I suspect that Mom and family run a
butcher shop for they disposed of bodies as fast as Finn and I carried them
back, their speed limited only by the rate at which portions could be ground up
and flushed into the city’s cloaca. The sight made me quite faint, so I
spent time mopping in the hall. Clothing was the difficult part, especially
those quasi-military uniforms.”

“What
did you do with those laser guns?”

Prof
turned bland eyes on me. “Guns? Dear me, they must have disappeared. We
removed everything of a personal nature from bodies of our departed
comrades—tor relatives, for identification, for sentiment. Eventually we
had everything tidy—not a job that would fool Interpol but one as to make
it seem unlikely that anything untoward had taken place. We conferred, agreed
that it would be well not to be seen soon, and left severally, myself by a
pressure door above the stage leading up to level six. Thereafter I tried to
call you, Manuel, being worried about your safety and that of this dear
lady.” Prof bowed to Wyoh. “That completes the tale. I spent the
night in quiet places.”

“Prof,”
I said, “those guards were new chums, still getting their legs. Or we
wouldn’t have won.”

“That
could be,” he agreed. “But had they not been, the outcome would
have been the same.”

“How
so? They were armed.”

“Lad,
have you ever seen a boxer dog? I think not—no dogs that large in Luna.
The boxer is a result of special selection. Gentle and intelligent, he turns
instantly into deadly killer when occasion requires.

“Here
has been bred an even more curious creature. I know of no city on Terra with as
high standards of good manners and consideration for one’s fellow man as
here in Luna. By comparison, Terran cities—I have known most major ones—are
barbaric. Yet the Loonie is as deadly as the boxer dog. Manuel, nine guards, no
matter how armed, stood no chance against that pack. Our patron used bad
judgment.”

“Um.
Seen a morning paper, Prof? Or a video cast?”

“The
latter, yes.”

“Nothing
in late news last night.”

“Nor
this morning.”

“Odd,”
I said.

“What’s
odd about it?” asked Wyoh. “We won’t talk—and we have
comrades in key places in every paper in Luna.”

Prof
shook his head. “No, my dear. Not that simple. Censorship. Do you know
how copy is set in our newspapers?”

“Not
exactly. It’s done by machinery.”

“Here’s
what Prof means,” I told her. “News is typed in editorial offices.
From there on it’s a leased service directed by a master computer at
Authority Complex”—hoped she would notice “master computer”
rather than “Mike”—“copy prints out there via phone
circuit. These rolls feed into a computer section which reads, sets copy, and
prints out newspapers at several locations. Novylen edition of Daily Lunatic
prints out in Novylen changes in ads and local stories, and computer makes
changes from standard symbols, doesn’t have to be told how. What Prof
means is that at print-out at Authority Complex, Warden could intervene. Same
for all news services, both off and to Luna—they funnel through computer
room.”

“The
point is,” Prof went on, “the Warden could have killed the story.
It’s irrelevant whether he did. Or—check me, Manuel; you know
I’m hazy about machinery—he could insert a story, too, no matter
how many comrades we have in newspaper offices.”

“Sure,”
I agreed. “At Complex, anything can be added, cut, or changed.”

“And
that, señorita, is the weakness of our Cause. Communications. Those
goons were not important—but crucially important is that it lay with the
Warden, not with us, to decide whether the story should be told. To a
revolutionist, communications are a
sine-qua-non
.”

Wyoh
looked at me and I could see synapses snapping. So I changed subject.
“Prof. why get rid of bodies? Besides horrible job, was dangerous.
Don’t know how many bodyguards Warden has, but more could show up while
you were doing it.”

“Believe
me, lad, we feared that. But although I was almost useless, it was my idea, I
had to convince the others. Oh, not my original idea but remembrance of things
past, an historical principle.”

“What
principle?”

“Terror!
A man can face known danger. But the unknown frightens him. We disposed of
those finks, teeth and toenails, to strike terror into their mates. Nor do I
know how many effectives the Warden has, but I guarantee they are less effective
today. Their mates went out on an easy mission. Nothing came back.”

Wyoh
shivered. “It scares me, too. They won’t be anxious to go inside a
warren again. But, Professor, you say you don’t know how many bodyguards
the Warden keeps. The Organization knows. Twenty-seven. If nine were killed,
only eighteen are left. Perhaps it’s time for a putsch. No?”

“No,”
I answered.

“Why
not, Mannie? They’ll never be weaker.”

“Not
weak enough. Killed nine because they were crackers to walk in where we were.
But if Warden stays home with guards around him—Well, had enough
shoulder-to-shoulder noise last night.” I turned to Prof. “But
still I’m interested in fact—if it is—that Warden now has
only eighteen. You said Wyoh should not go to Hong Kong and I should not go
home. But if he has only eighteen left, I wonder how much danger? Later after
he gets reinforcements.—but now, well, L-City has four main exits plus
many little ones. How many can they guard? What’s to keep Wyoh from
walking to Tube West, getting p-suit, going home?”

“She
might,” Prof agreed.

“I
think I must,” Wyoh said. “I can’t stay here forever. If I
have to hide, I can do better in Hong Kong, where I know people.”

“You
might get away with it, my dear. I doubt it. There were two yellow jackets at
Tube Station West last night; I saw them. They may not be there now.
Let’s assume they are not. You go to the station—disguised perhaps.
You get your p-suit and take a capsule to Beluthihatchie. As you climb out to
take the bus to Endsville, you’re arrested. Communications. No need to
post a yellow jacket at the station; it is enough that someone sees you there.
A phone call does the rest.”

“But
you assumed that I was disguised.”

“Your
height cannot be disguised and your pressure suit would be watched. By someone
not suspected of any connection with the Warden. Most probably a
comrade.” Prof dimpled. “The trouble with conspiracies is that they
rot internaily. When the number is as high as four, chances are even that one
is a spy.”

Wyoh
said glumly, “You make it sound hopeless.”

“Not
at all, my dear. One chance in a thousand, perhaps.”

“I
can’t believe it. I don’t believe it! Why, in the years I’ve
been active we have gained members by the hundreds! We have organizations in
all major cities. We have the people with us.”

Prof
shook head. “Every new member made it that much more likely that you
would be betrayed. Wyoming dear lady, revolutions are not won by enlisting the
masses. Revolution is a science only a few are competent to practice. It
depends on correct organization and, above all, on communications. Then, at the
proper moment in history, they strike. Correctly organized and properly timed
it is a bloodless coup. Done clumsily or prematurely and the result is civil
war, mob violence, purges, terror. I hope you will forgive me if I say that, up
to now, it has been done clumsily.”

Wyoli
looked baffled. “What do you mean by ‘correct
organization’?”

“Functional
organization. How does one design an electric motor? Would you attach a bathtub
to it, simply because one was available? Would a bouquet of flowers help? A
heap of rocks? No, you would use just those elements necessary to its purpose
and make it no larger than needed—and you would incorporate safety
factors. Function controls design.

“So
it is with revolution. Organization must be no larger than
necessary—never recruit anyone merely because he wants to join. Nor seek
to persuade for the pleasure of having another share your views. He’ll
share them when the times comes … or you’ve misjudged the moment in
history. Oh, there will be an educational organization but it must be separate;
agitprop is no part of basic structure.

“As
to basic structure, a revolution starts as a conspiracy therefore structure is
small, secret, and organized as to minimize damage by betrayal—since
there always are betrayals. One solution is the cell system and so far nothing
better has been invented.

“Much
theosizing has gone into optimum cell size. I think that history shows that a
cell of three is best—more than three can’t agree on when to have
dinner, much less when to strike. Manuel, you belong to a large family; do you
vote on when to have dinner?”

“Bog,
no! Mum decides.”

“Ah.”
Prof took a pad from his pouch, began to sketch. “Here is a
cells-of-three tree. If I were planning to take over Luna. I would start with
us three. One would be opted as chairman. We wouldn’t vote; choice would
be obvious—or we aren’t the right three. We would know the next
nine people, three cells … but each cell would know only one of
us.”