The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (12 page)

“What!
Are you sure?”

“You
are invited to check, Professor.”

I
said, “Mike, this a joke? If so, not funny even once!”

“It
is not a joke, Man.”

“Anyhow,”
Prof added, recovering, “it’s not Luna’s crust we are
shipping. It’s our lifeblood—water and organic matter. Not
rock.”

“I
took that into consideration, Professor. This projection is based on controlled
transmutation—any isotope into any other and postulating power for any
reaction not exo-energetic. Rock would be shipped—transformed into wheat
and beef and other foodstuffs.”

“But
we don’t know how to do that! Amigo, this is ridiculous!”

“But
we will know how to do it.”

“Mike
is right, Prof,” I put in. “Sure, today we haven’t a glimmer.
But will. Mike, did you compute how many years till we have this? Might take a
flier in stocks.”

Mike
answered in sad voice, “Man my only male friend save for the Professor
whom I hope will be my friend, I tried. I failed. The question is
indeterminate.”

“Why?”

“Because
it involves a break-through in theory. There is no way in all my data to
predict when and where genius may appear.”

Prof
sighed. “Mike amigo, I don’t know whether to be relieved or
disappointed. Then that projection didn’t mean anything?”

“Of
course it meant something!” said Wyoh. “It means we’ll dig it
out when we need it. Tell him, Mike!”

“Wyoh,
I am most sorry. Your assertion is, in effect, exactly what I was looking for.
But the answer still remains: Genius is where you find it. No. I am so
sorry.”

I
said, “Then Prof is right? When comes to placing bets?”

“One
moment, Man. There is a special solution suggested by the Professor’s
speech last night—return shipping, tonne for tonne.”

“Yes,
but can’t do that.”

“If
the cost is low enough, Terrans would do so. That can be achieved with only
minor refinement, not a break-through, to wit, freight transportation up from
Terra as cheap as catapulting down to Terra.”

“You
call this ‘minor’?”

“I
call it minor compared with the other problem, Man.”

“Mike
dear, how long? When do we get it?”

“Wyoh,
a rough projection, based on poor data and largely intuitive, would be on the
order of fifty years.”

“‘Fifty
years’? Why, that’s nothing! We can have free trade.”

“Wyoh,
I said ‘on the order of’—I did not say ‘on the close
order of.’”

“It
makes a difference?”

“Does.”
I told her. “What Mike said was that he doesn’t expect it sooner
than five years but would be surprised if much longer than five
hundred—eh, Mike?”

“Correct,
Man.”

“So
need another projection. Prof pointed out that we ship water and organic matter
and don’t get it back—-agree, Wyoh?”

“Oh.
sure. I just don’t think it’s urgent. We’ll solve it when we
reach it.”

“Okay,
Mike—no cheap shipping, no transmutation: How long till trouble?”

“Seven
years.”

“‘Seven
years!’” Wyoh jumped up, stared at phone. “Mike honey! You
don’t mean that?”

“Wyoh,”
he said plaintively, “I did my best. The problem has an indeterminately
large number of variables. I ran several thousand solutions using many
assumptions. The happiest answer came from assuming no increase in tonnage, no
increase in Lunar population—restriction of births strongly
enforced—and a greatly enhanced search for ice in order to maintain the
water supply. That gave an answer of slightly over twenty years. All other
answers were worse.”

Wyoh,
much sobered, said, “What happens in seven years?”

“The
answer of seven years from now I reached by assuming the present situation, no
change in Authority policy, and all major variables extrapolated from the
empiricals implicit in their past behavior—a conservative answer of
highest probability from available data. Twenty-eighty-two is the year I expect
food riots. Cannibalism should not occur for at least two years
thereafter.”

“‘
Cannibalism’
!”
She turned and buried head against Prof’s chest.

He
patted her, said gently, “I’m sorry, Wyoh. People do not realize
how precarious our ecology is. Even so, it shocks me. I know water runs down
hill … but didn’t dream how terribly soon it will reach
bottom.”

She
straightened up and face was calm. “Okay, Professor, I was wrong. Embargo
it must be—and all that that implies. Let’s get busy. Let’s
find out from Mike what our chances are. You trust him now—don’t
you?”

“Yes,
dear lady, I do. We must have him on our side. Well, Manuel?”

Took
time to impress Mike with how serious we were, make him understand that
“jokes” could kill us (this machine who could not know human death)
and to get assurance that he could and would protect secrets no matter what
retrieval program was used—even our signals if not from us. Mike was hurt
that I could doubt him but matter too serious to risk slip.

Then
took two hours to program and re-program and change assumptions and investigate
side issues before all four—Mike, Prof, Wyoh, self—were satisfied
that we had defined it, i.e., what chance had revolution—this revolution,
headed by us, success required before “Food Riots Day,” against
Authority with bare hands … against power of all Terra, all eleven
billions, to beat us down and inflict their will—all with no rabbits out
of hats, with certainty of betrayal and stupidity and faintheartedness, and
fact that no one of us was genius, nor important in Lunar affairs. Prof made
sure that Mike knew history, psychology, economics, name it. Toward end Mike
was pointing out far more variables than Prof.

At
last we agreed that programming was done—or that we could think of no
other significant factor. Mike then said, “This is an indeterminate
problem. How shall I solve it? Pessimistically? Or optimistically? Or a range
of probabilities expressed as a curve, or several curves? Professor my
friend?”

“Manuel?”

I
said, “Mike, when I roll a die, it’s one in six it turns ace. I
don’t ask shopkeeper to float it, nor do I caliper it, or worry about
somebody blowing on it. Don’t give happy answer, nor pessimistic;
don’t shove curves at us. Just tell in one sentence: What chances? Even? One
in a thousand? None? Or whatever.”

“Yes,
Manuel Garcia O’Kelly my first male friend,”

For
thirteen and a half minutes was no sound, while Wyoh chewed knuckles. Never
known Mike to take so long. Must have consulted every book he ever read and
worn edges off random numbers. Was beginning to believe that he had been
overloaded and either burnt out something or gone into cybernetic breakdown
that requires computer equivalent of lobotomy to stop oscillations.

Finally
he spoke. “Manuel my friend, I am terribly sorry!”

“What’s
trouble, Mike?”

“I
have tried and tried, checked and checked. There is but one chance in seven of
winning!”

I
look at Wyoh, she looks at me; we laugh. I jump up and yip,
“Hooray!” Wyoh starts to cry, throws arms around Prof, kisses him.

Mike
said plaintively, “I do not understand. The chances are seven to one
against us. Not for us.”

Wyoh
stopped slobbering Prof and said, “Hear that? Mike said ‘us.’
He included himself.”

“Of
course. Mike old cobber, we understood. But ever know a Loonie to refuse to bet
when he stood a big fat chance of one in seven?”

“I
have known only you three. Not sufficient data for a curve.”

“Well
… we’re Loonies. Loonies bet. Hell, we have to! They shipped us up
and bet us we couldn’t stay alive. We fooled ‘em. We’ll fool
‘em again! Wyoh. Where’s your pouch? Get red hat. Put on Mike. Kiss
him. Let’s have a drink. One for Mike, too—want a drink,
Mike?”

“I
wish that I could have a drink,” Mike answered wistfully, “as I
have wondered about the subjective effect of ethanol on the human nervous
system—I conjecture that it must be similar to a slight overvoltage. But
since I cannot, please have one in my place.”

“Program
accepted. Running. Wyoh, where’s hat!” Phone was flat to wall, let
into rock—no place to hang hat. So we placed it on writing shelf and
toasted Mike and called him “Comrade!” and almost he cried. His
voice fugged up. Then Wyoh borrowed Liberty Cap and put on me and kissed me
into conspiracy, officially this time, and so all out that my eldest wife would
faint did she see—then she took hat and put on Prof and gave him same
treatment and I was glad Mike had reported his heart okay.

Then
she put it on own head and went to phone, leaned close, mouth between binaurals
and made kissing sounds. “That’s for you, Mike dear comrade. Is
Michelle there?”

Blimey
if he didn’t answer in soprano voice: “Right here,
darling—and I am so ‘appee!”

So
Michelle got a kiss, and I had to explain to Prof who “Michelle”
was and introduce him. He was formal, sucking air and whistling and clasping
hands—sometimes I think Prof was not right in his head.

Wyoh
poured more vodka. Prof caught her, mixed ours with coffee, hers with chai,
honey in all. “We have declared the Revolution,” he said firmly,
“now we execute it. With clear heads. Manuel, you were opted chairman.
Shall we begin?”

“Mike
is chairman,” I said. “Obvious. Secretary, too. We’ll never
keep anything in writing; first security rule. With Mike, don’t need to.
Let’s bat it around and see where we are; I’m new to
business.”

“And,”
said Prof, “still on the subject of security, the secret of Mike should
be restricted to this executive cell, subject to unanimous agreement—all
three of us—correction: all four of us—that is must be extended.”

“What
secret?” asked Wyoh. “Mike agreed to help our secrets. He’s
safer than we are; he can’t be brainwashed, Can you be, Mike dear?”

“I
could be brainwashed,” Mike admitted, “by enough voltage. Or by
being smashed, or subjected to solvents, or positive entropy through other
means—I find the concept disturbing. But if by ‘brainwashing’
you mean could I be compelled to surrender our secrets, the answer is an
unmodified negative.”

I
said, “Wye, Prof means secret of Mike himself. Mike old pal, you’re
our secret weapon—you know that, don’t you?”

He
answered self-consciously, “It was necessary to take that into
consideration in computing the odds.”

“How
were odds without you, comrade? Bad?”

“They
were not good. Not of the same order.”

“Won’t
press you. But a secret weapon must be secret, Mike, does anybody else suspect
that you are alive?”

“Am
I alive?” His voice held tragic loneliness.

“Uh,
won’t argue semantics. Sure, you’re alive!”

“I
was not sure. It is good to be alive. No, Mannie my first friend, you three
alone know it. My three friends.”

“That’s
how must be if bet’s to pay off. Is okay? Us three and never talk to
anybody else?”

“But
we’ll talk to you lots!” Wyoh put in.

“It
is not only okay,” Mike said bluntly, “it is necessary. It was a
factor in the odds.”

“That
settles it,” I said. “They have everything else; we have Mike. We
keep it that way. Say! Mike, I just had a horrid. We fight Terra?”

“We
will fight Terra … unless we lose before that time.”

“Uh,
riddle this. Any computers smart as you? Any awake?”

He
hesitated. “I don’t know, Man.”

“No
data?”

“Insufficient
data. I have watched for both factors, not only in technical journals but
everywhere else. There are no computers on the market of my present capacity
… but one of my model could be augmented just as I have been. Furthermore
an experimental computer of great capacity might be classified and go
unreported in the literature.”

“Mmm
… chance we have to take.”

“Yes,
Man.”

“There
aren’t any computers as smart as Mike!” Wyoh said scornfully.
“Don’t be silly, Mannie.”

“Wyoh,
Man was not being silly. Man, I saw one disturbing report. It was claimed that
attempts are being made at the University of Peiping to combine computers with
human brains to achieve massive capacity. A computing Cyborg.”

“They
say how?”

“The
item was non-technical.”

“Well
… won’t worry about what can’t help. Right, Prof?”

“Correct,
Manuel. A revolutionist must keep his mind free of worry or the pressure
becomes intolerable.”

“I
don’t believe a word of it,” Wyoh added. “We’ve got
Mike and we’re going to win! Mike dear, you say we’re going to
fight Terra—and Mannie says that’s one battle we can’t win.
You have some idea of how we can win, or you wouldn’t have given us even
one chance in seven. So what is it?”

“Throw
rocks at them,” Mike answered.

“Not
funny,” I told him. “Wyoh, don’t borrow trouble.
Haven’t even settled how we leave this pooka without being nabbed. Mike,
Prof says nine guards were killed last night and Wyoh says twenty-seven is
whole bodyguard. Leaving eighteen. Do you know if that’s true, do you know
where they are and what they are up to? Can’t put on a revolution if we
dasn’t stir out.”

Prof
interrupted. “That’s a temporary exigency, Manuel, one we can cope
with. The point Wyoming raised is basic and should be discussed. And daily,
until solved. I am interested in Mike’s thoughts.”

“Okay,
okay—but will you wait while Mike answers me?”

“Sorry,
sir.”

“Mike?”

“Mike?”

“Man,
the official number of Warden’s bodyguards is twenty-seven. If nine were
killed the official number is now eighteen.”

“You
keep saying ‘official number.’ Why?”

“I
have incomplete data which might be relevant. Let me state them before
advancing even tentative conclusions. Nominally the Security Officer’s
department aside from clerks consists only of the bodyguard. But I handle payrolls
for Authority Complex and twenty-seven is not the number of personnel charged
against the Security Department.”