The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (14 page)

“True,
Wyoh my female friend … but Luna has many rocks.”

“Oh.
Yes, so we have.”

“Comrades,”
said Prof, “this is outside my competence—in my younger or
bomb-throwing days my experience was limited to something of the order of the
one-kilogram chemical explosion of which you spoke, Manuel. But I assume that
you two know what you are talking about.”

“We
do,” Mike agreed.

“So
I accept your figures. To bring it down to a scale that I can understand this
plan requires that we capture the catapult. No?”

“Yes,”
Mike and I chorused.

“Not
impossible. Then we must hold it and keep it operative. Mike, have you
considered how your catapult can be protected against, let us say, one small
H-tipped torpedo?”

Discussion
went on and on. We stopped to eat—stopped business under Prof’s
rule. Instead Mike told jokes, each produced a that-reminds-me from Prof.

By
time we left Raffles Hotel evening of 14th May ‘75 we had—Mike had,
with help from Prof—outlined plan of Revolution, including major options
at critical points.

When
came time to go, me to home and Prof to evening class (if not arrested), then
home for bath and clothes and necessities in case he returned that night,
became clear Wyoh did not want to be alone in strange hotel—Wyoh was
stout when bets were down, between times soft and vulnerable.

So
I called Mum on a Sherlock and told her was bringing house guest home. Mum ran
her job with style; any spouse could bring guest home for meal or year, and our
second generation was almost as free but must ask. Don’t know how other
families work; we have customs firmed by a century; they suit us.

So
Mum didn’t ask name, age, sex, marital condition; was my right and she
too proud to ask. All she said was: “That’s nice, dear. Have you
two had dinner? It’s Tuesday, you know.” “Tuesday” was
to remind me that our family had eaten early because Greg preaches Tuesday
evenings. But if guest had not eaten, dinner would be served—concession
to guest, not to me, as with exception of Grandpaw we ate when was on table or
scrounged standing up in pantry.

I
assured her we had eaten and would make tall effort to be there before she
needed to leave. Despite Loonie mixture of Muslims, Jews, Christians,
Buddhists, and ninety-nine other flavors, I suppose Sunday is commonest day for
church. But Greg belongs to sect which had calculated that sundown Tuesday to
sundown Wednesday, local time Garden of Eden (zone minus-two, Terra) was the
Sabbath. So we ate early in Terran north-hemisphere summer months.

Mum
always went to hear Greg preach, so was not considerate to place duty on her
that would clash. All of us went occasionally; I managed several times a year
because terribly fond of Greg, who taught me one trade and helped me switch to
another when I had to and would gladly have made it his arm rather than mine.
But Mum always went—ritual not religion, for she admitted to me one night
in pillow talk that she had no religion with a brand on it, then cautioned me
not to tell Greg. I exacted same caution from her. I don’t know Who is cranking;
I’m pleased He doesn’t stop.

But
Greg was Mum’s “boy husband,” opted when she was very young,
first wedding after her own—very sentimental about him, would deny
fiercely if accused of loving him more than other husbands, yet took his faith
when he was ordained and never missed a Tuesday.

She
said, “Is it possible that your guest would wish to attend church?”

I
said would see but anyhow we would rush, and said goodbye. Then banged on
bathroom door and said, “Hurry with skin, Wyoh; we’re short on
minutes.”

“One
minute!” she called out. She’s ungirlish girl; she appeared in one
minute. “How do I look?” she asked. “Prof, will I
pass?”

“Dear
Wyoming, I am amazed. You were beautiful before, you are beautiful
now—but utterly unrecognizable. You’re safe—and I am relieved.”

Then
we waited for Prof to transform into old derelict; he would be it to his back
corridor, then reappear as well-known teacher in front of class, to have
witnesses in case a yellow boy was waiting to grab him.

It
left a moment; I told Wyoh about Greg. She said, “Mannie, how good is
this makeup? Would it pass in church? How bright are the lights?”

“No
brighter than here. Good job, you’ll get by. But do you want to go to
church? Nobody pushing.”

She
thought. “It would please your moth—I mean, ‘your senior
wife,’ would it not?”

I
answered slowly, “Wyoh, religion is your pidgin. But since you ask
… yes, nothing would start you better in Davis Family than going to
church with Mum. I’ll go if you do.”

“I’ll
go. I thought your last name was ‘O’Kelly’?”

“Is.
Tack ‘Davis’ on with hyphen if want to be formal. Davis is First
Husband, dead fifty years. Is family name and all our wives are ‘Gospazha
Davis’ hyphened with every male name in Davis line plus her family name.
In practice Mum is only ‘Gospazha Davis’—can call her
that—and others use first name and add Davis if they write a cheque or
something. Except that Ludmilla is ‘Davis-Davis’ because proud of
double membership, birth and option.”

“I
see. Then if a man is ‘John Davis,’ he’s a son, but if he has
some other last name he’s your co-husband. But a girl would be
‘Jenny Davis’ either way, wouldn’t she? How do I tell? By her
age? No, that wouldn’t help. I’m confused! And I thought clan
marriages were complex. Or polyandries—though mine wasn’t; at least
my husbands had the same last name.”

“No
trouble. When you hear a woman about forty address a fifteen-year-old as
‘Mama Milla,” you’ll know which is wife and which is
daughter—not even that complex as we don’t have daughters home past
husband-high; they get opted. But might be visiting. Your husbands were named
‘Knott’?”

“Oh,
no, ‘Fedoseev, Choy Lin and Choy Mu.’ I took back my born
name.”

Out
came Prof, cackled senilely (looked even worse than earlier!), we left by three
exits, made rendezvous in main corridor, open formation. Wyoh and I did not
walk together, as I might be nabbed; on other hand she did not know Luna City,
a warren so complex even nativeborn get lost—so I led and she had to keep
me in sight. Prof trailed to make sure she didn’t lose me.

If
I was picked up, Wyoh would find public phone, report to Mike, then return to
hotel and wait for Prof. But I felt sure that any yellow jacket who arrested me
would get a caress from number-seven arm.

No
huhu
. Up to level five and crosstown by Carver Causeway, up to level
three and stop at Tube Station West to pick up arms and tool kit—but not
p-suit; would not have been in character, I stored it there. One yellow uniform
at station, showed no interest in me. South by well-lighted corridors until
necessary to go outward to reach private easement lock thirteen to co-op
pressure tunnel serving Davis Tunnels and a dozen other farms. I suppose Prof
dropped off there but I never looked back.

I
delayed locking through our door until Wyoh caught up, then soon was saying,
“Mum, allow me to present Wyma Beth Johnson.”

Mum
took her in arms, kissed cheek, said, “So glad you could come, Wyma dear!
Our house is yours!”

See
why I love our old biddy? Could have quick-frosted Wyoh with same
words—but was real and Wyoh knew.

Hadn’t
warned Wyoh about switch in names, thought of it en route. Some of our kids
were small and while they grew up despising Warden, no sense in risking prattle
about “Wyoming Knott, who’s visiting us”—that name was
listed in “Special File Zebra.”

So
I missed warning her, was new to conspiracy.

But
Wyoh caught cue and never bobbled.

Greg
was in preaching clothes and would have to leave in minutes. Mum did not hurry,
took Wyoh down line of husbands—Grandpaw, Greg, Hans—then up line
of wives—Ludmilla, Lenore, Sidris, Anna—with stately grace, then
started on our kids.

I
said, “Mum? Excuse me, want to change arms.” Her eyebrows went up a
millimeter, meaning: “We’ll speak of this but not in front of
children”—so I added: “Know it’s late, Greg’s
sneaking look at watch. And Wyma and I are going to church. So ‘scuse,
please.”

She
relaxed. “Certainly, dear.” As she turned away I saw her arm go
around Wyoh’s waist, so I relaxed.

I
changed arms, replacing number seven with social arm. But was excuse to duck
into phone cupboard and punch “MYCROFTXXX.” “Mike,
we’re home. But about to go to church. Don’t think you can listen
there, so I’ll check in later. Heard from Prof?”

“Not
yet, Man. Which church is it? I may have some circuit.”

“Pillar
of Fire Repentance Tabernacle—”

“No
reference.”

“Slow
to my speed, pal. Meets in West-Three Community Hall. That’s south of
Station on Ring about number—.”

“I
have it. There’s a pickup inside for channels and a phone in the corridor
outside; I’ll keep an ear on both.”

“I
don’t expect trouble, Mike.”

“It’s
what Professor said to do. He is reporting now. Do you wish to speak to
him?”

“No
time. ‘Bye!”

That
set pattern: Always keep touch with Mike, let him know where you are, where you
plan to be; Mike would listen if he had nerve ends there. Discovery I made that
morning, that Mike could listen at dead phone, suggested it—discovery
bothered me; don’t believe in magic. But on thinking I realized a phone
could be switched on by central switching system without human intervention—if
switching system had volition. Mike had bolshoyeh volition.

How
Mike knew a phone was outside that hall is hard to say, since
“space” could not mean to him what means to us. But he carried in
storage a “map”—structured relations—of Luna
City’s engineering, and could almost always fit what we said to what he
knew as “Luna City”; hardly ever got lost.

So
from day cabal started we kept touch with Mike and each other through his
widespread nervous system. Won’t mention again unless necessary.

Mum
and Greg and Wyoh were waiting at outer door, Mum chomping but smiling. I saw
she had lent Wyoh a stole; Mum was as easy about skin as any Loonie, nothing
newchummish—but church was another matter.

We
made it, although Greg went straight to platform and we to seats. I settled in warm,
mindless state, going through motions. But Wyoh did really listen to
Greg’s sermon and either knew our hymn book or was accomplished sight
reader.

When
we got home, young ones were in bed and most adults; Hans and Sidris were up
and Sidris served cocoasoy and cookies, then all turned in. Mum assigned Wyoh a
room in tunnel most of our kids lived in, one which had had two smaller boys
last time I noticed. Did not ask how she had reshuffled, was clear she was
giving my guest best we had, or would have put Wyoh with one of older girls.

I
slept with Mum that night, partly because our senior wife is good for
nerves—and nerve-racking things had happened—and partly so she
would know I was not sneaking to Wyoh’s room after things were quiet. My
workshop, where I slept when slept alone; was just one bend from Wyoh’s
door. Mum was telling me, plain as print: “Go ahead, dear. Don’t
tell me if you wish to be mean about it. Sneak behind my back.”

Which
neither of us admitted. We visited as we got ready for bed, chatted after light
out, then I turned over.

Instead
of saying goodnight Mum said, “Manuel? Why does your sweet little guest
make herself up as an Afro? I would think that her natural coloration would be
more becoming. Not that she isn’t perfectly charming the way she chooses
to be.”

So
rolled over and faced her, and explained—sounded thin, so filled in. And
found self telling all—except one point: Mike. I included Mike—but
not as computer—instead as a man Mum was not likely to meet, for security
reasons.

But
telling Mum—taking her into my subcell, should say, to become leader of
own cell in turn—taking Mum into conspiracy was not case of husband who
can’t keep from blurting everything to his wife. At most was
hasty—but was best time if she was to be told.

Mum
was smart. Also able executive; running big family without baring teeth
requires that. Was respected among farm families and throughout Luna City; she
had been up longer than 90 percent. She could help.

And
would be indispensable inside family. Without her help Wyoh and I would find it
sticky to use phone together (hard to explain), keep kids from noticing
(impossible!)—but with Mum’s help would be no problems inside
household.

She
listened, sighed, said, “It sounds dangerous, dear.”

“Is,”
I said. “Look, Mimi, if you don’t want to tackle, say so then
forget what I’ve told.”

“Manuel!
Don’t even say that. You are my husband, dear; I took you for better, for
worse … and your wish is my command.”

(My
word, what a lie! But Mimi believed it.)

“I
would not let you go into danger alone,” she went on, “and
besides—”

“What,
Mimi?”

“I
think every Loonie dreams of the day when we will be free. All but some poor
spineless rats. I’ve never talked about it; there seemed to be no point
and it’s necessary to look up, not down, lift one’s burden and go
ahead. But I thank dear Bog that I have been permitted to live to see the time
come, if indeed it has. Explain more about it. I am to find three others, is
it? Three who can be trusted.”

“Don’t
hurry. Move slowly. Be sure.”

“Sidris
can be trusted. She holds her tongue, that one.”

“Don’t
think you should pick from family. Need to spread out. Don’t rush.”

“I
shan’t. We’ll talk before I do anything. And Manuel, if you want my
opinion—” She stopped.

“Always
want your opinion, Mimi.”

“Don’t
mention this to Grandpaw. He’s forgetful these days and sometimes
talkative. Now sleep, dear, and don’t dream.”