The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (16 page)

Prof
had emphasized that stickiest problems in conspiracy are communications and
security, and had pointed out that they conflict—easier are
communications, greater is risk to security; if security is tight, organization
can be paralyzed by safety precautions. He had explained that cell system was a
compromise.

I
accepted cell system since was necessary to limit losses from spies. Even Wyoh
admitted that organization without compartmentation could not work after she
learned how rotten with spies old underground had been.

But
I did not like clogged communications of cell system; like Terran dinosaurs of
old, took too long to send message from head to tail, or back.

So
talked with Mike.

We
discarded many-linked channels I had suggested to Prof. We retained cells but
based security and communication on marvelous possibilities of our dinkum
thinkum.

Communications:We
set up a ternary tree of “party” names:

Chairman,
Gospodin Adam Selene (Mike)

Executive
cell: Bork (me), Betty (Wyoh), Bill (Prof)

Bork’s
cell: Cassie (Mum), Colin, Chang

Betty’s
cell: Calvin (Greg), Cecilia (Sidris), Clayton

Bill’s
cell: Cornwall (Finn Nielsen), Carolyn, Cotter

—and
so on. At seventh link George supervises Herbert, Henry, and Hallie. By time
you reach that level you need 2,187 names with “H”—but turn
it over to savvy computer who finds or invents them. Each recruit is given a
party name and an emergency phone number. This number, instead of chasing
through many links, connects with “Adam Selene,” Mike.

Security:
Based on double principle; no human being can be trusted with
anything—but Mike could be trusted with everything.

Grim
first half is beyond dispute. With drugs and other unsavory methods any man can
be broken. Only defense is suicide, which may be impossible. Oh, are
“hollow tooth” methods, classic and novel, some nearly
infallible—Prof saw to it that Wyoh and myself were equipped. Never knew
what he gave her as a final friend and since I never had to use mine, is no
point in messy details. Nor am I sure I would ever suicide; am not stuff of
martyrs.

But
Mike could never need to suicide, could not be drugged, did not feel pain. He
carried everything concerning us in a separate memory bank under a locked
signal programmed only to our three voices, and, since flesh is weak, we added
a signal under which any of us could lock out other two in emergency. In my
opinion as best computerman in Luna, Mike could not remove this lock once it
was set up. Best of all, nobody would ask master computer for this file because
nobody knew it existed, did not suspect Mike-as-Mike existed. How secure can
you be?

Only
risk was that this awakened machine was whimsical. Mike was always showing
unforeseen potentials; conceivable he could figure way to get around
block—if he wanted to.

But
would never want to. He was loyal to me, first and oldest friend; he liked
Prof; I think he loved Wyoh. No, no, sex meant nothing. But Wyoh is lovable and
they hit it off from start.

I
trusted Mike. In this life you have to bet; on that bet I would give any odds.

So
we based security on trusting Mike with everything while each of us knew only
what he had to know. Take that tree of names and numbers. I knew only party
names of my cellmates and of three directly under me; was all I needed. Mike
set up party names, assigned phone number to each, kept roster of real names
versus party names. Let’s say party member “Daniel” (whom I
would not know, being a “D” two levels below me) recruits Fritz
Schultz. Daniel reports fact but not name upwards; Adam Selene calls Daniel,
assigns for Schultz party name “Embrook,” then phones Schultz at
number received from Daniel, gives Schultz his name Embrook and emergency phone
number, this number being different for each recruit.

Not
even Embrook’s cell leader would know Embrook’s emergency number.
What you do not know you cannot spill, not under drugs nor torture, nor
anything. Not even from carelessness.

Now
let’s suppose I need to reach Comrade Embrook. I don’t know who he
is; he may live in Hong Kong or be shopkeeper nearest my home. Instead of
passing message down, hoping it will reach him, I call Mike. Mike connects me
with Embrook at once, in a Sherlock, withoul giving me his number.

Or
suppose I need to speak to comrade who is preparing cartoon we are about to
distribute in every taproom in Luna. I don’t know who he is. But I need
to talk to him; something has come up.

I
call Mike; Mike knows everything—and again I am quickly
connected—and this comrade knows it’s okay as Adam Selene arranged
call. “Comrade Bork speaking”—and he doesn’t know me
but initial “B” tells him that I am vip indeed—“we have
to change so-and-so. Tell your cell leader and have him check, but get on with
it.”

Minor
flourishes—some comrades did not have phones; some could be reached only
at certain hours; some outlying warrens did not have phone service. No matter,
Mike knew everything—and rest of us did not know anything that could
endanger any but that handful whom each knew face to face.

After
we decided that Mike should talk voice-to-voice to any comrade under some
circumstances, it was necessary to give him more voices and dress him up, make
him three dimensions, create “Adam Selene, Chairman of the Provisional
Committee of Free Luna.”

Mike’s
need for more voices lay in fact that he had just one voder-vocoder, whereas
his brain could handle a dozen conversations, or a hundred (don’t know
how many)—like a chess master playing fifty opponents, only more so.

This
would cause a bottleneck as organization grew and Adam Selene was phoned
oftener, and could be crucial if we lasted long enough to go into action.

Besides
giving him more voices I wanted to silence one he had. One of those so-called
computermen might walk into machines room while we were phoning Mike; bound to
cause even his dim wit to wonder if he found master machine apparently talking
to itself.

Voder-vocoder
is very old device. Human voice is buzzes and hisses mixed various ways; true
even of a coloratura soprano. A vocoder analyzes buzzes and hisses into
patterns, one a computer (or trained eye) can read. A voder is a little box
which can buzz and hiss and has controls to vary these elements to match those
patterns. A human can “play” a voder, producing artificial speech;
a properly programmed computer can do it as fast, as easily, as clearly as you
can speak.

But
voices on a phone wire are not sound waves but electrical signals; Mike did not
need audio part of voder-vocoder to talk by phone. Sound waves were needed only
by human at other end; no need for speech sounds inside Mike’s room at
Authority Complex. so I planned to remove them, and thereby any danger that
somebody might notice.

First
I worked at home, using number-three arm most of time. Result was very small
box which sandwiched twenty voder-vocoder circuits minus audio side. Then I
called Mike and told him to “get ill” in way that would annoy
Warden. Then I waited.

We
had done this “get ill” trick before. I went back to work once we
learned that I was clear, which was Thursday that same week when Alvarez read
into Zebra file an account of shambles at Stilyagi Hall. His version listed
about one hundred people (out of perhaps three hundred); list included Shorty
Mkrum, Wyoh, Prof, and Finn Nielsen but not me—apparently I was missed by
his finks. It told how nine police officers, each deputized by Warden to
preserve peace, had been shot down in cold blood. Also named three of our dead.

An
add-on a week later stated that “the notorious agente provocateuse
Wyoming Knott of Hong Kong in Luna, whose incendiary speech on Monday 13 May
had incited the riot that cost the lives of nine brave officers, had not been
apprehended in Luna City and had not returned to her usual haunts in Hong Kong
in Luna, and was now believed to have died in the massacre she herself set
off.” This add-on admitted what earlier report failed to mention, i.e.,
bodies were missing and exact number of dead was not known.

This
P.S. settled two things: Wyoh could not go home nor back to being a blonde.

Since
I had not been spotted I resumed my public ways, took care of customers that
week, bookkeeping machines and retrieval files at Carnegie Library, and spent
time having Mike read out Zebra file and other special files, doing so in Room
L of Raffles as I did not yet have my own phone. During that week Mike niggled
at me like an impatient child (which he was), wanting to know when I was coming
over to pick up more jokes. Failing that, he wanted to tell them by phone.

I
got annoyed and had to remind myself that from Mike’s viewpoint analyzing
jokes was just as important as freeing Luna—and you don’t break
promises to a child.

Besides
that. I got itchy wondering whether I could go inside Complex without being
nabbed. We knew Prof was not clear, was sleeping in Raffles on that account.
Yet they knew he had been at meeting and knew where he was, daily—but no
attempt was made to pick him up. When we learned that attempt had been made to
pick up Wyoh, I grew itchier. Was I clear? Or were they waiting to nab me
quietly? Had to know.

So
I called Mike and told him to have a tummyache. He did so, I was called
in—no trouble. Aside from showing passport at station, then to a new
guard at Complex, all was usual. I chatted with Mike, picked up one thousand
jokes (with understanding that we would report a hundred at a time every three
or four days, no faster), told him to get well, and went back to L-City,
stopping on way out to bill Chief Engineer for working time, travel-and-tool
time, materials, special service, anything I could load in.

Thereafter
saw Mike about once a month. Was safe, never went there except when they called
me for malfunction beyond ability of their staff—and I was always able to
“repair” it, sometimes quickly, sometimes after a full day and many
tests. Was careful to leave tool marks on cover plates, and had
before-and-after print-outs of test runs to show what had been wrong, how I
analyzed it, what I had done. Mike always worked perfectly after one of my
visits; I was indispensable.

So,
after I prepared his new voder-vocoder add-on, didn’t hesitate to tell
him to get “ill.” Call came in thirty minutes. Mike had thought up
a dandy; his “illness” was wild oscillations in conditioning Warden’s
residence. He was running its heat up, then down, on an eleven-minute cycle,
while oscillating its air pressure on a short cycle, ca. 2c/s, enough to make a
man dreadfully nervy and perhaps cause earache.

Conditioning
a single residence should not go through a master computer! In Davis Tunnels we
handled home and farm with idiot controls, feedbacks for each cubic with alarms
so that somebody could climb out of bed and control by hand until trouble could
be found. If cows got chilly, did not hurt corn; if lights failed over wheat,
vegetables were okay. That Mike could raise hell with Warden’s residence
and nobody could figure out what to do shows silliness of piling everything
into one computer.

Mike
was happy-joyed. This was humor he really scanned. I enjoyed it, too, told him
to go ahead, have fun—spread out tools, got out little black box.

And
computerman-of-the-watch comes banging and ringing at door. I took my time
answering and carried number-five arm in right hand with short wing bare; this
makes some people sick and upsets almost everybody. “What in hell do you
want, choom?” I inquired.

“Listen,”
he says, “Warden is raising hell! Haven’t you found trouble?”

“My
compliments to Warden and tell him I will override by hand to restore his
precious comfort as soon as I locate faulty circuit—if not slowed up by
silly questions. Are you going to stand with door open blowing dust into
machines while I have cover plates off? If you do—since you’re in
charge—when dust puts machine on sputter, you can repair it. I
won’t leave a warm bed to help. You can tell that to your bloody Warden,
too.”

“Watch
your language, cobber.”

“Watch
yours, convict. Are you going to close that door? Or shall I walk out and go
back to L-City?” And raised number-five like a club.

He
closed door. Had no interest in insulting poor sod. Was one small bit of policy
to make everybody as unhappy as possible. He was finding working for Warden
difficult; I wanted to make it unbearable.

“Shall
I step it up?” Mike inquired.

“Um,
hold it so for ten minutes, then stop abruptly. Then jog it for an hour, say
with air pressure. Erratic but hard. Know what a sonic boom is?”

“Certainly.
It is a—”

“Don’t
define. After you drop major effect, rattle his air ducts every few minutes
with nearest to a boom system will produce. Then give him something to
remember. Mmm … Mike, can you make his W.C. run backwards?”

“I
surely can! All of them?”

“How
many does he have?”

“Six.”

“Well
… program to give them all a push, enough to soak his rugs. But if you
can spot one nearest his bedroom, fountain it clear to ceiling. Can?”

“Program
set up!”

“Good.
Now for your present, ducky.” There was room in voder audio box to hide
it and I spent forty minutes with number-three, getting it just so. We
trial-checked through voder-vocoder, then I told him to call Wyoh and check
each circuit.

For
ten minutes was silence, which I spent putting tool markers on a cover plate
which should have been removed had been anything wrong, putting tools away,
putting number-six arm on, rolling up one thousand jokes waiting in print-out.
I had found no need to cut out audio of voder; Mike had thought of it before I
had and always chopped off any time door was touched. Since his reflexes were
better than mine by a factor of at least a thousand, I forgot it.