The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (24 page)

“Prof!”
I demanded. “What sense in starting riots here?”

“Mannie,
Mannie! This is The Day! Mike, has the rape and murder news reached other
warrens?”

“Not
that I’ve heard. I’m listening here and there with random jumps.
Tube stations are quiet except Luna City. Fighting has just started at Tube
Station West. Want to hear it?”

“Not
now. Mannie, slide over there and watch it. But stay out of it and slick close
to a phone. Mike, start trouble in all warrens. Pass the news down the cells
and use Finn’s version, not the truth. The Goons are raping and killing
all the women in the Complex—I’ll give you details or you can
invent them. Uh, can you order the guards at tube stations in other warrens
back to their barracks? I want riots but there is no point in sending unarmed
people against armed men if we can dodge it.”

“I’ll
try.”

I
hurried to Tube Station West, slowed as I neared it. Corridors were full of
angry people. City roared in way I had never heard before and, as I crossed
Causeway, could hear shouts and crowd noise from direction of Authority’s
city office although it seemed to me there had not been time for Wyoh to reach
her stilyagi—nor had there been; what Prof had tried to start was under
way spontaneously.

Station
was mobbed and I had to push through to see what I assumed to be certain, that
passport guards were either dead or fled. ‘Dead’ it turned out,
along with three Loonies. One was a boy not more than thirteen. He had died
with his hands on a Dragoon’s throat and his head still sporting a little
red cap. I pushed way to a public phone and reported.

“Go
back,” said Prof. “and read the I.D. of one of those guards. I want
name and rank. Have you seen Finn?”

“No.”

“He’s
headed there with three guns. Tell me where the booth you’re in is, get
that name and come back to it.”

One
body was gone, dragged away; Bog knows what they wanted with it. Other had been
badly battered but I managed to crowd in and snatch dog chain from neck before
it, too, was taken somewhere. I elbowed back to phone, found a woman at it.
“Lady,” I said, “I’ve got to use that phone.
Emergency!”

“You’re
welcome to it! Pesky thing’s out of order.”

Worked
for me; Mike had saved it. Gave Prof guard’s name. “Good,” he
said. “Have you seen Finn? He’ll be looking for you at that
booth.”

“Haven’t
s—Hold it, just spotted him.”

“Okay,
hang onto him. Mike, do you have a voice to fit that Dragoon’s
name?”

“Sorry,
Prof. No.”

“All
right, just make it hoarse and frightened; chances are the C.O. won’t
know it that well. Or would the trooper call Alvarez?”

“He
would call his C.O. Alvarez gives orders through him.”

“So
call the C.O. Report the attack and call for help and die in the middle of it.
Riot sounds behind you and maybe a shout of ‘There’s the dirty
bastard now!’ just before you die. Can you swing it?”

‘Programmed.
No
huhu
,” Mike said cheerfully.

“Run
it. Mannie, put Finn on.”

Prof’s
plan was to sucker off-duty guards out of barracks and keep suckering
them—with Finn’s men posted to pick them off as they got out of
capsules. And it worked, right up to point where Mort the Wart lost his nerve
and kept remaining few to protect himself while he sent frantic messages
Earthside—none of which got through.

I
wiggled out of Prof’s discipline and took a laser gun when second capsule
of Peace Dragoons was due. I burned two Goons, found blood lust gone and let
other snipers have rest of squad. Too easy. They would stick heads up out of
hatch and that would be that. Half of squad would not come out—until
smoked out and then died with rest. By that time I was back at my advance post
at phone.

Warden’s
decision to hole up caused trouble at Complex; Alvarez was killed and so was
Goon C.O. and two of original yellow jackets. But a mixed lot of Dragoons and
yellows, thirteen, holed up with Mort, or perhaps were already with him;
Mike’s ability to follow events by listening was spotty. But once it
seemed clear that all armed effectives were inside Warden’s residence,
Prof ordered Mike to start next phase.

Mike
turned out all lights in Complex save those in Warden’s residence, and
reduced oxygen to gasping point—not killing point but low enough to
insure that anyone looking for trouble would not be in shape. But in residence,
oxygen supply was cut to zero, leaving pure nitrogen, and left that way ten
minutes. At end of that time Finn’s men, waiting in p-suits at
Warden’s private tube station, broke latch on airlock and went in,
“shoulder to shoulder.” Luna was ours.

A RABBLE IN ARMS

So
a wave of patriotism swept over our new nation and unified it.

Isn’t
that what histories say? Oh, brother!

My
dinkum word, preparing a revolution isn’t as much huhu as having won it.
Here we were, in control too soon, nothing ready and a thousand things to do.
Authority in Luna was gone—but Lunar Authority Earthside and Federated
Nations behind it were very much alive. Had they landed one troopship, orbited
one cruiser, anytime next week or two, could have taken Luna back cheap. We
were a mob.

New
catapult had been tested but canned rock missiles ready to go you could count
on fingers of one hand—my left hand. Nor was catapult a weapon that could
be used against ships, nor against troops. We had notions for fighting off
ships; at moment were just notions. We had a few hundred cheap laser guns
stockpiled in Hong Kong Luna—Chinee engineers are smart—but few men
trained to use them.

Moreover,
Authority had useful functions. Bought ice and grain, sold air and water and
power, held ownership or control at a dozen key points. No matter what was done
in future, wheels had to turn. Perhaps wrecking city offices of Authority had
been hasty (I thought so) as records were destroyed. However, Prof maintained
that Loonies, all Loonies, needed a symbol to hate and destroy and those
offices were least valuable and most public.

But
Mike controlled communications and that meant control of most everything. Prof
had started with control of news to and from Earthside, leaving to Mike
censorship and faking of news until we could get around to what to tell Terra,
and had added sub-phase “M” which cut off Complex from rest of
Luna, and with it Richardson Observatory and associated
laboratories—Pierce Radioscope, Selenophysical Station, and so forth.
These were a problem as Terran scientists were always coming and going and staying
as long as six months, stretching time by centrifuge. Most Terrans in Luna,
save for a handful of tourists—thirty-four—were scientists.
Something had to be done about these Terrans, but meanwhile keeping them from
talking to Terra was enough.

For
time being, Complex was cut off by phone and Mike did not permit capsules to
stop at any station in Complex even after travel was resumed, which it was as
soon as Finn Nielsen and squad were through with dirty work.

Turned
out Warden was not dead, nor had we planned to kill him; Prof figured that a
live warden could always be made dead, whereas a dead one could not be made
live if we needed him. So plan was to half kill him, make sure he and his
guards could put up no fight, then break in fast while Mike restored oxygen.

With
fans turning at top speed, Mike computed it would take four minutes and a bit
to reduce oxygen to effective zero—so, five minutes of increasing
hypoxia, five minutes of anoxia, then force lower lock while Mike shot in pure
oxygen to restore balance. This should not kill anyone—but would knock
out a person as thoroughly as anesthesia. Hazard to attackers would come from
some or all of those inside having p-suits. But even that might not matter;
hypoxia is sneaky, you can pass out without realizing you are short on oxygen.
Is new chum’s favorite fatal mistake.

So
Warden lived through it and three of his women. But Warden, though he lived,
was no use; brain had been oxygen-starved too long, a vegetable. No guard
recovered, even though younger than he; would appear anoxia broke necks.

In
rest of Complex nobody was hurt. Once lights were on and oxygen restored they
were okay, including six rapist-murderers under lock in barracks. Finn decided
that shooting was too good for them, so he went judge and used his squad as
jury.

They
were stripped, hamstrung at ankles and wrists, turned over to women in Complex.
Makes me sick to think about what happened next but don’t suppose they
lived through as long an ordeal as Marie Lyons endured. Women are amazing
creatures—sweet, soft, gentle, and far more savage than we are.

Let
me mention those fink spies out of order. Wyoh had been fiercely ready to
eliminate them but when we got around to them she had lost stomach. I expected
Prof to agree. But he shook head. “No, dear Wyoh, much as I deplore
violence, there are only two things to do with an enemy: Kill him. Or make a
friend of him. Anything in between piles up trouble for the future. A man who
finks on his friends once will do it again and we have a long period ahead in
which a fink can be dangerous; they must go. And publicly, to cause others to
be thoughtful.”

Wyoh
said, “Professor, you once said that if you condemned a man, you would
eliminate him personally. Is that what you are going to do?”

“Yes,
dear lady, and no. Their blood shall be on my hands; I accept responsibility.
But I have in mind a way more likely to discourage other finks.”

So
Adam Selene announced that these persons had been employed by Juan Alvarez,
late Security Chief for former Authority, as undercover spies—and gave
names and addresses. Adam did not suggest that anything be done.

One
man remained on dodge for seven months by changing warrens and name. Then early
in ‘77 his body was found outside Novylen’s lock. But most of them
lasted no more than hours.

During
first hours after
coup d’etat
we were faced with a problem we
had never managed to plan—Adam Selene himself. Who is Adam Selene? Where
is he? This is his revolution; he handled every detail, every comrade knows his
voice. We’re out in open now … so where is Adam?

We
batted it around much of that night, in room L of Raffles—argued it
between decisions on a hundred things that came up and people wanted to know
what to do, while “Adam” through other voices handled other
decisions that did not require talk, composed phony news to send Earthside,
kept Complex isolated, many things. (Is no possible doubt: without Mike we
could not have taken Luna nor held it.)

My
notion was that Prof should become “Adam.” Prof was always our
planner and theoretician; everybody knew him; some key comrades knew that he
was “Comrade Bill” and all others knew and respected Professor
Bernardo de la Paz—My word, he had taught half of leading citizens in
Luna City, many from other warrens, was known to every vip in Luna.

“No,”
said Prof.

“Why
not?” asked Wyoh. “Prof. you’re opted. Tell him, Mike.”

“Comment
reserved,” said Mike. “I want to hear what Prof has to say.”

“I
say you’ve analyzed it, Mike,” Prof answered. “Wyoh dearest
comrade, I would not refuse were it possible. But there is no way to make my
voice match that of Adam—and every comrade knows Adam by his voice; Mike
made it memorable for that very purpose.”

We
then considered whether Prof could be slipped in anyhow, showing him only on
video and letting Mike reshape whatever Prof said into voice expected from
Adam.

Was
turned down. Too many people knew Prof, had heard him speak; his voice and way
of speaking could not be reconciled with Adam. Then they considered same
possibility for me—my voice and Mike’s were baritone and not too
many people knew what I sounded like over phone and none over video.

I
tromped on it. People were going to be surprised enough to find me one of our
Chairman’s lieutenants; they would never believe I was number one.

I
said, “Let’s combine deals. Adam has been a mystery all along; keep
him that way. He’ll be seen only over video—in a mask. Prof. you
supply body; Mike, you supply voice.”

Prof
shook head. “I can think of no surer way to destroy confidence at our
most critical period than by having a leader who wears a mask. No,
Mannie.”

We
talked about finding an actor to play it. Were no professional actors in Luna
then but were good amateurs in Luna Civic Players and in Novy Bolshoi Teatr
Associates.

“No,”
said Prof, “aside from finding an actor of requisite character—one
who would not decide to be Napoleon—we can’t wait. Adam must start
handling things not later than tomorrow morning.”

“In
that case,” I said, “you’ve answered it. Have to use Mike and
never put him on video. Radio only. Have to figure excuse but Adam must never
be seen.”

“I’m
forced to agree,” said Prof.

“Man
my oldest friend,” said Mike, “why do you say that I can’t be
seen?”

“Haven’t
you listened?” I said. “Mike, we have to show a face and body on
video. You have a body—but it’s several tons of metal. A face you
don’t have—lucky you, don’t have to shave.”

“But
what’s to keep me from showing a face, Man? I’m showing a voice
this instant. But there’s no sound behind it. I can show a face the same
way.”

Was
so taken aback I didn’t answer. I stared at video screen, installed when
we leased that room. A pulse is a pulse is a pulse. Electrons chasing each
other. To Mike, whole world was variable series of electrical pulses, sent or
received or chasing around his innards.

I
said, “No, Mike.”

“Why
not, Man?”

“Because
you can’t! Voice you handle beautifully. Involves only a few thousand
decisions a second, a slow crawl to you. But to build up video picture would
require, uh, say ten million decisions every second. Mike, you’re so fast
I can’t even think about it. But you aren’t that fast.”