The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (26 page)

Grain
shipments went on as before; one was catapulted almost as Finn’s men were
breaking into Warden’s residence. And next went out on time, and all
others.

Neither
oversight nor faking for interim; Prof knew what he was doing. Grain shipments
were a big operation (for a little country like Luna) and couldn’t be
changed in one semi-lunar; bread-and-beer of too many people was involved. If
our committee had ordered embargo and quit buying grain, we would have been
chucked out and a new committee with other ideas would have taken over.

Prof
said that an educational period was necessary. Meanwhile grain barges
catapulted as usual; LuNoHoCo kept books and issued receipts, using civil service
personnel. Dispatches went out in Warden’s name and Mike talked to
Authority Earthside, using Warden’s voice. Deputy Administrator proved
reasonable, once he understood it upped his life expectancy. Chief Engineer
stayed on job, too—McIntyre was a real Loonie, given chance, rather than
fink by nature. Other department heads and minor stooges were no problem; life
went on as before and we were too busy to unwind Authority system and put
useful parts up for sale.

Over
a dozen people turned up claiming to be Simon Jester; Simon wrote a rude verse
disclairning them and had picture on front page of Lunatic, Pravda, and Gong.
Wyoh let herself go blond and made trip to see Greg at new catapult site, then
a longer trip, ten days, to old home in Hong Kong Luna, taking Anna who wanted
to see it. Wyoh needed a vacation and Prof urged her to take it, pointing on
that she was in touch by phone and that closer Party contact was needed in Hong
Kong. I took over her stilyagi with Slim and Hazel as my lieutenants—bright,
sharp kids I could trust. Slim was awed to discover that I was “Comrade
Bork” and saw “Adam Selene” every day; his Party name started
with “G.” Made a good team for other reason, too. Hazel suddenly
started showing cushiony curves and not all from Mimi’s superb table; she
had reached that point in her orbit. Slim was ready to change her name to
“Stone” any time she was willing to opt. In meantime he was anxious
to do Party work he could share with our fierce little redhead.

Not
everybody was willing. Many comrades turned out to be talk-talk soldiers. Still
more thought war was over once we had eliminated Peace Goons and captured
Warden. Others were indignant to learn how far down they were in Party
structure; they wanted to elect a new structure, themselves at top. Adam
received endless calls proposing this or something like it—would listen,
agree, assure them that their services must not be wasted by waiting for
election—and refer them to Prof or me. Can’t recall any of these
ambitious people who amounted to anything when I tried to put them to work.

Was
endless work and nobody wanted to do it. Well, a few. Some best volunteers were
people Party had never located. But in general, Loonies in and out of Party had
no interest in “patriotic” work unless well paid. One chum who
claimed to be a Party member (was not) spragged me in Raffles where we set up
headquarters and wanted me to contract for fifty thousand buttons to be worn by
pre-coup “Veterans of Revolution”—a “small”
profit for him (I estimate 400 percent markup), easy dollars for me, a fine
thing for everybody.

When
I brushed him off, he threatened to denounce me to Adam Selene—“A
very good friend of mine, I’ll have you know!”—for sabotage.

That
was “help” we got. What we needed was something else. Needed steel
at new catapult and plenty—Prof asked, if really necessary to put steel
around rock missiles; I had to point out that an induction field won’t
grab bare rock. We needed to relocate Mike’s ballistic radars at old site
and install doppler radar at new site—both jobs because we could expect
attacks from space at old site.

We
called for volunteers, got only two who could be used—and needed several
hundred mechanics who did not mind hard work in p-suits. So we hired, paying
what we had to—LuNoHoCo went in hock to Bank of Hong Kong Luna; was no
time to steal that much and most funds had been transferred Earthside to Stu. A
dinkum comrade, Foo Moses Morris, co-signed much paper to keep us
going—and wound up broke and started over with a little tailoring shop in
Kongville. That was later.

Authority
Scrip dropped from 3-to-1 to 17-to-1 after coup and civil service people
screamed, as Mike was still paying in Authority checks. We said they could stay
on or resign; then those we needed, we rehired with Hong Kong dollars. But
created a large group not on our side from then on; they longed for good old
days and were ready to stab new regime.

Grain
farmers and brokers were unhappy because payment at catapult head continued to
be Authority scrip at same old fixed prices. “We won’t take
it!” they cried—and LuNoHoCo man would shrug and tell them they
didn’t have to but this grain still went to Authority Earthside (it did)
and Authority scrip was all they would get. So take cheque, or load your grain
back into rolligons and get it out of here.

Most
took it. All grumbled and some threatened to get out of grain and start growing
vegetables or fibers or something that brought Hong Kong dollars—and Prof
smiled.

We
needed every drillman in Luna, especially ice miners who owned heavy-duty laser
drills. As soldiers. We needed them so badly that, despite being shy one wing
and rusty, I considered joining up, even though takes muscle to wrestle a big
drill, and prosthetic just isn’t muscle. Prof told me not to be a fool.

Dodge
we had in mind would not work well Earthside; a laser beam carrying heavy power
works best in vacuum—but there it works just dandy for whatever range its
collimation is good for. These big drills, which had carved through rock
seeking pockets of ice, were now being mounted as “artillery” to
repel space attacks. Both ships and missiles have electronic nervous systems
and does electronic gear no good to blast it with umpteen joules placed in a
tight beam. If target is pressured (as manned ships are and most missiles), all
it takes is to burn a hole, depressure it. If not pressured, a heavy laser beam
can still kill it—burn eyes, louse guidance, spoil anything depending on
electronics as most everything does.

An
H-bomb with circuitry ruined is not a bomb, is just big tub of lithium
deuteride that can’t do anything but crash. A ship with eyes gone is a
derelict, not a warship.

Sounds
easy, is not. Those laser drills were never meant for targets a thousand
kilometers away, or even one, and was no quick way to rig their cradles for
accuracy. Gunner had to have guts to hold fire until last few seconds—on
a target heading at him maybe two kilometers per second. But was best we had,
so we organized First and Second Volunteer Defense Gunners of Free
Luna—two regiments so that First could snub lowly Second and Second could
be Jealous of First. First got older men, Second got young and eager.

Having
called them “volunteers,” we hired in Hong Kong dollars—and
was no accident that ice was being paid for in controlled market in wastepaper
Authority script.

On
top of all, we were talking up a war scare. Adam Selene talked over video,
reminding that Authority was certain to try to regain its tyranny and we had
only days to prepare; papers quoted him and published stories of their own—we
had made special effort to recruit newsmen before coup. People were urged to
keep p-suits always near and to test pressure alarms in homes. A volunteer
Civil Defense Corps was organized in each warren.

What
with moonquakes always with us, each warren’s pressure co-op always had
sealing crews ready at any hour. Even with silicone stay-soft and fiberglass
any warren leaks. In Davis Tunnels our boys did maintenance on seal every day.
But now we recruited hundreds of emergency sealing crews, mostly stilyagi,
drilled them with fake emergencies, had them stay in p-suits with helmets open
when on duty.

They
did beautifully. But idiots made fun of them—“play soldiers,”
“Adam’s little apples,” other names. A team was going through
a drill, showing they could throw a temporary lock around one that had been
damaged, and one of these pinheads stood by and rode them loudly.

Civil
Defense team went ahead, completed temporary lock, tested it with helmets
closed; it held—came out, grabbed this joker, took him through into
temporary lock and on out into zero pressure, dumped him.

Belittlers
kept opinions to selves after that. Prof thought we ought to send out a gentle
warning not to eliminate so peremptorily. I opposed it and got my way; could
see no better way to improve breed. Certain types of loudmouthism should be a
capital offense among decent people.

But
our biggest headaches were self-anointed statesmen.

Did
I say that Loonies are “non-politica1”? They are, when comes to
doing anything. But doubt if was ever a time two Loonies over a liter of beer
did not swap loud opinions about how things ought to be run.

As
mentioned, these self-appointed political scientists tried to grab Adam
Selene’s ear. But Prof had a place for them; each was invited to take
part in “Ad-Hoc Congress for Organization of Free Luna”—which
met in Community Hall in Luna City, then resolved to stay in session until work
was done, a week in L-City, a week in Novylen, then Hong Kong, and start over.
All sessions were in video. Prof presided over first and Adam Selene addressed
them by video and encouraged them to do a thorough job—“History is
watching you.”

I
listened to some sessions, then cornered Prof and asked what in Bog’s
name he was up to? “Thought you didn’t want any government. Have
you heard those nuts since you turned them loose?”

He
smiled most dimply smile. “What’s troubling you, Manuel?”

Many
things were troubling me. With me breaking heart trying to round up heavy
drills and men who could treat them as guns these idlers had spent an entire
afternoon discussing immigration. Some wanted to stop it entirely. Some wanted
to tax it, high enough to finance government (when ninety-nine out of a hundred
Loonies had had to be dragged to The Rock!); some wanted to make it selective
by “ethnic ratios.” (Wondered how they would count me?) Some wanted
to limit it to females until we were 50-50. That had produced a Scandinavian
shout: “Ja, cobber! Tell ‘em send us hoors! Tousands and tousands
of hoors! I marry ‘em, I betcha!”

Was
most sensible remark all afternoon.

Another
time they argued “time.” Sure, Greenwich time bears no relation to
lunar. But why should it when we live Underground? Show me a Loonie who can
sleep two weeks and work two weeks; lunars don’t fit our metabolism. What
was urged was to make a lunar exactly equal to twenty-eight days (instead of 29
days, 12 hours, 44 minutes, 2.78 seconds) and do this by making days
longer—and hours, minutes, and seconds, thus making each semi-lunar
exactly two weeks.

Sure,
lunar is necessary for many purposes. Controls when we go up on surface, why we
go, and how long we stay. But, aside from throwing us out of gear with our only
neighbor, had that wordy vacuum skull thought what this would do to every
critical figure in science and engineering? As an electronics man I shuddered.
Throw away every book, table, instrument, and start over? I know that some of
my ancestors did that in switching from old English units to MKS—but they
did it to make things easier. Fourteen inches to a foot and some odd number of
feet to a mile. Ounces and pounds. Oh, Bog!

Made
sense to change that—but why go out of your way to create confusion?

Somebody
wanted a committee to determine exactly what Loonie language is, then fine
everybody who talked Earthside English or other language. Oh, my people!

I
read tax proposals in Lunatic—four sorts of
“SingleTaxers”—a cubic tax that would penalize a man if he
extended tunnels, a head tax (everybody pay same), income tax (like to see
anyone figure income of Davis Family or try to get information out of Mum!),
and an “air tax” which was not fees we paid then but something
else.

Hadn’t
realized “Free Luna” was going to have taxes. Hadn’t had any
before and got along. You paid for what you got. Tanstaafl. How else?

Another
time some pompous choom proposed that bad breath and body odors be made an
elimination offense. Could almost sympathize, having been stuck on occasion in
a capsule with such stinks. But doesn’t happen often and tends to be
self-correcting; chronic offenders, or unfortunates who can’t correct,
aren’t likely to reproduce, seeing how choosy women are.

One
female (most were men, but women made up for it in silliness) had a long list
she wanted made permanent laws—about private matters. No more plural
marriage of any sort. No divorces. No “fornication”—had to
look that one up. No drinks stronger than 4% beer. Church services only on
Saturdays and all else to stop that day. (Air and temperature and pressure
engineering, lady? Phones and capsules?) A long list of drugs to be prohibited
and a shorter list dispensed only by licensed physicians. (What is a
“licensed physician”? Healer I go to has a sign reading
“practical doctor”—makes book on side, which is why I go to
him. Look, lady, aren’t any medical schools in Luna!) (Then, I mean.) She
even wanted to make gambling illegal. If a Loonie couldn’t roll double or
nothing, he would go to a shop that would, even if dice were loaded.

Thing
that got me was not her list of things she hated, since she was obviously crazy
as a Cyborg, but fact that always somebody agreed with her prohibitions. Must
be a yearning deep in human heart to stop other people from doing as they
please. Rules, laws—always for other fellow. A murky part of us,
something we had before we came down out of trees, and failed to shuck when we
stood up. Because not one of those people said: “Please pass this so that
I won’t be able to do something I know I should stop.” Nyet,
tovarishchee
,
was always something they hated to see neighbors doing. Stop them “for
their own good”—not because speaker claimed to be harmed by it.