The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (28 page)

“It
does now. Man, please believe me; I’ve thought of everything. The only
reason I’ve ordered this extra equipment is to reassure you. Poona ground
control hasn’t made a bobble in the last five thousand loads. For a
computer it’s fairly bright.”

“Okay.
Uh, Mike, how hard do they splash those bleeding barges? What gee?”

“Not
high, Man. Ten gravities at injection, then that programs down to a steady,
soft four gees … then you’ll be nudged again between six and five
gees just before splash. The splash itself is gentle, equal to a fall of fifty
meters and you enter ogive first with no sudden shock, less than three gees.
Then you surface and splash again, lightly, and simply float at one gee. Man,
those barge shells are built as lightly as possible for economy’s sake.
We can’t afford to toss them around or they would split their
seams.”

“How
sweet. Mike, what would ‘six to five gees’ do to you? Split your
seams?”

“I
conjecture that I was subjected to about six gravities when they shipped me up
here. Six gravities in my present condition would shear many of my essential
connections. However, I’m more interested in the extremely high,
transient accelerations I am going to experience from shock waves when Terra
starts bombing us. Data are insufficient for prediction but I may lose control
of my outlying functions, Man. This could be a major factor in any tactical
situation.”

“Mike,
you really think they are going to bomb us?”

“Count
on it, Man. That is why this trip is so important.”

Left
it at that and went out to see this coffin. Should have stayed home.

Ever
looked at one of those silly barges? Just a steel cylinder with retro and
guidance rockets and radar transponder. Resembles a spaceship way a pair of
pliers resembles my number-three arm. They had this one cut open and were
outfitting our “living quarters.”

No
galley. No W.C. No nothing. Why bother? We were going to be in it only fifty
hours. Start empty so that you won’t need a honey sack in your suit.
Dispense with lounge and bar; you’ll never be out of your suit,
you’ll be drugged and not caring.

At
least Prof would be drugged almost whole time; I had to be alert at landing to
try to get us out of this death trap if something went wrong and nobody came
along with a tin opener. They were building a shaped cradle in which backs of our
p-suits would fit; we would be strapped into these holes. And stay there, clear
to Terra. They seemed more concerned about making total mass equal to displaced
wheat and same center of gravity and all moment arms adding up correctly than
they did about our comfort; engineer in charge told me that even padding to be
added inside our p-suits was figured in.

Was
glad to learn we were going to have padding; those holes did not look soft.

Returned
home in thoughtful condition.

Wyoh
was not at dinner, unusual; Greg was, more unusual. Nobody said anything about
my being scheduled to imitate a falling rock next day although all knew. But
did not realize anything special was on until all next generation left table
without being told. Then knew why Greg had not gone back to Mare Undarum site
after Congress adjourned that morning; somebody had asked for a Family
talk-talk.

Mum
looked around and said, “We’re all here. Ali, shut that door;
that’s a dear. Grandpaw, will you start us?”

Our
senior husband stopped nodding over coffee and firmed up. He looked down table
and said strongly, “I see that we are all here. I see that children have
been put to bed. I see that there is no stranger, no guest. I say that we are
met in accordance with customs created by Black Jack Davis our First Husband
and Tillie our First Wife. If there is any matter that concerns safety and
happiness of our marriage, haul it out in the light now. Don’t let it
fester. This is our custom.”

Grandpaw
turned to Mum and said softly, “Take it, Mimi,” and slumped back
into gentle apathy. But for a minute he had been strong, handsome, virile,
dynamic man of days of my opting … and I thought with sudden tears how
lucky I had been!

Then
didn’t know whether I felt lucky or not. Only excuse I could see for a
Family talk-talk was fact that I was due to be shipped Earthside next day,
labeled as grain. Could Mum be thinking of trying to set Family against it?
Nobody had to abide by results of a talk-talk. But one always did. That was
strength of our marriage: When came down to issues, we stood together.

Mimi
was saying, “Does anyone have anything that needs to be discussed? Speak
up, dears.”

Greg
said, “I have.”

“We’ll
listen to Greg.”

Greg
is a good speaker. Can stand up in front of a congregation and speak with
confidence about matters I don’t feel confident about even when alone.
But that night he seemed anything but sure of himself. “Well, uh,
we’ve always tried to keep this marriage in balance, some old, some
young, a regular alternation, well spaced, just as it was handed down to us.
But we’ve varied sometimes—for good reason.” He looked at
Ludmilla. “And adjusted it later.” He looked again at far end of
table, at Frank and Ali, on each side of Ludmilla.

“Over
years, as you can see from records, average age of husbands has been about
forty, wives about thirty-five—and that age spread was just what our
marriage started with, nearly a hundred years gone by, for Tillie was fifteen
when she opted Black Jack and he had just turned twenty. Right now I find that
average age of husbands is almost exactly forty, while average—”

Mum
said firmly, “Never mind arithmetic, Greg dear. Simply state it.”

I
was trying to think who Greg could possibly mean. True, I had been much away
during past year, and if did get home, was often after everybody was asleep.
But he was clearly talking about marriage and nobody ever proposes another
wedding in our marriage without first giving everybody a long careful chance to
look prospect over. You just didn’t do it any other way!

So
I’m stupid. Greg stuttered and said, “I propose Wyoming
Knott!”

I
said I was stupid. I understand machinery and machinery understands me. But
didn’t claim to know anything about people. When I get to be senior
husband, if live that long, am going to do exactly what Grandpaw does with Mum:
Let Sidris run it. Just same—Well, look, Wyoh joined Greg’s church.
I like Greg, love Greg. And admire him. But you could never feed theology of
his church through a computer and get anything but null. Wyoh surely knew this,
since she encountered it in adult years—truthfully, I had suspected that
Wyoh’s conversion was proof that she would do anything for our Cause.

But
Wyoh had recruited Greg even earlier. And had made most of trips out to new
site, easier for her to get away than me or Prof. Oh, well. Was taken by
surprise. Should not have been.

Mimi
said, “Greg, do you have reason to think that Wyoming would accept an
opting from us?”

“Yes.”

“Very
well. We all know Wyoming; I’m sure we’ve formed our opinions of
her. I see no reason to discuss it … unless someone has something to say?
Speak up.”

Was
no surprise to Mum. But wouldn’t be. Nor to anyone else, either, since
Mum never let a talk-talk take place until she was sure of outcome.

But
wondered why Mum was sure of my opinion, so certain that she had not felt me
out ahead of time? And sat there in a soggy quandary, knowing I should speak
up, knowing I knew something terribly pertinent which nobody else knew or
matter would never have gone this far. Something that didn’t matter to me
but would matter to Mum and all our women.

Sat
there, miserable coward, and said nothing, Mum said, “Very well.
Let’s call the roll. Ludmilla?”

“Me?
Why, I love Wyoh, everybody knows that. Sure!”

“Lenore
dear?”

“Well,
I may try to talk her into going back to being a brownie again; I think we set
each other off. But that’s her only fault, being blonder than I am.
Da!”

“Sidris?”

“Thumbs
up. Wyoh is our kind of people.”

“Anna?”

“I’ve
something to say before I express my opinion, Mimi.’

“I
don’t think it’s necessary, dear.”

“Nevertheless
I’m going to haul it out in the open, just as Tillie always did according
to our traditions. In this marriage every wife has carried her load, given
children to the family. It may come as a surprise to some of you to learn that
Wyoh has had eight children—”

Certainly
surprised Ali; his head jerked and jaw dropped. I stared at plate. Oh, Wyoh,
Wyoh! How could I let this happen? Was going to have to speak up.

And
realized Anna was still speaking: “—so now she can have children of
her own; the operation was successful. But she worries about possibility of
another defective baby, unlikely as that is according to the head of the clinic
in Hong Kong. So we’ll just have to love her enough to make her quit
fretting.”

“We
will love her,” Mum said serenely. “We do love her. Anna, are you
ready to express opinion?”

“Hardly
necessary, is it? I went to Hong Kong with her, held her hand while her tubes
were restored. I opt Wyoh.”

“In
this family,” Mum went on, “we have always felt that our husbands
should be allowed a veto. Odd of us perhaps, but Tillie started it and it has
always worked well. Well, Grandpaw?”

“Eh?
What were you saying, my dear?”

“We
are opting Wyoming, Gospodin Grandpaw. Do you give consent?”

“What?
Why, of course, of course! Very nice little girl. Say, whatever became of that
pretty little Afro, name something like that? She get mad at us?”

“Greg?”

“I
proposed it.”

“Manuel?
Do you forbid this?”

“Me?
Why, you know me, Mum.”

“I
do. I sometimes wonder if you know you. Hans?”

“What
would happen if I said No?”

“You’d
lose some teeth, that’s what,” Lenore said promptly. “Hans
votes Yes.”

“Stop
it, darlings,” Mum said with soft reproof. “Opting is a serious
matter. Hans, speak up.”

“Da.
Yes. Ja. Oui. Si. High time we had a pretty blonde in this—Ouch!”

“Stop
it, Lenore. Frank?”

“Yes,
Mum.”

“Ali
dear? Is it unanimous?”

Lad
blushed bright pink and couldn’t talk. Nodded vigorously.

Instead
of appointing a husband and a wife to seek out selectee and propose opting for
us, Mum sent Ludmilla and Anna to fetch Wyoh at once—and turned out she
was only as far away as Bon Ton. Nor was that only irregularity; instead of
setting a date and arranging a wedding party, our children were called in, and
twenty minutes later Greg had his Book open and we did the taking
vows—and I finally got it through my confused head that was being done
with breakneck speed because of my date to break my neck next day.

Not
that it could matter save as symbol of my family’s love for me, since a
bride spent her first night with her senior husband, and second night and third
I was going to spend out in space. But did matter anyhow and when women started
to cry during ceremony, I found self dripping tears right with them.

Then
I went to bed, alone in workshop, once Wyoh had kissed us and left on
Grandpaw’s arm. Was terribly tired and last two days had been hard.
Thought about exercises and decided was too late to matter; thought about
calling Mike and asking him for news from Terra. Went to bed.

Don’t
know how long had been asleep when realized was no longer asleep and somebody
was in room. “Manuel?” came soft whisper in dark.

“Huh?
Wyoh, you aren’t supposed to be here, dear.”

“I
am indeed supposed to be here, my husband. Mum knows I’m here, so does
Greg. And Grandpaw went right to sleep.”

“Oh.
What time is?”

“About
four hundred. Please, dear, may I come to bed?”

“What?
Oh, certainly.” Something I should remember. Oh, yes. “Mike!”

“Yes,
Man?” he answered.

“Switch
off. Don’t listen. If you want me, call me on Family phone.”

“So
Wyoh told me, Man. Congratulations!”

Then
her head was pillowed on my stump and I put right arm around her. “What
are you crying about, Wyoh?”

“I’m
not crying! I’m just frightened silly that you won’t come
back!”

Woke
up scared silly in pitch darkness. “Manuel!” Didn’t know
which end was up. “Manuel!” it called again. “Wake up!”

That
brought me out some; was signal intended to trigger me. Recalled being
stretched on a table in infirmary at Complex, staring up at a light and
listening to a voice while a drug dripped into my veins. But was a hundred
years ago, endless time of nightmares, unendurable pressure, pain.

Knew
now what no-end-is-up feeling was; had experienced before. Free fall. Was in
space.

What
had gone wrong? Had Mike dropped a decimal point? Or had he given in to
childish nature and played a joke, not realizing would kill? Then why, after
all years of pain, was I alive? Or was I? Was this normal way for ghost to
feel, just lonely, lost, nowhere?

“Wake
up, Manuel! Wake up, Manuel!”

“Oh,
shut up!” I snarled. “Button your filthy king-and-ace!”
Recording went on; I paid no attention. Where was that reeking light switch?
No, doesn’t take a century of pain to accelerate to Luna’s escape
speed at three gravities, merely feels so. Eighty-two seconds—but is one
time when human nervous system feels every microsecond. Three gees is eighteen
grim times as much as a Loonie ought to weigh.

Then
discovered those vacuum skulls had not put arm back on. For some silly reason
they had taken it off when they stripped me to prepare me and I was loaded with
enough don’t-worry and let’s-sleep pills not to protest. No huhu
had they put it on again. But that drecklich switch was on my left and sleeve
of p-suit was empty.