The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (47 page)

But
argument as to what to do with this targeting had started early Saturday
morning. Prof had not called meeting of War Cabinet but they showed up anyhow,
except “Clayton” Watenabe who had gone back to Kongville to take
charge of defenses. Prof, self, Finn, Wyoh, Judge Brody, Wolfgang, Stu, Terence
Sheehan—which made eight different opinions. Prof is right; more than
three people can’t decide anything.

Six
opinions, should say, for Wyoh kept pretty mouth shut, and so did Prof; he
moderated. But others were noisy enough for eighteen. Stu didn’t care
what we hit—provided New York Stock Exchange opened on Monday morning.
“We sold short in nineteen different directions on Thursday. If this
nation is not to be bankrupt before it’s out of its cradle, my buy orders
covering those shorts had better be executed. Tell them, Wolf; make them
understand.”

Brody
wanted to use catapult to smack any more ships leaving parking orbit. Judge
knew nothing about ballistics—simply understood that his drillmen were in
exposed positions. I didn’t argue as most remaining loads were already in
stow orbits and rest would be soon—and didn’t think we would have
old catapult much longer.

Sheenie
thought it would be smart to repeat that grid while placing one load exactly on
main building of North American Directorate. “I know Americans, I was one
before they shipped me. They’re sorry as hell they ever turned things
over to F.N. Knock off those bureaucrats and they’ll come over to our
side.”

Wolfgang
Korsakov, to Stu’s disgust, thought that these speculations might do
better if all stock exchanges were closed till it was over.

Finn
wanted to go for broke—warn them to get those ships out of our sky, then
hit them for real if they didn’t. “Sheenie is wrong about
Americans; I know them, too. N.A. is toughest part of F.N.; they’re the
ones to lick. They’re already calling us murderers, so now we’ve
got to hit them, hard! Hit American cities and we can call off the rest.”

I
slid out, talked with Mike, made notes. Went back in; they were still arguing.
Prof looked up as I sat down. “Field Marshal, you have not expressed your
opinion.”

I
said, “Prof, can’t we lay off that ‘field marshal’
nonsense? Children are in bed, can afford to be honest.”

“As
you wish, Manuel.”

“Been
waiting to see if any agreement would be reached.”

Was
none. “Don’t see why I should have opinion,” I went on.
“Am just errand boy, here because I know how to program ballistic
computer.” Said this looking straight at Wolfgang—a number-one
comrade but a dirty-word intellectual. I’m just a mechanic whose grammar
isn’t much while Wolf graduated from a fancy school, Oxford, before they
convicted him. He deferred to Prof but rarely to anybody else. Stu,
da—but Stu had fancy credentials, too.

Wolf
stirred uneasily and said, “Oh, come, Mannie, of course we want your
opinions.”

“Don’t
have any. Bombing plan was worked out carefully; everybody had chance to
criticize. Haven’t seen anything justify changing it.”

Prof
said, “Manuel, will you review the second bombardment of North America
for the benefit of all of us?”

“Okay.
Purpose of second smearing is to force them to use up interceptor rockets.
Every shot is aimed at big cities—at null targets, I mean, close to big
cities. Which we tell them, shortly before we hit them—how soon,
Sheenie?”

“We’re
telling them now. But we can change it. And should.”

“As
may be. Propaganda isn’t my pidgin. In most cases, to aim close enough to
force them to intercept we have to use water targets—rough enough; besides
killing fish and anybody who won’t stay off water, it causes tremjous
local storms and shore damage.”

Glanced
at watch, saw I would have to stall. “Seattle gets one in Puget Sound
right in her lap. San Francisco is going to lose two bridges she’s fond of.
Los Angeles gets one between Long Beach and Catalina and another a few
kilometers up coast. Mexico City is inland so we put one on Popocatepetl where
they can see it. Salt Lake City gets one in her lake. Denver we ignore; they
can see what’s happening in Colorado Springs—for we smack Cheyenne
Mountain again and keep it up, just as soon as we have it in line-of-sight.
Saint Louis and Kansas City get shots in their rivers and so does New
Orleans—probably flood New Orleans. All Great Lake cities get it, a long
list—shall I read it?”

“Later
perhaps,” said Prof. “Go ahead.”

“Boston
gets one in her harbor, New York gets one in Long Island Sound and another
midway between her two biggest bridges—think it will ruin those bridges
but we promise to miss them and will. Going down their east coast, we give
treatment to two Delaware Bay cities, then two on Chesapeake Bay, one being of
max historical and sentimental importance. Farther south we catch three more
big cities with sea shots, Going inland we smack Cincinnati, Birmingham,
Chattanooga, Oklahoma City, all with river shots or nearby mountains. Oh, yes,
Dallas—we destroy Dallas spaceport and should catch some ships, were six
there last time I checked. Won’t kill any people unless they insist on
standing on target; Dallas is perfect place to bomb, that spaceport is big and
flat and empty, yet maybe ten million people will see us hit it.”

“If
you hit it,” said Sheenie.

“When,
not ‘if.’ Each shot is backed up by one an hour later. If neither
one gets through, we have shots farther back which can be diverted—for
example easy to shift targets among Delaware-Bay-Chesapeake-Bay group. Same for
Great Lakes group. But Dallas has its own string of backups and a long
one—we expect it to be heavily defended. Backups run about six hours, as
long as we can see North America—and last backups can be placed anywhere
on continent … since farther out a load is when we divert it, farther we
can shift it.”

“I
don’t follow that,” said Brody.

“A
matter of vectors, Judge. A guidance rocket can give a load so many meters per
second of side vector. Longer that vector has to work, farther from original
point of aim load will land. If we signal a guidance rocket three hours before
impact, we displace impact three times as much as if we waited till one hour
before impact. Not quite that simple but our computer can figure it—if
you give it time enough.”

“How
long is ‘time enough’?” asked Wolfgang.

I
carefully misunderstood. “Computer can solve that sort of problem almost
instantaneously once you program it. But such decisions are pre-programmed.
Something like this: If, out of target group A, B, C, and D, you find that you
have failed to hit three targets on first and second salvoes, you reposition
all group-one second backups so that you will be able to choose those three
targets while distributing other second backups of that group for possible use
on group two while repositioning third backups of supergroup Alpha such
that—”

“Slow
up!” said Wolfgang. “I’m not a computer. I just want to know
how long before we have to make up our minds.”

“Oh.”
I studied watch showily. “You now have … three minutes fifty-eight
seconds in which to abort leading load for Kansas City. Abort program is set up
and I have my best assistant—fellow named Mike—standing by. Shall I
phone him?”

Sheenie
said, “For heaven’s sake, Man—abort!”

“Like
hell!” said Finn. “What’s matter, Terence? No guts?”

Prof
said, “Comrades! Please!”

I
said, “Look, I take orders from head of state—Prof over there. If
he wants opinions, he’ll ask. No use yelling at each other.” I
looked at watch. “Call it two and a half minutes. More margin, of course,
for other targets; Kansas City is farthest from deep water. But some Great Lake
cities are already past ocean abort; Lake Superior is best we can do. Salt Lake
City maybe an extra minute. Then they pile up.” I waited.

“Roll
call,” said Prof. “To carry-out the program. General
Nielsen?”

“Da!”

“Gospazha
Davis?”

Wyoh
caught breath. “Da.”      

“Judge
Brody?”

“Yes,
of course. Necessary.”

“Wolfgang?”

“Yes.”

“Comte
LaJoie?”

“Da.”

“Gospodin
Sheehan?”

“You’re
missing a bet. But I’ll go along. Unanimous.”

“One
moment. Manuel?”

“Is
up to you, Prof; always has been. Voting is silly.”

“I
am aware that it is up to me, Gospodin Minister. Carry out bombardment to
plan.”

Most
targets we managed to hit by second salvo though all were defended except
Mexico City. Seemed likely (98.3 percent by Mike’s later calculation)
that interceptors were exploding by radar fusing with set distances that
incorrectly estimated vulnerability of solid cylinders of rock. Only three
rocks were destroyed; others were pushed off course and thereby did more harm
than if not fired at.

New
York was tough; Dallas turned out to be very tough. Perhaps difference lay in
local control of interception, for it seemed unlikely that command post in
Cheyenne Mountain was still effective. Perhaps we had not cracked their hole in
the ground (don’t know how deep down it was) but I’ll bet that
neither men nor computers were still tracking.

Dallas
blew up or pushed aside first five rocks, so I told Mike to take everything he
could from Cheyenne Mountain and award it to Dallas … which he was able
to do two salvoes later; those two targets are less than a thousand kilometers
apart.

Dallas’s
defenses cracked on next salvo; Mike gave their spaceport three more (already
committed) then shifted back to Cheyenne Mountain—later ones had never
been nudged and were still earmarked “Cheyenne Mountain.” He was
still giving that battered mountain cosmic love pats when America rolled down
and under Terra’s eastern edge.

I
stayed with Mike all during bombardment, knowing it would be our toughest. As
he shut down till time to dust Great China, Mike said thoughtfully, “Man,
I don’t think we had better hit that mountain again.”

“Why
not, Mike?”

“It’s
not there any longer.”

“You
might divert its backups. When do you have to decide?”

“I
would put them on Albuquerque and Omaha but had best start now; tomorrow will
be busy. Man my best friend, you should leave.”

“Bored
with me, pal?”

“In
the next few hours that first ship may launch missiles. When that happens I
want to shift all ballistic control to Little David’s Sling—and
when I do, you should be at Mare Undarum site.”

“What’s
fretting you, Mike?”

“That
boy is accurate, Man. But he’s stupid. I want him supervised. Decisions
may have to be made in a hurry and there isn’t anyone there who can
program him properly. You should be there.”

“Okay
if you say so, Mike. But if needs a fast program, will still have to phone
you.” Greatest shortcoming of computers isn’t computer shortcoming
at all but fact that a human takes a long time, maybe hours, to set up a
program that a computer solves in milliseconds. One best quality of Mike was
that he could program himself. Fast. Just explain problem, let him program.
Samewise and equally, he could program “idiot son” enormously
faster than human could.

“But,
Man, I want you there because you may not be able to phone me; the lines may be
cut. So I’ve prepared a group of possible programs for Junior; they may
be helpful.”

“Okay,
print ‘em out. And let me talk to Prof.”

Mike
got Prof; I made sure he was private, then explained what Mike thought I should
do. Thought Prof would object—was hoping he would insist I stay through
coming bombardment/invasion/whatever—those ships. Instead he said,
“Manuel, it’s essential that you go. I’ve hesitated to tell
you. Did you discuss odds with Mike?”

“Nyet.”

“I
have continued to do so. To put it bluntly, if Luna City is destroyed and I am
dead and the rest of the government is dead—even if all Mike’s
radar eyes here are blinded and he himself is cut off from the new
catapult—all of which may happen under severe bombardment … even if
all this happens at once, Mike still gives Luna even chances if Little
David’s Sling can operate—and you are there to operate it.”

I
said, “Da, Boss. Yassuh, Massuh. You and Mike are stinkers and want to
hog fun. Will do.”

“Very
good, Manuel.”

Stayed
with Mike another hour while he printed out meter after meter of programs
tailored to other computer—work that would have taken me six months even
if able to think of all possibilities. Mike had it indexed and
cross-referenced—with horribles in it I hardly dare mention. Mean to say,
given circumstances and seemed necessary to destroy (say) Paris, this told
how—what missiles in what orbits, how to tell Junior to find them and
bring to target. Or anything.

Was
reading this endless document—not programs but descriptions of
purpose-of-program that headed each—when Wyoh phoned. “Mannie dear,
has Prof told you about going to Mare Undarum?”

“Yes.
Was going to call you.”

“All
right. I’ll pack for us and meet you at Station East. When can you be
there?”

“Pack
for ‘us’? You’re going?”

“Didn’t
Prof say?”

“No.”
Suddenly felt cheerful.

“I
felt guilty about it, dear. I wanted to go with you … but had no excuse.
After all, I’m no use around a computer and I do have responsibilities
here. Or did. But now I’ve been fired from all my jobs and so have
you.”

“Huh?”

“You
are no longer Defense Minister; Finn is. Instead you are Deputy Prime
Minister—”

“Well!”

“—and
Deputy Minister of Defense, too. I’m already Deputy Speaker and Stu has
been appointed Deputy Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. So he goes with
us, too.”

“I’m
confused.”

“It’s
not as sudden as it sounds; Prof and Mike worked it out months ago.
Decentralization, dear, the same thing that McIntyre has been working on for
the warrens. If there is a disaster at L-City, Luna Free State still has a
government. As Prof put it to me, ‘Wyoh dear lady, as long as you three
and a few Congressmen are left alive, all is not lost. You can still negotiate
on equal terms and never admit your wounds.’”