The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (50 page)

He
stopped for cheers, then went on, “But that lies in the future.
Today—Oh, happy day! At last the world acknowledges Luna’s
sovereignty. Free! You have won your freedom—”

Prof
stopped—looked surprised. Not afraid, but puzzled. Swayed slightly.

Then
he did die.

We
got him into a shop behind platform. But even with help of a dozen doctors was
no use; old heart was gone, strained too many times. They carried him out back
way and I started to follow.

Stu
touched my arm. “Mr. Prime Minister—”

I
said, “Huh? Oh, for Bog’s sake!”

“Mr.
Prime Minister,” he repeated firmly, “you must speak to the crowd,
send them home. Then there are things that must be done.” He spoke calmly
but tears poured down cheeks.

So
I got back on platform and confirmed what they had guessed and told them to go
home. And wound up in room L of Raffles, where all had started—emergency
Cabinet meeting. But first ducked to phone, lowered hood, punched MYCROFTXXX.

Got
null-number signal. Tried again—same. Pushed up hood and said to man nearest
me, Wolfgang, “Aren’t phones working?”

“Depends,”
he said. “That bombing yesterday shook things up. If you want an
out-of-town number, better call the phone office.”

Could
see self asking office to get me a null. “What bombing?”

“Haven’t
you heard? It was concentrated on the Complex. But Brody’s boys got the
ship. No real damage. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Had
to drop it; they were waiting. I didn’t know what to do but Stu and
Korsakov did. Sheenie was told to write news releases for Terra and rest of
Luna; I found self announcing a lunar of mourning, twenty-four hours of quiet,
no unnecessary business, giving orders for body to lie in state—all words
put into mouth, I was numb, brain would not work. Okay, convene Congress at end
of twenty-four hours. In Novylen? Okay.

Sheenie
had dispatches from Earthside. Wolfgang wrote for me something which said that,
because of death of our President, answers would be delayed at least
twenty-four hours.

At
last was able to get away, with Wyoh. A stilyagi guard kept people away from us
to easement lock thirteen. Once home I ducked into workshop on pretense of
needing to change arms. “Mike?”

No
answer—

So
tried punching his combo into house phone—null signal. Resolved to go out
to Complex next day—with Prof gone, needed Mike worse than ever.

But
next day was not able to go; trans-Crisium tube was out—that last
bombing. You could go around through Torricelli and Novylen and eventually
reach Hong Kong. But Complex, almost next door, could be reached only by
rolligon. Couldn’t take time; I was “government.”

Managed
to shuck that off two days later. By resolution was decided that Speaker (Finn)
had succeeded to Presidency after Finn and I had decided that Wolfgang was best
choice for Prime Minister. We put it through and I went back to being
Congressman who didn’t attend sessions.

By
then most phones were working and Complex could be called. Punched MYCROFFXXX.
No answer—So went out by rolligon. Had to go down and walk tube last
kilometer but Complex Under didn’t seem hurt.

Nor
did Mike appear to be.

But
when I spoke to him, he didn’t answer.

He
has never answered. Has been many years now.

You
can type questions into him—in Loglan—and you’ll get Loglan
answers out. He works just fine … as a computer. But won’t talk. Or
can’t.

Wyoh
tried to coax him. Then she stopped. Eventually I stopped.

Don’t
know how it happened. Many outlying pieces of him got chopped off in last
bombing—was meant, I’m sure, to kill our ballistic computer. Did he
fall below that “critical number” it takes to sustain
self-awareness? (If is such; was never more than hypothesis.) Or did
decentralizing that was done before that last bombing “kill” him?

I
don’t know. If was just matter of critical number, well, he’s long
been repaired; he must be back up to it. Why doesn’t he wake up?

Can
a machine be so frightened and hurt that it will go into catatonia and refuse
to respond? While ego crouches inside, aware but never willing to risk it? No,
can’t be that; Mike was unafraid—as gaily unafraid as Prof.

Years,
changes—Mimi long ago opted out of family management; Anna is
“Mum” now and Mimi dreams by video. Slim got Hazel to change name
to Stone, two kids and she studied engineering. All those new free-fall drugs
and nowadays earthworms stay three or four years and go home unchanged. And
those other drugs that do almost as much for us; some kids go Earthside to
school now; And Tibet catapult—took seventeen years instead of ten;
Kilimanjaro job was finished sooner.

One
mild surprise—When time came, Lenore named Stu for opting, rather than
Wyoh. Made no difference, we all voted “Da!” One thing not a
surprise because Wyoh and I pushed it through during time we still amounted to
something in government: a brass cannon on a pedestal in middle of Old Dome and
over it a flag fluttering in blower breeze—black field speckled with
stars, bar sinister in blood, a proud and jaunty brass cannon embroidered over
all, and below it our motto: TANSTAAFL! That’s where we hold our
Fourth-of-July celebrations.

You
get only what you pay for—Prof knew and paid, gaily.

But
Prof underrated yammerheads. They never adopted any of his ideas. Seems to be a
deep instinct in human beings for making everything compulsory that isn’t
forbidden. Prof got fascinated by possibilities for shaping future that lay in
a big, smart computer—and lost track of things closer home. Oh, I backed
him! But now I wonder. Are food riots too high a price to pay to let people be?
I don’t know.

Don’t
know any answers.

Wish
I could ask Mike.

I
wake up in night and think I’ve heard him—just a whisper:
“Man … Man my best friend …” But when I say,
“Mike?” he doesn’t answer. Is he wandering around somewhere,
looking for hardward to hook onto? Or is he buried down in Complex Under,
trying to find way out? Those special memories are all in there somewhere,
waiting to be stirred. But I can’t retrieve them; they were voice-coded.

Oh,
he’s dead as Prof, I know it. (But how dead is Prof?) If I punched it
just once more and said, “Hi, Mike!” would he answer, “Hi,
Man! Heard any good ones lately?” Been a long time since I’ve
risked it. But he can’t really be dead; nothing was hurt—he’s
just lost.

You
listening, Bog? Is a computer one of Your creatures?

Too
many changes—May go to that talk-talk tonight and toss in some random
numbers.

Or
not. Since Boom started quite a few young cobbers have gone out to Asteroids.
Hear about some nice places out there, not too crowded.

My
word, I’m not even a hundred yet.