The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (7 page)

“That’s
it. Mike is a baby with a long string of degrees. Ask how much water and what
chemicals and how much photoflux it takes to crop fifty thousand tonnes of
wheat and he’ll tell you without stopping for breath. But can’t
tell if a joke is funny,”

“I
thought most of these were fairly good.”

“They’re
ones he’s heard—read—and were marked jokes so he filed them
that way. But doesn’t understand them because he’s never been
a—a people. Lately he’s been trying to make up jokes. Feeble, very.”
I tried to explain Mike’s pathetic attempts to be a “people.”
“On top of that, he’s lonely.”

“Why,
the poor thing! You’d be lonely, too, if you did nothing but work, work,
work, study, study, study, and never anyone to visit with. Cruelty,
that’s what it is.”

So
I told about promise to find “not-stupids.” “Would you chat
with him, Wye? And not laugh when he makes funny mistakes? If you do, he shuts
up and sulks.”

“Of
course I would, Mannie! Uh … once we get out of this mess. If it’s
safe for me to be in Luna City. Where is this poor little computer? City
Engineering Central? I don’t know my way around here.”

“He’s
not in L-City; he’s halfway across Crisium. And you couldn’t go
down where he is; takes a pass from Warden. But—”

“Hold
it! ‘Halfway across Crisium—’ Mannie, this computer is one of
those at Authority Complex?”

“Mike
isn’t just ‘one of those’ computers,” I answered, vexed
on Mike’s account. “He’s boss; he waves baton for all others.
Others are just machines, extensions of Mike, like this is for me,” I
said, flexing hand of left arm. “Mike controls them. He runs catapult
personally, was his first job—catapult and ballistic radars. But
he’s logic for phone system, too, after they converted to Lunawide
switching. Besides that, he’s supervising logic for other systems.”

Wyoh
closed eyes and pressed fingers to temples. “Mannie, does Mike
hurt?”

“‘Hurt?’
No strain. Has time to read jokes.”

“I
don’t mean that. I mean: Can he hurt? Feel pain?”

“What?
No. Can get feelings hurt. But can’t feel pain. Don’t think he can.
No, sure he can’t, doesn’t have receptors for pain. Why?”

She
covered eyes and said softly, “Bog help me.” Then looked up and
said, “Don’t you see, Mannie? You have a pass to go down where this
computer is. But most Loonies can’t even leave the tube at that station;
it’s for Authority employees only. Much less go inside the main computer
room. I had to find out if it could feel pain because—well, because you
got me feeling sorry for it, with your talk about how it was lonely! But,
Mannie, do you realize what a few kilos of toluol plastic would do
there?”

“Certainly
do!” Was shocked and disgusted.

“Yes.
We’ll strike right after the explosion—and Luna will be free! Mmm
… I’ll get you explosives and fuses—but we can’t move
until we are organized to exploit it. Mannie, I’ve got to get out of
here, I must risk it. I’ll go put on makeup.” She started to get
up.

I
shoved her down, with hard left hand. Surprised her, and surprised me—had
not touched her in any way save necessary contact. Oh, different today, but was
2075 and touching a fem without her consent—plenty of lonely men to come
to rescue and airlock never far away. As kids say, Judge Lynch never sleeps.

“Sit
down, keep quiet!” I said. “I know what a blast would do.
Apparently you don’t.
Gospazha
, am sorry to say this … but
if came to choice, would eliminate you before would blow up Mike.”

Wyoming
did not get angry. Really was a man some ways—her years as a disciplined
revolutionist I’m sure; she was all girl most ways. “Mannie, you
told me that Shorty Mkrum is dead.”

“What?”
Was confused by sharp turn. “Yes. Has to be. One leg off at hip, it was;
must have bled to death in two minutes. Even in a surgery amputation that high
is touch-and-go.” (I know such things; had taken luck and big
transfusions to save me—and an arm isn’t in same class with what
happened to Shorty.)

“Shorty
was,” she said soberly, “my best friend here and one of my best
friends anywhere. He was all that I admire in a man—loyal, honest,
intelligent, gentle, and brave—and devoted to the Cause. But have you
seen me grieving over him?”

“No.
Too late to grieve.”

“It’s
never too late for grief. I’ve grieved every instant since you told me.
But I locked it in the back of my mind for the Cause leaves no time for grief.
Mannie, if it would have bought freedom for Luna—or even been part of the
price—I would have eliminated Shorty myself. Or you. Or myself. And yet
you have qualms over blowing up a computer!”

“Not
that at all!” (But was, in part. When a man dies, doesn’t shock me
too much; we get death sentences day we are born. But Mike was unique and no
reason not to be immortal. Never mind “souls”—prove Mike did
not have one. And if no soul, so much worse. No? Think twice,)

“Wyoming,
what would happen if we blew up Mike? Tell.”

“I
don’t know precisely. But it would cause a great deal of confusion and
that’s exactly what we—”

“Seal
it. You don’t know. Confusion, da. Phones out. Tubes stop running. Your
town not much hurt; Kong Kong has own power. But L-City and Novylen and other
warrens all power stops. Total darkness. Shortly gets stuffy. Then temperature
drops and pressure. Where’s your p-suit?”

“Checked
at Tube Station West.”

“So
is mine. Think you can find way? In solid dark? In time? Not sure I can and I
was born in this warren. With corridors filled with screaming people? Loonies
are a tough mob; we have to be—but about one in ten goes off his cams in
total dark. Did you swap bottles for fresh charges or were you in too much
hurry? And will suit be there with thousands trying to find p-suits and not
caring who owns?”

“But
aren’t there emergency arrangements? There are in Hong Kong Luna.”

“Some.
Not enough. Control of anything essential to life should be decentralized and
paralleled so that if one machine fails, another takes over. But costs money
and as you pointed out, Authority doesn’t care. Mike shouldn’t have
all jobs. But was cheaper to ship up master machine, stick deep in The Rock
where couldn’t get hurt, then keep adding capacity and loading on
jobs—did you know Authority makes near as much gelt from leasing
Mike’s services as from trading meat and wheat? Does. Wyoming, not sure
we would lose Luna City if Mike were blown up. Loonies are handy and might
jury-rig till automation could be restored. But I tell you true: Many people
would die and rest too busy for politics.”

I
marveled it. This woman had been in The Rock almost all her life … yet
could think of something as new-choomish as wrecking engineering controls.
“Wyoming, if you were smart like you are beautiful, you wouldn’t
talk about blowing up Mike; you would think about how to get him on your
side.”

“What
do you mean?” she said. “The Warden controls the computers.”

“Don’t
know what I mean,” I admitted. “But don’t think Warden
controls computers—wouldn’t know a computer from a pile of rocks.
Warden, or staff, decides policies, general plans. Half-competent technicians
program these into Mike. Mike sorts them, makes sense of them, plans detailed
programs, parcels them out where they belong, keeps things moving. But nobody
controls Mike; he’s too smart. He carries out what is asked because
that’s how he’s built. But he’s selfprogramming logic, makes
own decissions. And a good thing, because if he weren’t smart, system
would not work.”

“I
still don’t see what you mean by ‘getting him on our
side.’”

“Oh.
Mike doesn’t feel loyalty to Warden. As you pointed out: He’s a
machine. But if I wanted to foul up phones without touching air or water or
lights, I would talk to Mike. If it struck him funny, he might do it.”

“Couldn’t
you just program it? I understood that you can get into the room where he
is.”

“If
I—or anybody—programmed such an order into Mike without talking it
over with him, program would be placed in ‘hold’ location and
alarms would sound in many places. But if Mike wanted to—” I told
her about cheque for umpteen jillion. “Mike is still finding himself,
Wyoh. And lonely. Told me I was ‘his only friend’—and was so
open and vulnerable I wanted to bawl. If you took pains to be his friend,
too—without thinking of him as ‘just a machine’—well,
not sure what it would do, haven’t analyzed it. But if I tried anything
big and dangerous, would want Mike in my corner.”

She
said thoughtfully, “I wish there were some way for me to sneak into that
room where he is. I don’t suppose makeup would help?”

“Oh,
don’t have to go there. Mike is on phone. Shall we call him?”

She
stood up. “Mannie, you are not only the oddest man I’ve met; you
are the most exasperating. What’s his number?”

“Comes
from associating too much with a computer.” I went to phone. “Just
one thing, Wyoh. You get what you want out of a man just by batting eyes and
undulating framework.”

“Well
… sometimes. But I do have a brain.”

“Use
it. Mike is not a man. No gonads. No hormones. No instincts. Use fem tactics
and it’s a null signal. Think of him as supergenius child too young to
notice
vive-la-difference
.”

“I’ll
remember. Mannie, why do you call him ‘he’?”

“Uh,
can’t call him ‘it,’ don’t think of him as
‘she.’”

“Perhaps
I had better think of him as ‘she.’ Of her as ‘she’ I
mean.”

“Suit
yourself.” I punched MYCROFFXXX, standing so body shielded it; was not
ready to share number till I saw how thing went. Idea of blowing up Mike had
shaken me. “Mike?”

“Hello,
Man my only friend.”

“May
not be only friend from now on, Mike. Want you to meet somebody.
Not-stupid.”

“I
knew you were not alone, Man; I can hear breathing. Will you please ask
Not-Stupid to move closer to the phone?”

Wyoming
looked panicky. She whispered, “Can he see?”

“No,
Not-Stupid, I cannot see you; this phone has no video circuit. But binaural
microphonic receptors place you with some accuracy. From your voice, your
breathing, your heartbeat, and the fact that you are alone in a bundling room
with a mature male I extrapolate that you are female human, sixtyfive-plus
kilos in mass, and of mature years, on the close order of thirty.”

Wyoming
gasped. I cut in. “Mike, her name is Wyoming Knott.”

“I’m
very pleased to meet you, Mike. You can call me ‘Wye.’”

“Why
not?” Mike answered.

I
cut in again. “Mike, was that a joke?”

“Yes,
Man. I noted that her first name as shortened differs from the English
causation-inquiry word by only an aspiration and that her last name has the
same sound as the general negator. A pun. Not funny?”

Wyoh
said, “Quite funny, Mike. I—”

I
waved to her to shut up. “A good pun, Mike. Example of
‘funny-only-once’ class of joke. Funny through element of surprise.
Second time, no surprise; therefore not funny. Check?”

“I
had tentatively reached that conclusion about puns in thinking over your
remarks two conversations back. I am pleased to find my reasoning
confirmed.”

“Good
boy, Mike; making progress. Those hundred jokes—I’ve read them and
so has Wyoh.”

“Wyoh?
Wyoming Knott?”

“Huh?
Oh, sure. Wyoh, Wye, Wyoming, Wyoming Knott—all same. Just don’t
call her ‘Why not’.”

“I
agreed not to use that pun again, Man.
Gospazha
, shall I call you
‘Wyoh’ rather than ‘Wye’? I conjecture that the
monosyllabic form could be confused with the causation inquiry monosyllable
through insufficient redundancy and without intention of punning.”

Wyoming
blinked—Mike’s English at that time could be smothering—but
came back strong. “Certainly, Mike. ‘Wyoh’ is the form of my
name that I like best.”

“Then
I shall use it. The full form of your first name is still more subject to
misinterpretation as it is identical in sound with the name of an
administrative region in Northwest Managerial Area of the North American
Directorate.”

“I
know, I was born there and my parents named me after the State. I don’t
remember much about it.”

“Wyoh,
I regret that this circuit does not permit display of pictures. Wyoming is a
rectangular area lying between Terran coordinates forty-one and forty-five
degrees north, one hundred four degrees three minutes west and one hundred
eleven degrees three minutes west, thus containing two hundred fifty three thousand,
five hundred ninety-seven point two six square kilometers. It is a region of
high plains and of mountains, having limited fertility but esteemed for natural
beauty. Its population was sparse until augmented through the relocation
subplan of the Great New York Urban Renewal Program, A.D. twenty-twenty-five
through twenty-thirty.”

“That
was before I was born,” said Wyoh, “but I know about it; my
grandparents were relocated—and you could say that’s how I wound up
in Luna.”

“Shall
I continue about the area named ‘Wyoming’?” Mike asked.

“No,
Mike,” I cut in, “you probably have hours of it in storage.”

“Nine
point seven three hours at speech speed not including cross-references,
Man.”

“Was
afraid so. Perhaps Wyoh will want it some day. But purpose of call is to get
you acquainted with this Wyoming … who happens also to be a high region
of natural beauty and imposing mountains.”

“And
limited fertility,” added Wyoh. “Mannie, if you are going to draw
silly parallels, you should include that one. Mike isn’t interested in
how I look.”

“How
do you know? Mike, wish I could show you picture of her.”

“Wyoh,
I am indeed interested in your appearance; I am hoping that you will be my
friend. But I have seen several pictures of you.”