The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress Part 33

Waited.

Eyeball squad reported that a s.h.i.+p which had been clockfaithful for nineteen pa.s.ses had failed to show. Ten minutes later they reported that another s.h.i.+p had missed expected appearance.

We waited and listened.

Great China, speaking on behalf of all veto powers, accepted armistice and stated that our sky was now clear. Lenore burst into tears and kissed everybody she could reach.

After we steadied down (a man can't think when women are grabbing him, especially when five of them are not his wives)--a few minutes later, when we were coherent, I said, "Stu, want you to leave for Luna City at once. Pick your party. No women-you'll have to walk surface last kilometers. Find out what's going on-but first get them to aim a relay at ours and phone me."

"Very good, sir."

We were getting him outfitted for a tough journey-extra air bottles, emergency shelter, so forth-when Earthside called me on frequency we were listening to because message was (learned later) on all frequencies up from Earthside: "Private message, Prof to Mannie-identification, birthday Bastille and Sherlock's sibling. Come home at once. Your carriage waits at your new relay. Private message, Prof to-"

And went on repeating.

"Harry!"

"Da, Boss?"

"Message Earthside-tape and squeal; we still don't want them ranging us. 'Private message, Mannie to Prof. Bra.s.s Cannon. On my way!' Ask them to acknowledge-but use only one squeal."

29

Stu and Greg drove on way back, while Wyoh and Lenore and I huddled on open flatbed, strapped to keep from falling off; was too small. Had time to think; neither girl had suit radio and we could talk only by helmet touch-awkward.

Began to see-now that we had won-parts of Prof's plan that had never been clear to me. Inviting attack against catapult had spared warrens-hoped it had; that was plan-but Prof had always been cheerfully indifferent to damage to catapult. Sure, had a second one-but far away and difficult to reach. Would take years to put a tube system to new catapult, high mountains all way. Probably cheaper to repair old one. If possible.

Either way, no grain s.h.i.+pped to Terra in meantime.

And that was just what Prof wanted! Yet never once had he hinted that his plan was based on destroying old catapult-his long-range plan, not just Revolution. He might not admit it now. But Mike would tell me-if put to him flatly: Was or was not this one factor in odds? Food riot predictions and all that, Mike? He would tell me.

That tonne-for-tonne deal-Prof had expounded it Earthside, had been argument for a Terran catapult. But privately he had no enthusiasm for it. Once he had told me, in North America, "Yes, Manuel, I feel sure it would work. But, if built, it will be temporary. There was a time, two centuries ago, when dirty laundry used to be s.h.i.+pped from California to Hawaii-by sailing s.h.i.+p, mind you-and clean laundry returned. Special circ.u.mstances. If we ever see water and manure s.h.i.+pped to Luna and grain s.h.i.+pped back, it will be just as temporary. Luna's future lies in her unique position at the top of a gravity well over a rich planet, and in her cheap power and plentiful real estate. If we Loonies have sense enough in the centuries ahead to remain a free port and to stay out of entangling alliances, we will become the crossroads for two planets, three planets, the entire Solar System. We won't be farmers forever."

They met us at Station East and hardly gave time to get p-suits off-was return from Earthside over again, screaming mobs and being ridden on shoulders. Even girls, for Slim Lemke said to Lenore, "May we carry you, too?"-and Wyoh answered, "Sure, why not?"-and stilyagi fought for chance to.

Most men were pressure-suited and I was surprised to see how many carried guns-until I saw that they were not our guns; they were captured. But most of all what blessed relief to see L-City unhurt!

Could have done without triumphal procession; was itching to get to phone and find out from Mike what had happened-how much damage, how many killed, what this victory cost. But no chance. We were carried to Old Dome w.i.l.l.y-nilly.

They shoved us up on a platform with Prof and rest of Cabinet apd vips and such, and our girls s...o...b..red on Prof and he embraced me Latin style, kiss cheek, and somebody stuck a Liberty Cap on me. Spotted little Hazel in crowd and threw her a kiss.

At last they quieted enough for Prof to speak.

"My friends," he said, and waited for silence. "My friends," he repeated softly. "Beloved comrades. We meet at last in freedom and now have with us the heroes who fought the last battle for Luna, alone." They cheered us, again he waited. Could see he was tired; hands trembled as he steadied self against pulpit. "I want them to speak to you, we want to hear about it, all of us.

"But first I have a happy message. Great China has just announced that she is building in the Himalayas an enormous catapult, to make s.h.i.+pping to Luna as easy and cheap as it has been to s.h.i.+p from Luna to Terra."

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.

30

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 MYCROFTx.x.x.

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 s.h.i.+p. 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 eas.e.m.e.nt 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 MYCROFFx.x.x. 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 bra.s.s 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 bra.s.s 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.