The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (3 page)

“No
longer a miner,” I explained. “That was before I lost this
wing.” Raised left arm, let her see seam joining prosthetic to meat arm
(I never mind calling it to a woman’s attention; puts some off but
arouses maternal in others—averages). “These days I’m a
computerman.”

She
said sharply, “You fink for the Authority?”

Even
today, with almost as many women in Luna as men, I’m too much old-timer
to be rude to a woman no matter what—they have so much of what we have
none of. But she had flicked scar tissue and I answered almost sharply,
“I am not employee of Warden. I do business with Authority—as
private contractor.”

“That’s
okay,” she answered, her voice warm again. “Everybody does business
with the Authority, we can’t avoid it—and that’s the trouble.
That’s what we’re going to change.”

We
are, eh? How? I thought. Everybody does business with Authority for same reason
everybody does business with Law of Gravitation. Going to change that, too? But
kept thoughts to myself, not wishing to argue with a lady.

“Mannie’s
okay,” Shorty said gently. “He’s mean as they come—I
vouch for him. Here’s a cap for him,” he added, reaching into
pouch. He started to set it on my head.

Wyoming
Knott took it from him. “You sponsor him?”

“I
said so.”

“Okay,
here’s how we do it in Hong Kong.” Wyoming stood in front of me,
placed cap on my head—kissed me firmly on mouth.

She
didn’t hurry. Being kissed by Wyoming Knott is more definite than being
married to most women. Had I been Mike all my lights would have flashed at
once. I felt like a Cyborg with pleasure center switched on.

Presently
I realized it was over and people were whistling. I blinked and said,
“I’m glad I joined. What have I joined?”

Wyoming
said, “Don’t you know?” Shorty cut in, “Meeting’s
about to start—he’ll find out. Sit down, Man. Please sit down,
Wyoh.” So we did as a man was banging a gavel.

With
gavel and an amplifier at high gain he made himself heard. “Shut
doors!” he shouted. “This is a closed meeting. Check man in front
of you, behind you, each side—if you don’t know him and nobody you
know can vouch for him, throw him out!”

“Throw
him out, hell!” somebody answered. “Eliminate him out nearest
lock!”

“Quiet,
please! Someday we will.” There was milling around, and a scuffle in
which one man’s red cap was snatched from head and he was thrown out,
sailing beautifully and still rising as he passed through door. Doubt if he
felt it; think he was unconscious. A women was ejected politely—not
politely on her part; she made coarse remarks about ejectors. I was
embarrassed.

At
last doors were closed. Music started, banner unfolded over platform. It read:
LIBERTY! EQUALITY! FRATERNITY! Everybody whistled; some started to sing, loudly
and badly: “
Arise, Ye Prisoners of Starvation
—”
Can’t say anybody looked starved. But reminded me I hadn’t eaten
since 1400; hoped it would not last long—and that reminded me that my
recorder was good for only two hours—and that made me wonder what would
happen if they knew? Sail me through air to land with sickening grunch? Or
eliminate me? But didn’t worry; made that recorder myself, using
number-three arm, and nobody but a miniaturization mechanic would figure out
what it was.

Then
came speeches.

Semantic
content was low to negative. One bloke proposed that we march on Warden’s
Residence, “shoulder to shoulder,” and demand our rights. Picture
it. Do we do this in tube capsules, then climb out one at a time at his private
station? What are his bodyguards doing? Or do we put on p-suits and stroll
across surface to his upper lock? With laser drills and plenty of power you can
open any airlock—but how about farther down? Is lift running? Jury-rig
hoist and go down anyhow, then tackle next lock?

I
don’t care for such work at zero pressure; mishap in pressure suit is too
permanent—especially when somebody arranges mishap. One first thing
learned about Luna, back with first shiploads of convicts, was that zero
pressure was place for good manners. Bad-tempered straw boss didn’t last
many shifts; had an “accident”—and top bosses learned not to pry
into accidents or they met accidents, too. Attrition ran 70 percent in early
years—but those who lived were nice people. Not tame, not soft, Luna is
not for them. But well-behaved.

But
seemed to me that every hothead in Luna was in Stilyagi Hall that night. They
whistled and cheered this shoulder-to-shoulder noise.

After
discussion opened, some sense was talked. One shy little fellow with bloodshot
eyes of old-time drillman stood up. “I’m an ice miner,” he
said. “Learned my trade doing time for Warden like most of you.
I’ve been on my own thirty years and done okay. Raised eight kids and all
of ‘em earned way—none eliminated nor any serious trouble. I should
say I did do okay because today you have to listen farther out or deeper down
to find ice.

“That’s
okay, still ice in The Rock and a miner expects to sound for it. But Authority
pays same price for ice now as thirty years ago. And that’s not okay.
Worse yet, Authority scrip doesn’t buy what it used to. I remember when
Hong Kong Luna dollars swapped even for Authority dollars—Now it takes
three Authority dollars to match one HKL dollar. I don’t know what to do
… but I know it takes ice to keep warrens and farms going.”

He
sat down, looking sad. Nobody whistled but everybody wanted to talk. Next
character pointed out that water can be extracted from rock—this is news?
Some rock runs 6 percent—but such rock is scarcer than fossil water. Why
can’t people do arithmetic?

Several
farmers bellyached and one wheat farmer was typical. “You heard what Fred
Hauser said about ice. Fred, Authority isn’t passing along that low price
to farmers. I started almost as long ago as you did, with one two-kilometer
tunnel leased from Authority. My oldest son and I sealed and pressured it and
we had a pocket of ice and made our first crop simply on a bank loan to cover
power and lighting fixtures, seed and chemicals.

“We
kept extending tunnels and buying lights and planting better seed and now we
get nine times as much per hectare as the best open-air farming down Earthside.
What does that make us? Rich? Fred, we owe more now than we did the day we went
private! If I sold out—if anybody was fool enough to buy—I’d
be bankrupt. Why? Because I have to buy water from Authority—and have to
sell my wheat to Authority—and never close gap. Twenty years ago I bought
city sewage from the Authority, sterilized and processed it myself and made a
profit on a crop. But today when I buy sewage, I’m charged
distilled-water price and on top of that for the solids. Yet price of a tonne
of wheat at catapult head is just what it was twenty years ago. Fred, you said
you didn’t know what to do. I can tell you! Get rid of Authority!”

They
whistled for him. A fine idea, I thought, but who bells cat?

Wyoming
Knott, apparently—chairman stepped back and let Shorty introduce her as a
“brave little girl who’s come all the way from Hong Kong Luna to
tell how our Chinee comrades cope with situation”—and choice of
words showed that he had never been there … not surprising; in 2075, HKL
tube ended at Endsville, leaving a thousand kilometers of maria to do by
rolligon bus, Serenitatis and part of Tranquillitatis—expensive and
dangerous. I’d been there—but on contract, via mail rocket.

Before
travel became cheap many people in Luna City and Novylen thought that Hong Kong
Luna was all Chinee. But Hong Kong was as mixed as we were. Great China dumped
what she didn’t want there, first from Old Hong Kong and Singapore, then
Aussies and Enzees and black fellows and marys and Malays and Tamil and name
it. Even Old Bolshies from Vladivostok and Harbin and Ulan Bator. Wye looked
Svenska and had British last name with North American first name but could have
been Russki. My word, a Loonie then rarely knew who father was and, if raised
in crèche, might be vague about mother.

I
thought Wyoming was going to be too shy to speak. She stood there, looking
scared and little, with Shorty towering over her, a big, black mountain. She
waited until admiring whistles died down. Luna City was two-to-one male then,
that meeting ran about ten-to-one; she could have recited ABC and they would
have applauded.

Then
she tore into them.      

“You!
You’re a wheat farmer—going broke. Do you know how much a Hindu
housewife pays for a kilo of flour made from your wheat? How much a tonne of
your wheat fetches in Bombay? How little it costs the Authority to get it from
catapult head to Indian Ocean? Downhill all the way! Just solid-fuel retros to
brake it—and where do those come from? Right here! And what do you get in
return? A few shiploads of fancy goods, owned by the Authority and priced high
because it’s importado. Importado,
importado
!—I never
touch importado! If we don’t make it in Hong Kong, I don’t use it.
What else do you get for wheat? The privilege of selling Lunar ice to Lunar
Authority, buying it back as washing water, then giving it to the
Authority—then buying it back a second time as flushing water—then
giving it again to the Authority with valuable solids added—then buying
it a third time at still higher price for farming—then you sell that
wheat to the Authority at their price—and buy power from the Authority to
grow it, again at their price! Lunar power—not one kilowatt up from
Terra. It comes from Lunar ice and Lunar steel, or sunshine spilled on
Luna’s soil—all put together by loonies! Oh, you rockheads, you
deserve to starve!”

She
got silence more respectful than whistles. At last a peevish voice said,
“What do you expect us to do,
gospazha
? Throw rocks at
Warden?”

Wyoh
smiled. “Yes, we could throw rocks. But the solution is so simple that
you all know it. Here in Luna we’re rich. Three million hardworking,
smart, skilled people, enough water, plenty of everything, endless power,
endless cubic. But what we don’t have is a free market. We must get rid
of the Authority!”

“Yes—but
how?”

“Solidarity.
In HKL we’re learning. Authority charges too much for water, don’t
buy. It pays too little for ice, don’t sell. It holds monopoly on export,
don’t export. Down in Bombay they want wheat. If it doesn’t arrive,
the day will come when brokers come here to bid for it—at triple or more
the present prices!”

“What
do we do in meantime? Starve?”

Same
peevish voice—Wyoming picked him out, let her head roll in that old
gesture by which a Loonie fem says, “You’re too fat for me!”
She said, “In your case, cobber, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Guffaws
shut him up. Wyoh went on, “No one need starve, Fred Hauser, fetch your
drill to Hong Kong; the Authority doesn’t own our water and air system
and we pay what ice is worth. You with the bankrupt farm—if you have the
guts to admit that you’re bankrupt, come to Hong Kong and start over. We
have a chronic labor shortage, a hard worker doesn’t starve.” She
looked around and added, “I’ve said enough. It’s up to
you”—left platform, sat down between Shorty and myself.

She
was trembling. Shorty patted her hand; she threw him a glance of thanks, then
whispered to me, “How did I do?”

“Wonderful,”
I assured her. “Terrific!” She seemed reassured.

But
I hadn’t been honest. “Wonderful” she had been, at swaying
crowd. But oratory is a null program. That we were slaves I had known all my
life—and nothing could be done about it. True, we weren’t bought
and sold—but as long as Authority held monopoly over what we had to have
and what we could sell to buy it, we were slaves.

But
what could we do? Warden wasn’t our owner. Had he been, some way could be
found to eliminate him. But Lunar Authority was not in Luna, it was on
Terra—and we had not one ship, not even small hydrogen bomb. There
weren’t even hand guns in Luna, though what we would do with guns I did
not know. Shoot each other, maybe.

Three
million, unarmed and helpless—and eleven billion of them … with
ships and bombs and weapons. We could be a nuisance—but how long will
papa take it before baby gets spanked?

I
wasn’t impressed. As it says in Bible, God fights on side of heaviest
artillery.

They
cackled again, what to do, how to organize, and so forth, and again we heard
that “shoulder to shoulder” noise. Chairman had to use gavel and I
began to fidget.

But
sat up when I heard familiar voice: “Mr. Chairman! May I have the
indulgence of the house for five minutes?”

I
looked around. Professor Bernardo de la Paz—which could have guessed from
old-fashioned way of talking even if hadn’t known voice. Distinguished
man with wavy white hair, dimples in cheeks, and voice that
smiled—Don’t know how old he was but was old when I first met him,
as a boy.

He
had been transported before I was born but was not a lag. He was a political
exile like Warden, but a subversive and instead of fat job like
“warden,” Professor had been dumped, to live or starve.

No
doubt he could have gone to work in any school then in L-City but he
didn’t. He worked a while washing dishes, I’ve heard, then as
babysitter, expanding into a nursery school, and then into a crèche.
When I met him he was running a crèche, and a boarding and day school,
from nursery through primary, middle, and high schools, employed co-op thirty
teachers, and was adding college courses.

Never
boarded with him but I studied under him. I was opted at fourteen and my new
family sent me to school, as I had had only three years, plus spotty tutoring.
My eldest wife was a firm woman and made me go to school.

I
liked Prof. He would teach anything. Wouldn’t matter that he knew nothing
about it; if pupil wanted it, he would smile and set a price, locate materials,
stay a few lessons ahead. Or barely even if he found it tough—never
pretended to know more than he did. Took algebra from him and by time we
reached cubics I corrected his probs as often as he did mine—but he
charged into each lesson gaily.