The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (5 page)

“Suit
yourself. I’ve seen a woman.”

“What
a thrill that must have been for her.” She grinned and fisted me another
in ribs—hard—went in and started tub. “Mannie, would you like
to bathe in it first? Secondhand water is good enough for this makeup and that
stink you complained about.”

“Unmetered
water, dear. Run it deep.”

“Oh,
what luxury! At home I use the same bath water three days running.” She
whistled softly and happily. “Are you wealthy, Mannie?”

“Not
wealthy, not weeping.”

Lift
jingled; I answered, fixed basic martinis, vodka over ice, handed hers in, got
out and sat down, out of sight—nor had I seen sights; she was shoulder
deep in happy suds. “
Pawlnoi Zheezni
!” I called.

“A
full life to you, too, Mannie. Just the medicine I needed.” After pause
for medicine she went on, “Mannie, you’re married. Ja?”

“Da.
It shows?”

“Quite.
You’re nice to a woman but not eager and quite independent. So
you’re married and long married. Children?”

“Seventeen
divided by four.”

“Clan
marriage?”

“Line.
Opted at fourteen and I’m fifth of nine. So seventeen kids is nominal.
Big family.”

“It
must be nice. I’ve never seen much of line families, not many in Hong
Kong. Plenty of clans and groups and lots of polyandries but the line way never
took hold.”

“Is
nice. Our marriage nearly a hundred years old. Dates back to Johnson City and
first transportees—twenty-one links, nine alive today, never a divorce.
Oh, it’s a madhouse when our descendants and inlaws and kinfolk get
together for birthday or wedding—more kids than seventeen, of course; we
don’t count ‘em after they marry or I’d have
‘children’ old enough to be my grandfather. Happy way to live,
never much pressure. Take me. Nobody woofs if I stay away a week and
don’t phone. Welcome when I show up. Line marriages rarely have divorces.
How could I do better?”

“I
don’t think you could. Is it an alternation? And what’s the
spacing?”

“Spacing
has no rule, just what suits us. Been alternation up to latest link, last year.
We married a girl when alternation called for boy. But was special.”

“Special
how?”

“My
youngest wife is a granddaughter of eldest husband and wife. At least
she’s granddaughter of Mum—senior is ‘Mum’ or sometimes
Mimi to her husbands—and she may be of Grandpaw—but not related to
other spouses. So no reason not to marry back in, not even consanguinuity okay
in other types of marriage. None, nit, zero. And Ludmilla grew up in our family
because her mother had her solo, then moved to Novylen and left her with us.

“Milla
didn’t want to talk about marrying out when old enough for us to think
about it. She cried and asked us please to make an exception. So we did.
Grandpaw doesn’t figure in genetic angle—these days his interest in
women is more gallant than practical. As senior husband he spent our wedding
night with her—but consummation was only formal. Number-two husband,
Greg, took care of it later and everybody pretended. And everybody happy.
Ludmilla is a sweet little thing, just fifteen and pregnant first time.”

“Your
baby?”

“Greg’s,
I think. Oh, mine too, but in fact was in Novy Leningrad. Probably
Greg’s, unless Milla got outside help. But didn’t, she’s a
home girl. And a wonderful cook.”

Lift
rang; took care of it, folded down table, opened chairs, paid bill and sent
lift up. “Throw it to pigs?”

“I’m
coming! Mind if I don’t do my face?”

“Come
in skin for all of me.”

“For
two dimes I would, you much-married man.” She came out quickly, blond
again and hair slicked back and damp. Had not put on black outfit; again in
dress I bought. Red suited her. She sat down, lifted covers off food.
“Oh, boy! Mannie, would your family marry me? You’re a dinkum
provider.”

“I’ll
ask. Must be unanimous.”

“Don’t
crowd yourself.” She picked up sticks, got busy. About a thousand
calories later she said, “I told you I was a Free Woman. I wasn’t,
always.”

I
waited. Women talk when they want to. Or don’t.

“When
I was fifteen I married two brothers, twins twice my age and I was terribly
happy.”

She
fiddled with what was on plate, then seemed to change subject. “Mannie,
that was just static about wanting to marry your family. You’re safe from
me. If I ever marry again—unlikely but I’m not opposed to
it—it would be just one man, a tight little marriage, earthworm style.
Oh, I don’t mean I would keep him dogged down. I don’t think it
matters where a man eats lunch as long as he comes home for dinner. I would try
to make him happy.”

“Twins
didn’t get along?”

“Oh,
not that at all. I got pregnant and we were all delighted … and I had it,
and it was a monster and had to be eliminated. They were good to me about it.
But I can read print. I announced a divorce, had myself sterilized, moved from
Novylen to Hong Kong, and started over as a Free Woman.”

“Wasn’t
that drastic? Male parent oftener than female; men are exposed more.”

“Not
in my case. We had it calculated by the best mathematical geneticist in Novy
Leningrad—one of the best in Sovunion before she got shipped. I know what
happened to me. I was a volunteeer colonist—I mean my mother was for I
was only five. My father was transported and Mother chose to go with him and
take me along. There was a solar storm warning but the pilot thought he could
make it—or didn’t care; he was a Cyborg. He did make it but we got
hit on the ground—and, Mannie, that’s one thing that pushed me into
politics, that ship sat four hours before they let us disembark. Authority red
tape, quarantine perhaps; I was too young to know. But I wasn’t too young
later to figure out that I had birthed a monster because the Authority
doesn’t care what happens to us outcasts.”

“Can’t
start argument; they don’t care. But, Wyoh, still sounds hasty. If you
caught damage from radiation—well, no geneticist but know something about
radiation. So you had a damaged egg. Does not mean egg next to it was
hurt—statistically unlikely.”

“Oh,
I know that.”

“Mmm—What
sterilization? Radical? Or contraceptive?”

“Contraceptive.
My tubes could be opened. But, Mannie, a woman who has had one monster
doesn’t risk it again.” She touched my prosthetic. “You have
that. Doesn’t it make you eight times as careful not to risk this
one?” She touched my meat arm. “That’s the way I feel. You
have that to contend with; I have this—and I would never told you if you
hadn’t been hurt, too.”

I
didn’t say left arm more versatile than right—she was correct;
don’t want to trade in right arm. Need it to pat girls if naught else.
“Still think you could have healthy babies.”

“Oh,
I can! I’ve had eight.”

“Huh?”

“I’m
a professional host-mother, Mannie.”

I
opened mouth, closed it. Idea wasn’t strange. I read Earthside papers.
But doubt if any surgeon in Luna City in 2075 ever performed such transplant.
In cows, yes—but L-City females unlikely at any price to have babies for
other women; even homely ones could get husband or six. (Correction: Are no
homely women. Some more beautiful than others.)

Glanced
at her figure, quickly looked up. She said, “Don’t strain your
eyes, Mannie; I’m not carrying now. Too busy with politics. But hosting
is a good profession for Free Woman. It’s high pay. Some Chinee families
are wealthy and all my babies have been Chinee—and Chinee are smaller
than average and I’m a big cow; a two-and-a-half- or three-kilo Chinese
baby is no trouble. Doesn’t spoil my figure. These—” She
glanced down at her lovelies. “I don’t wet-nurse them, I never see
them. So I look nulliparous and younger than I am, maybe.

“But
I didn’t know how well it suited me when I first heard of it. I was
clerking in a Hindu shop, eating money, no more, when I saw this ad in the
Hong
Kong Gong
. It was the thought of having a baby, a good baby, that hooked
me; I was still in emotional trauma from my monster—and it turned out to
be Just what Wyoming needed. I stopped feeling that I was a failure as a woman.
I made more money than I could ever hope to earn at other jobs. And my time
almost to myself; having a baby hardly slows me down—six weeks at most
and that long only because I want to be fair to my clients; a baby is a
valuable property. And I was soon in politics; I sounded off and the
underground got in touch with me. That’s when I started living, Mannie; I
studied politics and economics and history and learned to speak in public and
turned out to have a flair for organization. It’s satisfying work because
I believe in it—I know that Luna will be free. Only—Well, it would
be nice to have a husband to come home to … if he didn’t mind that
I was sterile. But I don’t think about it; I’m too busy. Hearing
about your nice family got me talking, that’s all. I must apologize for
having bored you.”

How
many women apologize? But Wyoh was more man than woman some ways, despite eight
Chinee babies. “Wasn’t bored.”

“I
hope not. Mannie, why do you say our program isn’t practical? We need
you.”

Suddenly
felt tired. How to tell lovely woman dearest dream is nonsense? “Um.
Wyoh, let’s start over. You told them what to do. But will they? Take
those two you singled out. All that iceman knows, bet anything, is how to dig
ice. So he’ll go on digging and selling to Authority because that’s
what he can do. Same for wheat farmer. Years ago, he put in one cash
crop—now he’s got ring in nose. If he wanted to be independent,
would have diversified. Raised what he eats, sold rest free market and stayed
away from catapult head. I know—I’m a farm boy.”

“You
said you were a computerman.”

“Am,
and that’s a piece of same picture. I’m not a top computerman. But
best in Luna. I won’t go civil service, so Authority has to hire me when
in trouble—my prices—or send Earthside, pay risk and hardship, then
ship him back fast before his body forgets Terra. At far more than I charge. So
if I can do it, I get their jobs—and Authority can’t touch me; was
born free. And if no work—usually is—I stay home and eat high.

“We’ve
got a proper farm, not a one-cash-crop deal. Chickens. Small herd of whiteface,
plus milch cows. Pigs. Mutated fruit trees. Vegetables. A little wheat and
grind it ourselves and don’t insist on white flour, and sell—free
market—what’s left. Make own beer and brandy. I learned drillman
extending our tunnels. Everybody works, not too hard. Kids make cattle take
exercise by switching them along; don’t use tread mill. Kids gather eggs
and feed chickens, don’t use much machinery. Air we can buy from
L-City—aren’t far out of town and pressure-tunnel connected. But
more often we sell air; being farm, cycle shows Oh-two excess. Always have
valuta to meet bills.”

“How
about water and power?”

“Not
expensive. We collect some power, sunshine screens on surface, and have a
little pocket of ice. Wye, our farm was founded before year two thousand, when
L-City was one natural cave, and we’ve kept improving it—advantage
of line marriage; doesn’t die and capital improvements add up.”

“But
surely your ice won’t last forever?”

“Well,
now—” I scratched head and grinned. “We’re careful; we
keep our sewage and garbage and sterilize and use it. Never put a drop back
into city system. But—don’t tell Warden, dear, but back when Greg
was teaching me to drill, we happened to drill into bottom of main south
reservoir—and had a tap with us, spilled hardly a drop. But we do buy
some metered water, looks better—and ice pocket accounts for not buying
much. As for power—well, power is even easier to steal. I’m a good
electrician, Wyoh.”

“Oh,
wonderful!” Wyoming paid me a long whistle and looked delighted.
“Everybody should do that!”

“Hope
not, would show. Let ‘em think up own ways to outwit Authority; our
family always has. But back to your plan, Wyoh: two things wrong. Never get
‘solidarity’; blokes like Hauser would cave in—because they
are in a trap; can’t hold out. Second place, suppose you managed it.
Solidarity. So solid not a tonne of grain is delivered to catapult head. Forget
ice; it’s grain that makes Authority important and not just neutral
agency it was set up to be. No grain. What happens?”

“Why,
they have to negotiate a fair price, that’s what!”

“My
dear, you and your comrades listen to each other too much. Authority would call
it rebellion and warship would orbit with bombs earmarked for L-City and Hong
Kong and Tycho Under and Churchill and Novylen, troops would land, grain barges
would lift, under guard—and farmers would break necks to cooperate. Terra
has guns and power and bombs and ships and won’t hold still for trouble
from ex-cons. And troublemakers like you—and me; with you in
spirit—us lousy troublemakers will be rounded up and eliminated, teach us
a lesson. And earthworms would say we had it coming … because our side
would never be heard. Not on Terra.”

Wyoh
looked stubborn. “Revolutions have succeeded before. Lenin had only a
handful with him.”

“Lenin
moved in on a power vacuum. Wye, correct me if I’m wrong. Revolutions
succeeded when—only when—governments had gone rotten soft, or
disappeared.”

“Not
true! The American Revolution.”

“South
lost,
nyet
?”

Not
that one, the one a century earlier. They had the sort of troubles with England
that we are having now—and they won!”

“Oh,
that one. But wasn’t England in trouble? France, and Spain, and
Sweden—or maybe Holland? And Ireland. Ireland was rebelling;
O’Kellys were in it. Wyoh, if you can stir trouble on Terra—say a
war between Great China and North American Directorate, maybe PanAfrica lobbing
bombs at Europe, I’d say was wizard time to kill Warden and tell
Authority it’s through. Not today.”