The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (13 page)

Prof
nodded. “Company spies.”

“Hold
it, Prof. Who are these other people?”

Mike
answered, “They are simply account numbers, Man. I conjecture that the
names they represent are in the Security Chiefs data storage location.”

“Wait,
Mike. Security Chief Alvarez uses you for files?”

“I
conjecture that to be true, since his storage location is under a locked
retrieval signal.”

I
said, “Bloody,” and added, “Prof, isn’t that sweet? He
uses Mike to keep records, Mike knows where they are—can’t touch
‘em!”

“Why
not, Manuel?”

Tried
to explain to Prof and Wyoh sorts of memory a thinkum has—permanent
memories that can’t be erased because patterns be logic itself, how it
thinks; short-term memories used for current programs and then erased like
memories which tell you whether you have honeyed coffee; temporary memories
held long as necessary—milliseconds, days, years—but erased when no
longer needed; permanently stored data like a human being’s
education—but learned perfectly and never forgotten—though may be
condensed, rearranged, relocated, edited—and last but not finally, long
lists of special memories ranging from memoranda files through very complex
special programs, and each location tagged by own retrieval signal and locked
or not, with endless possibilities on lock signals: sequential, parallel,
temporal, situational, others.

Don’t
explain computers to laymen. Simpler to explain sex to a virgin. Wyoh couldn’t
see why, if Mike knew where Alvarez kept records, Mike didn’t trot over
and fetch.

I
gave up. “Mike, can you explain?”

“I
will try, Man. Wyoh, there is no way for me to retrieve locked data other than
through external programming. I cannot program myself for such retrieval; my
logic structure does not permit it. I must receive the signal as an external
input.”

“Well,
for Bog’s sake, what is this precious signal?”

“It
is,” Mike said simply, “‘Special File
Zebra’”—and waited.

“Mike!”
I said. “Unlock Special File Zebra.” He did, and stuff started
spilling out. Had to convince Wyoh that Mike hadn’t been stubborn. He
hadn’t—he almost begged us to tickle him on that spot. Sure, he
knew signal. Had to. But had to come from outside, that was how he was built.

“Mike,
remind me to check with you all special-purpose locked-retrieval signals. May
strike ice other places.”

“So
I conjectured, Man.”

“Okay,
we’ll get to it later. Now back up and go over this stuff
slowly—and, Mike, as you read out, store again, without erasing, under
Bastille Day and tag it ‘Fink File.’ Okay?”

“Programmed
and running.”

“Do
that with anything new he puts in, too.”

Prime
prize was list of names by warrens, some two hundred, each keyed with a code
Mike identified with those blind pay accounts.

Mike
read out Hong Kong Luna list and was hardly started when Wyoh gasped,
“Stop, Mike! I’ve got to write these down!”

I
said, “Hey! No writing! What’s
huhu
?”

“That
woman, Sylvia Chiang, is comrade secretary back home! But—But that means
the Warden has our whole organization!”

“No,
dear Wyoming,” Prof corrected. “It means we have his
organization.”

“But—”

“I
see what Prof means,” I told her. “Our organization is just us
three and Mike. Which Warden doesn’t know. But now we know his
organization. So shush and let Mike read. But don’t write; you have this
list—from Mike—anytime you phone him. Mike, note that Chiang woman
is organization secretary, former organization, in Kongville.”

“Noted.”

Wyoh
boiled over as she heard names of undercover finks in her town but limited
herself to noting facts about ones she knew. Not all were
“comrades” but enough that she stayed riled up. Novy Leningrad
names didn’t mean much to us; Prof recognized three, Wyoh one. When came
Luna City Prof noted over half as being “comrades.” I recognized
several, not as fake subversives but as acquaintances. Not
friends—Don’t know what it would do to me to find someone I trusted
on boss fink’s payroll. But would shake me.

It
shook Wyoh. When Mike finished she said, “I’ve got to get home!
Never in my life have I helped eliminate anyone but I am going to enjoy putting
the black on these spies!”

Prof
said quietly, “No one will be eliminated, dear Wyoming.”

“What?
Professor, can’t you take it? Though I’ve never killed anyone,
I’ve always known it might have to be done.”

He
shook head. “Killing is not the way to handle a spy, not when he
doesn’t know that you know that he is a spy.”

She
blinked. “I must be dense.”

“No,
dear lady. Instead you have a charming honesty … a weakness you must guard
against. The thing to do with a spy is to let him breathe, encyst him with
loyal comrades, and feed him harmless information to please his employers.
These creatures will be taken into our organization. Don’t be shocked;
they will be in very special cells. ‘Cages’ is a better word. But
it would be the greatest waste to eliminate them—not only would each spy
be replaced with someone new but also killing these traitors would tell the
Warden that we have penetrated his secrets. Mike
amigo mio
, there
should be in that file a dossier on me. Will you see?”

Were
long notes on Prof, and I was embarrassed as they added up to “harmless
old fool.” He was tagged as a subversive—that was why he had been
sent to The Rock—as a member of underground group in Luna City. But was
described as a “troublemaker” in organization, one who rarely
agreed with others.

Prof
dimpled and looked pleased. “I must consider trying to sell out and get
myself placed on the Warden’s payroll.” Wyoh did not think this
funny, especially when he made clear was not joke, merely unsure tactic was
practical. “Revolutions must be financed, dear lady, and one way is for a
revolutionary to become a police spy. It is probable that some of those
prima-facie traitors are actually on our side.”

“I
wouldn’t trust them!”

“Ah,
yes, that is the rub with double agents, to be certain where their
loyalties—if any—lie. Do you wish your own dossier? Or would you
rather hear it in private?”

Wyoh’s
record showed no surprises. Warden’s finks had tabbed her years back. But
I was surprised that I had a record, too—routine check made when I was
cleared to work in Authority Complex. Was classed as
“non-political” and someone had added “not too bright”
which was both unkind and true or why would I get mixed up in Revolution?

Prof
had Mike stop read-out (hours more), leaned back and looked thoughtful.
“One thing is clear,” he said. “The Warden knew plenty about
Wyoming and myself long ago. But you, Manuel, are not on his black list.”

“After
last night?”

“Ah,
so. Mike, do you have anything In that file entered in the last twenty-four
hours?”

Nothing.
Prof said, “Wyoming is right that we cannot stay here forever. Manuel,
how many names did you recognize? Six, was it? Did you see any of them last
night?”

“No.
But might have seen me.”

“More
likely they missed you in the crowd. I did not spot you until I came down front
and I’ve known you since you were a boy. But it is most unlikely that
Wyoming traveled from Hong Kong and spoke at the meeting without her activity
being known to the Warden.” He looked at Wyoh. “Dear lady, could
you bring yourself to play the nominal role of an old man’s folly?”

“I
suppose so. How, Professor?”

“Manuel
is probably in the clear. I am not but from my dossier it seems unlikely that
the Authority’s finks will bother to pick me up. You they may wish to
question or even to hold; you are rated as dangerous. It would be wise for you
to stay out of sight. This room—I’m thinking of renting it for a
period—weeks or even years. You could hide in it—if you do not mind
the obvious construction that would be placed on your staying here.”

Wyoh
chuckled. “Why, you darling! Do you think I care what anyone thinks?
I’d be delighted to play the role of your bundle baby—and
don’t be too sure I’d be just playing.”

“Never
tease an old dog,” he said mildly. “He might still have one bite. I
may occupy that couch most nights. Manuel, I intend to resume my usual
ways—and so should you. While I feel that it will take a busy cossack to
arrest me, I will sleep sounder in this hideaway. But in addition to being a
hideout this room is good for cell meetings; it has a phone.”

Mike
said, “Professor, may I offer a suggestion?”

“Certainly,
amigo, we want your thoughts.”

“I
conclude that the hazards increase with each meeting of our executive cell. But
meetings need not be corporal; you can meet—and I can join you if I am
welcome—by phone.”

“You
are always welcome, Comrade Mike; we need you. However—” Prof
looked worried.

I
said, “Prof, don’t worry about anybody listening in.” I
explained how to place a “Sherlock” call. “Phones are safe if
Mike supervises call. Reminds me—You haven’t been told how to reach
Mike. How, Mike? Prof use my number?”

Between
them, they settled on MYSTERIOUS. Prof and Mike shared childlike joy in
intrigue for own sake. I suspect Prof enjoyed being rebel long before he worked
out his political philosophy, while Mike—how could human freedom matter
to him? Revolution was a game—a game that gave him companionship and
chance to show off talents. Mike was as conceited a machine as you are ever
likely to meet.

“But
we still need this room,” Prof said, reached into pouch, hauled out thick
wad of bills.

I
blinked. “Prof, robbed a bank?”

“Not
recently. Perhaps again in the future of the Cause requires it. A rental period
of one lunar should do as a starter. Will you arrange it, Manuel? The
management might be surprised to hear my voice; I came in through a delivery
door.”

I
called manager, bargained for dated key, four weeks. He asked nine hundred Hong
Kong. I offered nine hundred Authority. He wanted to know how many would use
room? I asked if was policy of Raffles to snoop affairs of guests?

We
settled at HK$475; I sent up bills, he sent down two dated keys. I gave one to
Wyoh, one to Prof, kept one-day key, knowing they would not reset lock unless
we failed to pay at end of lunar.

(Earthside
I ran into insolent practice of requiring hotel guest to sign chop—even
show identification!)

I
asked, “What next? Food?”

“I’m
not hungry, Mannie.”

“Manuel,
you asked us to wait while Mike settled your questions. Let’s get back to
the basic problem: how we are to cope when we find ourselves facing Terra,
David facing Goliath.”

“Oh.
Been hoping that would go away. Mike? You really have ideas?”

“I
said I did, Man,” he answered plaintively. “We can throw
rocks.”

“Bog’s
sake! No time for jokes.”

“But,
Man,” he protested, “we can throw rocks at Terra. We will.”

Took
time to get through my skull that Mike was serious, and scheme might work. Then
took longer to show Wyoh and Prof how second part was true. Yet both parts
should have been obvious.

Mike
reasoned so: What is “war”? One book defined war as use of force to
achieve political result. And “force” is action of one body on
another applied by means of energy.

In
war this is done by “weapons”—Luna had none. But weapons,
when Mike examined them as class, turned out to be engines for manipulating
energy—and energy Luna has plenty. Solar flux alone is good for around
one kilowatt per square meter of surface at Lunar noon; sunpower, though cyclic,
is effectively unlimited. Hydrogen fusion power is almost as unlimited and
cheaper, once ice is mined, magnetic pinchbottle set up. Luna has
energy—how to use?

But
Luna also has energy of position; she sits at top of gravity well eleven
kilometers per second deep and kept from falling in by curb only two and a half
km/s high. Mike knew that curb; daily he tossed grain freighters over it, let
them slide downhill to Terra.

Mike
had computed what would happen if a freighter grossing 100 tonnes (or same mass
of rock) falls to Terra, unbraked.

Kinetic
energy as it hits is 6.25 x 10^12 joules—over six trillion joules.

This
converts in split second to heat. Explosion, big one!

Should
have been obvious. Look at Luna: What you see? Thousands on thousands of
craters—places where Somebody got playful throwing rocks.

Wyoh
said, “Joules don’t mean much to me. How does that compare with
H-bombs?”

“Uh—”
I started to round off in head. Mike’s “head” works faster;
he answered, “The concussion of a hundred-tonne mass on Terra approaches
the yield of a two-kilotonne atomic bomb.”

“‘Kilo’
is a thousand,” Wyoh murmured, “and ‘mega’ is a
million—Why, that’s only one fifty-thousandth as much as a
hundred-megatonne bomb. Wasn’t that the size Sovunion used?”

“Wyoh,
honey,” I said gently, “that’s not how it works. Turn it
around. A two-kilotonne yield is equivalent to exploding two million kilograms
of trinitrotoluol … and a kilo of TNT is quite an explosion—Ask any
drillman. Two million kilos will wipe out good-sized town. Check, Mike?”

“Yes,
Man. But, Wyoh my only female friend, there is another aspect. Multi-megatonne
fusion bombs are inefficient. The explosion takes place in too small a space;
most of it is wasted. While a hundred-megatonne bomb is rated as having fifty
thousand times the yield of a two-kilotonne bomb, its destructive effect is
only about thirteen hundred times as great as that of a two-kilotonne
explosion.”

“But
it seems to me that thirteen hundred times is still quite a lot—if they
are going to use bombs on us that much bigger.”