The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (15 page)

Followed
a long time during which would have been possible to forget anything as
unlikely as revolution had not details taken so much time. Our first purpose
was not to be noticed. Long distance purpose was to make things as much worse
as possible.

Yes,
worse. Never was a time, even at last, when all Loonies wanted to throw off
Authority, wanted it bad enough to revolt. All Loonies despised Warden and
cheated Authority. Didn’t mean they were ready to fight and die. If you
had mentioned “patriotism” to a Loonie, he would have
stared—or thought you were talking about his homeland. Were transported
Frenchmen whose hearts belonged to “
La Belle Patrie
,”
ex-Germans loyal to
Vaterland
, Russkis who still loved Holy Mother
Russia. But Luna? Luna was “The Rock,” place of exile, not thing to
love.

We
were as non-political a people as history ever produced. I know, I was as numb
to politics as any until circumstances pitched me into it. Wyoming was in it
because she hated Authority for a personal reason, Prof because he despised all
authority in a detached intellectual fashion, Mike because he was a bored and
lonely machine and was for him “only game in town.” You could not
have accused us of patriotism. I came closest because I was third generation
with total lack of affection for any place on Terra, had been there, disliked
it and despised earthworms. Made me more “patriotic” than most!

Average
Loonie was interested in beer, betting, women, and work, in that order.
“Women” might be second place but first was unlikely, much as women
were cherished. Loonies had learned there never were enough women to go around.
Slow learners died, as even most possessive male can’t stay alert every
minute. As Prof says, a society adapts to fact, or doesn’t survive.
Loonies adapted to harsh facts—or failed and died. But
“patriotism” was not necessary to survival.

Like
old Chinee saying that “Fish aren’t aware of water,” I was
not aware of any of this until I first went to Terra and even then did not
realize what a blank spot was in Loonies under storage location marked
“patriotism” until I took part in effort to stir them up. Wyoh and
her comrades had tried to push “patriotism” button and got
nowhere—years of work, a few thousand members, less than 1 percent and of
that microscopic number almost 10 percent had been paid spies of boss fink!

Prof
set us straight: Easier to get people to hate than to get them to love.

Luckily,
Security Chief Alvarez gave us a hand. Those nine dead finks were replaced with
ninety, for Authority was goaded into something it did reluctantly, namely
spend money on us, and one folly led to another.

Warden’s
bodyguard had never been large even in earliest days Prison guards in
historical meaning were unnecessary and that had been one attraction of penal
colony system—cheap. Warden and his deputy had to be protected and
visiting vips, but prison itself needed no guards. They even stopped guarding ships
after became clear was not necessary, and in May 2075, bodyguard was down to
its cheapest numbers, all of them new chum transportees.

But
loss of nine in one night scared somebody. We knew it scared Alvarez; he filed
copies of his demands for help in Zebra file and Mike read them. A lag who had
been a police officer on Terra before his conviction and then a bodyguard all
his years in Luna, Alvarez was probably most frightened and loneliest man in
The Rock. He demanded more and tougher help, threatened to resign civil service
job if he didn’t get it—just a threat, which Authority would have
known if it had really known Luna. If Alvarez had showed up in any warren as
unarmed civilian, he would have stayed breathing only as long as not
recognized.

He
got his additional guards. We never found out who ordered that raid. Mort the
Wart had never shown such tendencies, had been King Log throughout tenure.
Perhaps Alvarez, having only recently succeeded to boss fink spot, wanted to
make face—may have had ambition to be Warden. But likeliest theory is
that Warden’s reports on “subversive activities” caused
Authority Earthside to order a cleanup.

One
thumb-fingered mistake led to another. New bodyguards, instead of picked from
new transportees, were elite convict troops, Federated Nations crack Peace
Dragoons. Were mean and tough, did not want to go to Luna, and soon realized
that “temporary police duty” was one-way trip. Hated Luna and
Loonies, and saw us as cause of it all.

Once
Alvarez got them, he posted a twenty-four-hour watch at every interwarren tube
station and instituted passports and passport control. Would have been illegal
had there been laws in Luna, since 95 percent of us were theoretically free,
either born free, or sentence completed. Percentage was higher in cities as
undischarged transportees lived in barrack warrens at Complex and came into
town only two days per lunar they had off work. If then, as they had no money,
but you sometimes saw them wandering around, hoping somebody would buy a drink.

But
passport system was not “illegal” as Warden’s regulations
were only written law. Was announced in papers, we were given week to get
passports, and at eight hundred one morning was put in effect. Some Loonies
hardly ever traveled; some traveled on business; some commuted from outlying
warrens or even from Luna City to Novylen or other way. Good little boys filled
out applications, paid fees, were photographed, got passes; I was good little
boy on Prof’s advice, paid for passport and added it to pass I carried to
work in Complex.

Few
good little boys! Loonies did not believe it. Passports? Whoever heard of such
a thing?

Was
a trooper at Tube Station South that morning dressed in bodyguard yellow rather
than regimentals and looking like he hated it, and us. I was not going
anywhere; I hung back and watched.

Novylen
capsule was announced; crowd of thirty-odd headed for gate. Gospodin Yellow
Jacket demanded passport of first to reach it. Loonie stopped to argue. Second
one pushed past; guard turned and yelled—three or four more shoved past.
Guard reached for sidearm; somebody grabbed his elbow, gun went off—not a
laser, a slug gun, noisy.

Slug
hit decking and went whee-whee-hoo off somewhere. I faded back. One man
hurt—that guard. When first press of passengers had gone down ramp, he
was on deck, not moving.

Nobody
paid attention; they walked around or stepped over—except one woman
carrying a baby, who stopped, kicked him carefully in face, then went down
ramp. He may have been dead already, didn’t wait to see. Understand body
stayed there till relief arrived.

Next
day was a half squad in that spot. Capsule for Novylen left empty.

It
settled down. Those who had to travel got passports, diehards quit traveling.
Guard at a tube gate became two men, one looked at passports while other stood
back with gun drawn. One who checked passports did not try hard, which was well
as most were counterfeit and early ones were crude. But before long, authentic
paper was stolen and counterfeits were as dinkum as official ones—more expensive
but Loonies preferred free-enterprise passports.

Our
organization did not make counterfeits; we merely encouraged it—and knew
who had them and who did not; Mike’s records listed officially issued
ones. This helped separate sheep from goats in files we were
building—also stored in Mike but in “Bastille”
location—as we figured a man with counterfeit passport was halfway to
joining us. Word was passed down cells in our growing organization never to
recruit anybody with a valid passport. If recruiter was not certain, just query
upwards and answer came back.

But
guards’ troubles were not over. Does not help a guard’s dignity nor
add to peace of mind to have children stand in front of him, or behind out of
eye which was worse, and ape every move he makes—or run back and forth
screaming obscenities, jeering, making finger motions that are universal. At
least guards took them as insults.

One
guard back-handed a small boy, cost him some teeth. Result: two guards dead,
one Loonie dead.

After
that, guards ignored children.

We
didn’t have to work this up; we merely encouraged it. You wouldn’t
think that a sweet old lady like my senior wife would encourage children to
misbehave. But she did.

Other
things get single men a long way from home upset—and one we did start.
These Peace Dragoons had been sent to The Rock without a comfort detachment.

Some
of our fems were extremely beautiful and some started loitering around
stations, dressed in less than usual—which could approach zero—and
wearing more than usual amount of perfume, scents with range and striking
power. They did not speak to yellow jackets nor look at them; they simply
crossed their line of sight, undulating as only a Loonie gal can. (A female on
Terra can’t walk that way; she’s tied down by six times too much
weight.)

Such
of course produces a male gallery, from men down to lads not yet
pubescent—happy whistles and cheers for her beauty, nasty laughs at
yellow boy. First girls to take this duty were slot-machine types but
volunteers sprang up so fast that Prof decided we need not spend money. He was
correct: even Ludmilla, shy as a kitten, wanted to try it and did not only
because Mum told her not to. But Lenore, ten years older and prettiest of our
family, did try it and Mum did not scold. She came back pink and excited and
pleased with herself and anxious to tease enemy again. Her own idea; Lenore did
not then know that revolution was brewing.

During
this time I rarely saw Prof and never in public; we kept touch by phone. At
first a bottleneck was that our farm had just one phone for twenty-five people,
many of them youngsters who would tie up a phone for hours unless coerced. Mimi
was strict; our kids were allowed one out-going call per day and max of ninety
seconds on a call, with rising scale of punishment—tempered by her warmth
in granting exceptions. But grants were accompanied by “Mum’s Phone
Lecture”: “When I first came to Luna there were no private phones.
You children don’t know how soft …”

We
were one of last prosperous families to install a phone; it was new in
household when I was opted. We were prosperous because we never bought anything
farm could produce. Mum disliked phone because rates to Luna City Co-op Comm
Company were passed on in large measure to Authority. She never could
understand why I could not (“Since you know all about such things, Manuel
dear”) steal phone service as easily as we liberated power. That a phone
instrument was part of a switching system into which it must fit was no
interest to her.

Steal
it I did, eventually. Problem with illicit phone is how to receive incoming
calls. Since phone is not listed, even if you tell persons from whom you want
calls, switching system itself does not have you listed; is no signal that can
tell it to connect other party with you.

Once
Mike joined conspiracy, switching was no problem. I had in workshop most of
what I needed; bought some items and liberated others. Drilled a tiny hole from
workshop to phone cupboard and another to Wyoh’s room—virgin rock a
meter thick but a laser drill collimated to a thin pencil cuts rapidly. I
unshipped listed phone, made a wireless coupling to line in its recess and
concealed it. All else needed were binaural receptors and a speaker in
Wyoh’s room, concealed, and same in mine, and a circuit to raise
frequency above audio to have silence on Davis phone line, and its converse to
restore audio incoming.

Only
problem was to do this without being seen, and Mum generaled that.

All
else was Mike’s problem. Used no switching arrangements; from then on
used MYCROFTXXX only when calling from some other phone. Mike listened at all
times in workshop and in Wyoh’s room; if he heard my voice or hers say
“Mike,” he answered, but not to other voices. Voice patterns were
as distinctive to him as fingerprints; he never made mistakes.

Minor
flourishes—soundprooflng Wyoh’s door such as workshop door already
had, switching to suppress my instrument or hers, signals to tell me she was
alone in her room and door locked, and vice versa. All added up to safe means
whereby Wyob and I could talk with Mike or with each other, or could set up
talk-talk of Mike, Wyoh, Prof, and self. Mike would call Prof wherever he was;
Prof would talk or call back from a more private phone. Or might be Wyoh or
myself had to be found. We all were careful to stay checked in with Mike.

My
bootleg phone, though it had no way to punch a call, could be used to call any
number in Luna—speak to Mike, ask for a Sherlock to anybody—not
tell him number, Mike had all listings and could look up a number faster than I
could.

We
were beginning to see unlimited possibilities in a phoneswitching system alive
and on our side. I got from Mike and gave Mum still another null number to call
Mike if she needed to reach me. She grew chummy with Mike while continuing to
think he was a man. This spread through our family. One day as I returned home
Sidris said, “Mannie darling, your friend with the nice voice called.
Mike Holmes. Wants you to call back.”

“Thanks,
hon. Will.”

“When
are you going to invite him to dinner, Man? I think he’s nice.”

I
told her Gospodin Holmes had bad breath, was covered with rank hair, and hated
women.

She
used a rude word, Mum not being in earshot. “You’re afraid to let
me see him. Afraid I’ll opt out for him.” I patted her and told her
that was why. I told Mike and Prof about it. Mike flirted even more with my
womenfolk after that; Prof was thoughtful.

I
began to learn techniques of conspiracy and to appreciate Prof’s feeling
that revolution could be an art. Did not forget (nor ever doubt) Mike’s
prediction that Luna was only seven years from disaster. But did not think
about it, thought about fascinating, finicky details.