The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (34 page)

Learned
to handle it by my second makee-learnee but it left a sour taste. Think I
prefer a place as openly racist as India, where if you aren’t Hindu,
you’re nobody—except that Parsees look down on Hindus and vice
versa. However I never really had to cope with North America’s
reverse-racism when being “Colonel O’Kelly Davis, Hero of Lunar
Freedom.”

We
had swarms of bleeding hearts around us, anxious to help. I let them do two
things for me, things I had never had time, money, or energy for as a student:
I saw Yankees play and i visited Salem.

Should
have kept my illusions. Baseball is better over video, you can really see it
and aren’t pushed in by two hundred thousand other people. Besides,
somebody should have shot that outfield. I spent most of that game dreading
moment when they would have to get my chair out through crowd—that and
assuring host that I was having a wonderful time.

Salem
was just a place, no worse (and no better) than rest of Boston. After seeing it
I suspected they had hanged wrong witches. But day wasn’t wasted; I was
filmed laying a wreath on a place where a bridge had been in another part of
Boston, Concord, and made a memorized speech—bridge is still there,
actually; you can see it, down through glass. Not much of a bridge.

Prof
enjoyed it all, rough as it was on him: Prof had great capacity for enjoying.
He always had something new to tell about great future of Luna. In New York he
gave managing director of a hotel chain, one with rabbit trade mark, a sketch
of what could be done with resorts in Luna—once excursion rates were
within reach of more people—visits too short to hurt anyone, escort
service included, exotic side trips, gambling—no taxes.

Last
point grabbed attention, so Prof expanded it into “longer old age”
theme—a chain of retirement hostels where an earthworm could live on
Terran old-age pension and go on living, twenty, thirty, forty years longer
than on Terra. As an exile—but which was better? A live old age in Luna?
Or a funeral crypt on Terra? His descendants could pay visits and fill those
resort hotels. Prof embellished with pictures of “nightclubs” with
acts impossible in Terra’s horrible gravity, sports to fit our decent
level of gravitation—even talked about swimming pools and ice skating and
possibility of flying! (Thought he had tripped his safeties.) He finished by
hinting that Swiss cartel had tied it up.

Next
day he was telling foreign-divisions manager of Chase International Panagra
that a Luna City branch should be staffed with paraplegics, paralytics, heart
cases, amputees, others who found high gravity a handicap. Manager was a fat
man who wheezed, he may have been thinking of it personally—but his ears
pricked up at “no taxes.”

We
didn’t have it all our own way. News was often against us and were always
hecklers. Whenever I had to take them on without Prof’s help I was likely
to get tripped. One man tackled me on Prof’s statement to committee that
we “owned” grain grown in Luna: he seemed to take it for granted
that we did not. Told him I did not understand question.

He
answered, “Isn’t it true, Colonel, that your provisional government
has asked for membership in Federated Nations?”

Should
have answered, “No comment.” But fell for it and agreed.
“Very well,” he said, “the impediment seems to be the
counterclaim that the Moon belongs to the Federated Nations—as it always
has—under supervision of the Lunar Authority. Either way, by your own admission,
that grain belongs to the Federated Nations, in trust.”

I
asked how he reached that conclusion? He answered, ‘Colonel, you style
yourself ‘Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs.’ Surely you are
familiar with the charter of the Federated Nations.”

I
had skimmed it. “Reasonably familiar,” I said—cautiously, I
thought.

“Then
you know the First Freedom guaranteed by the Charter and its current
application through F & A Control Board Administrative Order Number
eleven-seventy-six dated three March of this year. You concede therefore that all
grain grown on the Moon in excess of the local ration is ab initio and beyond
contest the property of all, title held in trust by the Federated Nations
through its agencies for distribution as needed.” He was writing as he
talked. “Have you anything to add to that concession?”

I
said, “What in Bog’s name you talking about?” Then,
“Come back! Haven’t conceded anything!”

So
Great New York Times printed:

LUNAR
“UNDERSECRETARY” SAYS: “FOOD BELONGS TO HUNGRY”

New York Today—O’Kelly
Davis, soi-disant “Colonel of the Armed Forces of Free Luna” here
on a junket to stir up support for the insurgents in the F.N. Lunar colonies,
said in a voluntary statement to this paper that the “Freedom from
Hunger” clause in the Grand Charter applied to the Lunar grain shipments—

I
asked Prof how should have handled? “Always answer an unfriendly question
with another question,” he told me. “Never ask him to clarify;
he’ll put words in your mouth. This reporter—Was he skinny? Ribs
showing?”

“No.
Heavyset.”

“Not
living on eighteen hundred calories a day, I take it, which is the subject of
that order he cited. Had you known you could have asked him how long he had
conformed to the ration and why he quit? Or asked him what he had for
breakfast—and then looked unbelieving no matter what he answered. Or when
you don’t know what a man is getting at, let your counter-question shift
the subject to something you do want to talk about. Then, no matter what he
answers, make your point and call on someone else. Logic does not enter into
it—just tactics.”

“Prof,
nobody here is living on eighteen hundred calories a day. Bombay, maybe. Not
here.”

“Less
than that in Bombay. Manuel, that ‘equal ration’ is a fiction. Half
the food on this planet is in the black market, or is not reckoned through one ruling
or another. Or they keep two sets of books, and figures submitted to the F.N.
having nothing to do with the economy. Do you think that grain from Thailand
and Burma and Australia is correctly reported to the Control Board by Great
China? I’m sure that the India representative on that food board
doesn’t. But India keeps quiet because she gets the lion’s share
from Luna … and then ‘plays politics with hunger’—a
phrase you may remember—by using our grain to control her elections.
Kerala had a planned famine last year. Did you see it in the news?”

“No.”

“Because
it wasn’t in the news. A managed democracy is a wonderful thing, Manuel,
for the managers … and its greatest strength is a ‘free
press’ when ‘free’ is defined as ‘responsible’
and the managers define what is ‘irresponsible.’ Do you know what
Luna needs most?”

“More
ice.”

“A
news system that does not bottleneck through one channel. Our friend Mike is
our greatest danger.”

“Huh?
Don’t you trust Mike?”

“Manuel,
on some subjects I don’t trust even myself. Limiting the freedom of news
‘just a little bit’ is in the same category with the classic
example ‘a little bit pregnant.’ We are not yet free nor will we be
as long as anyone—even our ally Mike—controls our news. Someday I
hope to own a newspaper independent of any source or channel. I would happily
set print by hand, like Benjamin Franklin.”

I
gave up. “Prof, suppose these talks fail and grain shipments stop. What
happens?”

“People
back home will be vexed with us … and many here on Terra would die. Have
you read Malthus?”

“Don’t
think so.”

“Many
would die. Then a new stability would be reached with somewhat more
people—more efficient people and better fed. This planet isn’t
crowded; it is just mismanaged … and the unkindest thing you can do for a
hungry man is to give him food. ‘Give.’ Read Malthus. It is never
safe to laugh at Dr. Malthus; he always has the last laugh. A depressing man,
I’m glad he’s dead. But don’t read him until this is over;
too many facts hamper a diplomat, especially an honest one.”

“I’m
not especially honest.”

“But
you have no talent for dishonesty, so your refuge must be ignorance and
stubbornness. You have the latter; try to preserve the former. For the nonce.
Lad, Uncle Bernardo is terribly tired.”

I
said, “Sorry,” and wheeled out of his room. Prof was hitting too
hard a pace. I would have been willing to quit if would insure his getting into
a ship and out of that gravity. But traffic stayed one way—grain barges,
naught else.

But
Prof had fun. As I left and waved lights out, noticed again a toy he had
bought, one that delighted him like a kid on Christmas—a brass cannon.

A
real one from sailing ship days. Was small, barrel about half a meter long and
massing, with wooden carriage, only kilos fifteen. A “signal gun”
its papers said. Reeked of ancient history, pirates, men “walking
plank.” A pretty thing but I asked Prof why? If we ever managed to leave,
price to lift that mass to Luna would hurt—I was resigned to abandoning a
p-suit with years more wear in it—abandon everything but two left arms
and a pair of shorts, If pressed, might give up social arm. If very pressed,
would skip shorts.

He
reached out and stroked shiny barrel. “Manuel, once there was a man who
held a political make-work job like so many here in this Directorate, shining
brass cannon around a courthouse.”

“Why
would courthouse have cannon?”

“Never
mind. He did this for years. It fed him and let him save a bit, but he was not
getting ahead in the world. So one day he quit his job, drew out his savings,
bought a brass cannon—and went into business for himself.”

“Sounds
like idiot.”

“No
doubt. And so were we, when we tossed out the Warden. Manuel, you’ll
outlive me. When Luna adopts a flag, I would like it to be a cannon or, on
field sable, crossed by bar sinister gules of our proudly ignoble lineage. Do
you think it could be managed?”

“Suppose
so, if you’ll sketch. But why a flag? Not a flagpole in all Luna.”

“It
can fly in our hearts … a symbol for all fools so ridiculously
impractical as to think they can fight city hail. Will you remember,
Manuel?”

“Sure.
That is, will remind you when time comes.” Didn’t like such talk.
He had started using oxygen tent in private—and would not use in public.

Guess
I’m “ignorant” and “stubborn”—was both in
place called Lexington, Kentucky, in Central Managerial Area. One thing no
doctrine about, no memorized answers, was life in Luna. Prof said to tell truth
and emphasize homely, warm, friendly things, especially anything different.
“Remember, Manuel, the thousands of Terrans who have made short visits to
Luna are only a tiny fraction of one percent. To most people we will be as
weirdly interesting as strange animals in a zoo. Do you remember that turtle on
exhibition in Old Dome? That’s us.”

Certainly
did; they wore that insect out, staring at. So when this male-female team
started quizzing about family life in Luna was happy to answer. I prettied it
only by what I left out—things that aren’t family life but poor
substitutes in a community overloaded with males, Luna City is homes and
families mainly, dull by Terra standards—but I like it. And other warrens
much same, people who work and raise kids and gossip and find most of their fun
around dinner table. Not much to tell, so I diseussed anything they found
interesting. Every Luna custom comes from Terra since that’s where we all
came from, but Terra is such a big place that a custom from Micronesia, say,
may be strange in North America.

This
woman—can’t call her lady—wanted to know about various sorts
of marriage. First, was it true that one could get married without a license
“on” Luna?

I
asked what a marriage license was?

Her
companion said, “Skip it, Mildred. Pioneer societies never have marriage
licenses.”

“But
don’t you keep records?” she persisted.

“Certainly,”
I agreed. “My family keeps a family book that goes back almost to first
landing at Johnson City—every marriage, birth, death, every event of
importance not only in direct line but all branches so far as we can keep
track. And besides, is a man, a schoolteacher, going around copying old family
records all over our warren, writing a history of Luna City. Hobby.”

“But
don’t you have official records? Here in Kaintucky we have records that
go back hundreds of years.”

“Madam,
we haven’t lived there that long.”

“Yes,
but—Well, Luna City must have a city clerk. Perhaps you call him
‘county recorder.’ The official who keeps track of such things.
Deeds and so forth.”

I
said. “Don’t think so, madam. Some bookies do notary work,
witnessing chops on contracts, keeping records of them. Is for people who
don’t read and write and can’t keep own records. But never heard of
one asked to keep record of marriage. Not saying couldn’t happen. But
haven’t heard.”

“How
delightfully informal! Then this other rumor, about how simple it is to get a divorce
on the Moon. I daresay that’s true, too?”

“No,
madam, wouldn’t say divorce is simple. Too much to untangle. Mmm …
take a simple example, one lady and say she has two husbands—”

“Two?”

“Might
have more, might have just one. Or might be complex marriage. But let’s
take one lady and two men as typical. She decides to divorce one. Say
it’s friendly, with other husband agreeing and one she is getting rid of
not making fuss. Not that it would do him any good. Okay, she divorces him; he
leaves. Still leaves endless things. Men might be business partners,
co-husbands often are. Divorce may break up partnership. Money matters to
settle. This three may own cubic together, and while will be in her name,
ex-husband probably has cash coming or rent. And almost always are children to
consider, support and so forth. Many things. No, madam, divorce is never
simple. Can divorce him in ten seconds but may take ten years to straighten out
loose ends. Isn’t it much that way here?”