The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

8

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."

"True, Wyoh my female friend... but Luna has many rocks."

"Oh. Yes, so we have."

"Comrades," said Prof, "this is outside my competence--in my younger or bomb-throwing days my experience was limited to something of the order of the one-kilogram chemical explosion of which you spoke, Manuel. But I assume that you two know what you are talking about."

"We do," Mike agreed.

"So I accept your figures. To bring it down to a scale that I can understand this plan requires that we capture the catapult. No?"

"Yes," Mike and I chorused.

"Not impossible. Then we must hold it and keep it operative. Mike, have you considered how your catapult can be protected against, let us say, one small H-tipped torpedo?"

Discussion went on and on. We stopped to eat--stopped business under Prof's rule. Instead Mike told jokes, each produced a that-reminds-me from Prof.

By time we left Raffles Hotel evening of 14th May '75 we had--Mike had, with help from Prof--outlined plan of Revolution, including major options at critical points.

When came time to go, me to home and Prof to evening class (if not arrested), then home for bath and clothes and necessities in case he returned that night, became clear Wyoh did not want to be alone in strange hotel--Wyoh was stout when bets were down, between times soft and vulnerable.

So I called Mum on a Sherlock and told her was bringing house guest home. Mum ran her job with style; any spouse could bring guest home for meal or year, and our second generation was almost as free but must ask. Don't know how other families work; we have customs firmed by a century; they suit us.

So Mum didn't ask name, age, sex, marital condition; was my right and she too proud to ask. All she said was: "That's nice, dear. Have you two had dinner? It's Tuesday, you know." "Tuesday" was to remind me that our family had eaten early because Greg preaches Tuesday evenings. But if guest had not eaten, dinner would be served--concession to guest, not to me, as with exception of Grandpaw we ate when was on table or scrounged standing up in pantry.

I assured her we had eaten and would make tall effort to be there before she needed to leave. Despite Loonie mixture of Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, and ninety-nine other flavors, I suppose Sunday is commonest day for church. But Greg belongs to sect which had calculated that sundown Tuesday to sundown Wednesday, local time Garden of Eden (zone minus-two, Terra) was the Sabbath. So we ate early in Terran north-hemisphere summer months.

Mum always went to hear Greg preach, so was not considerate to place duty on her that would clash. All of us went occasionally; I managed several times a year because terribly fond of Greg, who taught me one trade and helped me switch to another when I had to and would gladly have made it his arm rather than mine. But Mum always went--ritual not religion, for she admitted to me one night in pillow talk that she had no religion with a brand on it, then cautioned me not to tell Greg. I exacted same caution from her. I don't know Who is cranking; I'm pleased He doesn't stop.

But Greg was Mum's "boy husband," opted when she was very young, first wedding after her own--very sentimental about him, would deny fiercely if accused of loving him more than other husbands, yet took his faith when he was ordained and never missed a Tuesday.

She said, "Is it possible that your guest would wish to attend church?"

I said would see but anyhow we would rush, and said goodbye. Then banged on bathroom door and said, "Hurry with skin, Wyoh; we're short on minutes."

"One minute!" she called out. She's ungirlish girl; she appeared in one minute. "How do I look?" she asked. "Prof, will I pass?"

"Dear Wyoming, I am amazed. You were beautiful before, you are beautiful now--but utterly unrecognizable. You're safe--and I am relieved."

Then we waited for Prof to transform into old derelict; he would be it to his back corridor, then reappear as well-known teacher in front of class, to have witnesses in case a yellow boy was waiting to grab him.

It left a moment; I told Wyoh about Greg. She said, "Mannie, how good is this makeup? Would it pass in church? How bright are the lights?"

"No brighter than here. Good job, you'll get by. But do you want to go to church? Nobody pushing."

She thought. "It would please your moth--I mean, 'your senior wife,' would it not?"

I answered slowly, "Wyoh, religion is your pidgin. But since you ask... yes, nothing would start you better in Davis Family than going to church with Mum. I'll go if you do."

"I'll go. I thought your last name was 'O'Kelly'?"

"Is. Tack 'Davis' on with hyphen if want to be formal. Davis is First Husband, dead fifty years. Is family name and all our wives are 'Gospazha Davis' hyphened with every male name in Davis line plus her family name. In practice Mum is only 'Gospazha Davis'--can call her that--and others use first name and add Davis if they write a cheque or something. Except that Ludmilla is 'Davis-Davis' because proud of double membership, birth and option."

"I see. Then if a man is 'John Davis,' he's a son, but if he has some other last name he's your co-husband. But a girl would be 'Jenny Davis' either way, wouldn't she? How do I tell? By her age? No, that wouldn't help. I'm confused! And I thought clan marriages were complex. Or polyandries--though mine wasn't; at least my husbands had the same last name."

"No trouble. When you hear a woman about forty address a fifteen-year-old as 'Mama Milla," you'll know which is wife and which is daughter--not even that complex as we don't have daughters home past husband-high; they get opted. But might be visiting. Your husbands were named 'Knott'?"

"Oh, no, 'Fedoseev, Choy Lin and Choy Mu.' I took back my born name."

Out came Prof, cackled senilely (looked even worse than earlier!), we left by three exits, made rendezvous in main corridor, open formation. Wyoh and I did not walk together, as I might be nabbed; on other hand she did not know Luna City, a warren so complex even nativeborn get lost--so I led and she had to keep me in sight. Prof trailed to make sure she didn't lose me.

If I was picked up, Wyoh would find public phone, report to Mike, then return to hotel and wait for Prof. But I felt sure that any yellow jacket who arrested me would get a caress from number-seven arm.

No huhu. Up to level five and crosstown by Carver Causeway, up to level three and stop at Tube Station West to pick up arms and tool kit--but not p-suit; would not have been in character, I stored it there. One yellow uniform at station, showed no interest in me. South by well-lighted corridors until necessary to go outward to reach private easement lock thirteen to co-op pressure tunnel serving Davis Tunnels and a dozen other farms. I suppose Prof dropped off there but I never looked back.

I delayed locking through our door until Wyoh caught up, then soon was saying, "Mum, allow me to present Wyma Beth Johnson."

Mum took her in arms, kissed cheek, said, "So glad you could come, Wyma dear! Our house is yours!"

See why I love our old biddy? Could have quick-frosted Wyoh with same words--but was real and Wyoh knew.

Hadn't warned Wyoh about switch in names, thought of it en route. Some of our kids were small and while they grew up despising Warden, no sense in risking prattle about "Wyoming Knott, who's visiting us"--that name was listed in "Special File Zebra."

So I missed warning her, was new to conspiracy.

But Wyoh caught cue and never bobbled.

Greg was in preaching clothes and would have to leave in minutes. Mum did not hurry, took Wyoh down line of husbands--Grandpaw, Greg, Hans--then up line of wives--Ludmilla, Lenore, Sidris, Anna--with stately grace, then started on our kids.

I said, "Mum? Excuse me, want to change arms." Her eyebrows went up a millimeter, meaning: "We'll speak of this but not in front of children"--so I added: "Know it's late, Greg's sneaking look at watch. And Wyma and I are going to church. So 'scuse, please."

She relaxed. "Certainly, dear." As she turned away I saw her arm go around Wyoh's waist, so I relaxed.

I changed arms, replacing number seven with social arm. But was excuse to duck into phone cupboard and punch "MYCROFTXXX." "Mike, we're home. But about to go to church. Don't think you can listen there, so I'll check in later. Heard from Prof?"

"Not yet, Man. Which church is it? I may have some circuit."

"Pillar of Fire Repentance Tabernacle--"

"No reference."

"Slow to my speed, pal. Meets in West-Three Community Hall. That's south of Station on Ring about number--."

"I have it. There's a pickup inside for channels and a phone in the corridor outside; I'll keep an ear on both."

"I don't expect trouble, Mike."

"It's what Professor said to do. He is reporting now. Do you wish to speak to him?"

"No time. 'Bye!"

That set pattern: Always keep touch with Mike, let him know where you are, where you plan to be; Mike would listen if he had nerve ends there. Discovery I made that morning, that Mike could listen at dead phone, suggested it--discovery bothered me; don't believe in magic. But on thinking I realized a phone could be switched on by central switching system without human intervention--if switching system had volition. Mike had bolshoyeh volition.

How Mike knew a phone was outside that hall is hard to say, since "space" could not mean to him what means to us. But he carried in storage a "map"--structured relations--of Luna City's engineering, and could almost always fit what we said to what he knew as "Luna City"; hardly ever got lost.

So from day cabal started we kept touch with Mike and each other through his widespread nervous system. Won't mention again unless necessary.

Mum and Greg and Wyoh were waiting at outer door, Mum chomping but smiling. I saw she had lent Wyoh a stole; Mum was as easy about skin as any Loonie, nothing newchummish--but church was another matter.

We made it, although Greg went straight to platform and we to seats. I settled in warm, mindless state, going through motions. But Wyoh did really listen to Greg's sermon and either knew our hymn book or was accomplished sight reader.

When we got home, young ones were in bed and most adults; Hans and Sidris were up and Sidris served cocoasoy and cookies, then all turned in. Mum assigned Wyoh a room in tunnel most of our kids lived in, one which had had two smaller boys last time I noticed. Did not ask how she had reshuffled, was clear she was giving my guest best we had, or would have put Wyoh with one of older girls.

I slept with Mum that night, partly because our senior wife is good for nerves--and nerve-racking things had happened--and partly so she would know I was not sneaking to Wyoh's room after things were quiet. My workshop, where I slept when slept alone; was just one bend from Wyoh's door. Mum was telling me, plain as print: "Go ahead, dear. Don't tell me if you wish to be mean about it. Sneak behind my back."

Which neither of us admitted. We visited as we got ready for bed, chatted after light out, then I turned over.

Instead of saying goodnight Mum said, "Manuel? Why does your sweet little guest make herself up as an Afro? I would think that her natural coloration would be more becoming. Not that she isn't perfectly charming the way she chooses to be."

So rolled over and faced her, and explained--sounded thin, so filled in. And found self telling all--except one point: Mike. I included Mike--but not as computer--instead as a man Mum was not likely to meet, for security reasons.

But telling Mum--taking her into my subcell, should say, to become leader of own cell in turn--taking Mum into conspiracy was not case of husband who can't keep from blurting everything to his wife. At most was hasty--but was best time if she was to be told.

Mum was smart. Also able executive; running big family without baring teeth requires that. Was respected among farm families and throughout Luna City; she had been up longer than 90 percent. She could help.

And would be indispensable inside family. Without her help Wyoh and I would find it sticky to use phone together (hard to explain), keep kids from noticing (impossible!)--but with Mum's help would be no problems inside household.

She listened, sighed, said, "It sounds dangerous, dear."

"Is," I said. "Look, Mimi, if you don't want to tackle, say so then forget what I've told."

"Manuel! Don't even say that. You are my husband, dear; I took you for better, for worse... and your wish is my command."

(My word, what a lie! But Mimi believed it.)

"I would not let you go into danger alone," she went on, "and besides--"

"What, Mimi?"

"I think every Loonie dreams of the day when we will be free. All but some poor spineless rats. I've never talked about it; there seemed to be no point and it's necessary to look up, not down, lift one's burden and go ahead. But I thank dear Bog that I have been permitted to live to see the time come, if indeed it has. Explain more about it. I am to find three others, is it? Three who can be trusted."

"Don't hurry. Move slowly. Be sure."

"Sidris can be trusted. She holds her tongue, that one."

"Don't think you should pick from family. Need to spread out. Don't rush."

"I shan't. We'll talk before I do anything. And Manuel, if you want my opinion--" She stopped.

"Always want your opinion, Mimi."

"Don't mention this to Grandpaw. He's forgetful these days and sometimes talkative. Now sleep, dear, and don't dream."