The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

20

Our craft was ground-to-orbit ferry type used for manned satellites, for supplying F.N. ships in patrol orbit, and for passengers to and from pleasure-and-gambling satellites. She was carrying three passengers instead of forty, no cargo except three p-suits and a brass cannon (yes, silly toy was along; p-suits and Prof's bang-bang were in Australia a week before we were) and good ship Lark had been stripped--total crew was skipper and a Cyborg pilot.

She was heavily overfueled.

We made (was told) normal approach on Elysium satellite... then suddenly scooted from orbital speed to escape speed, a change even more violent than liftoff.

This was scanned by F.N. Skytrack; we were commanded to stop and explain. I got this secondhand from Stu, self still recovering and enjoying luxury of no-gee with one strap to anchor. Prof was still out.

"So they want to know who we are and what we think we are doing," Stu told me. "We told them that we were Chinese registry sky wagon Opening Lotus bound on an errand of mercy, to wit, rescuing those scientists marooned on the Moon, and gave our identification--as Opening Lotus."

"How about transponder?"

"Mannie, if I got what I paid for, our transponder identified us as the Lark up to ten minutes ago... and now has I.D.'d us as the Lotus. Soon we will know. Just one ship is in position to get a missile off and it must blast us in"--he stopped to look--"another twenty-seven minutes according to the wired-up gentleman booting this bucket, or its chances of getting us are poor to zero. So if it worries you--if you have prayers to say or messages to send or whatever it is one does at such times--now is the time."

"Think we ought to rouse Prof?"

"Let him sleep. Can you think of a better way to make jump than from peaceful sleep instantaneously into a cloud of radiant gas? Unless you know that he has religious necessities to attend to? He never struck me as a religious man, orthodoctrinally speaking."

"He's not. But if you have such duties, don't let me keep you."

"Thank you, I took care of what seemed necessary before we left ground. How about yourself, Mannie? I'm not much of a padre but I'll do my best, if I can help. Any sins on your mind, old cobber? If you need to confess, I know quite a little about sin."

Told him my needs did not run that way. Then did recall sins, some I cherished, and gave him a version more or less true. That reminded him of some of his own, which remind me-- Zero time came and went before we ran out of sins. S LaJoie is a good person to spend last minutes with, even if don't turn out to be last.

We had two days with naught to do but undergo drastic routines to keep us from carrying umpteen plagues to Luna. But didn't mind shaking from induced chills and burning with fever; free fall was such a relief and was so happy to be going home.

Or almost happy-- Prof asked what was troubling me,~ "Nothing," I said. "Can't wait to be home. But-- Truth is, ashamed to show face after we've failed. Prof, what did we do wrong?"

"Failed, my boy?"

"Don't see what else can call it. Asked to be recognized. Not what we got."

"Manuel, I owe you an apology. You will recall Adam Selene's projection of our chances just before we left home." Stu was not in earshot but "Mike" was word we never used; was always "Adam Selene" for security.

"Certainly do! One in fifty-three. Then when we reached Earthside dropped to reeking one in hundred. What you guess it is now? One in thousand?"

"I've had new projections every few days...which is why I owe you an apology. The last, received just before we left, included the then-untested assumption that we would escape, get clear of Terra and home safely. Or that at least one of us three would make it, which is why Comrade Stu was summoned home, he having a Terran's tolerance of high acceleration. Eight projections, in fact, ranging from three of us dead, through various combinations up to three surviving. Would you care to stake a few dollars on what that last projection is, setting a bracket and naming your own odds? I'll give a hint. You are far too pessimistic."

"Uh... no, damn it! Just tell."

"The odds against us are now only seventeen to one... and they've been shortening all month. Which I couldn't tell you."

"Was amazed, delighted, overjoyed--hurt. "What you mean, couldn't tell me? Look, Prof, if not trusted, deal me out and put Stu in executive cell."

"Please, son. That's where he will go if anything happens to any of us--you, me, or dear Wyoming. I could not tell you Earthside--and can tell you now--not because you aren't trusted but because you are no actor. You could carry out your role more effectively if you believed that our purpose was to achieve recognition of independence."

"Now he tells!"

"Manuel, Manuel, we had to fight hard every instant--and lose."

"So? Am big enough boy to be told?"

"Please, Manuel. Keeping you temporarily in the dark greatly enhanced our chances; you can check this with Adam. May I add that Stuart accepted his summons to Luna blithely without asking why? Comrade, that committee was too small, its chairman too intelligent; there was always the hazard that they might offer an acceptable compromise--that first day there was grave danger of it. Had we been able to force our case before the Grand Assembly there would have been no danger of intelligent action. But we were balked. The best I could do was to antagonize the committee, even stooping to personal insult to make certain of at least one holdout against common sense."

"Guess I never will understand high-level approach."

"Possibly not. But your talents and mine complement each other. Manuel, you wish to see Luna free."

"You know I do."

"You also know that Terra can defeat us."

"Sure. No projection ever gave anything close to even money. So don't see why you set out to antagonize--"

"Please. Since they can inflict their will on us, our only chance lies in weakening their will. That was why we had to go to Terra. To be divisive. To create many opinions. The shrewdest of the great generals in China's history once said that perfection in war lay in so sapping the opponent's will that he surrenders without fighting. In that maxim lies both our ultimate purpose and our most pressing danger. Suppose, as seemed possible that first day, we had been offered an inviting compromise. A governor in place of a warden, possibly from our own number. Local autonomy. A delegate in the Grand Assembly. A higher price for grain at the catapult head, plus a bonus for increased shipments. A disavowal of Hobart's policies combined with an expression of regret over the rape and the killings with handsome cash settlements to the victims' survivors. Would it have been accepted? Back home?"

"They did not offer that."

"The chairman was ready to offer something like it that first afternoon and at that time he had his committee in hand. He offered us an asking price close enough to permit such a dicker. Assume that we reached in substance what I outlined. Would it have been acceptable at home?"

"Uh... maybe."

"More than a 'maybe' by the bleak projection made just before we left home; it was the thing to be avoided at any cost--a settlement which would quiet things down, destroy our will to resist, without changing any essential in the longer-range prediction of disaster. So I switched the subject and squelched possibility by being difficult about irrelevancies politely offensive. Manuel, you and I know--and Adam knows--that there must be an end to food shipments; nothing less will save Luna from disaster. But can you imagine a wheat farmer fighting to end those shipments?"

"No. Wonder if can pick up news from home on how they're taking stoppage?"

"There won't be any. Here is how Adam has timed it, Manuel: No announcement is to be made on either planet until after we get home. We are still buying wheat. Barges are still arriving at Bombay."

"You told them shipments would stop at once."

"That was a threat, not a moral commitment. A few more loads won't matter and we need time. We don't have everyone on our side; we have only a minority. There is a majority who don't care either way but can be swayed--temporarily. We have another minority against us... especially grain farmers whose interest is never politics but the price of wheat. They are grumbling but accepting Scrip, hoping it wili be worth face value later. But the instant we announce that shipments have stopped they will be actively against us. Adam plans to have the majority committed to us at the time the announcement is made."

"How long? One year? Two?"

"Two days, three days, perhaps four. Carefully edited excerpts from that five-year plan, excerpts from the recordings you've made--especially that yellow-dog offer--exploitation of your arrest in Kentucky--"

"Hey! I'd rather forget that."

Prof smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "Uh--" I said uncomfortably. "Okay. If will help."

"It will help more than any statistics about natural resources."

Wired-up ex-human piloting us went in as one maneuver without bothering to orbit and gave us even heavier beating; ship was light and lively. But change in motion is under two-and-a-half kilometers; was over in nineteen seconds and we were down at Johnson City. I took it right, just a terrible constriction in chest and a feeling as if giant were squeezing heart, then was over and I was gasping back to normal and glad to be proper weight. But did almost kill poor old Prof.

Mike told me later that pilot refused to surrender control; Mike would have brought ship down in a low-gee, no-breakum-egg, knowing Prof was aboard. But perhaps that Cyborg knew what he was doing; a low-gee landing wastes mass and Lotus-Lark grounded almost dry.

None of which we cared about, as looked as if that Garrison landing had wasted Prof. Stu saw it while I was still gasping, then we were both at him--heart stimulant, manual respiration, massage. At last he fluttered eyelids, looked at us, smiled. "Home," he whispered.

We made him rest twenty minutes before we let him suit up to leave ship; had been as near dead as can be and not hear angels. Skipper was filling tanks, anxious to get rid of us and take on passengers--that Dutchman never spoke to us whole trip; think he regretted letting money talk him into a trip that could ruin or kill him.

By then Wyoh was inside ship, p-suited to come meet us. Don't think Stu had ever seen her in a p-suit and certain he had never seen her as a blonde; did not recognize. I was hugging her in spite of p-suit; he was standing by, waiting to be introduced. Then strange "man" in p-suit hugged him--he was surprised.

Heard Wyoh's muffled voice: "Oh heavens! Mannie, my helmet."

I unclamped it, lifted off. She shook curls and grinned. "Stu, aren't you glad to see me? Don't you know me?"

A grin spread over his face, slowly as dawn across maria. "Zdra'stvooeet'ye, Gospazha! I am most happy to see you."

"'Gospazha' indeed! I'm Wyoh to you, dear, always. Didn't Mannie tell you I'd gone back to blonde?"

"Yes, he did. But knowing it and seeing are not the same."

"You'll get used to it." She stopped to bend over Prof, kiss him, giggle at him, then straightened up and gave me a no-helmet welcome-home that left us both with tears despite pesky suit. Then turned again to Stu, started to kiss him.

He held back a little. She stopped. "Stu, am I going to have to put on brown makeup to welcome you?" Stu glanced at me, then kissed her. Wyoh put in as much time and thought as she had to welcoming me.

Was later I figured out his odd behavior. Stu, despite commitment, was still not a Loonie--and in meantime Wyoh had married. What's that got to do with it? Well, Earthside it makes a difference, and Stu did not know deep down in bones that a Loonie lady is own mistress. Poor chum thought I might take offense!

We got Prof into suit, ourselves same, and left, me with cannon under arm. Once underground and locked through, we unsuited--and I was flattered to see that Wyoh was wearing crushed under p-suit that red dress I bought her ages ago. She brushed it and skirt flared out.

Immigration room was empty save for about forty men lined up along wall like new transportees; were wearing p-suits and carrying helmets--Terrans going home, stranded tourists and some scientists. Their p-suits would not go, would be unloaded before lift. I looked at them and thought about Cyborg pilot. When Lark had been stripped, all but three couches had been removed; these people were going to take acceleration lying on floorplates--if skipper was not careful he was going to have mashed Terrans au blut.

Mentioned to Stu. "Forget it," he said. "Captain Leures has foam pads aboard. He won't let them be hurt; they're his life insurance."