The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress Part 14

I did. Then Sidris and I strolled, looking in shopwindows and moving slowly, as quarry was window-shopping. In seven or eight minutes a small boy came toward us, stopped and said, "h.e.l.lo, Auntie Mabell. Hi, Uncle Joe."

Sidris took his hand. "Hi, Tony. How's your mother, dear?"

"Just fine." He added in a whisper, "I'm Jock."

"Sorry." Sidris said quietly to me, "Stay on her," and took Jock into a tuck shop.

She came out and joined me. Jock followed her licking a lollipop. "'Bye, Auntie Mabel! Thanks!" He danced away, rotating, wound up by that little redhead, stood and stared into a display, solemnly sucking his sweet. Sidris and I went home.

A report was waiting. "She went into Cradle Roll Creche and hasn't come out. Do we stay on it?"

"A bit yet," I told Wyoh, and asked if she remembered this kid. She did, but had no idea who she might be. "You could ask Finn."

"Can do better." I called Mike.

Yes, Cradle Roll Creche had a phone and Mike would listen. Took him twenty minutes to pick up enough to give a.n.a.lysis-many young voices and at such ages almost s.e.xless. But presently he told me, "Man, I hear three voices that could match the age and physical type you described. However, two answer to names which I a.s.sume to be masculine. The third answers when anyone says 'Hazel'-which an older female voice does repeatedly. She seems to be Hazel's boss."

"Mike, look at old organization file. Check Hazels."

"Four Hazels," he answered at once, "and here she is: Hazel Meade, Young Comrades Auxiliary, address Cradle Roll Creche, born 25 December 2063, ma.s.s thirty-nine kilos, height-"

"That's our little jump jet! Thanks, Mike. Wyoh, call off stake-out. Good job!"

"Mike, call Donna and pa.s.s the word, that's a dear."

I left it to girls to recruit Hazel Meade and did not eyeball her until Sidris moved her into our household two weeks later. But Wyoh volunteered a report before then; policy was involved. Sidris had filled her cell but wanted Hazel Meade. Besides this irregularity, Sidris was doubtful about recruiting a child. Policy was adults only, sixteen and up.

I took it to Adam Selene and executive cell. "As I see," I said, "this cells-of-three system is to serve us, not bind us. See nothing wrong in Comrade Cecilia having an extra. Nor any real danger to security."

"I agree," said Prof. "But I suggest that the extra member not be part of Cecilia's cell-she should not know the others, I mean, unless the duties Cecilia gives her make it necessary. Nor do I think she should recruit, at her age. The real question is her age."

"Agreed," said Wyoh. "I want to talk about this kid's age."

"Friends," Mike said diffidently (diffidently first time in weeks; he was now that confident executive "Adam Selene" much more than lonely machine)--"perhaps I should have told you, but I have already granted similar variations. It did not seem to require discussion."

"It doesn't, Mike," Prof rea.s.sured him. "A chairman must use his own judgment. What is our largest cell?"

"Five. it is a double cell, three and two."

"No harm done. Dear Wyoh, does Sidris propose to make this child a full comrade? Let her know that we are committed to revolution. . . with all the bloodshed, disorder, and possible disaster that entails?"

"That's exactly what she is requesting."

"But, dear lady, while we are staking our lives, we are old enough to know it. For that, one should have an emotional grasp of death. Children seldom are able to realize that death will come to them personally. One might define adulthood as the age at which a person learns that he must die. . . and accepts his sentence undismayed."

"Prof," I said, "I know some mighty tall children. Seven to two some are in Party."

"No bet, cobber. It'll give odds that at least half of them don't qualify-and we may find it out the hard way at the end of this our folly."

"Prof," Wyoh insisted. "Mike, Mannie. Sidris is certain this child is an adult. And I think so, too."

"Man?" asked Mike.

"Let's find way for Prof to meet her and form own opinion. I was taken by her. Especially her go-to-h.e.l.l fighting. Or would never have started it."

We adjourned and I heard no more. Hazel showed up at dinner shortly thereafter as Sidris' guest. She showed no sign of recognizing me, nor did I admit that I had ever seen her-but learned long after that she had recognized me, not just by left arm but because I had been hatted and kissed by tall blonde from Hong Kong. Furthermore Hazel had seen through Wyoming's disguise, recognized what Wyoh never did successfully disguise: her voice.

But Hazel used lip glue. If she ever a.s.sumed I was in conspiracy she never showed it.

Child's history explained her, far as background can explain steely character. Transported with parents as a baby much as Wyoh had been, she had lost father through accident while he was convict labor, which her mother blamed on indifference of Authority to safety of penal colonists. Her mother lasted till Hazel was five; what she died from Hazel did not know; she was then living in creche where we found her. Nor did she know why parents had been s.h.i.+pped-possibly for subversion if they were both under sentence as Hazel thought. As may be, her mother left her a fierce hatred of Authority and Warden.

Family that ran Cradle Roll let her stay; Hazel was pinning diapers and was.h.i.+ng dishes as soon as she could reach. She had taught herself to read, and could print letters but could not write. Her knowledge of math was only that ability to count money that children soak up through their skins.

Was fuss over her leaving creche; owner and husbands claimed Hazel owed several years' service. Hazel solved it by walking out, leaving her clothes and fewer belongings behind. Mum was angry enough to want family to start trouble which could wind up in "brawling" she despised. But I told her privately that, as her cell leader, I did nor want our family in public eye-and hauled out cash and told her Party would pay for clothes for Hazel. Mum refused money, called off a family meeting, took Hazel into town and was extravagant-for Mum-in re-outfitting her.

So we adopted Hazel. I understand that these days adopting a child involves red tape; in those days it was as simple as adopting a kitten.

Was more fuss when Mum started to place Hazel in school, which fitted neither what Sidris had in mind nor what Hazel had been led to expect as a Party member and comrade. Again I b.u.t.ted in and Mum gave in part way. Hazel was placed in a tutoring school close to Sidris' shop-that is, near eas.e.m.e.nt lock thirteen; beauty parlor was by it (Sidris had good business because close enough that our water was piped in, and used without limit as return line took it back for salvage). Hazel studied mornings and helped in afternoons, pinning on gowns, handing out towels, giving rinses, learning trade-and whatever else Sidris wanted.

"Whatever else" was captain of Baker Street Irregulars.

Hazel had handled younger kids all her short life. They liked her; she could wheedle them into anything; she understood what they said when an adult would find it gibberish. She was a perfect bridge between Party and most junior auxiliary. She could make a game of ch.o.r.es we a.s.signed and persuade them to play by rules she gave them, and never let them know it was adult-serious----but child-serious, which is another matter.

For example: Let's say a little one, too young to read, is caught with a stack of subversive literature-which happened more than once. Here's how it would go, after Hazel indoctrinated a kid: ADULT: "Baby, where did you get this?"

BAKER STREET IRREGULAR: "I'm not a baby, I'm a big boy!"

ADULT: "Okay, big boy, where did you get this?"

B.S.I.: "Jackie give it to me."

ADULT: "Who is Jackie?"

B.S.I.: "Jackie."

ADULT: "But what's his last name?"

B.S.I.: "Who?"

ADULT: "Jackie."

B.S.I.: (scornfully) "Jackie's a girl!"

ADULT: "All right, where does she live?"

B.S.L: "Who?"

And so on around-To all questions key answer was of pattern: "Jackie give it to me." Since Jackie didn't exist, he (she) didn't have a last name, a home address, nor fixed s.e.x. Those children enjoyed making fools of adults, once they learned how easy it was.

At worst, literature was confiscated. Even a squad of Peace Dragoons thought twice before trying to "arrest" a small child. Yes, we were beginning to have squads of Dragoons inside Luna city, but never less than a squad-some had gone in singly and not come back.

When Mike started writing poetry I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to publish it! Shows how thoroughly humanity had corrupted this innocent machine that he should wish to see his name in print.

I said, "Mike, for Bog's sake! Blown all circuits? Or planning to give us away?"

Before he could sulk Prof said, "Hold on, Manuel; I see possibilities. Mike, would it suit you to take a pen name?"

That's how "Simon Jester" was born. Mike picked it apparently by tossing random numbers. But he used another name for serious verse, his Party name, Adam Selene.

"Simon's" verse was doggerel, bawdy, subversive, ranging from poking fun at vips to savage attacks on Warden, system, Peace Dragoons, finks. You found it on walls of public W.C.s, or on sc.r.a.ps of paper left in tube capsules: Or in taprooms. Wherever they were they were signed "Simon Jester" and with a matchstick drawing of a little horned devil with big grin and forked tail. Sometimes he was stabbing a fat man with a pitchfork. Sometimes just his face would appear, big grin and horns, until shortly even horns and grin meant "Simon was here."

Simon appeared all over Luna same day and from then on never let up. Shortly he started receiving volunteer help; his verses and little pictures, so simple anybody could draw them, began appearing more places than we had planned. This wider coverage had to be from fellow travelers. Verses and cartoons started appearing inside Complex-which could not have been our work; we never recruited civil servants. Also, three days after initial appearance of a very rough limerick, one that implied that Warden's fatness derived from unsavory habits, this limerick popped up on pressure-sticky labels with cartoon improved so that fat victim flinching from Simon's pitchfork was recognizably Mort the Wart. We didn't buy them, we didn't print them. But they appeared in L-City and Novylen and Hong Kong, stuck almost everywhere-public phones, stanchions in corridors, pressure locks, ramp railings, other. I had a sample count made, fed it to Mike; he reported that over seventy thousand labels had been used in L-City alone.

I did not know of a printing plant in L-City willing to risk such a job and equipped for it. Began to wonder if might be another revolutionary cabal?

Simon's verses were such a success that he branched out as a poltergeist and neither Warden nor security chief was allowed to miss it. "Dear Mort the Wart," ran one letter. "Do please be careful from midnight to four hundred tomorrow. Love & Kisses, Simon"-with horns and grin. In same mail Alvarez received one reading: "Dear Pimplehead, If the Warden breaks his leg tomorrow night it will be your fault. Faithfully your conscience, Simon"-again with horns and smile.

We didn't have anything planned; we just wanted Mort and Alvarez to lose sleep-which they did, plus bodyguard. All Mike did was to call Warden's private phone at intervals from midnight to four hundred-an unlisted number supposedly known only to his personal staff. By calling members of his personal staff simultaneously and connecting them to Mort Mike not only created confusion but got Warden angry at his a.s.sistants-he flatly refused to believe their denials.

But was luck that Warden, goaded too far, ran down a ramp. Even a new chum does that only once. So he walked on air and sprained an ankle-close enough to a broken leg and Alvarez was there when it happened.

Those sleep-losers were mostly just that. Like rumor that Authority catapult had been mined and would be blown up, another night. Ninety plus eighteen men can't search a hundred kilometers of catapult in hours, especially when ninety are Peace Dragoons not used to p-suit work and hating it-this midnight came at new earth with Sun high; they were outside far longer than is healthy, managed to cook up their own accidents while almost cooking themselves, and showed nearest thing to mutiny in regiment's history. One accident was fatal. Did he fall or was he pushed? A sergeant.

Midnight alarums made Peace Dragoons on pa.s.sport watch much taken by yawning and more bad-tempered, which produced more clashes with Loonies and still greater resentment both ways-so Simon increased pressure.

Adam Selene's verse was on a higher plane. Mike submitted it to Prof and accepted his literary judgment (good, I think) without resentment. Mike's scansion and rhyming were perfect, Mike being a computer with whole English language in his memory and able to search for a fitting word in microseconds. What was weak was self-criticism. That improved rapidly under Prof's stern editors.h.i.+p.

Adam Selene's by-line appeared first in dignified pages of Moonglow over a somber poem t.i.tled: "Home." Was dying thoughts of old transportee, his discovery as he is about to leave that Luna is his beloved home. Language was simple, rhyme scheme unforced, only thing faintly subversive was conclusion on part of dying man that even many wardens he has endured was not too high a price.

Doubt if Moonglow's editors thought twice. Was good stuff, they published.

Alvarez turned editorial office inside out trying to get a line back to Adam Selene. Issue had been on sale half a lunar before Alvarez noticed it, or had it called to his attention; we were fretted, we wanted that by-line noticed. We were much pleased with way Alvarez oscillated when he did see it.

Editors were unable to help fink boss. They told him truth: Poem had come in by mail. Did they have it? Yes, surely. . . sorry, no envelope; they were never saved. After a long time Alvarez left, flanked by four Dragoons he had fetched along for his health.

Hope he enjoyed studying that sheet of paper. Was piece of Adam Selene's business stationery: SELENE a.s.sOCIATES LUNA CITY Investments Office of the Chairman Old Dome

and under that was typed Home, by Adam Selene, etc.

Any fingerprints were added after it left us. Had been typed on Underwood Office Electrostator, commonest model in Luna. Even so, were not too many as are importado; a scientific detective could have identified machine. Would have found it in Luna City office of Lunar Authority. Machines, should say, as we found six of model in office and used them in rotation, five words and move to next. Cost Wyoh and self sleep and too much risk even though Mike listened at every phone, ready to warn. Never did it that way again.

Alvarez was not a scientific detective.

11

In early '76 I had too much to do. Could not neglect customers. Party work took more time even though all possible was delegated. But decisions had to be made on endless things and messages pa.s.sed up and down. Had to squeeze in hours of heavy exercise, wearing weights, and dasn't arrange permission to use centrifuge at Complex, one used by earthworm scientists to stretch time in Luna-while had used it before, this time could not advertise that I was getting in shape for Earthside.

Exercising without centrifuge is less efficient and was especially boring because did not know there would be need for it. But according to Mike 30 percent of ways events could fall required some Loonie, able to speak for Party, to make trip to Terra.

Could not see myself as an amba.s.sador, don't have education and not diplomatic. Prof was obvious choice of those recruited or likely to be. But Prof was old, might not live to land Earthside. Mike told us that a man of Prof's age, body type, etc., had less than 40 percent chance of reaching Terra alive.

But Prof did gaily undertake strenuous training to let him make most of his poor chances, so what could I do but put on weights and get to work, ready to go and take his place if old heart clicked off? Wyoh did same, on a.s.sumption that something might keep me from going. She did it to share misery; Wyoh always used gallantry in place of logic.

On top of business, Party work, and exercise was farming. We had lost three sons by marriage while gaining two fine lads, Frank and Ali. Then Greg went to work for LuNoHoCo, as boss drillman on new catapult.

Was needful. Much skull sweat went into hiring construction crew. We could use non-Party men for most jobs, but key spots had to be Party men as competent as they were politically reliable. Greg did not want to go; our farm needed him and he did not like to leave his congregation. But accepted.

That made me again a valet, part time, to pigs and chickens. Hans is a good farmer, picked up load and worked enough for two men. But Greg had been farm manager ever since Grandpaw retired, new responsibility worried Hans. Should have been mine, being senior, but Hans was better farmer and closer to it; always been expected he would succeed Greg someday. So I backed him up by agreeing with his opinions and tried to be half a farm hand in hours I could squeeze. Left no time to scratch.

Late in February I was returning from long trip, Novylen, Tycho Under, Churchill. New tube had just been completed across Sinus Medii, so I went on to Hong Kong in Luna-business and did make contacts now that I could promise emergency service. Fact that Endsville-Beluthihatchie bus ran only during dark semi-lunar had made impossible before.

But business was cover for politics; liaison with Hong Kong had been thin. Wyoh had done well by phone; second member of her cell was an old comrade.-"Comrade Clayton"-who not only had clean bill of health in Alverez's File Zebra but also stood high in Wyoh's estimation. Clayton was briefed on policies, warned of bad apples, encouraged to start cell system while leaving old organization untouched. Wyoh told him to keep his members.h.i.+p, as before.

But phone isn't face-to-face. Hong Kong should have been our stronghold. Was less tied to Authority as its utilities were not controlled from Complex; was less dependent because lack (until recently) of tube transport had made selling at catapult head less inviting; was stronger financially as Bank of Hong Kong Luna notes were better money than official Authority scrip.

I suppose Hong Kong dollars weren't "money" in some legal sense. Authority would not accept them; times I went Earthside had to buy Authority scrip to pay for ticket. But what I carried was Hong Kong dollars as could be traded Earthside at a small discount whereas scrip was nearly worthless there. Money or not, Hong Kong Bank notes were backed by honest Chinee bankers instead of being fiat of bureaucracy. One hundred Hong Kong dollars was 31.1 grams of gold (old troy ounce) payable on demand at home office-and they did keep gold there, fetched up from Australia. Or you could demand commodities: non-potable water, steel of defined grade, heavy water of power plant specs, other things. Could buy these with scrip, too, but Authority's prices kept changing, upward. I'm no fiscal theorist; time Mike tried to explain I got headache. Simply know we were glad to lay hands on this non-money whereas scrip one accepted reluctantly and not just because we hated Authority.

Hong Kong should have been Party's stronghold. But was not. We had decided that I should risk face-to-face there, letting some know my ident.i.ty, as a man with one arm can't disguise easily. Was risk that would jeopardize not only me but could lead to Wyoh, Mum, Greg, and Sidris if I took a fall. But who said revolution was safe?

Comrade Clayton turned out to be young j.a.panese-not too young, but they all look young till suddenly look old. He was not all j.a.panese-Malay and other things-but had j.a.panese name and household had j.a.panese manners; "giri" and "gimu" controlled and it was my good fortune that he owed much gimu to Wyoh.

Clayton was not convict ancestry; his people had been "volunteers" marched aboard s.h.i.+p at gunpoint during time Great China consolidated Earthside empire. I didn't hold it against him; he hated Warden as bitterly as any old lag.

Met him first at a teahouse-taproom to us L-City types-and for two hours we talked everything but politics. He made up mind about me, took me home. My only complaint about j.a.panese hospitality is those chin-high baths are too bleeding hot.

But turned out I was not jeopardized. Mama-san was as skilled at makeup as Sidris, my social arm is very convincing, and a kimona covered its seam. Met four cells in two days, as "Comrade Bork" and wearing makeup and kimona and tabi and, if a spy was among them, don't think he could identify Manuel O'Kelly. I had gone there intensely briefed, endless figures and projections, and talked about just one thing: famine in '82, six years away. "You people are lucky, won't be hit so soon. But now with new tube, you are going to see more and more of your people turning to wheat and rice and s.h.i.+pping it to catapult head. Your time will come."

They were impressed. Old organization, as I saw it and from what I heard, relied on oratory, whoop-it-up music, and emotion, much like church. I simply said, "There it is, comrades. Check those figures; I'll leave them with you."

Met one comrade separately. A Chinee engineer given a good look at anything can figure way to make it. Asked this one if he had ever seen a laser gun small enough to carry like a rifle. He had not. Mentioned that pa.s.sport system made it difficult to smuggle these days. He said thoughtfully that jewels ought not to be hard-and he would be in Luna City next week to see his cousin. I said Uncle Adam would be pleased to hear from him.

All in all was productive trip. On way back I stopped in Novylen to check an old-fas.h.i.+oned punched-tape "Foreman" I had overhauled earlier, had lunch afterwards, ran into my father. He and I were friendly but didn't matter if we let a couple of years go by. We talked through a sandwich and beer and as I got up he said, "Nice to see you, Mannie. Free Luna!"

I echoed, too startled not to. My old man was as cynically non-political as you could find; if he would say that in public, campaign must be taking hold.

So I arrived in L-City cheered up and not too tired, having napped from Torricelli. Took Belt from Tube South, then dropped down and through Bottom Alley, avoiding Causeway crowd and heading home. Went into Judge Brody's courtroom as I came to it, meaning to say h.e.l.lo. Brody is old friend and we have amputation in common. After he lost a leg he set up as a judge and was quite successful; was not another judge in L-City at that time who did not have side business, at least make book or sell insurance.

If two people brought a quarrel to Brody and he could not get them to agree that his settlement was just, he would return fees and, if they fought, referee their duel without charging-and still be trying to persuade them not to use knives right up to squaring off.