The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Mike,” I said, just before leaving, “would you like to have somebody besides me to talk to?”

  He was shrill again. “They’re all stupid!”

  “Insufficient data, Mike. Bring to zero and start over. Not all are stupid.”

  He answered quietly, “Correction entered. I would enjoy talking to a not-stupid.”

  “Let me think about it. Have to figure out excuse since this is off limits to any but authorized personnel.”

  “I could talk to a not-stupid by phone, Man.”

  “My word. So you could. Any programming location.”

  But Mike meant what he said—“by phone.” No, he was not “on phone” even though he ran system—wouldn’t do to let any Loonie within reach of a phone connect into boss computer and program it. But was no reason why Mike should not have top-secret number to talk to friends—namely me and any not-stupid I vouched for. All it took was to pick a number not in use and make one wired connection to his voder-vocoder; switching he could handle.

  In Luna in 2075 phone numbers were punched in, not voicecoded, and numbers were Roman alphabet. Pay for it and have your firm name in ten letters—good advertising. Pay smaller bonus and get a spell sound, easy to remember. Pay minimum and you got arbitrary string of letters. But some sequences were never used. I asked Mike for such a null number. “It’s a shame we can’t list you as ‘Mike.’”

  “In service,” he answered. “MIKESGRILL, Novy Leningrad. MIKEANDLIL, Luna City. MIKESSUITS, Tycho Under. MIKES—”

  “Hold it! Nulls, please.”

  “Nulls are defined as any consonant followed by X, Y, or Z; any vowel followed by itself except E and 0; any—”

  “Got it. Your signal is MYCROFT.” In ten minutes, two of which I spent putting on number-three arm, Mike was wired into system, and milliseconds later he had done switching to let himself be signaled by MYCROFT-plus-XXX—and had blocked his circuit so that a nosy technician could not take it out.

  I changed arms, picked up tools, and remembered to take those hundred Joe Millers in print-out. “Goodnight, Mike.”

  “Goodnight, Man. Thank you. Bolshoyeh thanks!”

  2

  I took Trans-Crisium tube to L-City but did not go home; Mike had asked about a meeting that night at 2100 in Stilyagi Hall. Mike monitored concerts, meetings, and so forth; someone had switched off by hand his pickups in Stilyagi Hall. I suppose he felt rebuffed.

  I could guess why they had been switched off. Politics—turned out to be a protest meeting. What use it was to bar Mike from talk-talk I could not see, since was a cinch bet that Warden’s stoolies would be in crowd. Not that any attempt to stop meeting was expected, or even to discipline undischarged transportees who chose to sound off. Wasn’t necessary.

  My Grandfather Stone claimed that Luna was only open prison in history. No bars, no guards, no rules—-and no need for them. Back in early days, he said, before was clear that transportation was a life sentence, some lags tried to escape. By ship, of course—and, since a ship is mass-rated almost to a gram, that meant a ship’s officer had to be bribed.

  Some were bribed, they say. But were no escapes; man who takes bribe doesn’t necessarily stay bribed. I recall seeing a man just after eliminated through East Lock; don’t suppose a corpse eliminated in orbit looks prettier.

  So wardens didn’t fret about protest meetings. “Let ‘em yap” was policy. Yapping had same significance as squeals of kittens in a box. Oh, some wardens listened and other wardens tried to suppress it but added up same either way—null program.

  When Mort the Wart took office in 2068, he gave us a sermon about how things were going to be different “on” Luna in his administration—noise about “a mundane paradise wrought with our own strong hands” and “putting our shoulders to the wheel together, in a spirit of brotherhood” and “let past mistakes be forgotten as we turn our faces toward the bright, new dawn.” I heard it in Mother Boor’s Tucker Bag while inhaling Irish stew and a liter of her Aussie brew. I remember her comment: “He talks purty, don’t he?”

  Her comment was only result. Some petitions were submitted and Warden’s bodyguards started carrying new type of gun; no other changes. After he had been here a while he quit making appearances even by video.

  So I went to meeting merely because Mike was curious. When I checked my p-suit and kit at West Lock tube station, I took a test recorder and placed in my belt pouch, so that Mike would have a full account even if I fell asleep.

  But almost didn’t go in. I came up from level 7-A and started in through a side door and was stopped by a stilyagi—padded tights, codpiece and calves, torso shined and sprinkled with stardust. Not that I care how people dress; I was wearing tights myself (unpadded) and sometimes oil my upper body on social occasions.

  But I don’t use cosmetics and my hair was too thin to nick up in a scalp lock. This boy had scalp shaved on sides and his lock built up to fit a rooster and had topped it with a red cap with bulge in front.

  A Liberty Cap—first I ever saw. I started to crowd past, he shoved arm across and pushed face at mine. “Your ticket!”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t know. Where do I buy it?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Repeat,” I said. “You faded.”

  “Nobody,” he growled, “gets in without being vouched for. Who are you?”

  “I am,” I answered carefully, “Manuel Garcia O’Kelly, and old cobbers all know me. Who are you?”

  “Never mind! Show a ticket with right chop, or out y’ go!”

  I wondered about his life expectancy. Tourists often remark on how polite everybody is in Luna—with unstated comment that ex-prison shouldn’t be so civilized. Having been Earthside and seen what they put up with, I know what they mean. But useless to tell them we are what we are because bad actors don’t live long—in Luna.

  But had no intention of fighting no matter how new-chum this lad behaved; I simply thought about how his face would look if I brushed number-seven arm across his mouth.

  Just a thought—I was about to answer politely when I saw Shorty Mkrum inside. Shorty was a big black fellow two meters tall, sent up to The Rock for murder, and sweetest, most helpful man I’ve ever worked with—taught him laser drilling before I burned my arm off. “Shorty!”

  He heard me and grinned like an eighty-eight. “Hi, Mannie!” He moved toward us. “Glad you came, Man!”

  “Not sure I have,” I said. “Blockage on line.”

  “Doesn’t have a ticket,” said doorman.

  Shorty reached into his pouch, put one in my hand. “Now he does. Come on, Mannie.”

  “Show me chop on it,” insisted doorman.

  “It’s my chop,” Shorty said softly. “Okay, tovarishch?”

  Nobody argued with Shorty—don’t see how he got involved in murder. We moved down front where vip row was reserved. “Want you to meet a nice little girl,” said Shorty.

  She was “little” only to Shorty. I’m not short, 175 cm., but she was taller—180, I learned later, and massed 70 kilos, all curves and as blond as Shorty was black. I decided she must be transportee since colors rarely stay that clear past first generation. Pleasant face, quite pretty, and mop of yellow curls topped off that long, blond, solid, lovely structure.

  I stopped three paces away to look her up and down and whistle. She held her pose, then nodded to thank me but abruptly—bored with compliments, no doubt. Shorty waited till formality was over, then said softly, “Wyoh, this is Comrade Mannie, best drillman that ever drifted a tunnel. Mannie, this little girl is Wyoming Knott and she came all the way from Plato to tell us how we’re doing in Hong Kong. Wasn’t that sweet of her?”

  She touched hands with me. “Call me Wye, Mannie—but don’t say ‘Why not.’”

  I almost did but controlled it and said. “Okay, Wye.” She went on, glancing at my bare head, “So you’re a miner. Shorty, where’s his cap? I thought the miners over here were organized.” She and Shorty were wearing l
ittle red hats like doorman’s—as were maybe a third of crowd.

  “No longer a miner,” I explained. “That was before I lost this wing.” Raised left arm, let her see seam joining prosthetic to meat arm (I never mind calling it to a woman’s attention; puts some off but arouses maternal in others—averages). “These days I’m a computerman.”

  She said sharply, “You fink for the Authority?”

  Even today, with almost as many women in Luna as men, I’m too much old-timer to be rude to a woman no matter what—they have so much of what we have none of. But she had flicked scar tissue and I answered almost sharply, “I am not employee of Warden. I do business with Authority—as private contractor.”

  “That’s okay,” she answered, her voice warm again. “Everybody does business with the Authority, we can’t avoid it—and that’s the trouble. That’s what we’re going to change.”

  We are, eh? How? I thought. Everybody does business with Authority for same reason everybody does business with Law of Gravitation. Going to change that, too? But kept thoughts to myself, not wishing to argue with a lady.

  “Mannie’s okay,” Shorty said gently. “He’s mean as they come—I vouch for him. Here’s a cap for him,” he added, reaching into pouch. He started to set it on my head.

  Wyoming Knott took it from him. “You sponsor him?”

  “I said so.”

  “Okay, here’s how we do it in Hong Kong.” Wyoming stood in front of me, placed cap on my head—kissed me firmly on mouth.

  She didn’t hurry. Being kissed by Wyoming Knott is more definite than being married to most women. Had I been Mike all my lights would have flashed at once. I felt like a Cyborg with pleasure center switched on.

  Presently I realized it was over and people were whistling. I blinked and said, “I’m glad I joined. What have I joined?”

  Wyoming said, “Don’t you know?” Shorty cut in, “Meeting’s about to start—he’ll find out. Sit down, Man. Please sit down, Wyoh.” So we did as a man was banging a gavel.

  With gavel and an amplifier at high gain he made himself heard. “Shut doors!” he shouted. “This is a closed meeting. Check man in front of you, behind you, each side—if you don’t know him and nobody you know can vouch for him, throw him out!”

  “Throw him out, hell!” somebody answered. “Eliminate him out nearest lock!”

  “Quiet, please! Someday we will.” There was milling around, and a scuffle in which one man’s red cap was snatched from head and he was thrown out, sailing beautifully and still rising as he passed through door. Doubt if he felt it; think he was unconscious. A women was ejected politely—not politely on her part; she made coarse remarks about ejectors. I was embarrassed.

  At last doors were closed. Music started, banner unfolded over platform. It read: LIBERTY! EQUALITY! FRATERNITY! Everybody whistled; some started to sing, loudly and badly: “Arise, Ye Prisoners of Starvation—” Can’t say anybody looked starved. But reminded me I hadn’t eaten since 1400; hoped it would not last long—and that reminded me that my recorder was good for only two hours—and that made me wonder what would happen if they knew? Sail me through air to land with sickening grunch? Or eliminate me? But didn’t worry; made that recorder myself, using number-three arm, and nobody but a miniaturization mechanic would figure out what it was.

  Then came speeches.

  Semantic content was low to negative. One bloke proposed that we march on Warden’s Residence, “shoulder to shoulder,” and demand our rights. Picture it. Do we do this in tube capsules, then climb out one at a time at his private station? What are his bodyguards doing? Or do we put on p-suits and stroll across surface to his upper lock? With laser drills and plenty of power you can open any airlock—but how about farther down? Is lift running? Jury-rig hoist and go down anyhow, then tackle next lock?

  I don’t care for such work at zero pressure; mishap in pressure suit is too permanent—especially when somebody arranges mishap. One first thing learned about Luna, back with first shiploads of convicts, was that zero pressure was place for good manners. Bad-tempered straw boss didn’t last many shifts; had an “accident”—and top bosses learned not to pry into accidents or they met accidents, too. Attrition ran 70 percent in early years—but those who lived were nice people. Not tame, not soft, Luna is not for them. But well-behaved.

  But seemed to me that every hothead in Luna was in Stilyagi Hall that night. They whistled and cheered this shoulder-to-shoulder noise.

  After discussion opened, some sense was talked. One shy little fellow with bloodshot eyes of old-time drillman stood up. “I’m an ice miner,” he said. “Learned my trade doing time for Warden like most of you. I’ve been on my own thirty years and done okay. Raised eight kids and all of ‘em earned way—none eliminated nor any serious trouble. I should say I did do okay because today you have to listen farther out or deeper down to find ice.

  “That’s okay, still ice in The Rock and a miner expects to sound for it. But Authority pays same price for ice now as thirty years ago. And that’s not okay. Worse yet, Authority scrip doesn’t buy what it used to. I remember when Hong Kong Luna dollars swapped even for Authority dollars—Now it takes three Authority dollars to match one HKL dollar. I don’t know what to do … but I know it takes ice to keep warrens and farms going.”

  He sat down, looking sad. Nobody whistled but everybody wanted to talk. Next character pointed out that water can be extracted from rock—this is news? Some rock runs 6 percent—but such rock is scarcer than fossil water. Why can’t people do arithmetic?

  Several farmers bellyached and one wheat farmer was typical. “You heard what Fred Hauser said about ice. Fred, Authority isn’t passing along that low price to farmers. I started almost as long ago as you did, with one two-kilometer tunnel leased from Authority. My oldest son and I sealed and pressured it and we had a pocket of ice and made our first crop simply on a bank loan to cover power and lighting fixtures, seed and chemicals.

  “We kept extending tunnels and buying lights and planting better seed and now we get nine times as much per hectare as the best open-air farming down Earthside. What does that make us? Rich? Fred, we owe more now than we did the day we went private! If I sold out—if anybody was fool enough to buy—I’d be bankrupt. Why? Because I have to buy water from Authority—and have to sell my wheat to Authority—and never close gap. Twenty years ago I bought city sewage from the Authority, sterilized and processed it myself and made a profit on a crop. But today when I buy sewage, I’m charged distilled-water price and on top of that for the solids. Yet price of a tonne of wheat at catapult head is just what it was twenty years ago. Fred, you said you didn’t know what to do. I can tell you! Get rid of Authority!”

  They whistled for him. A fine idea, I thought, but who bells cat?

  Wyoming Knott, apparently—chairman stepped back and let Shorty introduce her as a “brave little girl who’s come all the way from Hong Kong Luna to tell how our Chinee comrades cope with situation”—and choice of words showed that he had never been there … not surprising; in 2075, HKL tube ended at Endsville, leaving a thousand kilometers of maria to do by rolligon bus, Serenitatis and part of Tranquillitatis—expensive and dangerous. I’d been there—but on contract, via mail rocket.

  Before travel became cheap many people in Luna City and Novylen thought that Hong Kong Luna was all Chinee. But Hong Kong was as mixed as we were. Great China dumped what she didn’t want there, first from Old Hong Kong and Singapore, then Aussies and Enzees and black fellows and marys and Malays and Tamil and name it. Even Old Bolshies from Vladivostok and Harbin and Ulan Bator. Wye looked Svenska and had British last name with North American first name but could have been Russki. My word, a Loonie then rarely knew who father was and, if raised in crèche, might be vague about mother.

  I thought Wyoming was going to be too shy to speak. She stood there, looking scared and little, with Shorty towering over her, a big, black mountain. She waited until admiring whistles died down. Luna City was t
wo-to-one male then, that meeting ran about ten-to-one; she could have recited ABC and they would have applauded.

  Then she tore into them.

  “You! You’re a wheat farmer—going broke. Do you know how much a Hindu housewife pays for a kilo of flour made from your wheat? How much a tonne of your wheat fetches in Bombay? How little it costs the Authority to get it from catapult head to Indian Ocean? Downhill all the way! Just solid-fuel retros to brake it—and where do those come from? Right here! And what do you get in return? A few shiploads of fancy goods, owned by the Authority and priced high because it’s importado. Importado, importado!—I never touch importado! If we don’t make it in Hong Kong, I don’t use it. What else do you get for wheat? The privilege of selling Lunar ice to Lunar Authority, buying it back as washing water, then giving it to the Authority—then buying it back a second time as flushing water—then giving it again to the Authority with valuable solids added—then buying it a third time at still higher price for farming—then you sell that wheat to the Authority at their price—and buy power from the Authority to grow it, again at their price! Lunar power—not one kilowatt up from Terra. It comes from Lunar ice and Lunar steel, or sunshine spilled on Luna’s soil—all put together by loonies! Oh, you rockheads, you deserve to starve!”

  She got silence more respectful than whistles. At last a peevish voice said, “What do you expect us to do, gospazha? Throw rocks at Warden?”

  Wyoh smiled. “Yes, we could throw rocks. But the solution is so simple that you all know it. Here in Luna we’re rich. Three million hardworking, smart, skilled people, enough water, plenty of everything, endless power, endless cubic. But what we don’t have is a free market. We must get rid of the Authority!”

  “Yes—but how?”

  “Solidarity. In HKL we’re learning. Authority charges too much for water, don’t buy. It pays too little for ice, don’t sell. It holds monopoly on export, don’t export. Down in Bombay they want wheat. If it doesn’t arrive, the day will come when brokers come here to bid for it—at triple or more the present prices!”