The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Mike is a fair dinkum thinkum—you’ll see. Mike, I bet Professor three to two that Yankees would win pennant again. How chances?”

  “I am sorry to hear it, Man. The correct odds, this early in the year and based on past performances of teams and players, are one to four point seven two the other way.”

  “Can’t be that bad!”

  “I’m sorry, Man. I will print out the calculations if you wish. But I recommend that you buy back your wager. The Yankees have a favorable chance to defeat any single team … but the combined chances of defeating all teams in the league, including such factors as weather, accidents, and other variables for the season ahead, place the club on the short end of the odds I gave you.”

  “Prof, want to sell that bet?”

  “Certainly, Manuel.”

  “Price?”

  “Three hundred Hong Kong dollars.”

  “You old thief!”

  “Manuel, as you former teacher I would be false to you if I did not permit you to learn from mistakes. Señor Holmes—Mike my friend—May I call you ‘friend’?”

  “Please do.” (Mike almost purred.)

  “Mike amigo, do you also tout horse races?”

  “I often calculate odds on horse races; the civil service computermen frequently program such requests. But the results are so at variance with expectations that I have concluded either that the data are too meager, or the horses or riders are not honest. Possibly all three. However, I can gve you a formula which will pay a steady return if played consistently.”

  Prof looked eager. “What is it? May one ask?”

  “One may. Bet the leading apprentice jockey to place. He is always given good mounts and they carry less weight. But don’t bet him on the nose.”

  “‘Leading apprentice’ … hmm. Manuel, do you have the correct time?”

  “Prof, which do you want? Get a bet down before post time? Or settle what we set out to?”

  “Unh, sorry. Please carry on. ‘Leading apprentice—’”

  “Mike, I gave you a recording last night.” I leaned close to pickups and whispered: “Bastille Day.”

  “Retrieved, Man.”

  “Thought about it?”

  “In many ways. Wyoh, you speak most dramatically.”

  “Thank you, Mike.”

  “Prof, can you get your mind off ponies?”

  “Eh? Certainly, I am all ears.”

  “Then quit doing odds under your breath; Mike can do them faster.”

  “I was not wasting time; the financing of … joint ventures such as ours is always difficult. However, I shall table it; I am all attention.”

  “I want Mike to do a trial projection. Mike, in that recording, you heard Wyoh say we had to have free trade with Terra. You heard Prof say we should clamp an embargo on shipping food to Terra. Who’s right?”

  “Your question is indeterminate, Man.”

  “What did I leave out?”

  “Shall I rephrase it, Man?”

  “Sure. Give us discussion.”

  “In immediate terms Wyoh’s proposal would be of great advantage to the people of Luna. The price of foodstuffs at catapult head would increase by a factor of at least four. This takes into account a slight rise in wholesale prices on Terra, ‘slight’ because the Authority now sells at approximately the free market price. This disregards subsidized, dumped, and donated foodstuffs, most of which come from the large profit caused by the controlled low price at catapult head. I will say no more about minor variables as they are swallowed by major ones. Let it stand that the immediate effect here would be a price increase of the close order of fourfold.”

  “Hear that, Professor?”

  “Please, dear lady. I never disputed it.”

  “The profit increase to the grower is more than fourfold because, as Wyoh pointed out, he now must buy water and other items at controlled high prices. Assuming a free market throughout the sequence his profit enhancement will be of the close order of sixfold. But this would be offset by another factor: Higher prices for exports would cause higher prices for everything consumed in Luna, goods and labor. The total effect would be an enhanced standard of living for all on the close order of twofold. This would be accompanied by vigorous effort to drill and seal more farming tunnels, mine more ice, improve growing methods, all leading to greater export. However, the Terran Market is so large and food shortage so chronic that reduction in profit from increase of export is not a major factor.”

  Prof said, “But, Señor Mike, that would only hasten the day that Luna is exhausted!”

  “The projection was specified as immediate, Señor Professor. Shall I continue in longer range on the basis of your remarks?”

  “By all means!”

  “Luna’s mass to three significant figures is seven point three six times ten to the nineteenth power tonnes. Thus, holding other variables constant including Lunar and Terran populations, the present differential rate of export in tonnes could continue for seven point three six times ten to the twelfth years before using up one percent of Luna—round it as seven thousand billion years.”

  “What! Are you sure?”

  “You are invited to check, Professor.”

  I said, “Mike, this a joke? If so, not funny even once!”

  “It is not a joke, Man.”

  “Anyhow,” Prof added, recovering, “it’s not Luna’s crust we are shipping. It’s our lifeblood—water and organic matter. Not rock.”

  “I took that into consideration, Professor. This projection is based on controlled transmutation—any isotope into any other and postulating power for any reaction not exo-energetic. Rock would be shipped—transformed into wheat and beef and other foodstuffs.”

  “But we don’t know how to do that! Amigo, this is ridiculous!”

  “But we will know how to do it.”

  “Mike is right, Prof,” I put in. “Sure, today we haven’t a glimmer. But will. Mike, did you compute how many years till we have this? Might take a flier in stocks.”

  Mike answered in sad voice, “Man my only male friend save for the Professor whom I hope will be my friend, I tried. I failed. The question is indeterminate.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it involves a break-through in theory. There is no way in all my data to predict when and where genius may appear.”

  Prof sighed. “Mike amigo, I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Then that projection didn’t mean anything?”

  “Of course it meant something!” said Wyoh. “It means we’ll dig it out when we need it. Tell him, Mike!”

  “Wyoh, I am most sorry. Your assertion is, in effect, exactly what I was looking for. But the answer still remains: Genius is where you find it. No. I am so sorry.”

  I said, “Then Prof is right? When comes to placing bets?”

  “One moment, Man. There is a special solution suggested by the Professor’s speech last night—return shipping, tonne for tonne.”

  “Yes, but can’t do that.”

  “If the cost is low enough, Terrans would do so. That can be achieved with only minor refinement, not a break-through, to wit, freight transportation up from Terra as cheap as catapulting down to Terra.”

  “You call this ‘minor’?”

  “I call it minor compared with the other problem, Man.”

  “Mike dear, how long? When do we get it?”

  “Wyoh, a rough projection, based on poor data and largely intuitive, would be on the order of fifty years.”

  “‘Fifty years’? Why, that’s nothing! We can have free trade.”

  “Wyoh, I said ‘on the order of’—I did not say ‘on the close order of.’”

  “It makes a difference?”

  “Does.” I told her. “What Mike said was that he doesn’t expect it sooner than five years but would be surprised if much longer than five hundred—eh, Mike?”

  “Correct, Man.”

  “So need another projection. Prof pointed out that we ship water
and organic matter and don’t get it back—-agree, Wyoh?”

  “Oh. sure. I just don’t think it’s urgent. We’ll solve it when we reach it.”

  “Okay, Mike—no cheap shipping, no transmutation: How long till trouble?”

  “Seven years.”

  “‘Seven years!’” Wyoh jumped up, stared at phone. “Mike honey! You don’t mean that?”

  “Wyoh,” he said plaintively, “I did my best. The problem has an indeterminately large number of variables. I ran several thousand solutions using many assumptions. The happiest answer came from assuming no increase in tonnage, no increase in Lunar population—restriction of births strongly enforced—and a greatly enhanced search for ice in order to maintain the water supply. That gave an answer of slightly over twenty years. All other answers were worse.”

  Wyoh, much sobered, said, “What happens in seven years?”

  “The answer of seven years from now I reached by assuming the present situation, no change in Authority policy, and all major variables extrapolated from the empiricals implicit in their past behavior—a conservative answer of highest probability from available data. Twenty-eighty-two is the year I expect food riots. Cannibalism should not occur for at least two years thereafter.”

  “‘Cannibalism’!” She turned and buried head against Prof’s chest.

  He patted her, said gently, “I’m sorry, Wyoh. People do not realize how precarious our ecology is. Even so, it shocks me. I know water runs down hill … but didn’t dream how terribly soon it will reach bottom.”

  She straightened up and face was calm. “Okay, Professor, I was wrong. Embargo it must be—and all that that implies. Let’s get busy. Let’s find out from Mike what our chances are. You trust him now—don’t you?”

  “Yes, dear lady, I do. We must have him on our side. Well, Manuel?”

  Took time to impress Mike with how serious we were, make him understand that “jokes” could kill us (this machine who could not know human death) and to get assurance that he could and would protect secrets no matter what retrieval program was used—even our signals if not from us. Mike was hurt that I could doubt him but matter too serious to risk slip.

  Then took two hours to program and re-program and change assumptions and investigate side issues before all four—Mike, Prof, Wyoh, self—were satisfied that we had defined it, i.e., what chance had revolution—this revolution, headed by us, success required before “Food Riots Day,” against Authority with bare hands … against power of all Terra, all eleven billions, to beat us down and inflict their will—all with no rabbits out of hats, with certainty of betrayal and stupidity and faintheartedness, and fact that no one of us was genius, nor important in Lunar affairs. Prof made sure that Mike knew history, psychology, economics, name it. Toward end Mike was pointing out far more variables than Prof.

  At last we agreed that programming was done—or that we could think of no other significant factor. Mike then said, “This is an indeterminate problem. How shall I solve it? Pessimistically? Or optimistically? Or a range of probabilities expressed as a curve, or several curves? Professor my friend?”

  “Manuel?”

  I said, “Mike, when I roll a die, it’s one in six it turns ace. I don’t ask shopkeeper to float it, nor do I caliper it, or worry about somebody blowing on it. Don’t give happy answer, nor pessimistic; don’t shove curves at us. Just tell in one sentence: What chances? Even? One in a thousand? None? Or whatever.”

  “Yes, Manuel Garcia O’Kelly my first male friend,”

  For thirteen and a half minutes was no sound, while Wyoh chewed knuckles. Never known Mike to take so long. Must have consulted every book he ever read and worn edges off random numbers. Was beginning to believe that he had been overloaded and either burnt out something or gone into cybernetic breakdown that requires computer equivalent of lobotomy to stop oscillations.

  Finally he spoke. “Manuel my friend, I am terribly sorry!”

  “What’s trouble, Mike?”

  “I have tried and tried, checked and checked. There is but one chance in seven of winning!”

  7

  I look at Wyoh, she looks at me; we laugh. I jump up and yip, “Hooray!” Wyoh starts to cry, throws arms around Prof, kisses him.

  Mike said plaintively, “I do not understand. The chances are seven to one against us. Not for us.”

  Wyoh stopped slobbering Prof and said, “Hear that? Mike said ‘us.’ He included himself.”

  “Of course. Mike old cobber, we understood. But ever know a Loonie to refuse to bet when he stood a big fat chance of one in seven?”

  “I have known only you three. Not sufficient data for a curve.”

  “Well … we’re Loonies. Loonies bet. Hell, we have to! They shipped us up and bet us we couldn’t stay alive. We fooled ‘em. We’ll fool ‘em again! Wyoh. Where’s your pouch? Get red hat. Put on Mike. Kiss him. Let’s have a drink. One for Mike, too—want a drink, Mike?”

  “I wish that I could have a drink,” Mike answered wistfully, “as I have wondered about the subjective effect of ethanol on the human nervous system—I conjecture that it must be similar to a slight overvoltage. But since I cannot, please have one in my place.”

  “Program accepted. Running. Wyoh, where’s hat!” Phone was flat to wall, let into rock—no place to hang hat. So we placed it on writing shelf and toasted Mike and called him “Comrade!” and almost he cried. His voice fugged up. Then Wyoh borrowed Liberty Cap and put on me and kissed me into conspiracy, officially this time, and so all out that my eldest wife would faint did she see—then she took hat and put on Prof and gave him same treatment and I was glad Mike had reported his heart okay.

  Then she put it on own head and went to phone, leaned close, mouth between binaurals and made kissing sounds. “That’s for you, Mike dear comrade. Is Michelle there?”

  Blimey if he didn’t answer in soprano voice: “Right here, darling—and I am so ‘appee!”

  So Michelle got a kiss, and I had to explain to Prof who “Michelle” was and introduce him. He was formal, sucking air and whistling and clasping hands—sometimes I think Prof was not right in his head.

  Wyoh poured more vodka. Prof caught her, mixed ours with coffee, hers with chai, honey in all. “We have declared the Revolution,” he said firmly, “now we execute it. With clear heads. Manuel, you were opted chairman. Shall we begin?”

  “Mike is chairman,” I said. “Obvious. Secretary, too. We’ll never keep anything in writing; first security rule. With Mike, don’t need to. Let’s bat it around and see where we are; I’m new to business.”

  “And,” said Prof, “still on the subject of security, the secret of Mike should be restricted to this executive cell, subject to unanimous agreement—all three of us—correction: all four of us—that is must be extended.”

  “What secret?” asked Wyoh. “Mike agreed to help our secrets. He’s safer than we are; he can’t be brainwashed, Can you be, Mike dear?”

  “I could be brainwashed,” Mike admitted, “by enough voltage. Or by being smashed, or subjected to solvents, or positive entropy through other means—I find the concept disturbing. But if by ‘brainwashing’ you mean could I be compelled to surrender our secrets, the answer is an unmodified negative.”

  I said, “Wye, Prof means secret of Mike himself. Mike old pal, you’re our secret weapon—you know that, don’t you?”

  He answered self-consciously, “It was necessary to take that into consideration in computing the odds.”

  “How were odds without you, comrade? Bad?”

  “They were not good. Not of the same order.”

  “Won’t press you. But a secret weapon must be secret, Mike, does anybody else suspect that you are alive?”

  “Am I alive?” His voice held tragic loneliness.

  “Uh, won’t argue semantics. Sure, you’re alive!”

  “I was not sure. It is good to be alive. No, Mannie my first friend, you three alone know it. My three friends.”

  “
That’s how must be if bet’s to pay off. Is okay? Us three and never talk to anybody else?”

  “But we’ll talk to you lots!” Wyoh put in.

  “It is not only okay,” Mike said bluntly, “it is necessary. It was a factor in the odds.”

  “That settles it,” I said. “They have everything else; we have Mike. We keep it that way. Say! Mike, I just had a horrid. We fight Terra?”

  “We will fight Terra … unless we lose before that time.”

  “Uh, riddle this. Any computers smart as you? Any awake?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know, Man.”

  “No data?”

  “Insufficient data. I have watched for both factors, not only in technical journals but everywhere else. There are no computers on the market of my present capacity … but one of my model could be augmented just as I have been. Furthermore an experimental computer of great capacity might be classified and go unreported in the literature.”

  “Mmm … chance we have to take.”

  “Yes, Man.”

  “There aren’t any computers as smart as Mike!” Wyoh said scornfully. “Don’t be silly, Mannie.”

  “Wyoh, Man was not being silly. Man, I saw one disturbing report. It was claimed that attempts are being made at the University of Peiping to combine computers with human brains to achieve massive capacity. A computing Cyborg.”

  “They say how?”

  “The item was non-technical.”

  “Well … won’t worry about what can’t help. Right, Prof?”

  “Correct, Manuel. A revolutionist must keep his mind free of worry or the pressure becomes intolerable.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Wyoh added. “We’ve got Mike and we’re going to win! Mike dear, you say we’re going to fight Terra—and Mannie says that’s one battle we can’t win. You have some idea of how we can win, or you wouldn’t have given us even one chance in seven. So what is it?”

  “Throw rocks at them,” Mike answered.

  “Not funny,” I told him. “Wyoh, don’t borrow trouble. Haven’t even settled how we leave this pooka without being nabbed. Mike, Prof says nine guards were killed last night and Wyoh says twenty-seven is whole bodyguard. Leaving eighteen. Do you know if that’s true, do you know where they are and what they are up to? Can’t put on a revolution if we dasn’t stir out.”