The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “No,” said Prof, “aside from finding an actor of requisite character—one who would not decide to be Napoleon—we can’t wait. Adam must start handling things not later than tomorrow morning.”

  “In that case,” I said, “you’ve answered it. Have to use Mike and never put him on video. Radio only. Have to figure excuse but Adam must never be seen.”

  “I’m forced to agree,” said Prof.

  “Man my oldest friend,” said Mike, “why do you say that I can’t be seen?”

  “Haven’t you listened?” I said. “Mike, we have to show a face and body on video. You have a body—but it’s several tons of metal. A face you don’t have—lucky you, don’t have to shave.”

  “But what’s to keep me from showing a face, Man? I’m showing a voice this instant. But there’s no sound behind it. I can show a face the same way.”

  Was so taken aback I didn’t answer. I stared at video screen, installed when we leased that room. A pulse is a pulse is a pulse. Electrons chasing each other. To Mike, whole world was variable series of electrical pulses, sent or received or chasing around his innards.

  I said, “No, Mike.”

  “Why not, Man?”

  “Because you can’t! Voice you handle beautifully. Involves only a few thousand decisions a second, a slow crawl to you. But to build up video picture would require, uh, say ten million decisions every second. Mike, you’re so fast I can’t even think about it. But you aren’t that fast.”

  Mike said softly, “Want to bet, Man?”

  Wyoh said indignantly, “Of course Mike can if he says he can! Mannie, you shouldn’t talk that way.” (Wyoh thinks an electron is something about size and shape of a small pea.)

  “Mike,” I said slowly, “I won’t put money on it. Okay, want to try? Shall I switch on video?”

  “I can switch it on,” he answered.

  “Sure you’ll get right one? Wouldn’t do to have this show somewhere else.”

  He answered testily, “I’m not stupid. Now let me be, Man—for I admit this is going to take just about all I’ve got.”

  We waited in silence. Then screen showed neutral gray with a hint of scan lines. Went black again, then a faint light filled middle and congealed into cloudy areas light and dark, ellipsoid. Not a face, but suggestion of face that one sees in cloud patterns covering Terra.

  It cleared a little and reminded me of pictures alleged to be ectoplasm. A ghost of a face.

  Suddenly firmed and we saw “Adam Selcne.”

  Was a still picture of a mature man. No background, just a face as if trimmed out of a print. Yet was, to me, “Adam Selene.” Could not he anybody else.

  Then he smiled, moving lips and jaw and touching tongue to lips, a quick gesture—and I was frightened.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Adam,” said Wyoh, “your hair isn’t that curly. And it should go back on each side above your forehead. You look as if you were wearing a wig, dear.”

  Mike corrected it. “Is that better?’

  “Not quite so much. And don’t you have dimples? I was sure I could hear dimples when you chuckle. Like Prof’s.”

  Mike-Adam smiled again; this time he had dimples. “How should I be dressed, Wyoh?”

  “Are you at your office?”

  “I’m still at office. Have to be, tonight.” Background turned gray, then came into focus and color. A wall calendar behind him gave date, Tuesday 19 May 2076; a clock showed correct time. Near his elbow was a carton of coffee. On desk was a solid picture, a family group, two men, a woman, four children. Was background noise, muted roar of Old Dome Plaza louder than usual; I heard shouts and in distance some singing: Simon’s version of “Marseillaise.”

  Off screen Ginwallah’s voice said, “Gospodin?”

  Adam turned toward it. “I’m busy, Albert,” he said patiently. “No calls from anyone but cell B. You handle everything else.” He looked back at us. “Well, Wyoh? Suggestions? Prof? Man my doubting friend? Will I pass?”

  I rubbed eyes. “Mike, can you cook?”

  “Certainly. But I don’t; I’m married.”

  “Adam,” said Wyoh, “how can you look so neat after the day we’ve had?”

  “I don’t let little things worry me.” He looked at Prof. “Professor, if the picture is okay, let’s discuss what I’ll say tomorrow. I was thinking of pre-empting the eight hundred newscast, have it announced all night, and pass the word down the cells.”

  We talked rest of night. I sent up for coffee twice and Mike-Adam had his carton renewed. When I ordered sandwiches, he asked Ginwallah to send out for some. I caught a glimpse of Albert Ginwallah in profile, a typical babu, polite and faintly scornful. Hadn’t known what he looked like. Mike ate while we ate, sometimes mumbling around a mouthful of food.

  When I asked (professional interest) Mike told me that, after he had picture built up, he had programmed most of it for automatic and gave his attention just to facial expressions. But soon I forgot it was fake. Mike-Adam was talking with us by video, was all, much more convenient than by phone.

  By oh-three-hundred we had policy settled, then Mike rehearsed speech. Prof found points be wanted to add; Mike made revisions, then we decided to get some rest, even Mike-Adam was yawning—although in fact Mike held fort all through night, guarding transmissions to Terra, keeping Complex wailed off, listening at many phones. Prof and I shared big bed, Wyoh stretched out on couch, I whistled lights out. For once we slept without weights.

  While we had breakfast, Adam Selene addressed Free Luna.

  He was gentle, strong, warm, and persuasive. “Citizens of Free Luna, friends, comrades—to those of you who do not know me let me introduce myself. I am Adam Selene. Chairman of the Emergency Committee of Comrades for Free Luna … now of Free Luna, we are free at last. The so-called ‘Authority’ which has long unsurped power in this our home has been overthrown. I find myself temporary head of such government as we have—the Emergency Committee.

  “Shortly, as quickly as can be arranged, you will opt your own government.” Adam smiled and made a gesture inviting help. “In the meantime, with your help, I shall do my best. We will make mistakes—be tolerant. Comrades, if you have not revealed yourselves to friends and neighbors, it is time you did so. Citizens, requests may reach you through your comrade neighbors. I hope you will comply willingly; it will speed the day when I can bow out and life can get back to normal—a new normal, free of the Authority, free of guards, free of troops stationed on us, free of passports and searches and arbitrary arrests.

  “There has to be a transition. To all of you—please go back to work, resume normal lives. To those who worked for the Authority, the need is the same. Go back to work. Wages will go on, your jobs stay the same, until we can decide what is needed, what happily no longer is needed now that we are free, and what must be kept but modified. You new citizens, transportees sweating out sentences pronounced on you Earthside—you are free, your sentences are finished! But in the meantime I hope that you will go on working. You are not required to—the days of coercion are gone—but you are urged to. You are of course free to leave the Complex, free to go anywhere … and capsule service to and from the Complex will resume at once. But before you use your new freedom to rush into town, let me remind you: ‘There is no such thing as a free lunch.’ You are better off for the time being where you are; the food may not be fancy but will continue hot and on time.

  “To take on temporarily those necessary functions of the defunct Authority I have asked the General Manager of LuNoHo Company to serve. This company will provide termporary supervision and will start analyzing how to do away with the tyrannical parts of the Authority and how to transfer the useful parts to private hands. So please help them.

  “To you citizens of Terran nations among us, scientists and travelers and others, greetings! You are witnessing a rare event, the birth of a nation. Birth means blood and pain; there has been some. We hope it is over. You will not be inconvenienc
ed unnecessarily and your passage home will be arranged as soon as possible. Conversely, you are welcome to stay, still more welcome to become citizens. But for the present I urge you to stay out of the corridors, avoid incidents that might lead to unnecessary blood, unnecessary pain. Be patient with us and I urge my fellow citizens to be patient with you. Scientists from Terra, at the Observatory and elsewhere, go on with your work and ignore us. Then you won’t even notice that we are going through the pangs of creating a new nation. One thing—I am sorry to say that we are temporarily interfering with your right to communicate with Earthside. This we do from necessity; censorship will be lifted as quickly as possible—we hate it as much as you do.”

  Adam added one more request: “Don’t try to see me, comrades, and phone me only if you must; all others, write if you need to, your letters will receive prompt attention. But I am not twins, I got no sleep last night and can’t expect much tonight. I can’t address meetings, can’t shake hands, can’t meet delegations; I must stick to this desk and work—so that I can get rid of this job and turn it over to your choice.” He grinned at them. “Expect me to be as hard to see as Simon Jester!”

  It was a fifteen-minute cast but that was essence: Go back to work, be patient, give us time.

  Those scientists gave us almost no time—I should have guessed; was my sort of pidgin.

  All communication Earthside channeled through Mike. But those brain boys had enough electronic equipment to stock a warehouse; once they decided to, it took them only hours to breadboard a rig that could reach Terra.

  Only thing that saved us was a fellow traveler who thought Luna should be free. He tried to phone Adam Selene, wound up talking to one of a squad of women we had co-opted from C and D level—a system thrown together in self-defense as, despite Mike’s request, half of Luna tried to phone Adam Selene after that videocast, everything from requests and demands to busybodies who wanted to tell Adam how to do his job.

  After about a hundred calls got routed to me through too much zeal by a comrade in phone company, we set up this buffer squad. Happily, comrade lady who took this call recognized that soothe-’em-down doctrine did not apply; she phoned me.

  Minutes later myself and Finn Nielsen plus some eager guns headed by capsule for laboratory area. Our informant was scared to give name but had told me where to find transmitter. We caught them transmitting, and only fast action on Finn’s part kept them breathing; his boys were itchy. But we did not want to “make an example”; Finn and I had settled that on way out. Is hard to frighten scientists, their minds don’t work that way. Have to get at them from other angles.

  I kicked that transmitter to pieces and ordered Director to have everyone assemble in mess hall and required roll call—where a phone could hear. Then I talked to Mike, got names from him, and said to Director: “Doctor, you told me they were all here. We’re missing so-and-so”—seven names. “Get them here!”

  Missing Terrans had been notified, had refused to stop what they were doing—typical scientists.

  Then I talked, Loonies on one side of room, Terrans on other. To Terrans I said; “We tried to treat you as guests. But three of you tried and perhaps succeeded in sending message Earthside.”

  I turned to Director. “Doctor, I could search—warren, surface structures, all labs, every space—and destroy everything that might be used for transmitter. I’m electron pusher by trade; I know what wide variety of components can be converted into transmitters. Suppose I destroy everything that might be useful for that and, being stupid, take no chance and smash anything I don’t understand. What result?”

  Would have thought I was about to kill his baby! He turned gray. “That would stop every research … destroy priceless data … waste, oh, I don’t know how much! Call it a half billion dollars!”

  “So I thought. Could take all that gear instead of smashing and let you go on best you can.”

  “That would be almost as bad. You must understand, Gospodin, that when an experiment is interrupted—”

  “I know. Easier than moving anything—and maybe missing some—is to take you all to Complex and quarter you there. We have what used to be Dragoon barracks. But that too would ruin experiments. Besides—Where you from, Doctor?”

  “Princeton, New Jersey.”

  “So? You’ve been here five months and no doubt exercising and wearing weights. Doctor, if we did that, you might never see Princeton again. If we move you, we’ll keep you locked up. You’ll get soft. If emergency goes on very long, you’ll be a Loonie like it or not. And all your brainy help with you.”

  A cocky chum stepped forward—one who had to be sent for twice. “You can’t do this! It’s against the law!”

  “What law, Gospodin? Some law back in your hometown?” I turned. “Finn, show him law.”

  Finn stepped forward and placed emission bell of gun at man’s belly button. Thumb started to press down—safety-switched, I could see. I said, “Don’t kill him, Finn!”—then went on: “I will eliminate this man if that’s what it takes to convince you. So watch each other! One more offense will kill all your chances of seeing home again—as well as ruining researches. Doctor, I warn you to find ways to keep check on your staff.”

  I turned to Loonies. “Tovarishchee, keep them honest. Work up own guard system. Don’t take nonsense; every earthworm is on probation. If you have to eliminate some, don’t hesitate.” I turned to Director. “Doctor, any Loonie can go anywhere any time—even your bedroom. Your assistants are now your bosses so far as security is concerned; if a Loonie decides to follow you or anybody into a W.C., don’t argue; he might be jumpy.”

  I turned to Loonies. “Security first! You each work for some earthworm—watch him! Split it among you and don’t miss anything. Watch ‘em so close they can’t build mouse trap, much less transmitter. If interferes with work for them, don’t worry; wages will go on.”

  Could see grins. Lab assistant was best job a Loonie could find those days—but they worked under earthworms who looked down on us, even ones who pretended and were oh so gracious.

  I let it go at that. When I had been phoned, I had intended to eliminate offenders. But Prof and Mike set me straight: Plan did not permit violence against Terrans that could be avoided.

  We set up “ears,” wideband sensitive receivers, around lab area, since even most directional rig spills a little in neighborhood. And Mike listened on all phones in area, After that we chewed nails and hoped.

  Presently we relaxed as news up from Earthside showed nothing, they seemed to accept censored transmissions without suspicion, and private and commercial traffic and Authority’s transmissions all seemed routine. Meanwhile we worked, trying in days what should take months.

  We received one break in timing; no passenger ship was on Luna and none was due until 7 July. We could have coped—suckered a ship’s officers to “dine with Warden” or something, then mounted guard on its senders or dismantled them. Could not have lifted without our help; in those days one drain on ice was providing water for reaction mass. Was not much drain compared with grain shipments; one manned ship a month was heavy traffic then, while grain lifted every day. What it did mean was that an incoming ship was not an insuperable hazard. Nevertheless was lucky break; we were trying so hard to make everything look normal until we could defend ourselves.

  Grain shipments went on as before; one was catapulted almost as Finn’s men were breaking into Warden’s residence. And next went out on time, and all others.

  Neither oversight nor faking for interim; Prof knew what he was doing. Grain shipments were a big operation (for a little country like Luna) and couldn’t be changed in one semi-lunar; bread-and-beer of too many people was involved. If our committee had ordered embargo and quit buying grain, we would have been chucked out and a new committee with other ideas would have taken over.

  Prof said that an educational period was necessary. Meanwhile grain barges catapulted as usual; LuNoHoCo kept books and issued receipts, using civil se
rvice personnel. Dispatches went out in Warden’s name and Mike talked to Authority Earthside, using Warden’s voice. Deputy Administrator proved reasonable, once he understood it upped his life expectancy. Chief Engineer stayed on job, too—McIntyre was a real Loonie, given chance, rather than fink by nature. Other department heads and minor stooges were no problem; life went on as before and we were too busy to unwind Authority system and put useful parts up for sale.

  Over a dozen people turned up claiming to be Simon Jester; Simon wrote a rude verse disclairning them and had picture on front page of Lunatic, Pravda, and Gong. Wyoh let herself go blond and made trip to see Greg at new catapult site, then a longer trip, ten days, to old home in Hong Kong Luna, taking Anna who wanted to see it. Wyoh needed a vacation and Prof urged her to take it, pointing on that she was in touch by phone and that closer Party contact was needed in Hong Kong. I took over her stilyagi with Slim and Hazel as my lieutenants—bright, sharp kids I could trust. Slim was awed to discover that I was “Comrade Bork” and saw “Adam Selene” every day; his Party name started with “G.” Made a good team for other reason, too. Hazel suddenly started showing cushiony curves and not all from Mimi’s superb table; she had reached that point in her orbit. Slim was ready to change her name to “Stone” any time she was willing to opt. In meantime he was anxious to do Party work he could share with our fierce little redhead.

  Not everybody was willing. Many comrades turned out to be talk-talk soldiers. Still more thought war was over once we had eliminated Peace Goons and captured Warden. Others were indignant to learn how far down they were in Party structure; they wanted to elect a new structure, themselves at top. Adam received endless calls proposing this or something like it—would listen, agree, assure them that their services must not be wasted by waiting for election—and refer them to Prof or me. Can’t recall any of these ambitious people who amounted to anything when I tried to put them to work.

  Was endless work and nobody wanted to do it. Well, a few. Some best volunteers were people Party had never located. But in general, Loonies in and out of Party had no interest in “patriotic” work unless well paid. One chum who claimed to be a Party member (was not) spragged me in Raffles where we set up headquarters and wanted me to contract for fifty thousand buttons to be worn by pre-coup “Veterans of Revolution”—a “small” profit for him (I estimate 400 percent markup), easy dollars for me, a fine thing for everybody.