Lenore spoke up. “I volunteer!”
“Thanks, honey; you’re accepted.”
“We’ll find them,” said Greg. “Won’t need fems.”
“Let her do it, Greg; this is everybody’s show.” Explained what I wanted: Mare Undarum was now in dark semi-lunar; Sun had set. Invisible boundary between sunlight and Luna’s shadow stretched over us, a precise locus. Ships passing through our sky would wink suddenly into view going west, blink out going east. Visible part of orbit would stretch from horizon to some point in sky. If eyeball team could spot both points, mark one by bearing, other by stars, and approximate time by counting seconds, Junior could start guessing orbit—two passes and Junior would know its period and something about shape of orbit. Then I would have some notion of when would be safe to use radar and radio, and catapult—did not want to loose a load with F.N. ship above horizon, could be radar-looking our way.
Perhaps too cautious—but had to assume that this catapult, this one radar, these two dozen missiles, were all that stood between Luna and total defeat—and our bluff hinged on them never knowing what we had or where it was. We had to appear endlessly able to pound Terra with missiles, from source they had not suspected and could never find.
Then as now, most Loonies knew nothing about astronomy—we’re cave dwellers, we go up to surface only when necessary. But we were lucky; was amateur astronomer in Greg’s crew, cobber who had worked at Richardson. I explained, put him in charge, let him worry about teaching eyeball crew how to tell stars apart. I got these things started before we went back to talk-talk. “Well, Stu? Why shouldn’t we hit Great China?”
“I’m still expecting word from Dr. Chan. I received one message from him, phoned here shortly before we were cut off from cities—”
“My word, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried to, but you had yourself locked in and I know better than to bother you when you are busy with ballistics. Here’s the translation. Usual LuNoHo Company address with a reference which means it’s for me and that it has come through my Paris agent. ‘Our Darwin sales representative’—that’s Chan—’informs us that your shipments of’—well, never mind the coding; he means the attack days while appearing to refer to last June—’were improperly packaged resulting in unacceptable damage. Unless this can be corrected, negotiations for long-term contract will be serously jeopardized.”
Stu looked up. “All doubletalk. I take it to mean that Dr. Chan feels that he has his government ready to talk terms … but that we should let up on bombing Great China or we may upset his apple cart.”
“Hmm—” Got up and walked around. Ask Wyoh’s opinion? Nobody knew Wyoh’s virtues better than I … but she oscillated between fierceness and too-human compassion—and I had learned already that a “head of state,” even an acting one, must have neither. Ask Greg? Greg was a good farmer, a better mechanic, a rousing preacher; I loved him dearly—but did not want his opinion. Stu? I had had his opinion.
Or did I? “Stu, what’s your opinion? Not Chan’s opinion—but your own.”
Stu looked thoughtful. “That’s difficult, Mannie. I am not Chinese, I have not spent much time in Great China, and can’t claim to be expert in their politics nor their psychology. So I’m forced to depend on his opinion.”
“Uh—Damn it, he’s not a Loonie! His purposes are not our purposes. What does he expect to get out of it?”
“I think he is maneuvering for a monopoly over Lunar trade. Perhaps bases here, too. Possibly an extraterritorial enclave. Not that we would grant that.”
“Might if we were hurtin’.”
“He didn’t say any of this. He doesn’t say much, you know. He listens.”
“Too well I know.” Worried at it, more bothered each minute.
News from Earthside had been droning in background; I had asked Wyoh to monitor while I was busy with Greg. “Wyoh, hon, anything new from Earthside?”
“No. The same claims. We’ve been utterly defeated and our surrender is expected momentarily. Oh, there’s a warning that some missiles are still in space, falling out of control, but with it a reassurance that the paths are being analyzed and people will be warned in time to avoid impact areas.”
“Anything to suggest that Prof—or anybody in Luna City, or anywhere in Luna—is in touch with Earthside?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Damn. Anything from Great China?”
“No. Comments from almost everywhere else. But not from Great China.”
“Uh—” Stepped to door. “Greg! Hey, cobber, see if you can find Greg Davis. I need him.”
Closed door. “Stu, we’re not going to let Great China off.”
“So?”
“No. Would be nice if Great China busted alliance against us; might save us some damage. But we’ve got this far only by appearing able to hit them at will and to destroy any ship they send against us. At least I hope that last one was burned and we’ve certainly clobbered eight out of nine. We won’t get anywhere by looking weak, not while F.N. is claiming that we are not just weak but finished. Instead we must hand them surprises. Starting with Great China and if it makes Dr. Chan unhappy, we’ll give him a kerchief to weep into. If we can go on looking strong—when F.N. says we’re licked—then eventually some veto power is going to crack. If not Great China, then some other one.”
Stu bowed without getting up. “Very well, sir.”
“I—”
Greg came in. “You want me, Mannie?”
“What makes with Earthside sender?”
“Harry says you have it by tomorrow. A crummy rig, he says, but push watts through it and will be heard.”
“Power we got. And if he says ‘tomorrow’ then he knows what he wants to build. So will be today—say six hours. I’ll work under him. Wyoh hon, will you get my arms? Want number-six and number-three—better bring number-five, too. And you stick with me and change arms for me. Stu, want you to write some nasty messages—I’ll give you general idea and you put acid in them. Greg, we are not going to get all those rocks into space at once. Ones we have in space now will impact in next eighteen, nineteen hours. Then, when F.N. is announcing that all rocks are accounted for and Lunar menace is over … we crash into their newscast and warn of next bombings. Shortest possible orbits, Greg, ten hours or less—so check everything on catapult and H-plant and controls; with that extra boost all has to be dead on.”
Wyoh was back with arms; I told her “number six” and added, “Greg, let me talk with Harry.”
Six hours later sender was ready to beam toward Terra. Was ugly job, vandalized mainly out of a resonance prospector used in project’s early stages. But could ride an audio signal on its radio frequency and was powerful. Stu’s nastified versions of my warnings had been taped and Harry was ready to zipsqueal them—all Terran satellites could accept high speed at sixty-to-one and had no wish to have our sender heated more seconds than necessary; eyeball watch had confirmed fears: At least two ships were in orbit around Luna.
So we told Great China that her major coastal cities would each receive a Lunar present offset ten kilometers into ocean—Pusan, Tsingtao, Taipei, Shanghai, Saigon, Bangkok, Singapore, Djakarta, Darwin, and so forth—except that Old Hong Kong would get one smack on top of F.N.’s Far East offices, so kindly have all human beings move far back. Stu noted that human beings did not mean F.N. personnel; they were urged to stay at desks.
India was given similar warnings about coastal cities and was told that F.N. global offices would be spared one more rotation out of respect for cultural monuments in Agra—and to permit human beings to evacuate. (I intended to extend this by another rotation as deadline approached—out of respect for Prof. And then another, indefinitely. Damn it, they would build their home offices next door to most overdecorated tomb ever built. But one that Prof treasured.)
Rest of world was told to keep their seats; game was going extra innings. But stay away from any F.N. offices anywhere; we were frothing at mouth
and no F.N. office was safe. Better yet, get out of any city containing an F.N. headquarters—but F.N. vips and finks were urged to sit tight.
Then spent next twenty hours coaching Junior into sneaking his radar peeks when our sky was clear of ships, or believed to be. Napped when I could and Lenore stayed with me and woke me in time for next coaching. And that ended Mike’s rocks and we all went into alert while we got first of Junior’s rocks flung high and fast. Waited until certain it had gone hot and true—then told Terra where to look for it and where and when to expect it, so that all would know that F.N.’s claims of victory were on a par with their century of lies about Luna—all in Stu’s best, snotty, supercilious phrases delivered in his cultured accents.
First one should have been for Great China but was one piece of North American Directorate we could reach with it—her proudest jewel, Hawaii. Junior placed it in triangle formed by Maui, Molokai, and Lanai. I didn’t work out programming; Mike had anticipated everything.
Then pronto we got off ten more rocks at short intervals (had to skip one program, a ship in our sky) and told Great China where to look and when to expect them and where—coastal cities we had neglected day before.
Was down to twelve rocks but decided was safer to run out of ammunition than to look as if we were running out. So I awarded seven to Indian coastal cities, picking new targets—and Stu inquired sweetly if Agra had been evacuated. If not, please tell us at once. (But heaved no rock at it.)
Egypt was told to clear shipping out of Suez Canal—bluff; was hoarding last five rocks.
Then waited.
Impact at Lahaina Roads, that target in Hawaii. Looked good at high mag; Mike could be proud of Junior.
And waited.
Thirty-seven minutes before first China Coast impact Great China denounced actions of F.N., recognized us, offered to negotiate—and I sprained a finger punching abort buttons.
Then was punching buttons with sore finger; India stumbled over feet following suit.
Egypt recognized us. Other nations started scrambling for door.
Stu informed Terra that we had suspended—only suspended, not stopped—bombardments. Now get those ships out of our sky at once—NOW!—and we could talk. If they could not get home without refilling tanks, let them land not less than fifty kilometers from any mapped warren, then wait for their surrender to be accepted. But clear our sky now!
This ultimatum we delayed a few minutes to let a ship pass beyond horizon; we weren’t taking chances—one missile and Luna would have been helpless.
And waited.
Cable crew returned. Had gone almost to Luna City, found break. But thousands of tonnes of loose rock impeded repair, so they had done what they could—gone back to a spot where they could get through to surface, erected a temporary relay in direction they thought Luna City lay, sent up a dozen rockets at ten-minute intervals, and hoped that somebody would see, understand, aim a relay at it—Any communication?
No.
Waited.
Eyeball squad reported that a ship which had been clockfaithful for nineteen passes had failed to show. Ten minutes later they reported that another ship had missed expected appearance.
We waited and listened.
Great China, speaking on behalf of all veto powers, accepted armistice and stated that our sky was now clear. Lenore burst into tears and kissed everybody she could reach.
After we steadied down (a man can’t think when women are grabbing him, especially when five of them are not his wives)—a few minutes later, when we were coherent, I said, “Stu, want you to leave for Luna City at once. Pick your party. No women—you’ll have to walk surface last kilometers. Find out what’s going on—but first get them to aim a relay at ours and phone me.”
“Very good, sir.”
We were getting him outfitted for a tough journey—extra air bottles, emergency shelter, so forth—when Earthside called me on frequency we were listening to because message was (learned later) on all frequencies up from Earthside:
“Private message, Prof to Mannie—identification, birthday Bastille and Sherlock’s sibling. Come home at once. Your carriage waits at your new relay. Private message, Prof to—”
And went on repeating.
“Harry!”
“Da, Boss?”
“Message Earthside—tape and squeal; we still don’t want them ranging us. ‘Private message, Mannie to Prof. Brass Cannon. On my way!’ Ask them to acknowledge—but use only one squeal.”
29
Stu and Greg drove on way back, while Wyoh and Lenore and I huddled on open flatbed, strapped to keep from falling off; was too small. Had time to think; neither girl had suit radio and we could talk only by helmet touch—awkward.
Began to see—now that we had won—parts of Prof’s plan that had never been clear to me. Inviting attack against catapult had spared warrens—hoped it had; that was plan—but Prof had always been cheerfully indifferent to damage to catapult. Sure, had a second one—but far away and difficult to reach. Would take years to put a tube system to new catapult, high mountains all way. Probably cheaper to repair old one. If possible.
Either way, no grain shipped to Terra in meantime.
And that was just what Prof wanted! Yet never once had he hinted that his plan was based on destroying old catapult—his long-range plan, not just Revolution. He might not admit it now. But Mike would tell me—if put to him flatly: Was or was not this one factor in odds? Food riot predictions and all that, Mike? He would tell me.
That tonne-for-tonne deal—Prof had expounded it Earthside, had been argument for a Terran catapult. But privately he had no enthusiasm for it. Once he had told me, in North America, “Yes, Manuel, I feel sure it would work. But, if built, it will be temporary. There was a time, two centuries ago, when dirty laundry used to be shipped from California to Hawaii—by sailing ship, mind you—and clean laundry returned. Special circumstances. If we ever see water and manure shipped to Luna and grain shipped back, it will be just as temporary. Luna’s future lies in her unique position at the top of a gravity well over a rich planet, and in her cheap power and plentiful real estate. If we Loonies have sense enough in the centuries ahead to remain a free port and to stay out of entangling alliances, we will become the crossroads for two planets, three planets, the entire Solar System. We won’t be farmers forever.”
They met us at Station East and hardly gave time to get p-suits off—was return from Earthside over again, screaming mobs and being ridden on shoulders. Even girls, for Slim Lemke said to Lenore, “May we carry you, too?”—and Wyoh answered, “Sure, why not?”—and stilyagi fought for chance to.
Most men were pressure-suited and I was surprised to see how many carried guns—until I saw that they were not our guns; they were captured. But most of all what blessed relief to see L-City unhurt!
Could have done without triumphal procession; was itching to get to phone and find out from Mike what had happened—how much damage, how many killed, what this victory cost. But no chance. We were carried to Old Dome willy-nilly.
They shoved us up on a platform with Prof and rest of Cabinet apd vips and such, and our girls slobbered on Prof and he embraced me Latin style, kiss cheek, and somebody stuck a Liberty Cap on me. Spotted little Hazel in crowd and threw her a kiss.
At last they quieted enough for Prof to speak.
“My friends,” he said, and waited for silence. “My friends,” he repeated softly. “Beloved comrades. We meet at last in freedom and now have with us the heroes who fought the last battle for Luna, alone.” They cheered us, again he waited. Could see he was tired; hands trembled as he steadied self against pulpit. “I want them to speak to you, we want to hear about it, all of us.
“But first I have a happy message. Great China has just announced that she is building in the Himalayas an enormous catapult, to make shipping to Luna as easy and cheap as it has been to ship from Luna to Terra.”
He stopped for cheers, then went on, “But that lies i
n the future. Today—Oh, happy day! At last the world acknowledges Luna’s sovereignty. Free! You have won your freedom—”
Prof stopped—looked surprised. Not afraid, but puzzled. Swayed slightly.
Then he did die.
30
We got him into a shop behind platform. But even with help of a dozen doctors was no use; old heart was gone, strained too many times. They carried him out back way and I started to follow.
Stu touched my arm. “Mr. Prime Minister—”
I said, “Huh? Oh, for Bog’s sake!”
“Mr. Prime Minister,” he repeated firmly, “you must speak to the crowd, send them home. Then there are things that must be done.” He spoke calmly but tears poured down cheeks.
So I got back on platform and confirmed what they had guessed and told them to go home. And wound up in room L of Raffles, where all had started—emergency Cabinet meeting. But first ducked to phone, lowered hood, punched MYCROFTXXX.
Got null-number signal. Tried again—same. Pushed up hood and said to man nearest me, Wolfgang, “Aren’t phones working?”
“Depends,” he said. “That bombing yesterday shook things up. If you want an out-of-town number, better call the phone office.”
Could see self asking office to get me a null. “What bombing?”
“Haven’t you heard? It was concentrated on the Complex. But Brody’s boys got the ship. No real damage. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
Had to drop it; they were waiting. I didn’t know what to do but Stu and Korsakov did. Sheenie was told to write news releases for Terra and rest of Luna; I found self announcing a lunar of mourning, twenty-four hours of quiet, no unnecessary business, giving orders for body to lie in state—all words put into mouth, I was numb, brain would not work. Okay, convene Congress at end of twenty-four hours. In Novylen? Okay.
Sheenie had dispatches from Earthside. Wolfgang wrote for me something which said that, because of death of our President, answers would be delayed at least twenty-four hours.
The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress Page 37