The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress Page 7

  As soon as I bolted door he straightened up, let features come back to normal, folded hands over wishbone, looked Wyoh up and down, sucked air kimono style, and whistled. “Even more lovely,” he said, “than I remembered!”

  She smiled, over her mad. “‘Thanks, Professor. But don’t bother. Nobody here but comrades.”

  “Señorita, the day I let politics interfere with my appreciation of beauty, that day I retire from politics. But you are gracious.” He looked away, glanced closely around room.

  I said, “Prof, quit checking for evidence, you dirty old man. Last night was politics, nothing but politics.”

  “That’s not true!” Wyoh flared up. “I struggled for hours! But he was too strong for me. Professor—what’s the party discipline in such cases? Here in Luna City?”

  Prof tut-tutted and rolled blank eye. “Manuel, I’m surprised. It’s a serious matter, my dear—elimination, usually. But it must be investigated. Did you come here willingly?”

  “He drugged me.”

  “‘Dragged,’ dear lady. Let’s not corrupt the language. Do you have bruises to show?”

  I said, “Eggs getting cold. Can’t we eliminate me after breakfast?”

  “An excellent thought,” agreed Prof. “Manuel, could you spare your old teacher a liter of water to make himself more presentable?”

  “All you want, in there. Don’t drag or you’ll get what littlest pig got.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He retired; were sounds of brushing and washing. Wyoh and I finished arranging table. “‘Bruises,’” I said. “Struggled all night.’”

  “You deserved it, you insulted me.”

  “How?”

  “You failed to insult me, that’s how. After you drugged me here.”

  “Mmm. Have to get Mike to analyze that.”

  “Michelle would understand it. Mannie, may I change my mind and have a little piece of that ham?”

  “Half is yours, Prof is semi-vegetarian.” Prof came out and, while did not look his most debonair, was neat and clean, hair combed, dimples back and happy sparkle in eye—fake cataract gone. “Prof, how do you do it?”

  “Long practice, Manuel; I’ve been in this business far longer than you young people. Just once, many years ago in Lima—a lovely city—I ventured to stroll on a fine day without such forethought … and it got me transported. What a beautiful table!”

  “Sit by me, Prof,” Wyoh invited. “I don’t want to sit by him. Rapist.”

  “Look,” I said, “first we eat, then we eliminate me. Prof, fill plate and tell what happened last night.”

  “May I suggest a change in program? Manuel, the life of a conspirator is not an easy one and I learned before you were born not to mix provender and politics. Disturbs the gastric enzymes and leads to ulcers, the occupational disease of the underground. Mmm! That fish smells good.”

  “Fish?”

  “That pink salmon,” Prof answered, pointing at ham.

  A long, pleasant time later we reached coffee/tea stage. Prof leaned back, sighed and said, “Bolshoyeh spasebaw, Gospazha ee Gospodin. Tak for mat, it was wonderfully good. I don’t know when I’ve felt more at peace with the world. Ah yes! Last evening—I saw not too much of the proceedings because, just as you two were achieving an admirable retreat, I lived to fight another day—I bugged out. Made it to the wings in one long flat dive. When I did venture to peek out, the party was over, most had left, and all yellow jackets were dead.”

  (Note: Must correct this; I learned more later. When trouble started, as I was trying to get Wyoh through door, Prof produced a hand gun and, firing over heads, picked off three bodyguards at rear main door, including one wearing bull voice. How he smuggled weapon up to The Rock—or managed to liberate it later—I don’t know. But Prof’s shooting joined with Shorty’s work to turn tables; not one yellow jacket got out alive. Several people were burned and four were killed—but knives, hands, and heels finished it in seconds.)

  “Perhaps I should say, ‘All but one,’” Prof went on. “Two cossacks at the door through which you departed had been given quietus by our brave comrade Shorty Mkrum … and I am sorry to say that Shorty was lying across them, dying—”

  “We knew.”

  “So. Dulcet et Decorum. One guard in that doorway had a damaged face but was still moving; I gave his neck a treatment known in professional circles Earthside as the Istanbul twist. He joined his mates. By then most of the living had left. Just myself, our chairman of the evening Finn Nielsen, a comrade known as ‘Mom,’ that being what her husbands called her. I consulted with Comrade Finn and we bolted all doors. That left a cleaning job. Do you know the arrangements backstage there?”

  “Not me,” I said. Wyoh shook head.

  “There is a kitchen and pantry, used for banquets. I suspect that Mom and family run a butcher shop for they disposed of bodies as fast as Finn and I carried them back, their speed limited only by the rate at which portions could be ground up and flushed into the city’s cloaca. The sight made me quite faint, so I spent time mopping in the hall. Clothing was the difficult part, especially those quasi-military uniforms.”

  “What did you do with those laser guns?”

  Prof turned bland eyes on me. “Guns? Dear me, they must have disappeared. We removed everything of a personal nature from bodies of our departed comrades—tor relatives, for identification, for sentiment. Eventually we had everything tidy—not a job that would fool Interpol but one as to make it seem unlikely that anything untoward had taken place. We conferred, agreed that it would be well not to be seen soon, and left severally, myself by a pressure door above the stage leading up to level six. Thereafter I tried to call you, Manuel, being worried about your safety and that of this dear lady.” Prof bowed to Wyoh. “That completes the tale. I spent the night in quiet places.”

  “Prof,” I said, “those guards were new chums, still getting their legs. Or we wouldn’t have won.”

  “That could be,” he agreed. “But had they not been, the outcome would have been the same.”

  “How so? They were armed.”

  “Lad, have you ever seen a boxer dog? I think not—no dogs that large in Luna. The boxer is a result of special selection. Gentle and intelligent, he turns instantly into deadly killer when occasion requires.

  “Here has been bred an even more curious creature. I know of no city on Terra with as high standards of good manners and consideration for one’s fellow man as here in Luna. By comparison, Terran cities—I have known most major ones—are barbaric. Yet the Loonie is as deadly as the boxer dog. Manuel, nine guards, no matter how armed, stood no chance against that pack. Our patron used bad judgment.”

  “Um. Seen a morning paper, Prof? Or a video cast?”

  “The latter, yes.”

  “Nothing in late news last night.”

  “Nor this morning.”

  “Odd,” I said.

  “What’s odd about it?” asked Wyoh. “We won’t talk—and we have comrades in key places in every paper in Luna.”

  Prof shook his head. “No, my dear. Not that simple. Censorship. Do you know how copy is set in our newspapers?”

  “Not exactly. It’s done by machinery.”

  “Here’s what Prof means,” I told her. “News is typed in editorial offices. From there on it’s a leased service directed by a master computer at Authority Complex”—hoped she would notice “master computer” rather than “Mike”—“copy prints out there via phone circuit. These rolls feed into a computer section which reads, sets copy, and prints out newspapers at several locations. Novylen edition of Daily Lunatic prints out in Novylen changes in ads and local stories, and computer makes changes from standard symbols, doesn’t have to be told how. What Prof means is that at print-out at Authority Complex, Warden could intervene. Same for all news services, both off and to Luna—they funnel through computer room.”

  “The point is,” Prof went on, “the Warden could have killed the story. It’s irrelev
ant whether he did. Or—check me, Manuel; you know I’m hazy about machinery—he could insert a story, too, no matter how many comrades we have in newspaper offices.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “At Complex, anything can be added, cut, or changed.”

  “And that, señorita, is the weakness of our Cause. Communications. Those goons were not important—but crucially important is that it lay with the Warden, not with us, to decide whether the story should be told. To a revolutionist, communications are a sine-qua-non.”

  Wyoh looked at me and I could see synapses snapping. So I changed subject. “Prof. why get rid of bodies? Besides horrible job, was dangerous. Don’t know how many bodyguards Warden has, but more could show up while you were doing it.”

  “Believe me, lad, we feared that. But although I was almost useless, it was my idea, I had to convince the others. Oh, not my original idea but remembrance of things past, an historical principle.”

  “What principle?”

  “Terror! A man can face known danger. But the unknown frightens him. We disposed of those finks, teeth and toenails, to strike terror into their mates. Nor do I know how many effectives the Warden has, but I guarantee they are less effective today. Their mates went out on an easy mission. Nothing came back.”

  Wyoh shivered. “It scares me, too. They won’t be anxious to go inside a warren again. But, Professor, you say you don’t know how many bodyguards the Warden keeps. The Organization knows. Twenty-seven. If nine were killed, only eighteen are left. Perhaps it’s time for a putsch. No?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Why not, Mannie? They’ll never be weaker.”

  “Not weak enough. Killed nine because they were crackers to walk in where we were. But if Warden stays home with guards around him—Well, had enough shoulder-to-shoulder noise last night.” I turned to Prof. “But still I’m interested in fact—if it is—that Warden now has only eighteen. You said Wyoh should not go to Hong Kong and I should not go home. But if he has only eighteen left, I wonder how much danger? Later after he gets reinforcements.—but now, well, L-City has four main exits plus many little ones. How many can they guard? What’s to keep Wyoh from walking to Tube West, getting p-suit, going home?”

  “She might,” Prof agreed.

  “I think I must,” Wyoh said. “I can’t stay here forever. If I have to hide, I can do better in Hong Kong, where I know people.”

  “You might get away with it, my dear. I doubt it. There were two yellow jackets at Tube Station West last night; I saw them. They may not be there now. Let’s assume they are not. You go to the station—disguised perhaps. You get your p-suit and take a capsule to Beluthihatchie. As you climb out to take the bus to Endsville, you’re arrested. Communications. No need to post a yellow jacket at the station; it is enough that someone sees you there. A phone call does the rest.”

  “But you assumed that I was disguised.”

  “Your height cannot be disguised and your pressure suit would be watched. By someone not suspected of any connection with the Warden. Most probably a comrade.” Prof dimpled. “The trouble with conspiracies is that they rot internaily. When the number is as high as four, chances are even that one is a spy.”

  Wyoh said glumly, “You make it sound hopeless.”

  “Not at all, my dear. One chance in a thousand, perhaps.”

  “I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it! Why, in the years I’ve been active we have gained members by the hundreds! We have organizations in all major cities. We have the people with us.”

  Prof shook head. “Every new member made it that much more likely that you would be betrayed. Wyoming dear lady, revolutions are not won by enlisting the masses. Revolution is a science only a few are competent to practice. It depends on correct organization and, above all, on communications. Then, at the proper moment in history, they strike. Correctly organized and properly timed it is a bloodless coup. Done clumsily or prematurely and the result is civil war, mob violence, purges, terror. I hope you will forgive me if I say that, up to now, it has been done clumsily.”

  Wyoli looked baffled. “What do you mean by ‘correct organization’?”

  “Functional organization. How does one design an electric motor? Would you attach a bathtub to it, simply because one was available? Would a bouquet of flowers help? A heap of rocks? No, you would use just those elements necessary to its purpose and make it no larger than needed—and you would incorporate safety factors. Function controls design.

  “So it is with revolution. Organization must be no larger than necessary—never recruit anyone merely because he wants to join. Nor seek to persuade for the pleasure of having another share your views. He’ll share them when the times comes … or you’ve misjudged the moment in history. Oh, there will be an educational organization but it must be separate; agitprop is no part of basic structure.

  “As to basic structure, a revolution starts as a conspiracy therefore structure is small, secret, and organized as to minimize damage by betrayal—since there always are betrayals. One solution is the cell system and so far nothing better has been invented.

  “Much theosizing has gone into optimum cell size. I think that history shows that a cell of three is best—more than three can’t agree on when to have dinner, much less when to strike. Manuel, you belong to a large family; do you vote on when to have dinner?”

  “Bog, no! Mum decides.”

  “Ah.” Prof took a pad from his pouch, began to sketch. “Here is a cells-of-three tree. If I were planning to take over Luna. I would start with us three. One would be opted as chairman. We wouldn’t vote; choice would be obvious—or we aren’t the right three. We would know the next nine people, three cells … but each cell would know only one of us.”

  “Looks like computer diagram—a ternary logic.”

  “Does it really? At the next level there are two ways of linking: This comrade, second level, knows his cell leader, his two cellmates, and on the third level he knows the three in his subcell—he may or may not know his cellmates’ subcells. One method doubles security, the other doubles speed—of repair if security is penetrated. Let’s say he does not know his cellmates’ subcells—Manuel, how many can he betray? Don’t say he won’t; today they can brainwash any person, and starch and iron and use him. How many?”

  “Six,” I answered. “His boss, two ceilmates, three in sub-cell.”

  “Seven,” Prof corrected, “he betrays himself, too. Which leaves seven broken links on three levels to repair. How?”

  “I don’t see how it can be,” objected Wyoh. “You’ve got them so split up it falls to pieces.”

  “Manuel? An exercise for the student.”

  “Well … blokes down here have to have way to send message up three levels. Don’t have to know who, just have to know where.”

  “Precisely!”

  “But, Prof,” I went on, “there’s a better way to rig it.”

  “Really? Many revolutionary theorists have hammered this out, Manuel. I have such confidence in them that I’ll offer you a wager—at, say, ten to one.”

  “Ought to take your money. Take same cells, arrange in open pyramid of tetrahedrons. Where vertices are in common, each bloke knows one in adjoining cell—knows how to send message to him, that’s all he needs. Communications never break down because they run sideways as well as up and down. Something like a neural net. It’s why you can knock a hole in a man’s head, take chunk of brain out, and not damage thinking much. Excess capacity, messages shunt around. He loses what was destroyed but goes on functioning.”

  “Manuel,” Prof said doubtfully, “could you draw a picture? It sounds good—but it’s so contrary to orthodox doctrine that I need to see it.”

  “Well … could do better with stereo drafting machine. I’ll try.” (Anybody who thinks it’s easy to sketch one hundred twenty-one tetrahedrons, a five-level open pyramid, clear enough to show relationships is invited to try!)

  Presently I said, “Look at base sketch. Each vert
ex of each triangle shares self with zero, one, or two other triangles. Where shares one, that’s its link, one direction or both—but one is enough for a multipli-redundant communication net. On corners, where sharing is zero, it jumps to right to next corner. Where sharing is double, choice is again right-handed.

  “Now work it with people. Take fourth level, D-for-dog. This vertex is comrade Dan. No, let’s go down one to show three levels of communication knocked out—level E-for-easy and pick Comrade Egbert.

  “Egbert works under Donald, has cellmates Edward and Elmer, and has three under him, Frank, Fred, and Fatso … but knows how to send message to Ezra on his own level but not in his cell. He doesn’t know Ezra’s name, face, address, or anything—but has a way, phone number probably, to reach Ezra in emergency.

  “Now watch it work. Casimir, level three, finks out and betrays Charlie and Cox in his cell, Baker above him, and Donald, Dan, and Dick in subcell—which isolates Egbert, Edward, and Elmer. and everybody under them.

  “All three report it—redundancy, necessary to any communication system—but follow Egbert’s yell for help. He calls Ezra. But Ezra is under Charlie and is isolated, too. No matter, Ezra relays both messages through his safety link, Edmund. By bad luck Edmund is under Cox, so he also passes it laterally, through Enwright … and that gets it past burned-out part and it goes up through Dover, Chambers, and Beeswax, to Adam, front office … who replies down other side of pyramid, with lateral pass on E-for-easy level from Esther to Egbert and on to Ezra and Edmund. These two messages, up and down, not only get through at once but in way they get through, they define to home office exactly how much damage has been done and where. Organization not only keeps functioning but starts repairing self at once.”

  Wyoh was tracing out lines, convincing herself it would work—which it would, was “idiot” circuit. Let Mike study a few milliseconds, and could produce a better, safer, more foolproof hookup. And probably—certainly—ways to avoid betrayal while speeding up routings. But I’m not a computer.

  Prof was staring with blank expression. “What’s trouble?” I said. “It’ll work; this is my pidgin.”