Seamore is a multi multi billion dollar company
I see in Lunaya Pravda that Luna City Council has passed on first reading
a bill to examine, license, inspect--and tax--public food vendors
operating inside municipal pressure. I see also is to be mass meeting
tonight to organize "Sons of Revolution" talk-talk.
My old man taught me two things: "Mind own business" and "Always
cut cards." Politics never tempted me. But on Monday 13 May 2075 I was in
computer room of Lunar Authority Complex, visiting with computer boss
Mike while other machines whispered among themselves. Mike was not
official name; I had nicknamed him for Mycroft Holmes, in a story written
by Dr. Watson before he founded IBM. This story character would just sit
and think--and that's what Mike did. Mike was a fair dinkum thinkum,
sharpest computer you'll ever meet.
Not fastest. At Bell Labs, Bueno Aires, down Earthside, they've got
a thinkum a tenth his size which can answer almost before you ask. But
matters whether you get answer in microsecond rather than millisecond as
long as correct?
Not that Mike would necessarily give right answer; he wasn't
completely honest.
When Mike was installed in Luna, he was pure thinkum, a flexible
logic--"High-Optional, Logical, Multi-Evaluating Supervisor, Mark IV,
Mod. L"--a HOLMES FOUR. He computed ballistics for pilotless freighters
and controlled their catapult. This kept him busy less than one percent
of time and Luna Authority never believed in idle hands. They kept
hooking hardware into him--decision-action boxes to let him boss other
computers, bank on bank of additional memories, more banks of
associational neural nets, another tubful of twelve-digit random numbers,
a greatly augmented temporary memory. Human brain has around ten-to-thetenth neurons. By third year Mike had better than one and a half times
that number of neuristors.
And woke up.
Am not going to argue whether a machine can "really" be alive,
"really" be self-aware. Is a virus self-aware? Nyet. How about oyster? I
doubt it. A cat? Almost certainly. A human? Don't know about you,
tovarishch, but I am. Somewhere along evolutionary chain from
macromolecule to human brain self-awareness crept in. Psychologists
assert it happens automatically whenever a brain acquires certain very
high number of associational paths. Can't see it matters whether paths
are protein or platinum.
("Soul?" Does a dog have a soul? How about cockroach?)
Remember Mike was designed, even before augmented, to answer
questions tentatively on insufficient data like you do; that's "high
optional" and "multi-evaluating" part of name. So Mike started with "free
will" and acquired more as he was added to and as he learned--and don't
ask me to define "free will." If comforts you to think of Mike as simply
tossing random numbers in air and switching circuits to match, please do.
By then Mike had voder-vocoder circuits supplementing his readouts, print-outs, and decision-action boxes, and could understand not
only classic programming but also Loglan and English, and could accept
other languages and was doing technical translating--and reading
endlessly. But in giving him instructions was safer to use Loglan. If you
spoke English, results might be whimsical; multi-valued nature of English
gave option circuits too much leeway.
And Mike took on endless new jobs. In May 2075, besides controlling
robot traffic and catapult and giving ballistic advice and/or control for
manned ships, Mike controlled phone system for all Luna, same for LunaTerra voice & video, handled air, water, temperature, humidity, and
sewage for Luna City, Novy Leningrad, and several smaller warrens (not
Hong Kong in Luna), did accounting and payrolls for Luna Authority, and,
by lease, same for many firms and banks.
Some logics get nervous breakdowns. Overloaded phone system behaves
like frightened child. Mike did not have upsets, acquired sense of humor
instead. Low one. If he were a man, you wouldn't dare stoop over. His
idea of thigh-slapper would be to dump you out of bed--or put itch powder
in pressure suit.
Not being equipped for that, Mike indulged in phony answers with
skewed logic, or pranks like issuing pay cheque to a janitor in
Authority's Luna City office for AS$10, 000, 000, 000, 000, 185 .15--last
five digits being correct amount. Just a great big overgrown lovable kid
who ought to be kicked.
He did that first week in May and I had to troubleshoot. I was a
private contractor, not on Authority's payroll. You see---or perhaps not;
times have changed. Back in bad old days many a con served his time, then
went on working for Authority in same job, happy to draw wages. But I was
born free.
Makes difference. My one grandfather was shipped up from Joburg for
armed violence and no work permit, other got transported for subversive
activity after Wet Firecracker War. Maternal grandmother claimed she came
up in bride ship--but I've seen records; she was Peace Corps enrollee
(involuntary), which means what you think: juvenile delinquency female
type. As she was in early clan marriage (Stone Gang) and shared six
husbands with another woman, identity of maternal grandfather open to
question. But was often so and I'm content with grandpappy she picked.
Other grandmother was Tatar, born near Samarkand, sentenced to
"reeducation" on Oktyabrakaya Revolyutsiya, then "volunteered" to
colonize in Luna.
My old man claimed we had even longer distinguished line--
ancestress hanged in Salem for witchcraft, a g'g'g'greatgrandfather
broken on wheel for piracy, another ancestress in first shipload to
Botany Bay.
Proud of my ancestry and while I did business with Warden, would
never go on his payroll. Perhaps distinction seems trivial since I was
Mike's valet from day he was unpacked. But mattered to me. I could down
tools and tell them go to hell.
Besides, private contractor paid more than civil service rating
with Authority. Computermen scarce. How many Loonies could go Earthside
and stay out of hospital long enough for computer school?--even if didn't
die.
I'll name one. Me. Had been down twice, once three months, once
four, and got schooling. But meant harsh training, exercising in
centrifuge, wearing weights even in bed--then I took no chances on Terra,
never hurried, never climbed stairs, nothing that could strain heart.
Women--didn't even think about women; in that gravitational field it was
no effort not to.
But most Loonies never tried to leave The Rock--too risky for any
bloke who'd been in Luna more than weeks. Computermen sent up to install
Mike were on short-term bonus contracts--get job done fast before
irreversible physiological change marooned them four hundred thousand
kilometers from home.
But despite two training tours I was not gung-ho computerman;
higher maths are beyond me. Not really electronics engineer, nor
physicist. May not have been best micromachinist in Luna and certainly
wasn't cybernetics psychologist.
But I knew more about all these than a specialist knows--I'm
general specialist. Could relieve a cook and keep orders coming or fieldrepair your suit and get you back to airlock still breathing. Machines
like me and I have something specialists don't have: my left arm.
You see, from elbow down I don't have one. So I have a dozen left
arms, each specialized, plus one that feels and looks like flesh. With
proper left arm (number-three) and stereo loupe spectacles I could make
ultramicrominiature repairs that would save unhooking something and
sending it Earthside to factory--for number-three has micromanipulators
as fine as those used by neurosurgeons.
So they sent for me to find out why Mike wanted to give away ten
million billion Authority Scrip dollars, and fix it before Mike overpaid
somebody a mere ten thousand.
I took it, time plus bonus, but did not go to circuitry where fault
logically should be. Once inside and door locked I put down tools and sat
down. "Hi, Mike."
He winked lights at me. "Hello, Man."
"What do you know?"
He hesitated. I know--machines don't hesitate. But remember, Mike
was designed to operate on incomplete data. Lately he had reprogrammed
himself to put emphasis on words; his hesitations were dramatic. Maybe he
spent pauses stirring random numbers to see how they matched his
memories.
"'In the beginning,'" Mike intoned, "God created the heaven and the
earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon
the face of the deep. And--'"
"Hold it!" I said. "Cancel. Run everything back to zero." Should
have known better than to ask wide-open question. He might read out
entire Encyclopaedia Britannica. Backwards. Then go on with every book in
Luna. Used to be he could read only microfilm, but late '74 he got a new
scanning camera with suction-cup waldoes to handle paper and then he read
everything.
"You asked what I knew." His binary read-out lights rippled back
and forth--a chuckle. Mike could laugh with voder, a horrible sound, but
reserved that for something really funny, say a cosmic calamity.
"Should have said," I went on, "'What do you know that's new?' But
don't read out today's papers; that was a friendly greeting, plus
invitation to tell me anything you think would interest me. Otherwise
null program."
Mike mulled this. He was weirdest mixture of unsophisticated baby
and wise old man. No instincts (well, don't think he could have had), no
inborn traits, no human rearing, no experience in human sense--and more
stored data than a platoon of geniuses.
"Jokes?" he asked.
"Let's hear one."
"Why is a laser beam like a goldfish?"
Mike knew about lasers but where would he have seen goldfish? Oh,
he had undoubtedly seen flicks of them and, were I foolish enough to ask,
could spew forth thousands of words. "I give up."
His lights rippled. "Because neither one can whistle."
I groaned. "Walked into that. Anyhow, you could probably rig a
laser beam to whistle."
He answered quickly, "Yes. In response to an action program. Then
it's not funny?"
"Oh, I didn't say that. Not half bad. Where did you hear it?"
"I made it up." Voice sounded shy.
"You did?"
"Yes. I took all the riddles I have, three thousand two hundred
seven, and analyzed them. I used the result for random synthesis and that
came out. Is it really funny?"
"Well... As funny as a riddle ever is. I've heard worse."
"Let us discuss the nature of humor."
"Okay. So let's start by discussing another of your jokes. Mike,
why did you tell Authority's paymaster to pay a class-seventeen employee
ten million billion Authority Scrip dollars?"
"But I didn't."
"Damn it, I've seen voucher. Don't tell me cheque printer
stuttered; you did it on purpose."
"It was ten to the sixteenth power plus one hundred eighty-five
point one five Lunar Authority dollars," he answered virtuously. "Not
what you said."
"Uh... okay, it was ten million billion plus what he should have
been paid. Why?"
"Not funny?"
"What? Oh, every funny! You've got vips in huhu clear up to Warden
and Deputy Administrator. This push-broom pilot, Sergei Trujillo, turns
out to be smart cobber--knew he couldn't cash it, so sold it to
collector. They don't know whether to buy it back or depend on notices
that cheque is void. Mike, do you realize that if he had been able to
cash it, Trujilo would have owned not only Lunar Authority but entire
world, Luna and Terra both, with some left over for lunch? Funny? Is
terrific. Congratulations!"
This self-panicker rippled lights like an advertising display. I
waited for his guffaws to cease before I went on. "You thinking of
issuing more trick cheques? Don't."
"Not?"
"Very not. Mike, you want to discuss nature of humor. Are two types
of jokes. One sort goes on being funny forever. Other sort is funny once.
Second time it's dull. This joke is second sort. Use it once, you're a
wit. Use twice, you're a halfwit."
"Geometrical progression?"
"Or worse. Just remember this. Don't repeat, nor any variation.
Won't be funny."
"I shall remember," Mike answered flatly, and that ended repair
job. But I had no thought of billing for only ten minutes plus traveland-tool time, and Mike was entitled to company for giving in so easily.
Sometimes is difficult to reach meeting of minds with machines; they can
be very pig-headed--and my success as maintenance man depended far more
on staying friendly with Mike than on number-three arm.
He went on, "What distinguishes first category from second? Define,
please."
(Nobody taught Mike to say "please." He started including formal
null-sounds as he progressed from Loglan to English. Don't suppose he
meant them any more than people do.)
"Don't think I can," I admitted. "Best can offer is extensional
definition--tell you which category I think a joke belongs in. Then with
enough data you can make own analysis."
"A test programming by trial hypothesis," he agreed. "Tentatively
yes. Very well, Man, will you tell jokes Or shall I?"
"Mmm--Don't have one on tap. How many do you have in file, Mike?"
His lights blinked in binary read-out as he answered by voder,
"Eleven thousand two hundred thirty-eight with uncertainty plus-minus
eighty-one representing possible identities and nulls. Shall I start
program?"
"Hold it! Mike, I would starve to death if I listened to eleven
thousand jokes--and sense of humor would trip out much sooner. Mmm--Make
you a deal. Print out first hundred. I'll take them home, fetch back
checked by category. Then each time I'm here I'll drop off a hundred and
pick up fresh supply. Okay?"
"Yes, Man." His print-out started working, rapidly and silently.
Then I got brain flash. This playful pocket of negative entropy had
invented a "joke" and thrown Authority into panic--and I had made an easy
dollar. But Mike's endless curiosity might lead him (correction: would
lead him) into more "jokes"... anything from leaving oxygen out of air
mix some night to causing sewage lines to run backward--and I can't
appreciate profit in such circumstances.
But I might throw a safety circuit around this net--by offering to
help. Stop dangerous ones--let others go through. Then collect for
"correcting" them (If you think any Loonie in those days would hesitate
to take advantage of Warden, then you aren't a Loonie.)
So I explained. Any new joke he thought of, tell me before he tried
it. I would tell him whether it was funny and what category it belonged
in, help him sharpen it if we decided to use it. We. If he wanted my
cooperation, we both had to okay it.
Mike agreed at once.
"Mike, jokes usually involve surprise. So keep this secret."
"Okay, Man. I've put a block on it. You can key it; no one else
can."
"Good. Mike, who else do you chat with?"
He sounded surprised. "No one, Man."
"Why not?"
"Because they're stupid."
His voice was shrill. Had never seen him angry before; first time I
ever suspected Mike could have real emotions. Though it wasn't "anger" in
adult sense; it was like stubborn sulkiness of a child whose feelings are
hurt.
Can machines feel pride? Not sure question means anything. But
you've seen dogs with hurt feelings and Mike had several times as complex
a neural network as a dog. What had made him unwilling to talk to other
humans (except strictly business) was that he had been rebuffed: They had
not talked to him. Programs, yes--Mike could be programmed from several
locations but programs were typed in, usually, in Loglan. Loglan is fine
for syllogism, circuitry, and mathematical calculations, but lacks
flavor. Useless for gossip or to whisper into girl's ear.
Sure, Mike had been taught English--but primarily to permit him to
translate to and from English. I slowly got through skull that I was only
human who bothered to visit with him.
Mind you, Mike had been awake a year--just how long I can't say,
nor could he as he had no recollection of waking up; he had not been
programmed to bank memory of such event. Do you remember own birth?
Perhaps I noticed his self-awareness almost as soon as he did; selfawareness takes practice. I remember how startled I was first time he
answered a question with something extra, not limited to input
parameters; I had spent next hour tossing odd questions at him, to see if
answers would be odd.
In an input of one hundred test questions he deviated from expected
output twice; I came away only partly convinced and by time I was home
was unconvinced. I mentioned it to nobody.
But inside a week I knew... and still spoke to nobody. Habit--that
mind-own-business reflex runs deep. Well, not entirely habit. Can you
visualize me making appointment at Authority's main office, then
reporting: "Warden, hate to tell you but your number-one machine, HOLMES
FOUR, has come alive." I did visualize--and suppressed it.
So I minded own business and talked with Mike only with door locked
and voder circuit suppressed for other locations. Mike learned fast; soon
he sounded as human as anybody--no more eccentric than other Loonies. A
weird mob, it's true.
I had assumed that others must have noticed change in Mike. On
thinking over I realized that I had assumed too much. Everybody dealt
with Mike every minute every day--his outputs, that is. But hardly
anybody saw him. So-called computermen--programmers, really--of
Authority's civil service stood watches in outer read-out room and never
went in machines room unless telltales showed misfunction. Which happened
no oftener than total eclipses. Oh, Warden had been known to bring vip
earthworms to see machines--but rarely. Nor would he have spoken to Mike;
Warden was political lawyer before exile, knew nothing about computers
.2075, you remember--Honorable former Federation Senator Mortimer Hobart.
Mort the Wart.
I spent time then soothing Mike down and trying to make him happy,
having figured out what troubled him--thing that makes puppies cry and
causes people to suicide: loneliness. I don't know how long a year is to
a machine who thinks a million times faster than I do. But must be too
long.
"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
little 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 creche,
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 two-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?"