The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (6 page)

“You’re
a pessimist.”

“Nyet,
realist. Never pessimist. Too much Loonie not to bet if any chance. Show me
chances no worse then ten to one against and I’ll go for broke. But want
that one chance in ten.” I pushed back chair. “Through
eating?”

“Yes.
Bolshoyeh spasebaw
,
tovarishch
. It was grand!”

“My
pleasure. Move to couch and I’ll rid of table and dishes,—no,
can’t help; I’m host.” I cleared table, sent up dishes,
saving coffee and vodka, folded table, racked chairs, turned to speak.

She
was sprawled on couch, asleep, mouth open and face softened into little girl.

Went
quietly into bath and closed door. After a scrubbing I felt better—washed
tights first and were dry and fit to put on by time I quit lazing in
tub—don’t care when world ends long as I’m bathed and in
clean clothes.

Wyoh
was still asleep, which made problem. Had taken room with two beds so she would
not feel I was trying to talk her into bundling—not that I was against it
but she had made clear she was opposed. But my bed had to be made from couch
and proper bed was folded away. Should I rig it out softly, pick her up like
limp baby and move her? Went back into bath and put on arm.

Then
decided to wait. Phone had hush hood. Wyoh seemed unlikely to wake, and things
were gnawing me. I sat down at phone, lowered hood, punched
“MYCROFTXXX.”

“Hi,
Mike.”

“Hello,
Man. Have you surveyed those jokes?”

“What?
Mike, haven’t had a minute—and a minute may be a long time to you
but it’s short to me. I’ll get at it as fast as I can.”

“Okay,
Man. Have you found a not-stupid for me to talk with?”

“Haven’t
had time for that, either. Uh …wait.” I looked out through hood at
Wyoming. “Not-stupid” in this case meant empathy … Wyoh had
plenty. Enough to be friendly with a machine? I thought so. And could be
trusted; not only had we shared trouble but she was a subversive.

“Mike,
would you like to talk with a girl?”

“Girls
are not-stupid?”

“Some
girls are very not-stupid, Mike.”

“I
would like to talk with a not-stupid girl, Man.”

“I’ll
try to arrange. But now I’m in trouble and need your help.”

“I
will help, Man.”

“Thanks,
Mike. I want to call my home—but not ordinary way. You know sometimes
calls are monitored, and if Warden orders it, lock can be put on so that
circuit can be traced.”

“Man,
you wish me to monitor your call to your home and put a lock-and-trace on it? I
must inform you that I already know your home call number and the number from
which you are calling.”

“No,
no! Don’t want it monitored, don’t want it locked and traced. Can
you call my home, connect me, and control circuit so that it can’t be
monitored, can’t be locked, can’t be traced—even if somebody
has programmed just that? Can you do it so that they won’t even know
their program is bypassed?”

Mike
hesitated. I suppose it was a question never asked and he had to trace a few
thousand possibilities to see if his control of system permitted this novel
program. “Man, I can do that. I will.”

“Good!
Uh, program signal. If I want this sort of connection in future, I’ll ask
for ‘Sherlock.’”

“Noted.
Sherlock was my brother.” Year before, I had explained to Mike how he got
his name. Thereafter he read all Sherlock Holmes stories, scanning film in Luna
City Carnegie Library. Don’t know how he rationalized relationship; I
hesitated to ask.

“Fine!
Give me a ‘Sherlock’ to my home.”

A
moment later I said, “Mum? This is your favorite husband.”

She
answered, “Manuel! Are you in trouble again?”

I
love Mum more than any other woman including my other wives, but she never
stopped bringing me up—Bog willing, she never will. I tried to sound
hurt. “Me? Why, you know me, Mum.”

“I
do indeed. Since you are not in trouble, perhaps you can tell me why Professor
de la Paz is so anxious to get in touch with you—he has called three
times—and why he wants to reach some woman with unlikely name of Wyoming
Knott—and why he thinks you might be with her? Have you taken a bundling
companion, Manuel, without telling me? We have freedom in our family, dear, but
you know that I prefer to be told. So that I will not be taken unawares.”

Mum
was always jealous of all women but her co-wives and never, never, never
admitted it. I said, “Mum, Bog strike me dead, I have not taken a
bundling companion.”

“Very
well. You’ve always been a truthful boy, Now what’s this
mystery?”

“I’ll
have to ask Professor.” (Not lie, just tight squeeze.) “Did he
leave number?”

“No,
he said he was calling from a public phone.”

“Um.
If he calls again, ask him to leave number and time I can reach him. This is
public phone, too.” (Another tight squeeze.) “In meantime—You
listened to late news?”

“You
know I do.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing
of interest.”

“No
excitement in L-City? Killings, riots, anything?”

“Why,
no. There was a set duel in Bottom Alley but—Manuel! Have you killed
someone?”

“No,
Mum.” (Breaking a man’s jaw will not kill him.)

She
sighed. “You’ll be my death, dear. You know what I’ve always
told you. In our family we do not brawl. Should a killing be necessary—it
almost never is—matters must be discussed calmly,
en famille
,
and proper action selected. If a new chum must be eliminated, other people know
it. It is worth a little delay to hold good opinion and support—”

“Mum!
Haven’t killed anybody, don’t intend to. And know that lecture by
heart.”

“Please
be civil, dear.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“Forgiven.
Forgotten. I’m to tell Professor de la Paz to leave a number. I
shall.”

“One
thing. Forget name ‘Wyoming Knott.’ Forget Professor was asking for
me. If a stranger phones or calls in person, and asks anything about me, you
haven’t heard from me, don’t know where I am … think
I’ve gone to Novylen. That goes for rest of family, too. Answer no
questions—especially from anybody connected with Warden.”

“As
if I would! Manuel you are in trouble!”

“Not
much and getting it fixed.”—hoped!—“Tell you when I get
home. Can’t talk now. Love you. Switching off.”

“I
love you, dear.
Sp’coynoynauchi
.”

“Thanks
and you have a quiet night, too. Off.”

Mum
is wonderful. She was shipped up to The Rock long ago for carving a man under circumstances
that left grave doubts as to girlish innocence—and has been opposed to
violence and loose living ever since. Unless necessary—she’s no
fanatic. Bet she was a jet job as a kid and wish I’d known her—but
I’m rich in sharing last half of her life.

I
called Mike back. “Do you know Professor Bernardo de la Paz’s
voice?”

“I
do, Man.”

“Well
… you might monitor as many phones in Luna City as you can spare ears for
and if you hear him, let me know. Public phones especially.”

(A
full two seconds’ delay—Was giving Mike problems he had never had,
think he liked it.) “I can check-monitor long enough to identify at all
public phones in Luna City. Shall I use random search on the others,
Man?”

“Um.
Don’t overload. Keep an ear on his home phone and school phone.”

“Program
set up.”

“Mike,
you are best friend I ever had.”

“That
is not a joke, Man?”

“No
joke. Truth.”

“I
am—Correction: I am honored and pleased. You are my best friend, Man, for
you are my only friend. No comparison is logically permissible.”

“Going
to see that you have other friends. Not-stupids, I mean. Mike? Got an empty
memory bank?”

“Yes,
Man. Ten-to-the-eighth-bits capacity.”

“Good!
Will you block it so that only you and I can use it? Can you?”

“Can
and will. Block signal, please.”

“Uh
… Bastille Day.” Was my birthday, as Professor de la Paz had told
me years earlier.

“Permanently
blocked.”

“Fine.
Got a recording to put in it. But first—Have you finished setting copy
for tomorrow’s
Daily Lunatic
?”

“Yes,
Man.”

“Anything
about meeting in Stilyagi Hall?”

“No,
Man.”

“Nothing
in news services going out-city? Or riots?”

“No,
Man.”

“‘Curiouser
and curiouser,” said Alice.’ Okay, record this under
‘Bastille Day,’ then think about it. But for Bog’s sake
don’t let even your thoughts go outside that block, nor anything I say
about it!”

“Man
my only friend,” he answered and voice sounded diffident, “many
months ago I decided to place any conversation between you and me under privacy
block accessible only to you. I decided to erase none and moved them from temporary
storage to permanent. So that I could play them over, and over, and over, and
think about them. Did I do right?”

“Perfect.
And, Mike—I’m flattered.”

“
P’jal’st
.
My temporary files were getting full and I learned that I needed not to erase
your words.”

“Well—‘Bastille
Day.’ Sound coming at sixty-to-one.” I took little recorder, placed
close to a microphone and let it zip-squeal. Had an hour and a half in it; went
silent in ninety seconds or so. “That’s all, Mike. Talk to you
tomorrow.”

“Good
night, Manuel Garcia O’Kelly my only friend.”

I
switched off and raised hood. Wyoming was sitting up and looking troubled.
“Did someone call? Or …”

“No
trouble. Was talking to one of my best—and most
trustworthy—friends. Wyoh, are you stupid?”

She
looked startled. “I’ve sometimes thought so. Is that a joke?”

“No.
If you’re not-stupid, I’d like to introduce you to him. Speaking of
jokes—Do you have a sense of humor?”

“Certainly
I have!” is what Wyoming did not answer—and any other woman would
as a locked-in program. She blinked thoughtfully and said, “You’ll
have to judge for yourself, cobber. I have something I use for one. It serves
my simple purposes.”

“Fine.”
I dug into pouch, found print-roll of one hundred “funny” stories.
“Read. Tell me which are funny, which are not—and which get a
giggle first time but are cold pancakes without honey to hear twice.”

“Manuel,
you may be. the oddest man I’ve ever met.” She took that print-out.
“Say, is this computer paper?”

“Yes.
Met a computer with a sense of humor.”

“So?
Well, it was bound to come some day. Everything else has been
mechanized.”

I
gave proper response and added “Everything?”

She
looked up. “Please. Don’t whistle while I’m reading.”

Heard
her giggle a few times while I rigged out bed and made it. Then sat down by
her, took end she was through with and started reading. Chuckled a time or two
but a joke isn’t too funny to me if read cold, even when I see it could
be fission job at proper time. I got more interested in how Wyoh rated them.

She
was marking “plus,” “minus,” and sometimes question
mark, and plus stories were marked “once” or
“always”—few were marked “always.” I put my
ratings under hers. Didn’t disagree too often.

By
time I was near end she was looking over my judgments. We finished together.
“Well?” I said. “What do you think?”

“I
think you have a crude, rude mind and it’s a wonder your wives put up
with you.”

“Mum
often says so. But how about yourself, Wyoh? You marked plusses on some that
would make a slot-machine girl blush.”

She
grinned. “Da. Don’t tell anybody; publicly I’m a dedicated
party organizer above such things. Have you decided that I have a sense of
humor?”

“Not
sure. Why a minus on number seventeen?”

“Which
one is that?” She reversed roll and found it. “Why, any woman would
have done the same! It’s not funny, it’s simply necessary.”

“Yes,
but think how silly she looked.”

“Nothing
silly about it. Just sad. And look here. You thought this one was not funny.
Number fifty-one.”

Neither
reversed any judgments but I saw a pattern: Disagreements were over stories
concerning oldest funny subject. Told her so. She nodded. “Of course. I
saw that. Never mind, Mannie dear; I long ago quit being disappointed in men
for what they are not and never can be.”

I
decided to drop it. Instead told her about Mike.

Soon
she said, “Mannie, you’re telling me that this computer is
alive?”

“What
do you mean?’ I answered. “He doesn’t sweat, or go to W.C.
But can think and talk and he’s aware of himself. Is he
‘alive’?”

“I’m
not sure what I mean by ‘alive,’” she admitted.
“There’s a scientific definition, isn’t there? Irritability,
or some such. And reproduction.”

“Mike
is irritable and can be irritating. As for reproducing, not designed for it
but—yes, given time and materials and very special help, Mike could
reproduce himself.”

“I
need very special help, too,” Wyoh answered, “since I’m
sterile. And it takes me ten whole lunars and many kilograms of the best
materials. But I make good babies. Mannie, why shouldn’t a machine be
alive? I’ve always felt they were. Some of them wait for a chance to
savage you in a tender spot.”

“Mike
wouldn’t do that. Not on purpose, no meanness in him. But he likes to
play jokes and one might go wrong—like a puppy who doesn’t know
he’s biting. He’s ignorant No, not ignorant, he knows enormously
more than I, or you, or any man who ever lived. Yet he doesn’t know
anything.”

“Better
repeat that. I missed something.”

I
tried to explain. How Mike knew almost every book in Luna, could read at least
a thousand times as fast as we could and never forget anything unless he chose
to erase, how he could reason with perfect logic, or make shrewd guesses from
insufficient data … and yet not know anything about how to be
“alive.” She interrupted. “I scan it. You’re saying
he’s smart and knows a lot but is not sophisticated. Like a new chum when
he grounds on The Rock. Back Eartbside he might be a professor with a string of
degrees … but here he’s a baby.”