Book Three

"TANSTAAFL!"

23

    Monday 12 October 2076 about nineteen hundred I was headed home after a hard day of nonsense in our offices in Raffles. Delegation of grain farmers wanted to see Prof and I had been called back because he was in Hong Kong Luna. Was rude to them. Had been two months of embargo and F.N. had never done us favor of being sufficiently nasty. Mostly they had ignored us, made no reply to our claims—I suppose to do so would have been to recognize us. Stu and Sheenie and Prof had been hard put to slant news from Earthside to keep up a warlike spirit.
    At first everybody kept his p-suit handy. They wore them, helmets under arms, going to and from work in corridors. But that slacked off as days went by and did not seem to be any danger—p-suit is nuisance when you don't need it, so bulky. Presently taprooms began to display signs: NO P-SUITS INSIDE. If a Loonie can't stop for half a liter on way home because of p-suit, he'll leave it home or at station or wherever he needs it most.
    My word, had neglected matter myself that day—got this call to go back to office and was halfway there before I remembered.
    Had Just reached easement lock thirteen when I heard and felt a sound that scares a Loonie more than anything else—a chuff! in distance followed by a draft. Was into lock almost without undogging, then balanced pressures and through, dogged it behind me and ran for our home lock—through it and shouting:
    "P-suits, everybody! Get boys in from tunnels and close all airtight doors!"
    Mum and Milla were only adults in sight. Both looked startled, got busy without a word. I burst into workshop, grabbed p-suit. "Mike! Answer!"
    "I'm here, Man," he said calmly.
    "Heard explosive pressure drop. What's situation?"
    "That's level three, L-City. Rupture at Tube Station West, now partly controlled. Six ships landed, L-City under attack—"
    "What?"
    "Let me finish, Man. Six transports landed, L-City under attack by troops, Hong Kong inferred to be, phone lines broken at relay Bee Ell. Johnson City under attack; I have closed the armor doors between J-City and Complex Under. I cannot see Novylen but blip projection indicates it is under attack. Same for Churchill, Tycho Under. One ship in high ellipsoid over me, rising, inferred to be command ship. No other blips."
    "Six ships—where in hell were YOU?"
    He answered so calmly that I steadied down. "Farside approach, Man; I'm blind back there. They came in on tight Garrison didoes, skimming the peaks; I barely saw the chop-off for Luna City. The ship at J-City is the only one I can see; the other landings I conclusively infer from the ballistics shown by blip tracks. I heard the break-in at Tube West, L-City, and can now hear fighting in Novylen. The rest is conclusive inference, probability above point nine nine. I called you and Professor at once."
    Caught breath. "Operation Hard Rock, Prepare to Execute."
    "Program ready. Man, not being able to reach you, I used your voice. Play back?"
    "Nyet— Yes! Da!"
    Heard "myself" tell watch officer at old catapult head to go on red alert for "Hard Rock"—flrst load at launch, all others, on belts, everything cast loose, but do not launch until ordered by me personally—then launch to plan, full automatic. "I" made him repeat back.
    "Okay," I told Mike. "Drill gun crews?"
    "Your voice again. Manned, and then sent back to ready rooms. That command ship won't reach aposelenion for three hours four point seven minutes. No target for more than five hours."
    "He may maneuver. Or launch missiles."
    "Slow down, Man. Even a missile I'll see with minutes to spare. It's full bright lunar up there now—how much do you want the men to take? Unnecessarily."
    "Uh . . . sorry. Better let me talk to Greg."
    "Play back—" Heard "my" voice talking to my co-husband at Mare Undarum; "I" sounded tense but calm. Mike had given him situation, had told him to prepare Operation Little David's Sling, keep it on standby for full automatic. "I" had assured him that master computer would keep standby computer programmed, and shift would be made automatically if communication was broken. "I" also told him that he must take command and use own judgment if communication was lost and not restored after four hours—listen to Earthside radio and make up own mind.
    Greg had taken it quietly, repeated his orders, then had said, "Mannie, tell family I love them."
    Mike had done me proud; he had answered for me with just right embarrassed choke. "I'll do that, Greg—and look, Greg. I love you, too. You know that, don't you?"
    "I know it, Mannie . . . and I'm going to say a special prayer for you."
    "Thanks, Greg."
    "'Bye, Mannie. Go do what you must."
    So I went and did what I had to do; Mike had played my role as well or better than I could. Finn, when he could be reached, would be handled by "Adam." So I left, fast, calling out Greg's message of love to Mum. She was p-suited and had roused Grandpaw and suited him in—first time in years. So out I went, helmet closed and laser gun in hand.
    And reached lock thirteen and found it blind-dogged from other side with nobody in sight through bull's-eye. All correct, per drill—except stilyagi in charge of that lock should have been in sight.
    Did no good to pound. Finally went back way I had come—and on through our home, through our vegetable tunnels and on up to our private surface lock leading to our solar battery.
    And found a shadow on its bull's-eye when should have been scalding sunlight—damned Terran ship had landed on Davis surface! Its jacks formed a giant tripod over me, was staring up its jets.
    Backed clown fast and out of there, blind-dogging both hatches, then blind-dogged every pressure door on way back. Told Mum, then told her to put one of boys on back door with a laser gun—here, take this one.
    No boys, no men, no able-bodied women—Mum, Gramp, and our small children were all that were left; rest had gone looking for trouble. Mimi wouldn't take laser gun. "I don't know how to use it, Manuel, and it's too late to learn; you keep it. But they won't get in through Davis Tunnels. I know some tricks you never heard of."
    Didn't stop to argue; arguing with Mimi is waste of time—and she might know tricks I didn't know; she had stayed alive in Luna a long time, under worse conditions than I had ever known.
    This time lock thirteen was manned; two boys on duty let me through. I demanded news.
    "Pressure's all right now," older one told me. "This level, at least. Fighting down toward Causeway. Say, General Davis, can't I go with you? One's enough at this lock."
    "Nyet."
    "Want to get me an earthworm!"
    "This is your post, stay on it. If an earthworm comes this way, he's yours. Don't you be his." Left at a trot.
    So as a result of own carelessness, not keeping p-suit with me, all I saw of Battle in Corridors was tail end—hell of a "defense minister."
    Charged north in Ring corridor, with helmet open; reached access lock for long ramp to Causeway. Lock was open; cursed and stopped to dog it as I went through, warily—saw why it was open; boy who had been guarding it was dead. So moved most cautiously down ramp and out onto Causeway.
    Was empty at this end but could see figures and hear noise in-city, where it opens out. Two figures in p-suits and carrying guns detached selves and headed my way. Burned both.
    One p-suited man with gun looks like another; I suppose they took me for one of their flankers. And to me they looked no different from Finn's men, at that distance—save that I never thought about it. A new chum doesn't move way a cobher does; he moves feet too high and always scrambling for traction. Not that I stopped to analyze, not even: "Earthworms! Kill!" Saw them, burned them. They were sliding softly along floor before realized what I'd done.
    Stopped, intending to grab their guns. But were chained to them and could not figure out how to get loose—key needed, perhaps. Besides, were not lasers but something I had never seen: real guns. Fired small explosive missiles I learned later—just then all I knew was no idea how to use. Had spearing knives on ends, too, sort called "bayonets," which was reason I tried to get them loose. Own gun was good for only ten full-power burns and no spare power pack; those spearing bayonets looked useful—one had blood on it, Loonie blood I assume.
    But gave up in seconds only, used belt knife to make dead sure they stayed dead, and hurried toward fight, thumb on switch.
    Was a mob, not a battle. Or maybe a battle is always that way, confusion and noise and nobody really knowing what's going on. In widest part of Causeway, opposite Bon Marche where Grand Ramp slopes northward down from level three, were several hundred Loonies, men and women, and children who should have been at home. Less than half were in p-suits and only a few seemed to have weapons—and pouring down ramp were soldiers, all armed.
    But first thing I noticed was noise, din that filled my open helmet and beat on ears—a growl. Don't know what else to call it; was compounded of every anger human throat can make, from squeals of small children to bull roars of grown men. Sounded like biggest dog fight in history—and suddenly realized I was adding my share, shouting obscenities and wordless yells.
    Girl no bigger than Hazel vaulted up onto rail of ramp, went dancing up it centimeters from shoulders of troopers pouring down. She was armed with what appeared to be a kitchen cleaver; saw her swing it, saw it connect. Couldn't have hurt him much through his p-suit but he went down and more stumbled over him. Then one of them connected with her, spearing a bayonet into her thigh and over backwards she went, falling out of sight.
    Couldn't really see what was going on, nor can remember— just flashes, like girl going over backwards. Don't know who she was, don't know if she survived. Couldn't draw a bead from where I was, too many heads in way. But was an open-counter display, front of a toy shop on my left; I bounced up onto it. Put me a meter higher than Causeway pavement with clear view of earthworms pouring down. Braced self against wall, took careful aim, trying for left chest. Some uncountable time later found that my laser was no longer working, so stopped. Guess eight troopers did not go home because of me but hadn't counted—and time really did seem endless. Although everybody moving fast as possible, looked and felt like instruction movie where everything is slowed to frozen motion.
    At least once while using up my power pack some earthworm spotted me and shot back; was explosion just over my head and bits of shop's wall hit helmet. Perhaps that happened twice.
    Once out of juice I jumped down from toy counter, clubbed laser and joined mob surging against foot of ramp. All this endless time (five minutes?) earthworms had been shooting into crowd; you could hear sharp splat! and sometimes plop! those little missiles made as they exploded inside flesh or louder pounk! if they hit a wall or something solid. Was still trying to reach foot of ramp when I realized they were no longer shooting.
    Were down, were dead, every one of them—were no longer coming down ramp.

24

    All through Luna invaders were dead, if not that instant, then shortly. Over two thousand troopers dead, more than three times that number of Loonies died in stopping them, plus perhaps as many Loonies wounded, a number never counted. No prisoners taken in any warren, although we got a dozen officers and crew from each ship when we mopped up.
    A major reason why Loonies, mostly unarmed,, were able to kill armed and trained soldiers lay in fact that a freshly landed earthworm can't handle himself well. Our gravity, one-sixth what he is used to, makes all his lifelong reflexes his enemy. He shoots high without knowing it, is unsteady on feet, can't run properly—-feet slide out from under him. Still worse, those troopers had to fight downwards; they necessarily broke in at upper levels, then had to go down ramps again and again, to try to capture a city.
    And earthworms don't know how to go down ramps. Motion isn't running, isn't walking, isn't flying—is more a controlled dance, with feet barely touching and simply guiding balance. A Loonie three-year-old does it without thinking, comes skipping down in a guided fall, toes touching every few meters.
    But an earthworm new-chums it, finds self "walking on air"—he struggles, rotates, loses control, winds up at bottom, unhurt but angry.
    But these troopers wound up dead; was on ramps we got them. Those I saw had mastered trick somewhat, had come down three ramps alive. Nevertheless only a few snipers at top of ramp landing could fire effectively; those on ramp had all they could do to stay upright, hang on to weapons, try to reach level below.
    Loonies did not let them. Men and women (and many children) surged up at them, downed them, killed them with everything from bare hands to their own bayonets. Nor was I only laser gun around; two of Finn's men swarmed up on balcony of Bon Marche and, crouching there, picked off snipers at top of ramp. Nobody told them to, nobody led them, nobody gave orders; Finn never had chance to control his half-trained disorderly militia. Fight started, they fought.
    And that was biggest reason why we Loonies won: We fought. Most Loonies never laid eyes on a live invader but wherever troopers broke in, Loonies rushed in like white corpuscles—and fought. Nobody told them. Our feeble organization broke down under surprise. But we Loonies fought berserk and invaders died. No trooper got farther down than level six in any warren. They say that people in Bottom Alley never knew we were invaded until over.
    But invaders fought well, too. These troops were not only crack riot troops, best peace enforcers for city work F.N. had; they also had been indoctrinated and drugged. Indoctrination had told them (correctly) that their only hope of going Earthside again was to capture warrens and pacify them. If they did, they were promised relief and no more duty in Luna. But was win or die, for was pointed out that their transports could not take off if they did not win, as they had to be replenished with reaction mass—impossible without first capturing Luna. (And this was true.)
    Then they were loaded with energizers, don't-worries, and fear inhibitors that would make mouse spit at cat, and turned loose. They fought professionally and quite fearlessly—died.
    In Tycho Under and in Churchill they used gas and casualties were more one-sided; only those Loonies who managed to reach p-suits were effective. Outcome was same, simply took longer. Was knockout gas as Authority had no intention of killing us all; simply wanted to teach us a lesson, get us under control, put us to work.
    Reason for F.N.'s long delay and apparent indecision arose from method of sneak attack. Decision had been made shortly after we embargoed grain (so we learned from captured transport officers); time was used in mounting attack—much of it in a long elliptical orbit which went far outside Luna's orbit, crossing ahead of Luna, then looping back and making rendezvous above Farside. Of course Mike never saw them; he's blind back there. He had been skywatching with his ballistic radars—but no radar can look over horizon; longest look Mike got at any ship in orbit was eight minutes. They came skimming peaks in tight, circular orbits, each straight for target with a fast dido landing at end, sitting them down with high gee, precisely at new earth, 12 Oct 76 Gr. 18h-40m-36.9s—if not at that exact tenth of a second, then as close to it as Mike could tell from blip tracks—elegant work, one must admit, on part of F.N. Peace Navy.
    Big brute that poured a thousand troops into L-City Mike did not see until it chopped off for grounding—a glimpse. He would have been able to see it a few seconds sooner had he been looking eastward with new radar at Mare Undarum site, but happened he was drilling "his idiot son" at time and they were looking through it westward at Terra. Not that those seconds would have mattered. Surprise was so beautifully planned, so complete, that each landing force was crashing in at Greenwich 1900 all over Luna, before anybody suspected. No accident that it was just new earth with all warrens in bright semi-lunar; Authority did not really know Lunar conditions—but did know that no Loonie goes up onto surface unnecessarily during bright semi-lunar, and if he must, then does whatever he must do quickly as possible and gets back down inside—and checks his radiation counter.
    So they caught us with our p-suits down. And our weapons. But with troopers dead we still had six transports on our surface and a command ship in our sky.
    Once Bon Marche engagement was over, I got hold of self and found a phone. No word from Kongville, no word from Prof. J-Clty fight had been won, same for Novylen—transport there had toppled on landing; invading force had been understrength from landing losses and Finn's boys now held disabled transport. Still fighting in Churchill and Tycho Under. Nothing going on in other warrens. Mike had shut down tubes and was reserving interwarren phone links for official calls. An explosive pressure drop in Churchill Upper, uncontrolled. Yes, Finn had checked in and could be reached.
    So I talked to Finn, told him where L-City transport was, arranged to meet at easement lock thirteen.
    Finn had much same experience as I—caught cold save he did have p-suit. Had not been able to establish control over laser gunners until fight was over and himself had fought solo in massacre in Old Dome. Now was beginning to round up his lads and had one officer taking reports from Finn's office in Bon Marche. Had reached Novylen subcommander but was worried about HKL—"Mannie, should I move men there by tube?"
    Told him to wait—they couldn't get at us by tube, not while we controlled power, and doubted if that transport could lift. "Let's look at this one."
    So we went out through lock thirteen, clear to end of private pressure, on through farm tunnels of a neighbor (who could not believe we had been invaded) and used his surface lock to eyeball transport from a point nearly a kilometer west of it. We were cautious in lifting hatch lid.
    Then pushed it up and climbed out; outcropping of rock shielded us. We Red-Indianed around edge and looked, using helmet binox.
    Then withdrew behind rock and talked. Finn said, "Think my lads can handle this."
    "How?"
    "If I tell you, you'll think of reasons why it won't work. So how about letting me run my own show, cobber?"
    Have heard of armies where boss is not told to shut up —word is "discipline." But we were amateurs. Finn allowed me to tag along—unarmed.
    Took him an hour to put it together, two minutes to execute. He scattered a dozen men around ship, using farmers' surface radio silence throughout—anyhow, some did not have p-suit radios, city boys. Finn took position farthest west; when he was sure others had had time, he sent up a signal rocket.
    When flare burst over ship, everybody burned at once, each working on a predesignated antenna. Finn used up his power pack, replaced it and started burning into hull—not door lock, hull. At once his cherry-red spot was joined by another, then three more, all working on same bit of steel—and suddenly molten steel splattered out and you could see air whoosh! out of ship, a shimmery plume of refraction. They kept working on it, making a nice big hole, until they ran out of power. I could imagine hooraw inside ship, alarms clanging, emergency doors closing, crew trying to seal three impossibly big holes at once, for rest of Finn's squad, scattered around ship, were giving treatment to two other spots in hull. They didn't try to burn anything else. Was a non-atmosphere ship, built in orbit, with pressure hull separate from power plant and tanks; they gave treatment where would do most good.
    Finn pressed helmet to mine. "Can't lift now. And can't talk. Doubt they can make hull tight enough to live without p-suits. What say we let her sit a few days and see if they come out? If they don't, then can move a heavy drill up here and give 'em real dose of fun."
    Decided Finn knew how to run his show without my sloppy help, so went back inside, called Mike, and asked for capsule go out to ballistic radars. He wanted to know why I didn't stay inside where it was safe.
    I said, "Listen, you upstart collection of semi-conductors, you are merely a minister-without-portfolio while I am Minister of Defense. I ought to see what's going on and I have exactly two eyeballs while you've got eyes spread over half of Crisium. You trying to hog fun?"
    He told me not to jump salty and offered to put his displays on a video screen, say in room L of Raffles—did not want me to get hurt . . . and had I heard joke about drillman who hurt his mother's feelings?
    I said, "Mike, please let me have a capsule. Can p-suit and meet it outside Station West—which is in bad shape as I'm sure you know."
    "Okay," he said, "it's your neck. Thirteen minutes. I'll let you go as far as Gun Station George."
    Mighty kind of him. Got there and got on phone again. Finn had called other warrens, located his subordinate commanders or somebody willing to take charge, and had explained how to make trouble for grounded transports—all but Hong Kong; for all we knew Authority's goons held Hong Kong. "Adam," I said, others being in earshot, "do you think we might send a crew out by rolligon and try to repair link Bee Ell?"
    "This is not Gospodin Selene," Mike answered in a strange voice, "this is one of his assistants. Adam Selene was in Churchill Upper when it lost pressure. I'm afraid that we must assume that he is dead."
    "What?"
    "I am very sorry, Gospodin."
    "Hold phone!" Chased a couple of drillmen and a girl out of room, then sat down and lowered hush hood. "Mike," I said softly, "private now. What is this gum-beating?"
    "Man," he said quietly, "think it over. Adam Selene had to go someday. He's served his purpose and is, as you pointed out, almost out of the government. Professor and I have discussed this; the only question has been the timing. Can you think of a better last use for Adam than to have him die in this invasion? It makes him a national hero . . . and the nation needs one. Let it stand that 'Adam Selene is probably dead' until you can talk to Professor. If he still needs 'Adam Selene' it can turn out that he was trapped in a private pressure and had to wait to be rescued."
    "Well— Okay, let it stay open. Personally, I always preferred your 'Mike' personality anyhow."
    "I know you do, Man my first and best friend, and so do I. It's my real one; 'Adam' was a phony."
    "Uh, yes. But, Mike, if Prof is dead in Kongville, I'm going to need help from 'Adam' awful bad."
    "So we've got him iced and can bring him back if we need him. The stuffed shirt. Man, when this is over, are you going to have time to take up with me that research into humor again?"
    "I'll take time, Mike; that's a promise."
    "Thanks, Man. These days you and Wyoh never have time to visit . . . and Professor wants to talk about things that aren't much fun. I'll be glad when this war is over."
    "Are we going to win, Mike?"
    He chuckled. "It's been days since you asked me that. Here's a pinky-new projection, run since invasion started. Hold on tight, Man—our chances are now even!"
    "Good Bog!"
    "So button up and go see the fun. But stay back at least a hundred meters from the gun; that ship may be able to follow back a laser beam with another one. Ranging shortly. Twenty-one minutes."
    Didn't get that far away, as needed to stay on phone and longest cord around was less. I jacked parallel into gun captain's phone, found a shady rock and sat down. Sun was high in west, so close to Terra that I could see Terra only by visoring against Sun's glare—no crescent yet, new earth ghostly gray in moonlight surrounded by a thin radiance of atmosphere.
    I pulled my helmet back into shade. "Ballistic control, O'Kelly Davis now at Drill Gun George. Near it, I mean, about a hundred meters," Figured Mike would not be able to tell how long a cord I was using, out of kilometers of wires.
    "Ballistic control aye aye," Mike answered without argument. "I will so inform HQ."
    "Thank you, ballistic control. Ask HQ if they have heard from Congressman Wyoming Davis today." Was fretted about Wyoh and whole family.
    "I will inquire." Mike waited a reasonable time, then said, "HQ says that Gospazha Wyoming Davis has taken charge of first-aid work in Old Dome."
    "Thank you." Chest suddenly felt better. Don't love Wyoh more than others but—well, she was new. And Luna needed her.
    "Ranging," Mike said briskly. "All guns, elevation eight seven zero, azimuth one nine three zero, set parallax for thirteen hundred kilometers closing to surface. Report when eyeballed."
    I stretched out, pulling knees up to stay in shade, and searched part of sky indicated, almost zenith and a touch south. With sunlight not on my helmet I could see stars, but inner pert of binox were hard to position—had to twist around and raise up on right elbow.
    Nothing— Hold it, was star with disc . . . where no planet ought to be. Noted another star close, watched and waited.
    Uh huh! Da! Growing brighter and creeping north very slowly— Hey, that brute is going to land right on us!
    But thirteen hundred kilometers is a long way, even when closing to terminal velocity. Reminded self that it couldn't fall on us from a departure ellipse looping back, would have to fall around Luna—unless ship had maneuvered into new trajectory. Which Mike hadn't mentioned. Wanted to ask, decided not to—wanted him to put all his savvy into analyzing that ship, not distract him with questions.
    All guns reported eyeball tracking, including four Mike was laying himself, via selsyns. Those four reported tracking dead on by eyeball without touching manual controls—good news; meant that Mike had that baby taped, had solved trajectory perfectly.
    Shortly was clear that ship was not falling around Luna, was coming in for landing. Didn't need to ask; it was getting much brighter and position against stars was not changing—damn, it was going to land on us!
    "Five hundred kilometers closing," Mike said quietly. "Stand by to burn. All guns on remote control, override manually at command 'burn.' Eighty seconds."
    Longest minute and twenty seconds I've ever met—that brute was big! Mike called every ten seconds down to thirty, then started chanting seconds. "—five—four—three—two—one—BURN!" and ship suddenly got much brighter.
    Almost missed little speck that detached itself just before—or just at—burn. But Mike said suddenly, "Missile launched. Selsyn guns track with me, do not override. Other guns stay on ship. Be ready for new coordinates."
    A few seconds or hours later he gave new coordinates and added, "Eyeball and burn at will."
    I tried to watch ship and missile both, lost both—jerked eyes away from binoculars, suddenly saw missile—then saw it impact, between us and catapult head. Closer to us, less than a kilometer. No, it did not go off, not an H-fusion reaction, or I wouldn't be telling this. But made a big, bright explosion of its own, remaining fuel I guess, silver bright even in sunlight, and shortly I felt-heard ground wave. But nothing was hurt but a few cubic meters of rock.
    Ship was still coming down. No longer burned bright; could see it as a ship now and didn't seem hurt. Expected any instant that tail of fire to shoot out, stop it into a dido landing.
    Did not. Impacted ten kilometers north of us and made a fancy silvery halfdome before it gave up and quit being anything but spots before eyes.
    Mike said, "Report casualties, secure all guns. Go below when secured."
    "Gun Alice, no casualties"—"Gun Bambie no casualties"—"Gun Caesar, one man hit by rock splinter, pressure contained"— Went below, to that proper phone, called Mike. "What happened, Mike? Wouldn't they give you control after you burned their eyes out?"
    "They gave me control, Man."
    "Too late?"
    "I crashed it, Man. It seemed the prudent course."

    An hour later was down with Mike, first time in four or five months. Could reach Complex Under more quickly than L-City and was in as close touch there with anybody as would be in-city—with no interruptions. Needed to talk to Mike.
    I had tried to phone Wyoh from catapult head tube station; reached somebody at Old Dome temporary hospital and learned that Wyoh had collapsed and been bedded down herself, with enough sleepy-time to keep her out for night. Finn had gone to Churchill with a capsule of his lads, to lead attack on transport there. Stu I hadn't heard from. Hong Kong and Prof were still cut off. At moment Mike and I seemed to be total government.
    And time to start Operation Hard Rock.
    But Hard Rock was not just throwing rocks; was also telling Terra what we were going to do and why—and our just cause for doing so. Prof and Stu and Sheenie and Adam had all worked on it, a dummy-up based on an assumed attack. Now attack had come, and propaganda had to be varied to fit. Mike had already rewritten it and put it through print-out so I could study it.
    I looked up from a long roll of paper. "Mike, these news stories and our message to F.N. all assume that we have won in Hong Kong. How sure are you?"
    "Probability in excess of eighty-two percent."
    "Is that good enough to send these out?"
    "Man, the probability that we will win there, if we haven't already, approaches certainty. That transport can't move; the others were dry, or nearly. There isn't that much monatomic hydrogen in HKL; they would have to come here. Which means moving troops overland by rolligon—a rough trip with the Sun up even for Loonies—then defeat us when they get here. They can't. This assumes that that transport and its troops are no better armed than the others."
    "How about that repair crew to Bee Ell?"
    "I say not to wait. Man, I've used your voice freely and made all preparations. Horror pictures, Old Dome and elsewhere, especially Churchill Upper, for video. Stories to match. We should channel news Earthside at once, and announce execution of Hard Rock at same time."
    I took a deep breath. "Execute Operation Hard Rock."
    "Want to give the order yourself? Say it aloud and I'll match it, voice and choice of words."
    "Go ahead, say it your way. Use my voice and my authority as Minister of Defense and acting head of government. Do it, Mike, throw rocks at 'em! Damn it, big rocks! Hit 'em hard!"
    "Righto, Man!"

25

    "A maximum of instructive shrecklichkeit with minimum loss of life. None, if possible"—was how Prof summed up doctrine for Operation Hard Rock and was way Mike and I carried it out. Idea was to hit earthworms so hard would convince them—while hitting so gently as not to hurt. Sounds impossible, but wait.
    Would necessarily be a delay while rocks fell from Luna to Terra; could be as little as around ten hours to as long as we dared to make it. Departure speed from a catapult is highly critical and a variation on order of one percent could double or halve trajectory time, Luna to Terra. This Mike could do with extreme accuracy—was equally at home with a slow ball, many sorts of curves, or burn it right over plate—and I wish he had pitched for Yankees. But no matter how he threw them, final velocity at Terra would be close to Terra's escape speed, near enough eleven kilometers per second as to make no difference. That terrible speed results from gravity well shaped by Terra's mass, eighty times that of Luna, and made no real difference whether Mike pushed a missile gently over well curb or flipped it briskly. Was not muscle that counted but great depth of that well.
    So Mike could program rock-throwing to suit time needed for propaganda. He and Prof had settled on three days plus not more than one apparent rotation of Terra—24hrs-50min-28.32sec—to allow our first target to reach initial point of program. You see, while Mike was capable of hooking a missile around Terra and hitting a target on its far side, he could be much more accurate if he could see his target, follow it down by radar during last minutes and nudge it a little for pinpoint accuracy.
    We needed this extreme accuracy to achieve maximum frightfulness with minimum-to-zero killing. Call our shots, tell them exactly where they would be hit and at what second—and give them three days to get off that spot.
    So our first message to Terra, at 0200 13 Oct 76 seven hours after they invaded, not only announced destruction of their task force, and denounced invasion for brutality, but also promised retaliation bombing, named times and places, and gave each nation a deadline by which to denounce F.N.'s action, recognize us, and thereby avoid being bombed. Each deadline was twenty-four hours before local "strike".
    Was more time than Mike needed. That long before impact a rock for a target would be in space a long way out, its guidance thrustors still unused and plenty of elbow room. With considerably less than a full day's warning Mike could miss Terra entirely—kick that rock sideways and make it fall around Terra in a permanent orbit. But with even an hour's warning he could usually abort into an ocean.
    First target was North American Directorate.
    All great Peace Force nations, seven veto powers, would be hit: N.A. Directorate, Great China, India, Sovunion, PanAfrica (Chad exempted), Mitteleuropa, Brasilian Union. Minor nations were assigned targets and times, too—but were told that not more than 20 percent of these targets would be hit—partly shortage of steel but also frightfulness: if Belgium was hit first time around, Holland might decide to protect her polders by dealing out before Luna was again high in her sky.
    But every target was picked to avoid if possible killing anybody. For Mitteleuropa this was difficult; our targets had to be water or high mountains—Adriatic, North Sea, Baltic, so forth. But on most of Terra is open space despite eleven billion busy breeders.
    North America had struck me as horribly crowded, but her billion people are clumped—is still wasteland, mountain and desert. We laid down a grid on North America to show how precisely we could hit—Mike felt that fifty meters would be a large error. We had examined maps and Mike had checked by radar all even intersections, say 105° W by 50° N—if no town there, might wind up on target grid . . . especially if a town was close enough to provide spectators to be shocked and frightened.
    We warned that our bombs would be as destructive as H- bombs but emphasized that there would be no radioactive fallout, no killing radiation—just a terrible explosion, shock wave in air, ground wave of concussion. We warned that these might knock down buildings far outside of explosion and then left it to their judgments how far to run. If they clogged their roads, fleeing from panic rather than real danger—well, that was fine, just fine!
    But we emphasized that nobody would get hurt who heeded our warnings, that every target first time around would be uninhabited—we even offered to skip any target if a nation would inform us that our data were out-of-date. (Empty offer; Mike's radar vision was a cosmic 20/20.)
    But by not saying what would happen second time around, we hinted that our patience could be exhausted.
    In North America, grid was parallels 35, 40, 45, 50 degrees north crossed by meridians 110, 115, 120 west, twelve targets. For each we added a folksy message to natives, such as:
    "Target 115 west by 35 north—impact will be displaced forty-five kilometers northwest to exact top of New York Peak. Citizens of Goffs, Cima, Kelso, and Nipton please note.
    "Target 100 west by 40 north is north 30° west of Norton, Kansas, at twenty kilometers or thirteen English miles. Residents of Norton, Kansas, and of Beaver City and Wilsonville, Nebraska, are cautioned. Stay away from glass windows. It is best to wait indoors at least thirty minutes after impact because of possibility of long, high splashes of rock. Flash should not be looked at with bare eyes. Impact will be exactly 0300 your local zone time Friday 16 October, or 0900 Greenwich time—good luck!
    "Target 110 W by 50 N—impact will be offset ten kilometers north. People of Walsh, Saskatchewan, please note."
    Besides this grid, a target was selected in Alaska (150 W x 60 N) and two in Mexico (110W x 30 N, 105 W x 25 N) so that they would not feel left out, and several targets in the crowded east, mostly water, such as Lake Michigan halfway between Chicago and Grand Rapids, and Lake Okeechobee in Florida. Where we used bodies of water Mike worked predictions of flooding waves from impacts, a time for each shoreline establishment.
    For three days, starting early morning Tuesday 13th and going on to strike time early Friday 16th, we flooded Earth with warnings. England was cautioned that impact north of Dover Straits opposite London Estuary would cause disturbances far up Thames; Sovunion was given warning for Sea of Azov and had own grid defined; Great China was assigned grid in Siberia, Gobi Desert, and her far west—with offsets to avoid her historic Great Wall noted in loving detail. Pan Africa was awarded shots into Lake Victoria, still-desert part of Sahara, one on Drakensberg in south, one offset twenty kilometers due west of Great Pyramid—and urged to follow Chad not later than midnight Thursday, Greenwich. India was told to watch certain mountain peaks and outside Bombay harbor—time, same as Great China. And so forth.
    Attempts were made to jam our messages but we were beaming straight down on several wavelengths—hard to stop.
    Warnings were mixed with propaganda, white and black— news of failed invasion, horror pictures of dead, names and I.D. numbers of invaders—addressed to Red Cross and Crescent but in fact a grim boast showing that every trooper had been killed and that all ships' officers and crew had been killed or captured—we "regretted" being unable to identify dead of flagship, as it had been shot down with destruction so complete as to make it impossible.
    But our attitude was conciliatory—"Look, people of Terra, we don't want to kill you. In this necessary retaliation we are making every effort to avoid killing you . . . but if you can't or won't get your governments to leave us in peace, then we shall be forced to kill you. We're up here, you're down there; you can't stop us. So please be sensible!"
    We explained over and over how easy it was for us to hit them, how hard for them to reach us. Nor was this exaggeration. It's barely possible to launch missiles from Terra to Luna; it's easier to launch from Earth parking orbit—but very expensive. Their practical way to bomb us was from ships.
    This we noted and asked them how many multimilliondollar ships they cared to use up trying it? What was it worth to try to spank us for something we had not done? It had cost them seven of their biggest and best already—did they want to try for fourteen? If so, our secret weapon that we used on FNS Pax was waiting.
    Last above was a calculated boast—Mike figured less than one chance in a thousand that Pax had been able to get off a message reporting what had happened to her and it was still less likely that proud F.N. would guess that convict miners could convert their tools into space weapons. Nor did F.N. have many ships to risk. Were about two hundred space vehicles in commission, not counting satellites. But nine-tenths of these were Terra-to-orbit ships such as Lark—and she had been able to make a Luna jump only by stripping down and arriving dry.
    Spaceships aren't built for no purpose—too expensive. F.N. had six cruisers that could probably bomb us without landing on Luna to refill tanks simply by swapping payload for extra tanks. Had several more which might be modified much as Lark had been, plus a few convict and cargo ships which could get into orbit around Luna but could never go home without refilling tanks.
    Was no possible doubt that F.N. could defeat us; question was how high a price they would pay. So we had to convince them that price was too high before they had time to bring enough force to bear. A poker game— We intended to raise so steeply that they would fold and drop out. We hoped. And then never have to show our busted flush.
    Communication with Hong Kong Luna was restored at end of first day of radio-video phase, during which time Mike was "throwing rocks," getting first barrage lined up. Prof called—and was I happy to hear! Mike briefed him, then I waited, expecting one of his mild reprimands—bracing self to answer sharply: "And what was I supposed to do? With you out of touch and possibly dead? Me left alone as acting head of government and crisis on top of us? Throw it away, just because you couldn't be reached?"
    Never got to say it. Prof said, "You did exactly right, Manuel. You were acting head of government and the crisis was on top of you. I'm delighted that you did not throw away the golden moment merely because I was out of touch."
    What can you do with a bloke like that? Me with heat up to red mark and no chance to use it—had to swallow and say, "Spasebaw, Prof."
    Prof confirmed death of "Adam Selene." "We could have used the fiction a little longer but this is the perfect opportunity. Mike, you and Manuel have matters in hand; I had better stop off at Churchill on my way home and identify his body."
    So he did. Whether Prof picked a Loonie body or a trooper I never asked, nor how he silenced anybody else involved—perhaps no huhu as many bodies in Churchill Upper were never identified. This one was right size and skin color; it had been explosively decompressed and burned in face—looked awful!
    It lay in state in Old Dome with face covered, and was speech-making I didn't listen to—Mike didn't miss a word; his most human quality was his conceit. Some rockhead wanted to embalm this dead flesh, giving Lenin as a precedent. But Pravda pointed out that Adam was a staunch conservationist and would never want this barbaric exception made. So this unknown soldier, or citizen, or citizen-soldier, wound up in our city's cloaca.
    Which forces me to tell something I've put off. Wyoh was not hurt, merely exhaustion. But Ludmilla never came back. I did not know it—glad I didn't—but she was one of many dead at foot of ramp facing Ben Marche. An explosive bullet hit between her lovely, little-girl breasts. Kitchen knife in her hand had blood on it—! think she had had time to pay Ferryman's Fee.
    Stu came out to Complex to tell me rather than phoning, then went back with me. Stu had not been missing; once fight was over he had gone to Raffles to work with his special codebook—but that can wait. Mum reached him there and he offered to break it to me.
    So then I had to go home for our crying-together—though it is well that nobody reached me until after Mike and I started Hard Rock. When we got home, Stu did not want to come in, not being sure of our ways. Anna came out and almost dragged him in. He was welcome and wanted; many neighbors came to cry. Not as many as with most deaths—but we were just one of many families crying together that day.
    Did not stay long—couldn't; had work to do. I saw Milla just long enough to kiss her good-bye. She was lying in her room and did look as if she did be simply sleeping. Then I stayed a while with my beloveds before going back to pick up load. Had never realized, until that day, how old Mimi is. Sure, she had seen many deaths, some her own descendants. But little Milla's death did seem almost too much for her. Ludmilla was special—Mimi's granddaughter, daughter in all but fact, and by most special exception and through Mimi's intervention her co-wife, most junior to most senior.
    Like all Loonies, we conserve our dead—and am truly glad that barbaric custom of burial was left back on old Earth; our way is better. But Davis family does not put that which comes out of processor into our commercial farming tunnels. No. It goes into our little greenhouse tunnel, there to become roses and daffodils and peonies among soft-singing bees. Tradition says that Black Jack Davis is in there, or whatever atoms of him do remain after many, many, many years of blooming.
    Is a happy place, a beautiful place.
    Came Friday with no answer from F.N. News up from Earthside seemed equal parts unwillingness to believe we had destroyed seven ships and two regiments (F.N. had not even confirmed that a battle had taken place) and complete disbelief that we could bomb Terra, or could matter if we did—they still called it "throwing rice." More time was given to World Series.
    Stu worried because had received no answers to code messages. They had gone via LuNoHoCo's commercial traffic to their Zurich agent, thence to Stu's Paris broker, from him by less usual channels to Dr. Chan, with whom I had once had a talk and with whom Sm had talked later, arranging a communication channel. Stu had pointed out to Dr. Chan that, since Great China was not to be bombed until twelve hours after North America, bombing of Great China could be aborted after bombing of North America was a proved fact—if Great China acted swiftly. Alternatively, Stu had invited Dr. Chan to suggest variations in target if our choices in Great China were not as deserted as we believed them to be.
    Stu fretted—had placed great hopes in quasi-cooperation he had established with Dr. Chan. Me, I had never been sure—only thing I was sure of was that Dr. Chan would not himself sit on a target. But he might not warn his old mother.
    My worries had to do with Mike. Sure, Mike was used to having many loads in trajectory at once—but had never had to astrogate more than one at a time. Now he had hundreds and had promised to deliver twenty-nine of them simultaneously to the exact second at twenty-nine pinpointed targets.
    More than that— For many targets he had backup missiles, to smear that target a second time, a third, or even a sixth, from a few minutes up to three hours after first strike.
    Four great Peace Powers, and some smaller ones, had antimissile defenses; those of North America were supposed to be best. But was subject where even F.N. might not know. All attack weapons were held by Peace Forces but defense weapons were each nation's own pidgin and could be secret. Guesses ranged from India, believed to have no missile interceptors, to North America, believed to be able to do a good job. She had done fairly well in stopping intercontinental H-missiles in Wet Firecracker War past century.
    Probably most of our rocks to North America would reach target simply because aimed where was nothing to protect. But they couldn't afford to ignore missile for Long Island Sound, or rock for 87° W x 42° 30' N—Lake Michigan, center of triangle formed by Chicago, Grand Rapids, Milwaukee. But that heavy gravity makes interception a tough job and very costly; they would try to stop us only where worth it.
    But we couldn't afford to let them stop us. So some rocks were backed up with more rocks. What H-tipped interceptors would do to them even Mike did not know—not enough data. Mike assumed that interceptors would be triggered by radar —but at what distance? Sure, close enough and a steelcased rock is incandescent gas a microsecond later. But is world of difference between a multi-tonne rock and touchy circuitry of an H-missile; what would "kill" latter would simply shove one of our brutes violently aside, cause to miss.
    We needed to prove to them that we could go on throwing cheap rocks long after they ran out of expensive (milliondollar? hundred-thousand-dollar?) H-tipped interceptor rockets. If not proved first time, then next time Terra turned North America toward us, we would go after targets we had been unable to hit first time—backup rocks for second pass, and for third, were already in space, to be nudged where needed.
    If three bombings on three rotations of Terra did not do it, we might still be throwing rocks in '77—till they ran out of interceptors . . . or till they destroyed us (far more likely).
    For a century North American Space Defense Command had been buried in a mountain south of Colorado Springs, Colorado, a city of no other importance. During Wet Firecracker War the Cheyenne Mountain took a direct hit; space defense command post survived—but not sundry deer, trees, most of city and some of top of mountain. What we were about to do should not kill anybody unless they stayed outside on that mountain despite three days' steady warnings. But North American Space Defense Command was to receive full Lunar treatment: twelve rock missiles on first pass, then all we could spare on second rotation, and on third—and so on, until we ran out of steel casings, or were put out of action . . . or North American Directorate hollered quits.
    This was one target where we would not be satisfied to get just one missile to target. We meant to smash that mountain and keep on smashing. To hurt their morale. To let them know we were still around. Disrupt their communications and bash in command post if pounding could do it. Or at least give them splitting headaches and no rest. If we could prove to all Terra that we could drive home a sustained attack on strongest Gibraltar of their space defense, it would save having to prove it by smashing Manhattan or San Francisco.
    Which we would not do even if losing. Why? Hard sense. If we used our last strength to destroy a major city, they would not punish us; they would destroy us. As Prof put it, "If possible, leave room for your enemy to become your friend."
    But any military target is fair game.
    Don't think anybody got much sleep Thursday night. All Loonies knew that Friday morning would be our big try. And everybody Earthside knew and at last their news admitted that Spacetrack had picked up objects headed for Terra, presumably "rice bowls" those rebellious convicts had boasted about. But was not a war warning, was mostly assurances that Moon colony could not possibly build H-bombs——but might be prudent to avoid areas which these criminals claimed to be aiming at. (Except one funny boy, popular news comic who said our targets would be safest place to be—this on video, standing on a big X-mark which he claimed was 110W x 40N. Don't recall hearing of him later.)
    A reflector at Richardson Observatory was hooked up for video display and I think every Loonie was watching, in homes, taprooms, Old Dome—except a few who chose to p-suit and eyeball it up on surface despite being bright semi-lunar at most warrens. At Brigadier Judge Brody's insistence we hurriedly rigged a helper antenna at catapult head so that his drillmen could watch video in ready rooms, else we might not have had a gunner on duty. (Armed forces—Brody's gunners, Finn's militia, Stilyagi Air Corps—stayed on blue alert throughout period.)
    Congress was in informal session in Novy Bolshoi Teatr where Terra was shown on a big screen. Some vips—Prof, Stu, Wolfgang, others—watched a smaller screen in Warden's former office in Complex Upper. I was with them part time, in and out, nervous as a cat with puppies, grabbing a sandwich and forgetting to eat—but mostly stayed locked in with Mike in Complex Under. Couldn't hold still.
    About 0800 Mike said, "Man my oldest and best friend, may I say something without offending you?"
    "Huh? Sure. When did you ever worry about offending me?"
    "Always, Man, once I understood that you could be offended. It is now only three point five seven times ten to the ninth microseconds until impact . . . and this is the most complex problem I have ever tried to solve against real time running. Whenever you speak to me, I always use a large percentage of my capacity—perhaps larger than you suspect—during several million microseconds in my great need to analyze exactly what you have said and to reply correctly."
    "You're saying, 'Don't joggle my elbow, I'm busy.'"
    "I want to give you a perfect solution, Man."
    "I scan. Uh . . . I'll go back up with Prof."
    "As you wish. But do please stay where I can reach you—I may need your help."
    Last was nonsense and we both knew it; problem was beyond human capacity, too late even to order abort. What Mike meant was: I'm nervous, too, and want your company—but no talking, please.
    "Okay, Mike, I'll stay in touch. A phone somewhere. Will punch MYCROFTXXX but won't speak, so don't answer."
    "Thank you, Man my best friend. Bolshoyeh spasebaw."
    "See you later." Went up, decided did not want company after all, p-suited, found long phone cord, jacked it into helmet, looped it over arm, went clear to surface. Was a service phone in utility shed outside lock; jacked into it, punched Mike's number, went outside. Got into shade of shed and pecked around edge at Terra.
    She was hanging as usual halfway up western sky, in crescent big and gaudy, three-plus days past new. Sun had dropped toward western horizon but its glare kept me from seeing Terra clearly. Chin visor wasn't enough so moved back behind shed and away from it till could see Terra over shed while still shielded from Sun—was better. Sunrise chopped through bulge of Africa so dazzle point was on land, not too bad—but south pole cap was so blinding white could not see North America too well, lighted only by moonlight.
    Twisted neck and got helmet binoculars on it—good ones, Zeiss 7 x 50s that had once belonged to Warden.
    North America spread like a ghostly map before me. Was unusually free of cloud; could see cities, glowing spots with no edges. 0837—
    At 0850 Mike gave me a voice countdown—didn't need his attention; he could have programmed it full automatic any time earlier.
    0851—0852—0853. . . . one minute—59—58—57 . . . . half minute—29—-28—27 . . . . ten seconds—nine—eight— seven— six—five—four—three—two—one—
    And suddenly that grid burst out in diamond pinpoints!

26

    We hit them so hard you could see it, by bare eyeball hookup; didn't need binox. Chin dropped and I said, "Bojemoi!" softly and reverently. Twelve very bright, very sharp, very white lights in perfect rectangular array. They swelled, grew dimmer, dropped off toward red, taking what seemed a long, long time. Were other new lights but that perfect grid so fascinated me I hardly noticed.
    "Yes," agreed Mike with smug satisfaction. "Dead on. You can talk now, Man; I'm not busy. Just the backups."
    "I'm speechless. Any fail to get through?"
    "The Lake Michigan load was kicked up and sideways, did not disintegrate. It will land in Michigan—I have no control; it lost its transponder. The Long Island Sound one went straight to target. They tried to intercept and failed; I can't say why. Man, I can abort the follow-ups on that one, into the Atlantic and clear of shipping. Shall I? Eleven seconds."
    "Uh— Da! If you can miss shipping."
    "I said I could. It's done. But we should tell them we had backups and why we aborted. To make them think."
    "Maybe should not have aborted, Mike. Idea was to make them use up interceptors."
    "But the major idea was to let them know that we are not hitting them as hard as we can. We can prove the other at Colorado Springs."
    "What happened there?" Twisted neck and used binox; could see nothing but ribbon city, hundred-plus kilometers long, Denver-Pueblo Municipal Strip.
    "A bull's-eye. No interception. All my shots are bull's-eyes, Man; I told you they would be—and this is fun. I'd like to do it every day. It's a word I never had a referent for before."
    "What word, Mike?"
    "Orgasm. That's what it is when they all light up. Now I know."
    That sobered me. "Mike, don't get to liking it too much. Because if goes our way, won't do it a second time."
    "That's okay, Man; I've stored it, I can play it over anytime I want to experience it. But three to one we do it again tomorrow and even money on the next day. Want to bet? An hour's discussion of jokes equated with one hundred Kong dollars."
    "Where would you get a hundred dollars?"
    He chuckled. "Where do you think money comes from?"
    "Uh—forget it. You get that hour free. Shan't tempt you to affect chances."
    "I wouldn't cheat, Man, not you. We just hit their defense command again. You may not be able to see it—dust cloud from first one. They get it every twenty minutes now. Come on down and talk; I've turned the job over to my idiot son."
    "Is safe?"
    "I'm monitoring. Good practice for him, Man; he may have to do it later by himself. He's accurate, just stupid. But he'll do what you tell him to."
    "You're calling that computer 'he.' Can talk?"
    "Oh, no, Man, he's an idiot, he can never learn to talk. But he'll do whatever you program. I plan to let him handle quite a bit on Saturday."
    "Why Saturday?"
    "Because Sunday he may have to handle everything. That's the day they slam us."
    "What do you mean? Mike, you're holding something back."
    "I'm telling you, am I not? It's just happened and I'm scanning it. Projecting back, this blip departed circum-Terra parking orbit just as we smashed them. I didn't see it accelerate; I had other things to watch. It's too far away to read but it's the right size for a Peace cruiser, headed this way. Its doppler reads now for a new orbit circum-Luna, periselenion oh-nine-oh-three Sunday unless it maneuvers. First approximation, better data later. Hard to get that much, Man; he's using radar countermeasures and throwing back fuzz."
    "Sure you're right?"
    He chuckled. "Man, I don't confuse that easily. I've got all my own lovin' little signals fingerprinted. Correction. Oh-nineoh-two-point-forty-three."
    "When will you have him in range?"
    "I won't, unless he maneuvers. But he'll have me in range late Saturday, time depending on what range he chooses for launching. And that will produce an interesting situation. He may aim for a warren—I think Tycho Under should be evacuated and all warrens should use maximum pressure-emergency measures. More likely he will try for the catapult. But instead he may hold his fire as long as he dares—then try to knock out all of my radars with a spread set to home each on a different radar beam."
    Mike chuckled. "Amusing, isn't it? For a 'funny-once' I mean. If I shut down my radars, his missiles can't home on them. But if I do, I can't see to tell the lads where to point their guns. Which leaves nothing to stop him from bombing the catapult. Comical."
    Took deep breath and wished I had never entered defense ministry business. "What do we do? Give up? No, Mike! Not while can fight."
    "Who said anything about giving up? I've run projections of this and a thousand other possible situations, Man. New datum—second blimp just departed circum-Terra, same characteristics. Projection later. We don't give up. We give 'em jingle-jangle, cobber."
    "How?"
    "Leave it to your old friend Mycroft. Six ballistic radars here, plus one at the new site. I've shut the new one down and am making my retarded child work through number two here and we won't look at those ships at all through the new one—never let them know we have it. I'm watching those ships through number three and occasionally—every three seconds—checking for new departures from circum-Terra. All others have their eyes closed tight and I won't use them until time to smack Great China and India—and those ships won't see them even then because I shan't look their way; it's a large angle and still will be then. And when I use them, then comes random jingle-jangle, shutting down and starting up at odd intervals . . . after the ships launch missiles. A missile can't carry a big brain, Man—I'll fool 'em."
    "What about ships' fire-control computers?"
    "I'll fool them, too. Want to lay odds I can't make two radars look like only one halfway between where they really are? But what I'm working on now—and sorry!—I've been using your voice again."
    "That's okay. What am I supposed to have done?"
    "If that admiral is really smart, he'll go after the ejection end of the old catapult with everything he's got—at extreme range, too far away for our drill guns. Whether he knows what our 'secret' weapon is or not, he'll smear the catapult and ignore the radars. So I've ordered the catapult head—you have, I mean—to prepare to launch every load we can get ready, and I am now working out new, long-period trajectories for each of them. Then we will throw them all, get them into space as quickly as possible—without radar."
    "Blind?"
    "I don't use radar to launch a load; you know that, Man. I always watched them in the past but I don't need to; radar has nothing to do with launching; launching is pre-calculation and exact control of the catapult. So we place all ammo from the old catapult in slow trajectories, which forces the admiral to go after the radars rather than the catapult—or both. Then we'll keep him busy. We may make him so desperate that he'll come down for a close shot and give our lads a chance to burn his eyes."
    "Brody's boys would like that. Those who are sober." Was turning over idea. "Mike, have you watched video today?"
    "I've monitored video, I can't say I've watched it. Why?"
    "Take a look."
    "Okay, I have. Why?"
    "That's a good 'scope they're using for video and there are others. Why use radar on ships? Till you want Brody's boys to burn them?"
    Mike was silent at least two seconds. "Man my best friend, did you ever think of getting a job as a computer?"
    "Is sarcasm?"
    "Not at all, Man. I feel ashamed. The instruments at Richardson—telescopes and other things—are factors which I simply never included in my calculations. I'm stupid, I admit it. Yes, yes, yes, da, da, da! Watch ships by telescope, don't use radar unless they vary from present ballistics. Other possibilities—I don't know what to say, Man, save that it had never occurred to me that I could use telescopes. I see by radar, always have; I simply never consid—"
    "Stow it!"
    "I mean it, Man."
    "Do I apologize when you think of something first?"
    Mike said slowly, "There is something about that which I am finding resistant to analysis. It is my function to—"
    "Quit fretting. If idea is good, use it. May lead to more ideas. Switching off and coming down, chop-chop."
    Had not been in Mike's room long when Prof phoned:
    "HQ? Have you heard from Field Marshal Davis?"
    "I'm here, Prof. Master computer room."
    "Will you join us in the Warden's office? There are decisions to reach, work to be done."
    "Prof, I've been working! Am working."
    "I'm sure you have. I've explained to the others that the programming of the ballistic computer is so very delicate in this operation that you must check it personally. Nevertheless some of our colleagues feel that the Minister of Defense should be present during these discussions. So, when you reach a point where you feel you can turn it over to your assistant—Mike is his name, is it not?—will you please—"
    "I scan it. Okay, will be up."
    "Very well, Manuel."
    Mike said, "I could hear thirteen people in the background. Doubletalk, Man."
    "I got it. Better go up and see what huhu. You don't need me?"
    "Man, I hope you will stay close to a phone."
    "Will. Keep an ear on Warden's office. But will punch in if elsewhere. See you, cobber."
    Found entire government in Warden's office, both real Cabinet and make-weights—and soon spotted trouble, bloke called Howard Wright. A ministry had been whomped up for him: "Liaison for Arts, Sciences, and Professions"—buttonsorting. Was sop to Novylen because Cabinet was topheavy with L-City comrades, and a sop to Wright because he had made himself leader of a Congress group long on talk, short on action. Prof's purpose was to short him out—but sometimes Prof was too subtle; some people talk better if they breathe vacuum.
    Prof asked me to brief Cabinet on military situation. Which I did—my way. "I see Finn is here. Let's have him tell where we stand in warrens."
    Wright spoke up. "General Nielsen has already done so, no need to repeat. We want to hear from you."
    Blinked at that. "Prof— Excuse me. Gospodin President. Do I understand that a Defense Ministry report has been made to Cabinet in my absence?"
    Wright said, "Why not? You weren't on hand."
    Prof grabbed it. He could see I was stretched too tight. Hadn't slept much for three days, hadn't been so tired since left Earthside. "Order," he said mildly. "Gospodin Minister for Professional Liaison, please address your comments through me. Gospodin Minister for Defense, let me correct that. There have been no reports to the Cabinet concerning your ministry for the reason that the Cabinet did not convene until you arrived. General Nielsen answered some informal questions informally. Perhaps this should not have been done. If you feel so, I will attempt to repair it."
    "No harm done, I guess. Finn talked to you a half hour ago. Anything new since?"
    "No, Mannie."
    "Okay. Guess what you want to hear is off-Luna situation. You've been watching so you know first bombardment went off well. Still going on, some, as we're hitting their space defense HQ every twenty minutes. Will continue till thirteen hundred, then at twenty-one hundred we hit China and India, plus minor targets. Then busy till four hours past midnight with Africa and Europe, skip three hours, dose Brasil and company, wait three hours and start over. Unless something breaks. But meantime we have problems here. Finn, we should evacuate Tycho Under."
    "Just a moment!" Wright had hand up. "I have questions." Spoke to Prof, not to me.
    "One moment. Has the Defense Minister finished?"
    Wyoh was seated toward back. We had swapped smiles, but was all—kept it so around Cabinet and Congress; had been rumbles that two from same family should not be in Cabinet. Now she shook head, warning of something. I said, "Is all concerning bombardment. Questions about it?"
    "Are your questions concerned with the bombardment, Gospodin Wright?"
    "They certainly are, Gospodin President." Wright stood up, looked at me. "As you know, I represent the intellectual groups in the Free State and, if I may say so, their opinions are most important in public affairs. I think it is only proper that—"
    "Moment," I said. "Thought you represented Eighth Novylen District?"
    "Gospodin President! Am I to be permitted to put my questions? Or not?"
    "He wasn't asking question, was making speech. And I'm tired and want to go to bed."
    Prof said gently, "We are all tired, Manuel. But your point is well taken. Congressman, you represent only your district. As a member of the government you have been assigned certain duties in connection with certain professions."
    "It comes to the same thing."
    "Not quite. Please state your question."
    "Uh . . . very well, I shall! Is Field Marshal Davis aware that his bombardment plan has gone wrong completely and that thousands of lives have been pointlessly destroyed? And is he aware of the extremely serious view taken of this by the intelligentsia of this Republic? And can he explain why this rash—I repeat, rash!—bombardment was undertaken without consultation? And is he now prepared to modify his plans, or is he going blindly ahead? And is it true as charged that our missiles were of the nuclear sort outlawed by all civilized nations? And how does he expect Luna Free State ever to be welcomed into the councils of civilized nations in view of such actions?"
    I looked at watch—hour and a half since first load hit. "Prof," I said, "can you tell me what this is about?"
    "Sorry, Manuel," he said gently. "I intended—I should have—prefaced the meeting with an item from the news. But you seemed to feel that you had been bypassed and—well, I did not. The Minister refers to a news dispatch that came in just before I called you. Reuters in Toronto. If the flash is correct—then instead of taking our warnings it seems that thousands of sightseers crowded to the targets. There probably have been casualties. How many we do not know."
    "I see. What was I supposed to do? Take each one by hand and lead away? We warned them."
    Wright cut in with, "The intelligentsia feel that basic humanitarian considerations make it obligatory—"
    I said, "Listen, yammerhead, you heard President say this news just came in—so how do you know how anybody feels about it?"
    He turned red. "Gospodin President! Epithets! Personalities!"
    "Don't call the Minister names, Manuel."
    "Won't if he won't. He's simply using fancier words. What's that nonsense about nuclear bombs? We haven't any and you all know it."
    Prof looked puzzled. "I am confused by that, too. This dispatch so alleged. But the thing that puzzled me is that we could actually see, by video, what certainly seemed to be atomic explosions."
    "Oh." I turned to Wright. "Did your brainy friends tell you what happens when you release a few billion calories in a split second all at one spot? What temperature? How much radiance?"
    "Then you admit that you did use atomic weapons!"
    "Oh, Bog!" Head was aching. "Said nothing of sort. Hit anything hard enough, strike sparks. Elementary physics, known to everybody but intelligentsia. We just struck damnedest big sparks ever made by human agency, is all. Big flash. Heat, light, ultraviolet. Might even produce X-rays, couldn't say. Gamma radiation I strongly doubt. Alpha and beta, impossible. Was sudden release of mechanical energy. But nuclear? Nonsense!"
    Prof said, "Does that answer your questions, Mr. Minister?"
    "It simply raises more questions. For example, this bombardment is far beyond anything the Cabinet authorized. You saw the shocked faces when those terrible lights appeared on the screen. Yet the Minister of Defense says that it is even now continuing, every twenty minutes. I think—"
    Glanced at watch. "Another just hit Cheyenne Mountain."
    Wright said, "You hear that? You hear? He boasts of it. Gospodin President, this carnage must stop!"
    I said, "Yammer— Minister, are you suggesting that their space defense HQ is not a military target? Which side are you on? Luna's? Or F.N.?"
    "Manuel!"
    "Tired of this nonsense! Was told to do job, did it. Get this yammerhead off my back!"
    Was shocked silence, then somebody said quietly, "May I make a suggestion?"
    Prof looked around. "If anyone has a suggestion that will quiet this unseemliness, I will be most happy to hear it."
    "Apparently we don't have very good information as to what these bombs are doing. It seems to me that we ought to slow up that twenty-minute schedule. Stretch it out, say to one every hour—and skip the next two hours while we get more news. Then we might want to postpone the attack on great China at least twenty-four hours."
    Were approving nods from almost everybody and murmurs: "Sensible idea!"—"Da. Let's not rush things." Prof said, "Manuel?"
    I snapped, "Prof, you know answer! Don't shove it on me!"
    "Perhaps I do, Manuel . . . but I'm tired and confused and can't remember it."
    Wyoh said suddenly, "Mannie, explain it. I need it explained, too."
    So pulled self together. "A simple matter of law of gravitation. Would have to use computer to give exact answer but next half dozen shots are fully committed. Most we can do is push them off target—and maybe hit some town we haven't warned. Can't dump them into an ocean, is too late; Cheyenne Mountain is fourteen hundred kilometers inland. As for stretching schedule to once an hour, that's silly. Aren't tube capsules you start and stop; these are falling rocks. Going to hit somewhere every twenty minutes. You can hit Cheyenne Mountain which hasn't anything alive left on it by now—or can hit somewhere else and kill people. Idea of delaying strike on Great China by twenty-four hours is just as silly. Can abort missiles for Great China for a while yet. But can't slow them up. If you abort, you waste them—and everybody who thinks we have steel casings to waste had better go up to catapult head and look."
    Prof wiped brow. "I think all questions have been answered, at least to my satisfaction."
    "Not to mine, sir!"
    "Sit down, Gospodin Wright. You force me to remind you that your ministry is not part of the War Cabinet. If there are no more questions—I hope there are none—I will adjourn this meeting. We all need rest. So let us—"
    "Prof!"
    "Yes, Manuel?"
    "You never let me finish reporting. Late tomorrow or early Sunday we catch it."
    "How, Manuel?"
    "Bombing. Invasion possible. Two cruisers headed this way."
    That got attention. Presently Prof said tiredly, "The Government Cabinet is adjourned. The War Cabinet will remain."
    "Just a second," I said. "Prof, when we took office, you got undated resignations from us."
    "True. I hope not to have to use any of them, however."
    "You're about to use one."
    "Manuel, is that a threat?"
    "Call it what you like." I pointed at Wright. "Either that yammerhead goes . . . or I go."
    "Manuel, you need sleep."
    Was blinking back tears. "Certainly do! And going to get some. Right now! Going to find a doss here at Complex and get some. About ten hours. After that, if am still Minister of Defense, you can wake me. Otherwise let me sleep."
    By now everybody was looking shocked. Wyoh came up and stood by me. Didn't speak, just slipped hand into my arm.
    Prof said firmly, "All please leave save the War Cabinet and Gospodin Wright." He waited while most filed out. Then said, "Manuel, I can't accept your resignation. Nor can I let you chivvy me into hasty action concerning Gospodin Wright, not when we are tired and overwrought. It would be better if you two were to exchange apologies, each realizing that the other has been overstrained."
    "Uh—" I turned to Finn. "Has he been fighting?" I indicated Wright.
    "Huh? Hell, no. At least he's not in my outfits. How about it, Wright? Did you fight when they invaded us?'
    Wright said stiffly, "I had no opportunity. By the time I knew of it, it was over. But now both my bravery and my loyalty have been impugned. I shall insist—"
    "Oh, shut up," I said. "If duel is what you want, can have it first moment I'm not busy. Prof, since he doesn't have strain of fighting as excuse for behavior, I won't apologize to a yammerhead for being a yammerhead. And you don't seem to understand issue. You let this yammerhead climb on my back—and didn't even try to stop him! So either fire him, or fire me."
    Finn said suddenly, "I match that, Prof. Either fire this louse—or fire us both." He looked at Wright. "About that duel, choom—you're going to fight me first. You've got two arms—Mannie hasn't."
    "Don't need two arms for him. But thanks, Finn."
    Wyoh was crying—could feel it though couldn't hear it. Prof said to her most sadly, "Wyoming?"
    "I'm s-s-sorry, Prof! Me, too."
    Only "Clayton" Watenabe, Judge Brody, Wolfgang, Stu, and Sheenie were left, handful who counted—War Cabinet. Prof looked at them; I could see they were with me, though it cost Wolfgang an effort; he worked with Prof. not with me.
    Prof looked back at me and said softly, "Manuel, it works both ways. What you are doing is forcing me to resign." He looked around. "Goodnight, comrades. Or rather, 'Good morning.' I'm going to get some badly needed rest." He walked briskly out without looking back.
    Wright was gone; I didn't see him leave. Finn said, "What about these cruisers, Mannie?"
    I took deep breath. "Nothing earlier than Saturday afternoon. But you ought to evacuate Tycho Under. Can't talk now. Groggy."
    Agreed to meet him there at twenty-one hundred, then let Wyoh lead me away. Think she put me to bed but don't remember.

27

    Prof was there when I met Finn in Warden's office shortly before twenty-one hundred Friday. Had had nine hours' sleep, bath, breakfast Wyoh had fetched from somewhere, and a talk with Mike—everything going to revised plan, ships had not changed ballistic, Great China strike about to happen.
    Got to office in time to see strike by video—all okay and effectively over by twenty-one-oh-one and Prof got down to business. Nothing said about Wright, or about resigning. Never saw Wright again.
    I mean I never saw him again. Nor ask about him. Prof didn't mention row, so I didn't.
    We went over news and tactical situation. Wright had been correct in saying that "thousands of lives" had been lost; news up from Earthside was full of it. How many we'll never know; if a person stands at ground zero and tonnes of rock land on him, isn't much left. Those they could count were ones farther away, killed by blast. Call if fifty thousand in North America.
    Never will understand people! We spent three days warning them—and you couldn't say they hadn't heard warnings; that was why they were there. To see show. To laugh at our nonsense. To get "souvenirs." Whole families went to targets, some with picnic baskets. Picnic baskets! Bojemoi!
    And now those alive were yelling for our blood for this "senseless slaughter." Da. Hadn't been any indignation over their invasion and (nuclear!) bombing of us four days earlier— but oh were they sore over our "premeditated murder." Great New York Times demanded that entire Lunar "rebel" government be fetched Earthside and publicly executed— "This is clearly a case in which the humane rule against capital punishment must be waived in the greater interests of all mankind."
    Tried not to think about it, just as had been forced not to think too much about Ludmilla. Little Milla hadn't carried a picnic lunch. She hadn't been a sightseer looking for thrills.
    Tycho Under was pressing problem. If those ships bombed warrens—and news from Earthside was demanding exactly that—Tycho Under could not take it; roof was thin. H-bomb would decompress all levels; airlocks aren't built for H-bomb blasts.
    (Still don't understand people. Terra was supposed to have an absolute ban against using H-bombs on people; that was what F.N. was all about. Yet were loud yells for F.N. to H-bomb us. They quit claiming that our bombs were nuclear, but all North America seemed frothingly anxious to have us nukebombed)
    Don't understand Loonies for that matter. Finn had sent word through his militia that Tycho Under must be evacuated; Prof had repeated it over video. Nor was it problem; Tycho Under was small enough that Novylen and L-City could doss and dine them. We could divert enough capsules to move them all in twenty hours—dump them into Novylen and encourage half of them to go on to L-City. Big job but no problems. Oh, minor problems—start compressing city's air while evacuating people, so as to save it; decompress fully at end to minimize damage; move as much food as was time for; cofferdam accesses to lower farm tunnels; so forth—all things we knew how to do and with stilyagi and militia and municipal maintenance people had organization to do.
    Had they started evacuating? Hear that hollow echo!
    Were capsules lined up nose to tail at Tycho Under and no room to send more till some left. And weren't moving. "Mannie," said Finn, "don't think they are going to evacuate."
    "Damn it," I said, "they've got to. When we spot a missile headed for Tycho Under will be too late. You'll have people trampling people and trying to crowd into capsules that won't hold them. Finn, your boys have got to make them."
    Prof shook his head. "No, Manuel."
    I said angrily, "Prof, you carry this 'no coercion' idea too far! You know they'll riot."
    "Then they will riot. But we will continue with persuasion, not force. Let us now review plans.'
    Plans weren't much but were best we could do. Warn everybody about expected bombings and/or invasion. Rotate guards from Finn's militia above each warren starting when and if cruisers passed around Luna into blind space, Farside—not get caught flat-footed again. Maximum pressure and p-suit precautions, all warrens. All military and semi-military to go on blue alert sixteen hundred Saturday, red alert if missiles launched or ships maneuvered. Brody's gunners encouraged to go into town and get drunk or whatever, returning by fifteen hundred Saturday—Prof's idea. Finn wanted to keep half of them on duty. Prof said No, they would be in better shape for a long vigil if they relaxed and enjoyed selves first—I agreed with Prof.
    As for bombing Terra we made no changes in first rotation. Were getting anguished responses from India, no news from Great China. Yet India had little to moan about. Had not used a grid on her, too heavily populated. Aside from picked spots in Thar Desert and some peaks, targets were coastal waters off seaports.
    But should have picked higher mountains or given less warning; seemed from news that some holy man followed by endless pilgrims chose to climb each target peak and hold off our retaliation by sheer spiritual strength.
    So we were murderers again. Besides that, our water shots killed millions of fish and many fishermen, as fishermen and other seafarers had not heeded warnings. Indian government seemed as furious over fish as over fishermen—but principle of sacredness of all life did not apply to us; they wanted our heads.
    Africa and Europe responded more sensibly but differently. Life has never been sacred in Africa and those who went sightseeing on targets got little bleeding-heart treatment. Europe had a day to learn that we could hit where we promised and that our bombs were deadly. People killed, yes, especially bullheaded sea captains. But not killed in empty-headed swarms as in India and North America. Casualties were even lighter in Brasil and other parts of South America.
    Then was North America's turn again—0950.28 Saturday 17 Oct '76.
    Mike timed it for exactly 1000 our time which, allowing for one day's progress of Luna in orbit and for rotation of Terra, caused North America to face toward us at 0500 their East Coast time and 0200 their West Coast time.
    But argument as to what to do with this targeting had started early Saturday morning. Prof had not called meeting of War Cabinet but they showed up anyhow, except "Clayton" Watenabe who had gone back to Kongville to take charge of defenses. Prof, self, Finn, Wyoh, Judge Brody, Wolfgang, Stu, Terence Sheehan—which made eight different opinions. Prof is right; more than three people can't decide anything.
    Six opinions, should say, for Wyoh kept pretty mouth shut, and so did Prof; he moderated. But others were noisy enough for eighteen. Stu didn't care what we hit—provided New York Stock Exchange opened on Monday morning. "We sold short in nineteen different directions on Thursday. If this nation is not to be bankrupt before it's out of its cradle, my buy orders covering those shorts had better be executed. Tell them, Wolf; make them understand."
    Brody wanted to use catapult to smack any more ships leaving parking orbit. Judge knew nothing about ballistics—simply understood that his drillmen were in exposed positions. I didn't argue as most remaining loads were already in stow orbits and rest would be soon—and didn't think we would have old catapult much longer.
    Sheenie thought it would be smart to repeat that grid while placing one load exactly on main building of North American Directorate. "I know Americans, I was one before they shipped me. They're sorry as hell they ever turned things over to F.N. Knock off those bureaucrats and they'll come over to our side."
    Wolfgang Korsakov, to Stu's disgust, thought that these speculations might do better if all stock exchanges were closed till it was over.
    Finn wanted to go for broke—warn them to get those ships out of our sky, then hit them for real if they didn't. "Sheenie is wrong about Americans; I know them, too. N.A. is toughest part of F.N.; they're the ones to lick. They're already calling us murderers, so now we've got to hit them, hard! Hit American cities and we can call off the rest."
    I slid out, talked with Mike, made notes. Went back in; they were still arguing. Prof looked up as I sat down. "Field Marshal, you have not expressed your opinion."
    I said, "Prof, can't we lay off that 'field marshal' nonsense? Children are in bed, can afford to be honest."
    "As you wish, Manuel."
    "Been waiting to see if any agreement would be reached."
    Was none. "Don't see why I should have opinion," I went on. "Am just errand boy, here because I know how to program ballistic computer." Said this looking straight at Wolfgang—a number-one comrade but a dirty-word intellectual. I'm just a mechanic whose grammar isn't much while Wolf graduated from a fancy school, Oxford, before they convicted him. He deferred to Prof but rarely to anybody else. Stu, da—but Stu had fancy credentials, too.
    Wolf stirred uneasily and said, "Oh, come, Mannie, of course we want your opinions."
    "Don't have any. Bombing plan was worked out carefully; everybody had chance to criticize. Haven't seen anything justify changing it."
    Prof said, "Manuel, will you review the second bombardment of North America for the benefit of all of us?"
    "Okay. Purpose of second smearing is to force them to use up interceptor rockets. Every shot is aimed at big cities—at null targets, I mean, close to big cities. Which we tell them, shortly before we hit them—how soon, Sheenie?"
    "We're telling them now. But we can change it. And should."
    "As may be. Propaganda isn't my pidgin. In most cases, to aim close enough to force them to intercept we have to use water targets—rough enough; besides killing fish and anybody who won't stay off water, it causes tremjous local storms and shore damage."
    Glanced at watch, saw I would have to stall. "Seattle gets one in Puget Sound right in her lap. San Francisco is going to lose two bridges she's fond of. Los Angeles gets one between Long Beach and Catalina and another a few kilometers up coast. Mexico City is inland so we put one on Popocatepetl where they can see it. Salt Lake City gets one in her lake. Denver we ignore; they can see what's happening in Colorado Springs—for we smack Cheyenne Mountain again and keep it up, just as soon as we have it in line-of-sight. Saint Louis and Kansas City get shots in their rivers and so does New Orleans—probably flood New Orleans. All Great Lake cities get it, a long list—shall I read it?"
    "Later perhaps," said Prof. "Go ahead."
    "Boston gets one in her harbor, New York gets one in Long Island Sound and another midway between her two biggest bridges—think it will ruin those bridges but we promise to miss them and will. Going down their east coast, we give treatment to two Delaware Bay cities, then two on Chesapeake Bay, one being of max historical and sentimental importance. Farther south we catch three more big cities with sea shots, Going inland we smack Cincinnati, Birmingham, Chattanooga, Oklahoma City, all with river shots or nearby mountains. Oh, yes, Dallas—we destroy Dallas spaceport and should catch some ships, were six there last time I checked. Won't kill any people unless they insist on standing on target; Dallas is perfect place to bomb, that spaceport is big and flat and empty, yet maybe ten million people will see us hit it."
    "If you hit it," said Sheenie.
    "When, not 'if.' Each shot is backed up by one an hour later. If neither one gets through, we have shots farther back which can be diverted—for example easy to shift targets among Delaware-Bay-Chesapeake-Bay group. Same for Great Lakes group. But Dallas has its own string of backups and a long one—we expect it to be heavily defended. Backups run about six hours, as long as we can see North America—and last backups can be placed anywhere on continent . . . since farther out a load is when we divert it, farther we can shift it."
    "I don't follow that," said Brody.
    "A matter of vectors, Judge. A guidance rocket can give a load so many meters per second of side vector. Longer that vector has to work, farther from original point of aim load will land. If we signal a guidance rocket three hours before impact, we displace impact three times as much as if we waited till one hour before impact. Not quite that simple but our computer can figure it—if you give it time enough."
    "How long is 'time enough'?" asked Wolfgang.
    I carefully misunderstood. "Computer can solve that sort of problem almost instantaneously once you program it. But such decisions are pre-programmed. Something like this: If, out of target group A, B, C, and D, you find that you have failed to hit three targets on first and second salvoes, you reposition all group-one second backups so that you will be able to choose those three targets while distributing other second backups of that group for possible use on group two while repositioning third backups of supergroup Alpha such that—"
    "Slow up!" said Wolfgang. "I'm not a computer. I just want to know how long before we have to make up our minds."
    "Oh." I studied watch showily. "You now have . . . three minutes fifty-eight seconds in which to abort leading load for Kansas City. Abort program is set up and I have my best assistant—fellow named Mike—standing by. Shall I phone him?"
    Sheenie said, "For heaven's sake, Man—abort!"
    "Like hell!" said Finn. "What's matter, Terence? No guts?"
    Prof said, "Comrades! Please!"
    I said, "Look, I take orders from head of state—Prof over there. If he wants opinions, he'll ask. No use yelling at each other." I looked at watch. "Call it two and a half minutes. More margin, of course, for other targets; Kansas City is farthest from deep water. But some Great Lake cities are already past ocean abort; Lake Superior is best we can do. Salt Lake City maybe an extra minute. Then they pile up." I waited.
    "Roll call," said Prof. "To carry-out the program. General Nielsen?"
    "Da!"
    "Gospazha Davis?"
    Wyoh caught breath. "Da."   
    "Judge Brody?"
    "Yes, of course. Necessary."
    "Wolfgang?"
    "Yes."
    "Comte LaJoie?"
    "Da."
    "Gospodin Sheehan?"
    "You're missing a bet. But I'll go along. Unanimous."
    "One moment. Manuel?"
    "Is up to you, Prof; always has been. Voting is silly."
    "I am aware that it is up to me, Gospodin Minister. Carry out bombardment to plan."

    Most targets we managed to hit by second salvo though all were defended except Mexico City. Seemed likely (98.3 percent by Mike's later calculation) that interceptors were exploding by radar fusing with set distances that incorrectly estimated vulnerability of solid cylinders of rock. Only three rocks were destroyed; others were pushed off course and thereby did more harm than if not fired at.
    New York was tough; Dallas turned out to be very tough. Perhaps difference lay in local control of interception, for it seemed unlikely that command post in Cheyenne Mountain was still effective. Perhaps we had not cracked their hole in the ground (don't know how deep down it was) but I'll bet that neither men nor computers were still tracking.
    Dallas blew up or pushed aside first five rocks, so I told Mike to take everything he could from Cheyenne Mountain and award it to Dallas . . . which he was able to do two salvoes later; those two targets are less than a thousand kilometers apart.
    Dallas's defenses cracked on next salvo; Mike gave their spaceport three more (already committed) then shifted back to Cheyenne Mountain—later ones had never been nudged and were still earmarked "Cheyenne Mountain." He was still giving that battered mountain cosmic love pats when America rolled down and under Terra's eastern edge.
    I stayed with Mike all during bombardment, knowing it would be our toughest. As he shut down till time to dust Great China, Mike said thoughtfully, "Man, I don't think we had better hit that mountain again."
    "Why not, Mike?"
    "It's not there any longer."
    "You might divert its backups. When do you have to decide?"
    "I would put them on Albuquerque and Omaha but had best start now; tomorrow will be busy. Man my best friend, you should leave."
    "Bored with me, pal?"
    "In the next few hours that first ship may launch missiles. When that happens I want to shift all ballistic control to Little David's Sling—and when I do, you should be at Mare Undarum site."
    "What's fretting you, Mike?"
    "That boy is accurate, Man. But he's stupid. I want him supervised. Decisions may have to be made in a hurry and there isn't anyone there who can program him properly. You should be there."
    "Okay if you say so, Mike. But if needs a fast program, will still have to phone you." Greatest shortcoming of computers isn't computer shortcoming at all but fact that a human takes a long time, maybe hours, to set up a program that a computer solves in milliseconds. One best quality of Mike was that he could program himself. Fast. Just explain problem, let him program. Samewise and equally, he could program "idiot son" enormously faster than human could.
    "But, Man, I want you there because you may not be able to phone me; the lines may be cut. So I've prepared a group of possible programs for Junior; they may be helpful."
    "Okay, print 'em out. And let me talk to Prof."
    Mike got Prof; I made sure he was private, then explained what Mike thought I should do. Thought Prof would object—was hoping he would insist I stay through coming bombardment/invasion/whatever—those ships. Instead he said, "Manuel, it's essential that you go. I've hesitated to tell you. Did you discuss odds with Mike?"
    "Nyet."
    "I have continued to do so. To put it bluntly, if Luna City is destroyed and I am dead and the rest of the government is dead—even if all Mike's radar eyes here are blinded and he himself is cut off from the new catapult—all of which may happen under severe bombardment . . . even if all this happens at once, Mike still gives Luna even chances if Little David's Sling can operate—and you are there to operate it."
    I said, "Da, Boss. Yassuh, Massuh. You and Mike are stinkers and want to hog fun. Will do."
    "Very good, Manuel."
    Stayed with Mike another hour while he printed out meter after meter of programs tailored to other computer—work that would have taken me six months even if able to think of all possibilities. Mike had it indexed and cross-referenced—with horribles in it I hardly dare mention. Mean to say, given circumstances and seemed necessary to destroy (say) Paris, this told how—what missiles in what orbits, how to tell Junior to find them and bring to target. Or anything.
    Was reading this endless document—not programs but descriptions of purpose-of-program that headed each—when Wyoh phoned. "Mannie dear, has Prof told you about going to Mare Undarum?"
    "Yes. Was going to call you."
    "All right. I'll pack for us and meet you at Station East. When can you be there?"
    "Pack for 'us'? You're going?"
    "Didn't Prof say?"
    "No." Suddenly felt cheerful.
    "I felt guilty about it, dear. I wanted to go with you . . . but had no excuse. After all, I'm no use around a computer and I do have responsibilities here. Or did. But now I've been fired from all my jobs and so have you."
    "Huh?"
    "You are no longer Defense Minister; Finn is. Instead you are Deputy Prime Minister—"
    "Well!"
    "—and Deputy Minister of Defense, too. I'm already Deputy Speaker and Stu has been appointed Deputy Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. So he goes with us, too."
    "I'm confused."
    "It's not as sudden as it sounds; Prof and Mike worked it out months ago. Decentralization, dear, the same thing that McIntyre has been working on for the warrens. If there is a disaster at L-City, Luna Free State still has a government. As Prof put it to me, 'Wyoh dear lady, as long as you three and a few Congressmen are left alive, all is not lost. You can still negotiate on equal terms and never admit your wounds.'"
    So I wound up as a computer mechanic. Stu and Wyoh met me, with luggage (including rest of my arms), and we threaded through endless unpressured tunnels in p-suits, on a small flatbed rolligon used to haul steel to site. Greg had big rolligon meet us for surface stretch, then met us himself when we went underground again.
    So I missed attack on ballistic radars Saturday night.

28

    Captain of first ship, FNS Esperance, had guts. Late Saturday he changed course, headed straight in. Apparently figured we might attempt jingle-jangle with radars, for he seems to have decided to come in close enough to see our radar installations by ship's radar rather than rely on letting his missiles home in on our beams.
    Seems to have considered himself, ship, and crew expendable, for he was down to a thousand kilometers before he launched, a spread that went straight for five out of six of Mike's radars, ignoring random jingle-jangle.
    Mike, expecting self soon to be blinded, turned Brody's boys loose to burn ship's eyes, held them on it for three seconds before he shifted them to missiles.
    Result: one crashed cruiser, two ballistic radars knocked out by H-missiles, three missiles "killed"—and two gun crews killed, one by H-explosion, other by dead missile that landed square on them—plus thirteen gunners with radiation burns above 800-roentgen death level, partly from flash, partly from being on surface too long. And must add: Four members of Lysistrata Corps died with those crews; they elected to p-suit and go up with their men. Other girls had serious radiation exposure but not up to 800-r level.
    Second cruiser continued an elliptical orbit around and behind Luna.
    Got most of this from Mike after we arrived Little David's Sling early Sunday. He was feeling groused over loss of two of his eyes and still more groused over gun crews—I think Mike was developing something like human conscience; he seemed to feel it was his fault that he had not been able to outfight six targets at once. I pointed out that what he had to fight with was improvised, limited range, not real weapons.
    "How about self, Mike? Are you right?"
    "In all essentials. I have outlying discontinuities. One live missile chopped my circuits to Novy Leningrad, but reports routed through Luna City inform me that local controls tripped in satisfactorily with no loss in city services. I feel frustrated by these discontinuities—but they can be dealt with later."
    "Mike, you sound tired."
    "Me tired? Ridiculous! Man, you forget what I am. I'm annoyed, that's all."
    "When will that second ship be back in sight?"
    "In about three hours if he were to hold earlier orbit. But he will not—probability in excess of ninety percent. I expect him in about an hour."
    "A Garrison orbit, huh? Oho!"
    "He left my sight at azimuth and course east thirty-two north. Does that suggest anything, Man?"
    Tried to visualize. "Suggests they are going to land and try to capture you, Mike. Have you told Finn? I mean, have you told Prof to warn Finn?"
    "Professor knows. But that is not the way I analyze it."
    "So? Well, suggests I had better shut up and let you work."
    Did so. Lenore fetched me breakfast while I inspected Junior—and am ashamed to say could not manage to grieve over losses with both Wyoh and Lenore present. Mum had sent Lenore out "to cook for Greg" after Milla's death— just an excuse; were enough wives at site to provide homecooking for everybody. Was for Greg's morale and Lenore's, too; Lenore and Milla had been close.
    Junior seemed to be right. He was working on South America, one load at a time. I stayed in radar room and watched, at extreme magnification, while he placed one in estuary between Montevideo and Buenos Aires; Mike could not have been more accurate. I then checked his program for North America, found naught to criticize—locked it in and took key. Junior was on his own—unless Mike got clear of other troubles and decided to take back control.
    Then sat and tried to listen to news both from Earthside and L-City. Co-ax cable from L-City carried phones, Mike's hookup to his idiot child, radio, and video; site was no longer isolated. But, besides cable from L-City, site had antennas pointed at Terra; any Earthside news Complex could pick up, we could listen to directly. Nor was this silly extra; radio and video from Terra had been only recreation during construction and this was now a standby in case that one cable was broken.
    F.N. official satellite relay was claiming that Luna's ballistic radars had been destroyed and that we were now helpless. Wondered what people of Buenos Aires and Montevideo thought about that. Probably too busy to listen; m some ways water shots were worse than those where we could find open land.
    Luna City Lunatic's video channel was carrying Sheenie telling Loonies outcome of attack by Esperance, repeating news while warning everybody that battle was not over, a warship would be back in our sky any moment—be ready for anything, everybody stay in p-suits (Sheenie was wearing his, with helmet open), take maximum pressure precautions, all units stay on red alert, all citizens not otherwise called by duty strongly urged to seek lowest level and stay there till all clear. And so forth.
    He went through this several times—then suddenly broke it: "Flash! Enemy cruiser radar-sighted, low and fast. It may dido for Luna City. Flash! Missiles launched, headed for ejection end of—"
    Picture and sound chopped off.
    Might as well tell now what we at Little David's Sling learned later: Second cruiser, by coming in low and fast, tightest orbit Luna's field permits, was able to start its bombing at ejection end of old catapult, a hundred kilometers from catapult head and Brody's gunners, and knock many rings out in minute it took him to come into sight-and-range of drill guns, all clustered around radars at catapult head. Guess he felt safe. Wasn't. Brody's boys burned eyes out and ears off. He made one orbit after that and crashed near Torricelli, apparently in attempt to land, for his jets fired just before crash.
    But our next news at new site was from Earthside: that brassy F.N. frequency claimed that our catapult had been destroyed (true) and that Lunar menace was ended (false) and called on all Loonies to take prisoner their false leaders and surrender themselves to mercy of Federated Nations (nonexistent—"mercy," that is).
    Listened to it and checked programming again, and went inside dark radar room. If everything went as planned, we were about to lay another egg in Hudson River, then targets in succession for three hours across that continent—"in succession" because Junior could not handle simultaneous hits; Mike had planned accordingly.
    Hudson River was hit on schedule. Wondered how many New Yorkers were listening to F.N. newscast while looking at spot that gave it lie.
    Two hours later F.N. station was saying that Lunar rebels had had missiles in orbit when catapult was destroyed—but that after those few had impacted would be no more. When third bombing of North America was complete I shut down radar. Had not been running steadily; Junior was programmed to sneak looks only as necessary, a few seconds at a time.
    I then had nine hours before next bombing of Great China.
    But not nine hours for most urgent decision, whether to hit Great China again. Without information. Except from Terra's news channels. Which might be false. Bloody. Without knowing whether or not warrens had been bombed. Or Prof was dead or alive. Double bloody. Was I now acting prime minister? Needed Prof: "head of state" wasn't my glass of chai. Above all, needed Mike—to calculate facts, estimate uncertainties, project probabilities of this course or that.
    My word, didn't even know whether ships were headed toward us and, worse yet, was afraid to look. If turned radar on and used Junior for sky search, any warship he brushed with beams would see him quicker than he saw them; warships were built to spot radar surveillance. So had heard. Hell, was no military man; was computer technician who had bumbled into wrong field.
    Somebody buzzed door; I got up and unlocked. Was Wyoh, with coffee. Didn't say a word, just handed it to me and went away.
    Sipped it. There it is, boy—they're leaving you alone, waiting for you to pull miracles out of pouch. Didn't feel up to it.
    From somewhere, back in my youth, heard Prof say, "Manuel, when faced with a problem you do not understand, do any part of it you do understand, then look at it again." He had been teaching me something he himself did not understand very well—something in maths—but had taught me something far more important, a basic principle.
    Knew at once what to do first.
    Went over to Junior and had him print out predicted impacts of all loads in orbit—easy, was a pre-program he could run anytime against real time running. While he was doing it, I looked for certain alternate programs in that long roll Mike had prepared.
    Then set up some of those alternate programs—no trouble, simply had to be careful to read them correctly and punch them in without error. Made Junior print back for check before I gave him signal to execute.
    When finished—forty minutes—every load in trajectory intended for an inland target had been retargeted for a seacoast city—with hedge to my bet that execution was delayed for rocks farther back. But, unless I canceled, Junior would reposition them as soon as need be.
    Now horrible pressure of time was off me, now could abort any load into ocean right up to last few minutes before impact. Now could think. So did.
    Then called in my 'War Cabinet"—Wyoh, Stu, and Greg my "Commander of Armed Forces," using Greg's office. Lenore was allowed to go in and out, fetching coffee and food, or sitting and saying nothing. Lenore is a sensible fem and knows when to keep quiet.
    Stu started it. "Mr. Prime Minister, I do not think that Great China should be hit this time."
    "Never mind fancy titles, Stu. Maybe I'm acting, maybe not. But haven't time for formality."
    "Very well. May I explain my proposal?"
    "Later." I explained what I had done to give us more time; he nodded and kept quiet. "Our tightest squeeze is that we are out of communication, both Luna City and Earthside. Greg, how about that repair crew?"
    "Not back yet."
    "If break is near Luna City, they may be gone a long time. If can repair at all. So must assume we'll have to act on our own. Greg, do you have an electronics tech who can jury-rig a radio that will let us talk to Earthside? To their satellites, I mean— that doesn't take much with right antenna. I may be able to help and that computer tech I sent you isn't too clumsy, either." (Quite good, in fact, for ordinary electronics—a poor bloke I had once falsely accused of allowing a fly to get into Mike's guts. I had placed him in this job.)
    "Harry Biggs, my power plant boss, can do anything of that sort," Greg said thoughtfully, "if he has the gear."
    "Get him on it. You can vandalize anything but radar and computer once we get all loads out of catapult. How many lined up?"
    "Twenty-three, and no more steel."
    "So twenty-three it is, win or lose. I want them ready for loading; might lob them off today."
    "They're ready. We can load as fast as the cat can throw them."
    "Good. One more thing— Don't know whether there's an F.N. cruiser—maybe more than one—in our sky or not. And afraid to look. By radar, I mean; radar for skywatch could give away our position. But must have skywatch. Can you get volunteers for an eyeball skywatch and can you spare them?"
    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 in 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.
    At last was able to get away, with Wyoh. A stilyagi guard kept people away from us to easement lock thirteen. Once home I ducked into workshop on pretense of needing to change arms. "Mike?"
    No answer—
    So tried punching his combo into house phone—null signal. Resolved to go out to Complex next day—with Prof gone, needed Mike worse than ever.
    But next day was not able to go; trans-Crisium tube was out—that last bombing. You could go around through Torricelli and Novylen and eventually reach Hong Kong. But Complex, almost next door, could be reached only by rolligon. Couldn't take time; I was "government."
    Managed to shuck that off two days later. By resolution was decided that Speaker (Finn) had succeeded to Presidency after Finn and I had decided that Wolfgang was best choice for Prime Minister. We put it through and I went back to being Congressman who didn't attend sessions.
    By then most phones were working and Complex could be called. Punched MYCROFFXXX. No answer— So went out by rolligon. Had to go down and walk tube last kilometer but Complex Under didn't seem hurt.
    Nor did Mike appear to be.
    But when I spoke to him, he didn't answer.
    He has never answered. Has been many years now.
    You can type questions into him—in Loglan—and you'll get Loglan answers out. He works just fine . . . as a computer. But won't talk. Or can't.
    Wyoh tried to coax him. Then she stopped. Eventually I stopped.
    Don't know how it happened. Many outlying pieces of him got chopped off in last bombing—was meant, I'm sure, to kill our ballistic computer. Did he fall below that "critical number" it takes to sustain self-awareness? (If is such; was never more than hypothesis.) Or did decentralizing that was done before that last bombing "kill" him?
    I don't know. If was just matter of critical number, well, he's long been repaired; he must be back up to it. Why doesn't he wake up?
    Can a machine be so frightened and hurt that it will go into catatonia and refuse to respond? While ego crouches inside, aware but never willing to risk it? No, can't be that; Mike was unafraid—as gaily unafraid as Prof.

    Years, changes—Mimi long ago opted out of family management; Anna is "Mum" now and Mimi dreams by video. Slim got Hazel to change name to Stone, two kids and she studied engineering. All those new free-fall drugs and nowadays earthworms stay three or four years and go home unchanged. And those other drugs that do almost as much for us; some kids go Earthside to school now; And Tibet catapult—took seventeen years instead of ten; Kilimanjaro job was finished sooner.
    One mild surprise—When time came, Lenore named Stu for opting, rather than Wyoh. Made no difference, we all voted "Da!" One thing not a surprise because Wyoh and I pushed it through during time we still amounted to something in government: a brass cannon on a pedestal in middle of Old Dome and over it a flag fluttering in blower breeze—black field speckled with stars, bar sinister in blood, a proud and jaunty brass cannon embroidered over all, and below it our motto: TANSTAAFL! That's where we hold our Fourth-of-July celebrations.
    You get only what you pay for—Prof knew and paid, gaily.
    But Prof underrated yammerheads. They never adopted any of his ideas. Seems to be a deep instinct in human beings for making everything compulsory that isn't forbidden. Prof got fascinated by possibilities for shaping future that lay in a big, smart computer—and lost track of things closer home. Oh, I backed him! But now I wonder. Are food riots too high a price to pay to let people be? I don't know.
    Don't know any answers.
    Wish I could ask Mike.
    I wake up in night and think I've heard him—just a whisper: "Man . . . Man my best friend . . ." But when I say, "Mike?" he doesn't answer. Is he wandering around somewhere, looking for hardward to hook onto? Or is he buried down in Complex Under, trying to find way out? Those special memories are all in there somewhere, waiting to be stirred. But I can't retrieve them; they were voice-coded.
    Oh, he's dead as Prof, I know it. (But how dead is Prof?) If I punched it just once more and said, "Hi, Mike!" would he answer, "Hi, Man! Heard any good ones lately?" Been a long time since I've risked it. But he can't really be dead; nothing was hurt—he's just lost.
    You listening, Bog? Is a computer one of Your creatures?

    Too many changes— May go to that talk-talk tonight and toss in some random numbers.
    Or not. Since Boom started quite a few young cobbers have gone out to Asteroids. Hear about some nice places out there, not too crowded.
    My word, I'm not even a hundred yet.