The Moon is a Harsh Mistress Read Online Free

him?”
    “I
said so.”
    “Okay,
here’s how we do it in Hong Kong.” Wyoming stood in front of me,
placed cap on my head—kissed me firmly on mouth.
    She
didn’t hurry. Being kissed by Wyoming Knott is more definite than being
married to most women. Had I been Mike all my lights would have flashed at
once. I felt like a Cyborg with pleasure center switched on.
    Presently
I realized it was over and people were whistling. I blinked and said,
“I’m glad I joined. What have I joined?”
    Wyoming
said, “Don’t you know?” Shorty cut in, “Meeting’s
about to start—he’ll find out. Sit down, Man. Please sit down,
Wyoh.” So we did as a man was banging a gavel.
    With
gavel and an amplifier at high gain he made himself heard. “Shut
doors!” he shouted. “This is a closed meeting. Check man in front
of you, behind you, each side—if you don’t know him and nobody you
know can vouch for him, throw him out!”
    “Throw
him out, hell!” somebody answered. “Eliminate him out nearest
lock!”
    “Quiet,
please! Someday we will.” There was milling around, and a scuffle in
which one man’s red cap was snatched from head and he was thrown out,
sailing beautifully and still rising as he passed through door. Doubt if he
felt it; think he was unconscious. A women was ejected politely—not
politely on her part; she made coarse remarks about ejectors. I was
embarrassed.
    At
last doors were closed. Music started, banner unfolded over platform. It read:
LIBERTY! EQUALITY! FRATERNITY! Everybody whistled; some started to sing, loudly
and badly: “
Arise, Ye Prisoners of Starvation
—”
Can’t say anybody looked starved. But reminded me I hadn’t eaten
since 1400; hoped it would not last long—and that reminded me that my
recorder was good for only two hours—and that made me wonder what would
happen if they knew? Sail me through air to land with sickening grunch? Or
eliminate me? But didn’t worry; made that recorder myself, using
number-three arm, and nobody but a miniaturization mechanic would figure out
what it was.
    Then
came speeches.
    Semantic
content was low to negative. One bloke proposed that we march on Warden’s
Residence, “shoulder to shoulder,” and demand our rights. Picture
it. Do we do this in tube capsules, then climb out one at a time at his private
station? What are his bodyguards doing? Or do we put on p-suits and stroll
across surface to his upper lock? With laser drills and plenty of power you can
open any airlock—but how about farther down? Is lift running? Jury-rig
hoist and go down anyhow, then tackle next lock?
    I
don’t care for such work at zero pressure; mishap in pressure suit is too
permanent—especially when somebody arranges mishap. One first thing
learned about Luna, back with first shiploads of convicts, was that zero
pressure was place for good manners. Bad-tempered straw boss didn’t last
many shifts; had an “accident”—and top bosses learned not to pry
into accidents or they met accidents, too. Attrition ran 70 percent in early
years—but those who lived were nice people. Not tame, not soft, Luna is
not for them. But well-behaved.
    But
seemed to me that every hothead in Luna was in Stilyagi Hall that night. They
whistled and cheered this shoulder-to-shoulder noise.
    After
discussion opened, some sense was talked. One shy little fellow with bloodshot
eyes of old-time drillman stood up. “I’m an ice miner,” he
said. “Learned my trade doing time for Warden like most of you.
I’ve been on my own thirty years and done okay. Raised eight kids and all
of ‘em earned way—none eliminated nor any serious trouble. I should
say I did do okay because today you have to listen farther out or deeper down
to find ice.
    “That’s
okay, still ice in The Rock and a miner expects to sound for it. But Authority
pays same price for ice now as thirty years ago. And that’s not okay.
Worse yet, Authority scrip doesn’t buy what it used to. I remember when
Hong Kong