The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein
“Da. It shows?”
“Quite. You’re nice to a woman but not eager and quite independent. So you’re married and long married. Children?”
“Seventeen divided by four.”
“Clan marriage?”
“Line. Opted at fourteen and I’m fifth of nine. So seventeen kids is nominal. Big family.”
“It must be nice. I’ve never seen much of line families, not many in Hong Kong. Plenty of clans and groups and lots of polyandries but the line way never took hold.”
“Is nice. Our marriage nearly a hundred years old. Dates back to Johnson City and first transportees—twenty-one links, nine alive today, never a divorce. Oh, it’s a madhouse when our descendants and inlaws and kinfolk get together for birthday or wedding—more kids than seventeen, of course; we don’t count ‘em after they marry or I’d have ‘children’ old enough to be my grandfather. Happy way to live, never much pressure. Take me. Nobody woofs if I stay away a week and don’t phone. Welcome when I show up. Line marriages rarely have divorces. How could I do better?”
“I don’t think you could. Is it an alternation? And what’s the spacing?”
“Spacing has no rule, just what suits us. Been alternation up to latest link, last year. We married a girl when alternation called for boy. But was special.”
“Special how?”
“My youngest wife is a granddaughter of eldest husband and wife. At least she’s granddaughter of Mum—senior is ‘Mum’ or sometimes Mimi to her husbands—and she may be of Grandpaw—but not related to other spouses. So no reason not to marry back in, not even consanguinuity okay in other types of marriage. None, nit, zero. And Ludmilla grew up in our family because her mother had her solo, then moved to Novylen and left her with us.
“Milla didn’t want to talk about marrying out when old enough for us to think about it. She cried and asked us please to make an exception. So we did. Grandpaw doesn’t figure in genetic angle—these days his interest in women is more gallant than practical. As senior husband he spent our wedding night with her—but consummation was only formal. Number-two husband, Greg, took care of it later and everybody pretended. And everybody happy. Ludmilla is a sweet little thing, just fifteen and pregnant first time.”
“Your baby?”
“Greg’s, I think. Oh, mine too, but in fact was in Novy Leningrad. Probably Greg’s, unless Milla got outside help. But didn’t, she’s a home girl. And a wonderful cook.”
Lift rang; took care of it, folded down table, opened chairs, paid bill and sent lift up. “Throw it to pigs?”
“I’m coming! Mind if I don’t do my face?”
“Come in skin for all of me.”
“For two dimes I would, you much-married man.” She came out quickly, blond again and hair slicked back and damp. Had not put on black outfit; again in dress I bought. Red suited her. She sat down, lifted covers off food. “Oh, boy! Mannie, would your family marry me? You’re a dinkum provider.”
“I’ll ask. Must be unanimous.”
“Don’t crowd yourself.” She picked up sticks, got busy. About a thousand calories later she said, “I told you I was a Free Woman. I wasn’t, always.”
I waited. Women talk when they want to. Or don’t.
“When I was fifteen I married two brothers, twins twice my age and I was terribly happy.”
She fiddled with what was on plate, then seemed to change subject. “Mannie, that was just static about wanting to marry your family. You’re safe from me. If I ever marry again—unlikely but I’m not opposed to it—it would be just one man, a tight little marriage, earthworm style. Oh, I don’t mean I would keep him dogged down. I don’t think it matters where a man eats lunch as long as he comes home for dinner. I would try to make him happy.”
“Twins didn’t get along?”
“Oh, not that at all. I got pregnant and we were all delighted … and I had it, and it was a monster and had to be eliminated. They were good to me about it. But I can read print. I announced a divorce, had myself sterilized, moved from Novylen to Hong Kong, and started over as a Free Woman.”
“Wasn’t that drastic? Male parent oftener than female; men are exposed more.”
“Not in my case. We had it calculated by the best mathematical geneticist in Novy Leningrad—one of the best in Sovunion before she got shipped. I know what happened to me. I was a volunteeer colonist—I mean my mother was for I was only five. My father was transported and Mother chose to go with him and take me along. There was a solar storm warning but the pilot thought he could make it—or didn’t care; he was a Cyborg. He did make it but we got hit on the ground—and, Mannie, that’s one thing that pushed me into politics, that ship sat four hours before they let us disembark. Authority red tape, quarantine perhaps; I was too young to know. But I wasn’t too young later to figure out that I had birthed a monster because the Authority doesn’t care what happens to us outcasts.”
“Can’t start argument; they don’t care. But, Wyoh, still sounds hasty. If you caught damage from radiation—well, no geneticist but know something about radiation. So you had a damaged egg. Does not mean egg next to it was hurt—statistically unlikely.”
“Oh, I know that.”
“Mmm—What sterilization? Radical? Or contraceptive?”
“Contraceptive. My tubes could be opened. But, Mannie, a woman who has had one monster doesn’t risk it again.” She touched my prosthetic. “You have that. Doesn’t it make you eight times as careful not to risk this one?” She touched my meat arm. “That’s the way I feel. You have that to contend with; I have this—and I would never told you if you hadn’t been hurt, too.”
I didn’t say left arm more versatile than right—she was correct; don’t want to trade in right arm. Need it to pat girls if naught else. “Still think you could have healthy babies.”
“Oh, I can! I’ve had eight.”
“Huh?”
“I’m a professional host-mother, Mannie.”
I opened mouth, closed it. Idea wasn’t strange. I read Earthside papers. But doubt if any surgeon in Luna City in 2075 ever performed such transplant. In cows, yes—but L-City females unlikely at any price to have babies for other women; even homely ones could get husband or six. (Correction: Are no homely women. Some more beautiful than others.)
Glanced at her figure, quickly looked up. She said, “Don’t strain your eyes, Mannie; I’m not carrying now. Too busy with politics. But hosting is a good profession for Free Woman. It’s high pay. Some Chinee families are wealthy and all my babies have been Chinee—and Chinee are smaller than average and I’m a big cow; a two-and-a-half- or three-kilo Chinese baby is no trouble. Doesn’t spoil my figure. These—” She glanced down at her lovelies. “I don’t wet-nurse them, I never see them. So I look nulliparous and younger than I am, maybe.
“But I didn’t know how well it suited me when I first heard of it. I was clerking in a Hindu shop, eating money, no more, when I saw this ad in the Hong Kong Gong. It was the thought of having a baby, a good baby, that hooked me; I was still in emotional trauma from my monster—and it turned out to be Just what Wyoming needed. I stopped feeling that I was a failure as a woman. I made more money than I could ever hope to earn at other jobs. And my time almost to myself; having a baby hardly slows me down—six weeks at most and that long only because I want to be fair to my clients; a baby is a valuable property. And I was soon in politics; I sounded off and the underground got in touch with me. That’s when I started living, Mannie; I studied politics and economics and history and learned to speak in public and turned out to have a flair for organization. It’s satisfying work because I believe in it—I know that Luna will be free. Only—Well, it would be nice to have a husband to come home to … if he didn’t mind that I was sterile. But I don’t think about it; I’m too busy. Hearing about your nice family got me talking, that’s all. I must apologize for having bored you.”
How many women apologize? But Wyoh was more man than woman some ways, despite eight Chinee babies
“I hope not. Mannie, why do you say our program isn’t practical? We need you.”
Suddenly felt tired. How to tell lovely woman dearest dream is nonsense? “Um. Wyoh, let’s start over. You told them what to do. But will they? Take those two you singled out. All that iceman knows, bet anything, is how to dig ice. So he’ll go on digging and selling to Authority because that’s what he can do. Same for wheat farmer. Years ago, he put in one cash crop—now he’s got ring in nose. If he wanted to be independent, would have diversified. Raised what he eats, sold rest free market and stayed away from catapult head. I know—I’m a farm boy.”
“You said you were a computerman.”
“Am, and that’s a piece of same picture. I’m not a top computerman. But best in Luna. I won’t go civil service, so Authority has to hire me when in trouble—my prices—or send Earthside, pay risk and hardship, then ship him back fast before his body forgets Terra. At far more than I charge. So if I can do it, I get their jobs—and Authority can’t touch me; was born free. And if no work—usually is—I stay home and eat high.
“We’ve got a proper farm, not a one-cash-crop deal. Chickens. Small herd of whiteface, plus milch cows. Pigs. Mutated fruit trees. Vegetables. A little wheat and grind it ourselves and don’t insist on white flour, and sell—free market—what’s left. Make own beer and brandy. I learned drillman extending our tunnels. Everybody works, not too hard. Kids make cattle take exercise by switching them along; don’t use tread mill. Kids gather eggs and feed chickens, don’t use much machinery. Air we can buy from L-City—aren’t far out of town and pressure-tunnel connected. But more often we sell air; being farm, cycle shows Oh-two excess. Always have valuta to meet bills.”
“How about water and power?”
“Not expensive. We collect some power, sunshine screens on surface, and have a little pocket of ice. Wye, our farm was founded before year two thousand, when L-City was one natural cave, and we’ve kept improving it—advantage of line marriage; doesn’t die and capital improvements add up.”
“But surely your ice won’t last forever?”
“Well, now—” I scratched head and grinned. “We’re careful; we keep our sewage and garbage and sterilize and use it. Never put a drop back into city system. But—don’t tell Warden, dear, but back when Greg was teaching me to drill, we happened to drill into bottom of main south reservoir—and had a tap with us, spilled hardly a drop. But we do buy some metered water, looks better—and ice pocket accounts for not buying much. As for power—well, power is even easier to steal. I’m a good electrician, Wyoh.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Wyoming paid me a long whistle and looked delighted. “Everybody should do that!”
“Hope not, would show. Let ‘em think up own ways to outwit Authority; our family always has. But back to your plan, Wyoh: two things wrong. Never get ‘solidarity’; blokes like Hauser would cave in—because they are in a trap; can’t hold out. Second place, suppose you managed it. Solidarity. So solid not a tonne of grain is delivered to catapult head. Forget ice; it’s grain that makes Authority important and not just neutral agency it was set up to be. No grain. What happens?”
“Why, they have to negotiate a fair price, that’s what!”
“My dear, you and your comrades listen to each other too much. Authority would call it rebellion and warship would orbit with bombs earmarked for L-City and Hong Kong and Tycho Under and Churchill and Novylen, troops would land, grain barges would lift, under guard—and farmers would break necks to cooperate. Terra has guns and power and bombs and ships and won’t hold still for trouble from ex-cons. And troublemakers like you—and me; with you in spirit—us lousy troublemakers will be rounded up and eliminated, teach us a lesson. And earthworms would say we had it coming … because our side would never be heard. Not on Terra.”
Wyoh looked stubborn. “Revolutions have succeeded before. Lenin had only a handful with him.”
“Lenin moved in on a power vacuum. Wye, correct me if I’m wrong. Revolutions succeeded when—only when—governments had gone rotten soft, or disappeared.”
“Not true! The American Revolution.”
“South lost, nyet?”
Not that one, the one a century earlier. They had the sort of troubles with England that we are having now—and they won!”
“Oh, that one. But wasn’t England in trouble? France, and Spain, and Sweden—or maybe Holland? And Ireland. Ireland was rebelling; O’Kellys were in it. Wyoh, if you can stir trouble on Terra—say a war between Great China and North American Directorate, maybe PanAfrica lobbing bombs at Europe, I’d say was wizard time to kill Warden and tell Authority it’s through. Not today.”
“You’re a pessimist.”
“Nyet, realist. Never pessimist. Too much Loonie not to bet if any chance. Show me chances no worse then ten to one against and I’ll go for broke. But want that one chance in ten.” I pushed back chair. “Through eating?”
“Yes. Bolshoyeh spasebaw, tovarishch. It was grand!”
“My pleasure. Move to couch and I’ll rid of table and dishes,—no, can’t help; I’m host.” I cleared table, sent up dishes, saving coffee and vodka, folded table, racked chairs, turned to speak.
She was sprawled on couch, asleep, mouth open and face softened into little girl.
Went quietly into bath and closed door. After a scrubbing I felt better—washed tights first and were dry and fit to put on by time I quit lazing in tub—don’t care when world ends long as I’m bathed and in clean clothes.
Wyoh was still asleep, which made problem. Had taken room with two beds so she would not feel I was trying to talk her into bundling—not that I was against it but she had made clear she was opposed. But my bed had to be made from couch and proper bed was folded away. Should I rig it out softly, pick her up like limp baby and move her? Went back into bath and put on arm.
Then decided to wait. Phone had hush hood. Wyoh seemed unlikely to wake, and things were gnawing me. I sat down at phone, lowered hood, punched “MYCROFTXXX.”
“Hi, Mike.”
“Hello, Man. Have you surveyed those jokes?”
“What? Mike, haven’t had a minute—and a minute may be a long time to you but it’s short to me. I’ll get at it as fast as I can.”
“Okay, Man. Have you found a not-stupid for me to talk with?”
“Haven’t had time for that, either. Uh …wait.” I looked out through hood at Wyoming. “Not-stupid” in this case meant empathy … Wyoh had plenty. Enough to be friendly with a machine? I thought so. And could be trusted; not only had we shared trouble but she was a subversive.
“Mike, would you like to talk with a girl?”
“Girls are not-stupid?”
“Some girls are very not-stupid, Mike.”
“I would like to talk with a not-stupid girl, Man.”
“I’ll try to arrange. But now I’m in trouble and need your help.”
“I will help, Man.”
“Thanks, Mike. I want to call my home—but not ordinary way. You know sometimes calls are monitored, and if Warden orders it, lock can be put on so that circuit can be traced.”
“Man, you wish me to monitor your call to your home and put a lock-and-trace on it? I must inform you that I already know your home call number and the number from which you are calling.”
“No, no! Don’t want it monitored, don’t want it locked and traced. Can you call my home, connect me, and control circuit so that it can’t be monitored, can’t be locked, can’t be traced—even if somebody has programmed just that? Can you do it so that they won’t even know their program is bypassed?”
Mike hesitated. I suppose it was a question never asked and he had to trace a few thousand possibilities to see if his control of system permitted this novel program. “Man, I can do that. I will.”
“Good! Uh, program signal. If I want this sort of connection in future, I’ll ask for ‘Sherlock.’”
“Noted. Sherlock was my brother.” Year
“Fine! Give me a ‘Sherlock’ to my home.”
A moment later I said, “Mum? This is your favorite husband.”
She answered, “Manuel! Are you in trouble again?”
I love Mum more than any other woman including my other wives, but she never stopped bringing me up—Bog willing, she never will. I tried to sound hurt. “Me? Why, you know me, Mum.”
“I do indeed. Since you are not in trouble, perhaps you can tell me why Professor de la Paz is so anxious to get in touch with you—he has called three times—and why he wants to reach some woman with unlikely name of Wyoming Knott—and why he thinks you might be with her? Have you taken a bundling companion, Manuel, without telling me? We have freedom in our family, dear, but you know that I prefer to be told. So that I will not be taken unawares.”
Mum was always jealous of all women but her co-wives and never, never, never admitted it. I said, “Mum, Bog strike me dead, I have not taken a bundling companion.”
“Very well. You’ve always been a truthful boy, Now what’s this mystery?”
“I’ll have to ask Professor.” (Not lie, just tight squeeze.) “Did he leave number?”
“No, he said he was calling from a public phone.”
“Um. If he calls again, ask him to leave number and time I can reach him. This is public phone, too.” (Another tight squeeze.) “In meantime—You listened to late news?”
“You know I do.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing of interest.”
“No excitement in L-City? Killings, riots, anything?”
“Why, no. There was a set duel in Bottom Alley but—Manuel! Have you killed someone?”
“No, Mum.” (Breaking a man’s jaw will not kill him.)
She sighed. “You’ll be my death, dear. You know what I’ve always told you. In our family we do not brawl. Should a killing be necessary—it almost never is—matters must be discussed calmly, en famille, and proper action selected. If a new chum must be eliminated, other people know it. It is worth a little delay to hold good opinion and support—”