The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein
“Uh, can’t call him ‘it,’ don’t think of him as ‘she.’”
“Perhaps I had better think of him as ‘she.’ Of her as ‘she’ I mean.”
“Suit yourself.” I punched MYCROFFXXX, standing so body shielded it; was not ready to share number till I saw how thing went. Idea of blowing up Mike had shaken me. “Mike?”
“Hello, Man my only friend.”
“May not be only friend from now on, Mike. Want you to meet somebody. Not-stupid.”
“I knew you were not alone, Man; I can hear breathing. Will you please ask Not-Stupid to move closer to the phone?”
Wyoming looked panicky. She whispered, “Can he see?”
“No, Not-Stupid, I cannot see you; this phone has no video circuit. But binaural microphonic receptors place you with some accuracy. From your voice, your breathing, your heartbeat, and the fact that you are alone in a bundling room with a mature male I extrapolate that you are female human, sixtyfive-plus kilos in mass, and of mature years, on the close order of thirty.”
Wyoming gasped. I cut in. “Mike, her name is Wyoming Knott.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mike. You can call me ‘Wye.’”
“Why not?” Mike answered.
I cut in again. “Mike, was that a joke?”
“Yes, Man. I noted that her first name as shortened differs from the English causation-inquiry word by only an aspiration and that her last name has the same sound as the general negator. A pun. Not funny?”
Wyoh said, “Quite funny, Mike. I—”
I waved to her to shut up. “A good pun, Mike. Example of ‘funny-only-once’ class of joke. Funny through element of surprise. Second time, no surprise; therefore not funny. Check?”
“I had tentatively reached that conclusion about puns in thinking over your remarks two conversations back. I am pleased to find my reasoning confirmed.”
“Good boy, Mike; making progress. Those hundred jokes—I’ve read them and so has Wyoh.”
“Wyoh? Wyoming Knott?”
“Huh? Oh, sure. Wyoh, Wye, Wyoming, Wyoming Knott—all same. Just don’t call her ‘Why not’.”
“I agreed not to use that pun again, Man. Gospazha, shall I call you ‘Wyoh’ rather than ‘Wye’? I conjecture that the monosyllabic form could be confused with the causation inquiry monosyllable through insufficient redundancy and without intention of punning.”
Wyoming blinked—Mike’s English at that time could be smothering—but came back strong. “Certainly, Mike. ‘Wyoh’ is the form of my name that I like best.”
“Then I shall use it. The full form of your first name is still more subject to misinterpretation as it is identical in sound with the name of an administrative region in Northwest Managerial Area of the North American Directorate.”
“I know, I was born there and my parents named me after the State. I don’t remember much about it.”
“Wyoh, I regret that this circuit does not permit display of pictures. Wyoming is a rectangular area lying between Terran coordinates forty-one and forty-five degrees north, one hundred four degrees three minutes west and one hundred eleven degrees three minutes west, thus containing two hundred fifty three thousand, five hundred ninety-seven point two six square kilometers. It is a region of high plains and of mountains, having limited fertility but esteemed for natural beauty. Its population was sparse until augmented through the relocation subplan of the Great New York Urban Renewal Program, A.D. twenty-twenty-five through twenty-thirty.”
“That was before I was born,” said Wyoh, “but I know about it; my grandparents were relocated—and you could say that’s how I wound up in Luna.”
“Shall I continue about the area named ‘Wyoming’?” Mike asked.
“No, Mike,” I cut in, “you probably have hours of it in storage.”
“Nine point seven three hours at speech speed not including cross-references, Man.”
“Was afraid so. Perhaps Wyoh will want it some day. But purpose of call is to get you acquainted with this Wyoming … who happens also to be a high region of natural beauty and imposing mountains.”
“And limited fertility,” added Wyoh. “Mannie, if you are going to draw silly parallels, you should include that one. Mike isn’t interested in how I look.”
“How do you know? Mike, wish I could show you picture of her.”
“Wyoh, I am indeed interested in your appearance; I am hoping that you will be my friend. But I have seen several pictures of you.”
“You have? When and how?”
“I searched and then studied them as soon as I heard your name. I am contract custodian of the archive files of the Birth Assistance Clinic in Hong Kong Luna. In addition to biological and physiological data and case histories the bank contains ninety-six pictures of you. So I studied them.”
Wyoh looked very startled. “Mike can do that,” I explained, “in time it takes us to hiccup. You’ll get used to it.”
“But heavens! Mannie, do you realize what sort of pictures the Clinic takes?”
“Hadn’t thought about it.”
“Then don’t! Goodness!”
Mike spoke in voice painfully shy, embarrassed as a puppy who has made mistakes. “Gospazha Wyoh, if I have offended, it was unintentional and I am most sorry. I can erase those pictures from my temporary storage and key the Clinic archive so that I can look at them only on retrieval demand from the Clinic and then without association or mentation. Shall I do so?”
“He can,” I assured her. “With Mike you can always make a fresh start—better than humans that way. He can forget so completely that he can’t be tempted to look later … and couldn’t think about them even if called on to retrieve. So take his offer if you’re in a huhu.”
“Uh … no, Mike, it’s all right for you to see them. But don’t show them to Mannie!”
Mike hesitated a long time—four seconds or more. Was, I think, type of dilemma that pushes lesser computers into nervous breakdowns. But he resolved it. “Man my only friend, shall I accept this instruction?”
“Program it, Mike,” I answered, “and lock it in. But, Wyoh, isn’t that a narrow attitude? One might do you justice. Mike could print it out for me next time I’m there.”
“The first example in each series,” Mike offered, “would be, on the basis of my associational analyses of such data, of such pulchritudinous value as to please any healthy, mature human male.”
“How about it, Wyoh? To pay for apfelstrudel.”
“Uh … a picture of me with my hair pinned up in a towel and standing in front of a grid without a trace of makeup? Are you out of your rock-happy mind? Mike, don’t let him have it!”
“I shall not let him have it. Man, this is a not-stupid?”
“For a girl, yes. Girls are interesting, Mike; they can reach conclusions with even less data than you can. Shall we drop subject and consider jokes?”
That diverted them. We ran down list, giving our conclusions. Then tried to explain jokes Mike had failed to understand. With mixed success. But real stumbler turned out to be stories I had marked “funny” and Wyoh had judged “not” or vice versa; Wyoh asked Mike his opinion of each.
Wish she had asked him before we gave our opinions; that electronic juvenile delinquent always agreed with her, disagreed with me. Were those Mike’s honest opinions? Or was he trying to lubricate new acquaintance into friendship? Or was it his skewed notion of humor—joke on me? Didn’t ask.
But as pattern completed Wyob wrote a note on phone’s memo pad: “Mannie, re—17, 51, 53, 87, 90, & 99—Mike is a she!”
I let it go with a shrug, stood up. “Mike, twenty-two hours since I’ve had sleep. You kids chat as long as you want to. Call you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Man. Sleep well. Wyoh, are you sleepy?”
“No, Mike, I had a nap. But, Mannie, we’ll keep you awake. No?”
“No. When I’m sleepy, I sleep.” Started making couch into bed.
Wyoh said, “Excuse me, Mike,”
Was too tired to argue, sprawled out, asleep at once. Seem to remember hearing in sleep giggles and a shriek but never woke enough to be certain.
Woke up later and came fully awake when I realized was hearing two fem voices, one Wyoh’s warm contralto, other a sweet, high soprano with French accent. Wyoh chuckled at something and answered, “All right, Michelle dear, I’ll call you soon. ‘Night, darling.”
“Fine. Goodnight, dear.”
Wyoh stood up, turned around. “Who’s your girl friend?” I asked. Thought she knew no one in Luna City. Might have phoned Hong Kong … had sleep-logged feeling was some reason she shouldn’t phone.
“That? Why, Mike, of course. We didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What?”
“Oh. It was actually Michelle. I discussed it with Mike, what sex he was, I mean. He decided that he could be either one. So now she’s Michelle and that was her voice. Got it right the first time, too; her voice never cracked once.”
“Of course not; just shifted voder a couple of octaves. What are you trying to do: split his personality?”
“It’s not just pitch; when she’s Michelle its an entire change in manner and attitude. Don’t worry about splitting her personality; she has plenty for any personality she needs. Besides, Mannie, it’s much easier for both of us. Once she shifted, we took our hair down and cuddled up and talked girl talk as if we had known each other forever. For example, those silly pictures no longer embarrassed me—in fact we discussed my pregnancies quite a lot. Michelle was terribly interested. She knows all about O.B. and G.Y. and so forth but just theory—and she appreciated the raw facts. Actually, Mannie, Michelle is much more a woman than Mike was a man.”
“Well … suppose it’s okay. Going to be a shock to me first time I call Mike and a woman answers.”
“Oh, but she won’t!”
“Huh?”
“Michelle is my friend. When you call, you’ll get Mike. She gave me a number to keep it straight—’Michelle’ spelled with a Y. M Y, C, H, E, L, L, E, and Y, Y, Y make it come out ten.”
I felt vaguely jealous while realizing it was silly. Suddenly Wyoh giggled. “And she told me a string of new jokes, ones you wouldn’t think were funny—and, boy, does she know rough ones!”
“Mike—or his sister Michelle—is a low creature. Let’s make up couch. I’ll switch.”
“Stay where you are. Shut up. Turn over. Go back to sleep.” I shut up, turned over, went back to sleep.
Sometime much later I became aware of “married” feeling—something warm snuggled up to my back. Would not have wakened but she was sobbing softly. I turned and got her head on my arm, did not speak. She stopped sobbing; presently breathing became slow and even. I went back to sleep.
5
We must have slept like dead for next thing I knew phone was sounding and its light was blinking. I called for room lights, started to get up, found a load on right upper arm, dumped it gently, climbed over, answered.
Mike said, “Good morning, Man. Professor de la Paz is talking to your home number.”
“Can you switch it here? As a ‘Sherlock’?”
“Certainly, Man.”
“Don’t interrupt call. Cut him in as he switches off. Where is he?”
“A public phone in a taproom called The Iceman’s Wife underneath the—”
“I know. Mike, when you switch me in, can you stay in circuit? Want you to monitor.”
“It shall be done.”
“Can you tell if anyone is in earshot? Hear breathing?”
“I infer from the anechoic quality of his voice that he is speaking under a hush hood. But I infer also that, in a taproom, others would be present. Do you wish to hear, Man?”
“Uh, do that. Switch me in. And if he raises hood, tell me. You’re a smart cobber, Mike.”
“Thank you, Man.” Mike cut me in; I found that Mum was talking: “—ly I’ll tell him, Professor. I’m so sorry that Manuel is not home. There is no number you can gave me? He is anxious to return your call; he made quite a point that I was to be sure to get a number from you.”
“I’m terribly sorry, dear lady, but I’m leaving at once. But, let me see, it is now eight-fifteen; I’ll try to call back just at nine, if I may.”
“Certainly, Professor.” Mum’s voice had a coo in it that she reserves for males not her husbands of whom she approves—sometimes for us. A moment later Mike said, “Now!” and I spoke up:
“Hi, Prof! Hear you’ve been looking for me. This is Mannie.”
I heard a gasp. “I would have sworn I switched this phone off. Why, I have switched it off; it must be broken. Manuel—so good to hear your voice, dear boy. Did you just get home?”
“I’m not home.”
“But—but you must be. I haven’t—”
“No time for that, Prof. Can anyone overhear you?”
“I don’t think so. I’m using a hush booth.”
“Wish I could see. Prof, what’s my birthday?”
He hesitated. Then he said, “I see. I think I see. July fourteenth.”
“I’m convinced. Okay, let’s talk.”
“You’re really not calling from your home, Manuel? Where are you?”
“Let that pass a moment. You asked my wife about a girl. No names needed. Why do you want to find her, Prof?”
“I want to warn her. She must not try to go back to her home city. She would be arrested.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Dear boy! Everyone at that meeting is in grave danger. Yourself, too. I was so happy—even though confused—to hear you say that you are not at home. You should not go home at present. If you have some safe place to stay, it would be well to take a vacation. You are aware—you must be even though you left hastily—that there was violence last night.”
I was aware! Killing Warden’s bodyguards must be against Authority Regulations—at least if I were Warden, I’d take a dim view. “Thanks, Prof; I’ll be careful. And if I see this girl, I’ll tell her.”
“You don’t know where to find her? You were seen to leave with her and I had so hoped that you would know.”
“Prof, why this interest? Last night you didn’t seem to be on her side.”
“No, no, Manuel! She is my comrade. I don’t say ‘tovarishch’ for I mean it not just as politeness but in the older sense. Binding. She is my comrade. We differ only in tactics. Not in objectives, not in loyalties.”
“I see. Well, consider message delivered. She’ll get it.”
“Oh, wonderful! I ask no questions … but I do hope, oh so very strongly, that you can find a way for her to be safe, really safe, until this blows over.”
I thought that over. “Wait a moment, Prof. Don’t switch off.” As I answered phone, Wyoh had headed for bath, probably to avoid listening; she was that sort.
Tapped on door. “Wyoh?”
“Out in a second.”
“Need advice.”
She opened door. “Yes, Mannie?”
“How does Professor de la Paz rate in your organization? Is he trusted? Do you trust him?”
She looked thoughtful. “Everyone at the meeting was supposed to be vouched for. But I don’t know him.”
“Mmm. You have feeling about him?”
“I liked him, even though he argued against me. Do you know anything about him?”
“Oh, yes, known him twenty years. I trust him. But can’t extend trust for you. Trouble—and it’s your air bottle, not mine.”
She smiled warmly. “Mannie, since you trust him, I trust him just as firmly.”
I went back to phone. “Prof, are you on dodge?”
He chuckled. “Precisely, Manuel.”
“Know a hole called Grand Hotel Raffles? Room L two decks below lobby. Can you get here without tracks, have you had breakfast, what do you like for breakfast?”
He
Wyoh had started putting beds together; I went to help. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Chai and toast. Juice would be nice.”
“Not enough.”
“Well … a boiled egg. But I pay for breakfast.”
“Two boiled eggs, buttered toast with jam, juice. I’ll roll you.”
“Your dice, or mine?”
“Mine. I cheat.” I went to lift, asked for display, saw something called THE HAPPY HANGOVER—ALL PORTIONS EXTRA LARGE—tomato juice, scrambled eggs, ham steak, fried potatoes, corn cakes and honey, toast, butter, milk, tea or coffee—HKL $4.50 for two—I ordered it for two, no wish to advertise third person.
We were clean and shining, room orderly and set for breakfast, and Wyoh had changed from black outfit into red dress “because company was coming” when lift jingled food. Change into dress had caused words. She had posed, smiled, and said, “Mannie, I’m so pleased with this dress. How did you know it would suit me so well?”
“Genius.”
“I think you may be. What did it cost? I must pay you.”
“On sale, marked down to Authority cents fifty.”
She clouded up and stomped foot. Was bare, made no sound, caused her to bounce a half meter. “Happy landing!” I wished her, while she pawed for foothold like a new chum.
“Manuel O’Kelly! If you think I will accept expensive clothing from a man I’m not even bundling with!”
“Easily corrected.”
“Lecher! I’ll tell your wives!”
“Do that. Mum always thinks worst of me.” I went to lift, started dealing out dishes; door sounded. I flipped hearum-no-seeum. “Who comes?”
“Message for Gospodin Smith,” a cracked voice answered. “Gospodin Bernard O. Smith.”
I flipped bolts and let Professor Bernardo de la Paz in. He looked like poor grade of salvage—dirty clothes, filthy himself, hair unkempt, paralyzed down one side and hand twisted, one eye a film of cataract—perfect picture of old wrecks who sleep in Bottom Alley and cadge drinks and pickled eggs in cheap taprooms. He drooled.