Robert Heinlein - The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

"Mike, look at old organization file. Check Hazels."

"Four Hazels," he answered at once, "and here she is: Hazel Meade, Young Comrades Auxiliary, address Cradle Roll Creche, born 25 December 2063, mass thirty-nine kilos, height--"

"That's our little jump jet! Thanks, Mike. Wyoh, call off stake-out. Good job!"

"Mike, call Donna and pass the word, that's a dear."

I left it to girls to recruit Hazel Meade and did not eyeball her until Sidris moved her into our household two weeks later. But Wyoh volunteered a report before then; policy was involved. Sidris had filled her cell but wanted Hazel Meade. Besides this irregularity, Sidris was doubtful about recruiting a child. Policy was adults only, sixteen and up.

I took it to Adam Selene and executive cell. "As I see," I said, "this cells-of-three system is to serve us, not bind us. See nothing wrong in Comrade Cecilia having an extra. Nor any real danger to security."

"I agree," said Prof. "But I suggest that the extra member not be part of Cecilia's cell--she should not know the others, I mean, unless the duties Cecilia gives her make it necessary. Nor do I think she should recruit, at her age. The real question is her age."

"Agreed," said Wyoh. "I want to talk about this kid's age."

"Friends," Mike said diffidently (diffidently first time in weeks; he was now that confident executive "Adam Selene" much more than lonely machine)--"perhaps I should have told you, but I have already granted similar variations. It did not seem to require discussion."

"It doesn't, Mike," Prof reassured him. "A chairman must use his own judgment. What is our largest cell?"

"Five. it is a double cell, three and two."

"No harm done. Dear Wyoh, does Sidris propose to make this child a full comrade? Let her know that we are committed to revolution... with all the bloodshed, disorder, and possible disaster that entails?"

"That's exactly what she is requesting."

"But, dear lady, while we are staking our lives, we are old enough to know it. For that, one should have an emotional grasp of death. Children seldom are able to realize that death will come to them personally. One might define adulthood as the age at which a person learns that he must die... and accepts his sentence undismayed."

"Prof," I said, "I know some mighty tall children. Seven to two some are in Party."

"No bet, cobber. It'll give odds that at least half of them don't qualify--and we may find it out the hard way at the end of this our folly."

"Prof," Wyoh insisted. "Mike, Mannie. Sidris is certain this child is an adult. And I think so, too."

"Man?" asked Mike.

"Let's find way for Prof to meet her and form own opinion. I was taken by her. Especially her go-to-hell fighting. Or would never have started it."

We adjourned and I heard no more. Hazel showed up at dinner shortly thereafter as Sidris' guest. She showed no sign of recognizing me, nor did I admit that I had ever seen her--but learned long after that she had recognized me, not just by left arm but because I had been hatted and kissed by tall blonde from Hong Kong. Furthermore Hazel had seen through Wyoming's disguise, recognized what Wyoh never did successfully disguise: her voice.

But Hazel used lip glue. If she ever assumed I was in conspiracy she never showed it.

Child's history explained her, far as background can explain steely character. Transported with parents as a baby much as Wyoh had been, she had lost father through accident while he was convict labor, which her mother blamed on indifference of Authority to safety of penal colonists. Her mother lasted till Hazel was five; what she died from Hazel did not know; she was then living in creche where we found her. Nor did she know why parents had been shipped--possibly for subversion if they were both under sentence as Hazel thought. As may be, her mother left her a fierce hatred of Authority and Warden.

Family that ran Cradle Roll let her stay; Hazel was pinning diapers and washing dishes as soon as she could reach. She had taught herself to read, and could print letters but could not write. Her knowledge of math was only that ability to count money that children soak up through their skins.

Was fuss over her leaving creche; owner and husbands claimed Hazel owed several years' service. Hazel solved it by walking out, leaving her clothes and fewer belongings behind. Mum was angry enough to want family to start trouble which could wind up in "brawling" she despised. But I told her privately that, as her cell leader, I did nor want our family in public eye--and hauled out cash and told her Party would pay for clothes for Hazel. Mum refused money, called off a family meeting, took Hazel into town and was extravagant--for Mum--in re-outfitting her.

So we adopted Hazel. I understand that these days adopting a child involves red tape; in those days it was as simple as adopting a kitten.

Was more fuss when Mum started to place Hazel in school, which fitted neither what Sidris had in mind nor what Hazel had been led to expect as a Party member and comrade. Again I butted in and Mum gave in part way. Hazel was placed in a tutoring school close to Sidris' shop--that is, near easement lock thirteen; beauty parlor was by it (Sidris had good business because close enough that our water was piped in, and used without limit as return line took it back for salvage). Hazel studied mornings and helped in afternoons, pinning on gowns, handing out towels, giving rinses, learning trade--and whatever else Sidris wanted.

"Whatever else" was captain of Baker Street Irregulars.

Hazel had handled younger kids all her short life. They liked her; she could wheedle them into anything; she understood what they said when an adult would find it gibberish. She was a perfect bridge between Party and most junior auxiliary. She could make a game of chores we assigned and persuade them to play by rules she gave them, and never let them know it was adult-serious----but child-serious, which is another matter.

For example:

Let's say a little one, too young to read, is caught with a stack of subversive literature--which happened more than once. Here's how it would go, after Hazel indoctrinated a kid:

ADULT: "Baby, where did you get this?"

BAKER STREET IRREGULAR: "I'm not a baby, I'm a big boy!"

ADULT: "Okay, big boy, where did you get this?"

B.S.I.: "Jackie give it to me."

ADULT: "Who is Jackie?"

B.S.I.: "Jackie."

ADULT: "But what's his last name?"

B.S.I.: "Who?"

ADULT: "Jackie."

B.S.I.: (scornfully) "Jackie's a girl!"

ADULT: "All right, where does she live?"

B.S.L: "Who?"

And so on around-- To all questions key answer was of pattern: "Jackie give it to me." Since Jackie didn't exist, he (she) didn't have a last name, a home address, nor fixed sex. Those children enjoyed making fools of adults, once they learned how easy it was.

At worst, literature was confiscated. Even a squad of Peace Dragoons thought twice before trying to "arrest" a small child. Yes, we were beginning to have squads of Dragoons inside Luna city, but never less than a squad--some had gone in singly and not come back.

When Mike started writing poetry I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to publish it! Shows how thoroughly humanity had corrupted this innocent machine that he should wish to see his name in print.

I said, "Mike, for Bog's sake! Blown all circuits? Or planning to give us away?"

Before he could sulk Prof said, "Hold on, Manuel; I see possibilities. Mike, would it suit you to take a pen name?"

That's how "Simon Jester" was born. Mike picked it apparently by tossing random numbers. But he used another name for serious verse, his Party name, Adam Selene.

"Simon's" verse was doggerel, bawdy, subversive, ranging from poking fun at vips to savage attacks on Warden, system, Peace Dragoons, finks. You found it on walls of public W.C.s, or on scraps of paper left in tube capsules: Or in taprooms. Wherever they were they were signed "Simon Jester" and with a matchstick drawing of a little horned devil with big grin and forked tail. Sometimes he was stabbing a fat man with a pitchfork. Sometimes just his face would appear, big grin and horns, until shortly even horns and grin meant "Simon was here."