Robert Heinlein - The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

But business was cover for politics; liaison with Hong Kong had been thin. Wyoh had done well by phone; second member of her cell was an old comrade.--"Comrade Clayton"--who not only had clean bill of health in Alverez's File Zebra but also stood high in Wyoh's estimation. Clayton was briefed on policies, warned of bad apples, encouraged to start cell system while leaving old organization untouched. Wyoh told him to keep his membership, as before.

But phone isn't face-to-face. Hong Kong should have been our stronghold. Was less tied to Authority as its utilities were not controlled from Complex; was less dependent because lack (until recently) of tube transport had made selling at catapult head less inviting; was stronger financially as Bank of Hong Kong Luna notes were better money than official Authority scrip.

I suppose Hong Kong dollars weren't "money" in some legal sense. Authority would not accept them; times I went Earthside had to buy Authority scrip to pay for ticket. But what I carried was Hong Kong dollars as could be traded Earthside at a small discount whereas scrip was nearly worthless there. Money or not, Hong Kong Bank notes were backed by honest Chinee bankers instead of being fiat of bureaucracy. One hundred Hong Kong dollars was 31.1 grams of gold (old troy ounce) payable on demand at home office--and they did keep gold there, fetched up from Australia. Or you could demand commodities: non-potable water, steel of defined grade, heavy water of power plant specs, other things. Could buy these with scrip, too, but Authority's prices kept changing, upward. I'm no fiscal theorist; time Mike tried to explain I got headache. Simply know we were glad to lay hands on this non-money whereas scrip one accepted reluctantly and not just because we hated Authority.

Hong Kong should have been Party's stronghold. But was not. We had decided that I should risk face-to-face there, letting some know my identity, as a man with one arm can't disguise easily. Was risk that would jeopardize not only me but could lead to Wyoh, Mum, Greg, and Sidris if I took a fall. But who said revolution was safe?

Comrade Clayton turned out to be young Japanese--not too young, but they all look young till suddenly look old. He was not all Japanese--Malay and other things--but had Japanese name and household had Japanese manners; "giri" and "gimu" controlled and it was my good fortune that he owed much gimu to Wyoh.

Clayton was not convict ancestry; his people had been "volunteers" marched aboard ship at gunpoint during time Great China consolidated Earthside empire. I didn't hold it against him; he hated Warden as bitterly as any old lag.

Met him first at a teahouse--taproom to us L-City types--and for two hours we talked everything but politics. He made up mind about me, took me home. My only complaint about Japanese hospitality is those chin-high baths are too bleeding hot.

But turned out I was not jeopardized. Mama-san was as skilled at makeup as Sidris, my social arm is very convincing, and a kimona covered its seam. Met four cells in two days, as "Comrade Bork" and wearing makeup and kimona and tabi and, if a spy was among them, don't think he could identify Manuel O'Kelly. I had gone there intensely briefed, endless figures and projections, and talked about just one thing: famine in '82, six years away. "You people are lucky, won't be hit so soon. But now with new tube, you are going to see more and more of your people turning to wheat and rice and shipping it to catapult head. Your time will come."

They were impressed. Old organization, as I saw it and from what I heard, relied on oratory, whoop-it-up music, and emotion, much like church. I simply said, "There it is, comrades. Check those figures; I'll leave them with you."

Met one comrade separately. A Chinee engineer given a good look at anything can figure way to make it. Asked this one if he had ever seen a laser gun small enough to carry like a rifle. He had not. Mentioned that passport system made it difficult to smuggle these days. He said thoughtfully that jewels ought not to be hard--and he would be in Luna City next week to see his cousin. I said Uncle Adam would be pleased to hear from him.

All in all was productive trip. On way back I stopped in Novylen to check an old-fashioned punched-tape "Foreman" I had overhauled earlier, had lunch afterwards, ran into my father. He and I were friendly but didn't matter if we let a couple of years go by. We talked through a sandwich and beer and as I got up he said, "Nice to see you, Mannie. Free Luna!"

I echoed, too startled not to. My old man was as cynically non-political as you could find; if he would say that in public, campaign must be taking hold.

So I arrived in L-City cheered up and not too tired, having napped from Torricelli. Took Belt from Tube South, then dropped down and through Bottom Alley, avoiding Causeway crowd and heading home. Went into Judge Brody's courtroom as I came to it, meaning to say hello. Brody is old friend and we have amputation in common. After he lost a leg he set up as a judge and was quite successful; was not another judge in L-City at that time who did not have side business, at least make book or sell insurance.

If two people brought a quarrel to Brody and he could not get them to agree that his settlement was just, he would return fees and, if they fought, referee their duel without charging--and still be trying to persuade them not to use knives right up to squaring off.

He wasn't in his courtroom though plug hat was on desk. Started to leave, only to be checked by group coming in, stilyagi types. A girl was with them, and an older man hustled by them. He was mussed, and clothing had that vague something that says "tourist."

We used to get tourists even then. Not hordes but quite a few. They would come up from Earth, stop in a hotel for a week, go back in same ship or perhaps stop over for next ship. Most of them spent their time gambling after a day or two of sightseeing including that silly walk up on surface every tourist makes. Most Loonies ignored them and granted them their foibles.

One lad, oldest, about eighteen and leader, said to me, "Where's judge?"

"Don't know. Not here."

He chewed lip, looked baffled. I said, "What trouble?"

He said soberly, "Going to eliminate his choom. But want judge to confirm it."

I said, "Cover taprooms here around. Probably find him."

A boy about fourteen spoke up. "Say! Aren't you Gospodin O'Kelly?"

"Right."

"Why don't you judge it."

Oldest looked relieved. "Will you, Gospodin?"

I hesitated. Sure, I've gone judge at times; who hasn't? But don't hanker for responsibility. However, it troubled me to hear young people talk about eliminating a tourist. Bound to cause talk.

Decided to do it. So I said to tourist, "Will you accept me as your judge?"

He looked surprised. "I have choice in the matter?"

I said patiently, "Of course. Can't expect me to listen if you aren't willing to accept my judging. But not urging you. Your life, not mine."

He looked very surprised but not afraid. His eyes lit up. "My life, did you say?"

"Apparently. You heard lads say they intend to eliminate you. You may prefer to wait for Judge Brody."

He didn't hesitate. Smiled and said, "I accept you as my judge, sir."

"As you wish." I looked at oldest lad. "What parties to quarrel? Just you and your young friend?"

"Oh, no, Judge, all of us."

"Not your judge yet." I looked around. "Do you all ask me to judge?"

Were nods; none said No. Leader turned to girl, added, "Better speak up, Tish. You accept Judge O'Kelly?"

"What? Oh, sure!" She was a vapid little thing, vacantly pretty, curvy, perhaps fourteen. Slot-machine type, and how she might wind up. Sort who prefers being queen over pack of stilyagi to solid marriage. I don't blame stilyagi; they chase around corridors because not enough females. Work all day and nothing to go home to at night.