Robert Heinlein - The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

Aside from last, Mike could read any of this including commercial codes and ciphers--breaking ciphers was a crossword puzzle to him and nobody mistrusted this machine. Except Warden, and I suspect that his was distrust of all machinery; was sort of person who finds anything more involved than a pair of scissors complex, mysterious, and suspect--Stone Age mind.

Warden used a code that Mike never saw. Also used ciphers and did not work them through Mike; instead he had a moronic little machine in residence office. On top of this he had arrangement with Authority Earthside to switch everything around at preset times. No doubt he felt safe.

Mike broke his cipher patterns and deduced time-change program just to try legs. He did not tackle code until Prof suggested it; it held no interest for him.

But once Prof asked, Mike tackled Warden's top-secret messages. He had to start from scratch; in past Mike had erased Warden's messages once transmission was reported. So slowly, slowly he accumulated data for analysis--painfully slow, for Warden used this method only when he had to. Sometimes a week would pass between such messages. But gradually Mike began to gather meanings for letter groups, each assigned a probability. A code does not crack all at once; possible to know meanings of ninety-nine groups in a message and miss essence because one group is merely GLOPS to you.

However, user has a problem, too; if GLOPS comes through as GLOPT, he's in trouble. Any method of communication needs redundancy, or information can be lost. Was at redundancy that Mike nibbled, with perfect patience of machine.

Mike solved most of Warden's code sooner than he had projected; Warden was sending more traffic than in past and most of it one subject (which helped)--subject being security and subversion.

We had Mort in a twitter; he was yelling for help.

He reported subversive activities still going on despite two phalanges of Peace Dragoons and demanded enough troops to station guards in all key spots inside all warrens.

Authority told him this was preposterous, no more of FN's crack troops could be spared--to be permanently ruined for Earthside duties--and such requests should not be made. If he wanted more guards, he must recruit them from transportees-but such increase in administrative costs must be absorbed in Luna; he would not be allowed more overhead. He was directed to report what steps be had taken to meet new grain quotas set in our such-and-such.

Warden replied that unless extremely moderate requests for trained security personnel--not-repeat-not untrained, unreliable, and unfit convicts--were met, he could no longer assure civil order, much less increased quotas.

Reply asked sneeringly what difference it made if exconsignees chose to riot among themselves in their holes? If it worried him, had he thought of shutting off lights as was used so successfully in 1996 and 2021?

These exchanges caused us to revise our calendar, to speed some phases, slow others. Like a perfect dinner, a revolution has to be "cooked" so that everything comes out even. Stu needed time Earthside. We needed canisters and small steering rockets and associated circuitry for "rock throwing." And steel was a problem--buying it, fabricating it, and above all moving it through meander of tunnels to new catapult site. We needed to increase Party at least into "K's"--say 40,000--with lowest echelons picked for fighting spirit rather than talents we had sought earlier. We needed weapons against landings. We needed to move Mike's radars without which he was blind. (Mike could not be moved; bits of him spread all through Luna. But he had a thousand meters of rock over that central part of him at Complex, was surrounded by steel and this armor was cradled in springs; Authority had contemplated that someday somebody might lob H-weapons at their control center.)

All these needed to be done and pot must not boil too soon.

So we cut down on things that worried Warden and tried to speed up everything else. Simon Jester took a holiday. Word went out that Liberty Caps were not stylish--but save them. Warden got no more nervous-making phone calls. We quit inciting incidents with Dragoons-which did not stop them but reduced number.

Despite efforts to quiet Mort's worries a symptom showed up which disquieted us instead. No message (at least we intercepted none) reached Warden agreeing to his demand for more troops--but he started moving people out of Complex. Civil servants who lived there started looking for holes to rent in L-City. Authority started test drills and resonance exploration in a cubic adjacent to L.City which could be converted into a warren.

Could mean that Authority proposed shipping up unusually large draft of prisoners. Could mean that space in Complex was needed for purpose other than quarters. But Mike told us:

"Why kid yourselves? The Warden is going to get those troops; that space will be their barracks. Any other explanation I would have heard."

I said, "But Mike, why didn't you hear if it's troops? You have that code of Warden's fairly well whipped."

"Not just 'fairly well,' I've got it whipped. But the last two ships have carried Authority vips and I don't know what they talk about away from phones!"

So we tried to plan to cover possibility of having to cope with ten more phalanges, that being Mike's estimate of what cubic being cleared would hold. We could deal with that many--with Mike's help--but it would mean deaths, not bloodless coup d'etat Prof had planned.

And we increased efforts to speed up other factors.

When suddenly we found ourselves committed--

Her name was Marie Lyons; she was eighteen years old and born in Luna, mother having been exiled via Peace Corps in '56. No record of father. She seems to have been a harmless person. Worked as a stock-control clerk in shipping department, lived in Complex.

Maybe she hated Authority and enjoyed teasing Peace Dragoons. Or perhaps it started as a commercial transaction as cold-blooded as any in a crib behind a slot-machine lock. How can we know? Six Dragoons were in it. Not satisfied with raping her (if rape it was) they abused her other ways and killed her. But they did not dispose of body neatly; another civil service fem found it before was cold. She screamed. Was her last scream.

We heard about it at once; Mike called us three while Alvarez and Peace Dragoon C.O. were digging into matter in Alvarez's office. Appears that Peace Goon boss had no trouble laying hands on guilty; he and Alvarez were questioning them one at a time, and quarreling between grillings. Once we heard Alvarez say: "I told you those goons of yours had to have their own women! I warned you!"

"Stuff it," Dragoon officer answered. "I've told you time and again they won't ship any. The question now is how we hush this up."

"Are you crazy? Warden already knows."

"It's still the question."

"Oh, shut up and send in the next one."

Early in filthy story Wyoh joined me in workshop. Was pale under makeup, said nothing but wanted to sit close and clench my hand.

At last was over and Dragoon officer left Alvarez. Were still quarreling. Alvarez wanted those six executed at once and fact made public (sensible but not nearly enough, for his needs); C.O. was still talking about "hushing it up." Prof said, "Mike, keep an ear there and listen where else you can. Well, Mike? Wyoh? Plans?"

I didn't have any. Wasn't a cold, shrewd revolutionist; just wanted to get my heel into faces that matched those six voices. "I don't know. What do we do, Prof?"

"'Do'? We're on our tiger; we grab its ears. Mike. Where's Finn Nielsen? Find him."

Mike answered, "He's calling now." He cut Finn in with us; I heard: "--at Tube South. Both guards dead and about six of our people. Just people, I mean, not necessarily comrades. Some wild rumor about Goons going crazy and raping and killing all women at Complex. Adam, I had better talk to Prof."