"Certainly. I didn't want to volunteer, with you two men here. But I'll be happy to drive. Two more hours, about. Easy."

            Three minutes later Gwen was checking the controls; I was seated beside her, figuring out how to jack my suit into the bus's radio. Two of those minutes had been spent delegating Bill as master at arms with orders to keep Lady Dee in her seat. She had come forward again, with firm instructions about how things were to be done. Seems she was in a hurry- something about a directors' meeting in Ell-Four. So we must drive fast, make up for lost time.

            This time I did get to hear Gwen's comment. It was heartwarming. Lady Dee gasped, especially when Gwen told her what to do with her proxies, after she folded them until they were all sharp comers.

            Gwen let in the clutches, the Hear Me shook, then backed, swung past the other rolligon, and we were away. I finally punched the right buttons on the radio, tuned it to what I thought was the right channel:

            "-o, M, F, I, E, S speUs 'Comfies!' the perfect answer to the stresses of modern living! Don't take the cares of business home with you. Take comfort from Comfies, the scientific stomach boon therapists prescribe more than any other-"

            I tried another channel.

            XIII

            "The truth is the one thing that nobody will believe."

            GEORGE BERNARD SHAW 1856-1950

            I went on hunting for eleven, the emergencies channel, by trial and error; the read-out was marked but not by numbered channels-Auntie had her own codes. The window reading "Help" was not help for emergencies as I had assumed, but spiritual help. I punched it in and got "This is the Reverend Herold Angel speaking from my heart direct to yours, at Tycho-Under Tabernacle, Christ's Home in Luna. Tune in at eight o'clock Sunday to hear the true meanings of the Scriptural prophecies... and send your love gift today to Box 99, Angel Station, Tycho Under. Our Good News Theme for today: How We Will Know the Master When He Comes. Now we join the Tabernacle Choir in 'Jesus Holds Me in His-'"

            That sort of help was about forty minutes too late, so I moved on to another channel. There I recognized a voice and concluded that I must be on channel thirteen. So I called,

            "Captain Midnight calling Captain Marcy. Come in. Captain Marcy."

            "Marcy, ground control Hong Kong Luna. Midnight, what the devil are you up to now? Over."

            I tried to explain, in twenty-five words or less, how I happened to be on his maneuvering circuit. He listened, then interrupted: "Midnight, what have you been smoking? Let me talk to your wife; I can believe her."

            "She can't talk to you now; she's driving this bus."

            "Hold it. You tell me you are a passenger in the rolligon Hear Me, Jesus. That's Lilybet Washington's bus; why is your wife driving it?"

            "I tried to tell you. She's been shot. Auntie Lilybet, I mean, not my wife. We were jumped by bandits."

            "There are no bandits in that area."

            "That's right; we killed 'em. Captain, listen, and quit jumping to conclusions. We were attacked. We have three dead and two wounded... and my wife is driving because she's the only able-bodied person left who can."

            "You're wounded?"

            "No."

            "But you said your wife is the only able-bodied person left who can drive."

            "Yes."

            "Let me get this straight. Day before yesterday you were piloting a spacecraft- Or was your wife the pilot?"

            "I was the pilot. What's itching you. Captain?"

            "You can pilot a spacecraft... but you can't drive a little old roily. That's hard to swallow."

            "Simple. I can't use my right foot."

            "But you said you weren't wounded."

            "I'm not. I've just lost a foot, that's all. Well, not 'lost'- I have it here in my lap. But I can't use it."

            "Why can't you use it?"

            I took a deep breath and attempted to recall Siacci empiricals for ballistics on atmosphere planets. "Captain Marcy, is there anyone in your organization-or anywhere in Hong Kong Luna-who might be interested in the fact that bandits attacked a public bus serving your city, only a few klicks outside your city pressure? And is there anyone who can receive the dead and wounded when we arrive with them? And who won't care who drives this bus? And doesn't find it incredible dial a man could have had a foot amputated years back?"

            "Why didn't you say so?"

            "God damn it. Captain, it was none of your bloody business!"

            There was silence for several seconds. Then Captain Marcy said quietly, "Perhaps you're right. Midnight, I'm going to patch you through to Major Bozell. He's a wholesaler by trade but he also commands our Vigilante Volunteers and that's why you should talk to him. Just hang on."

            I waited and watched Owen's driving. When we started, her handling had been a bit rough, just as anyone's will be in getting acquainted with a strange machine. Now her driving was smooth, if not as dashing as Auntie's driving.

            "Bozell here. Do you read?"

            I replied... and almost at once ran into a nightmare feeling of deja vu, as he interrupted with: "There are no bandits in that area."

            I sighed. "If you say so. Major. But there are nine corpses and an abandoned rolligon in that area. Perhaps someone would be interested in searching those bodies, salvaging their p-suits and weapons, and in claiming that abandoned rolligon... before some peaceful settlers who would never think of turning bandit show up and take everything."

            "Hmmm. Choy-Mu tells me that he is getting a satellite photo of the spot where this alleged attack took place. If there really is an abandoned rolligon-"

            "Major!"

            "Yes?"

            "I don't care what you believe. I don't give a hoot about salvage. We'll be at the north airlock about three-thirty. Can you have a medic meet us, with a stretcher and bearers? That's for Mistress Lilybet Washington. She's-"

            "I know who she is; she's been driving that route since I was a kid. Let me talk to her."

            "She's wounded, I told you. She's lying down and I hope she's asleep. If she's not, I still won't disturb her; it might start more bleeding. Just have somebody at the airlock to take care of her. And for three dead ones, too, one of them a small child. Its mother is with us and in shock, name of Ekaterina O'Toole, and her husband lives in your city. Nigel O'Toole and maybe you can have somebody call him so that he can meet his family and take care of them. That's all. Major. When I called you, I was a bit nervous about bandits. But since there aren't any bandits in this area, we have no reason to ask for vigilante protection out here on the Sea of Serenity this fine sunny day, and I'm sorry I disturbed your sleep."

            "That's all right; we're here to help-no need to be sarcastic. This is being recorded. State your full name and legal address, then repeat: As representative of Lilybet Washington of Lucky Dragon Pressure, doing business as the Apocalypse and Kingdom Come Bus Company, I authorize Major Kirk Bozell, commanding officer and business manager of the Hong Kong Luna Vigilante Volunteers, to supply-"

            "Hold it. What is this?"

            "Just the standard contract covering services for personal protection and property conservation, and guaranteeing payment. You can't expect to roust a platoon of guards out of bed in the middle of the night and not pay for it. TANSTAAFL. No free lunch."

            "Hmm. Major, do you happen to have any hemorrhoid salve on hand? Preparation H? Pazo? That sort of thing?"

            "Eh? I use Tiger Balm. Why?"

            "You're going to need it. Take that standard contract, fold it until it is all sharp comers-"

            I stayed tuned to thirteen, made no further effort to find the emergencies channel. So far as I could see there was no point to shouting "M'aidez!" on channel eleven when I had already talked to the only likely source of help. I leaned my helmet against Gwen's and summarized, then added, "Both the idiots insisted that there are no bandits out here."

            "Maybe they weren't bandits. Maybe they were just agrarian reformers making a political statement. I surely hope we don't run into any right-wing extremists! Richard, I had better not talk while I'm driving. Strange car, strange road-only it's not a road."

            "Sorry, hon! You're doing beautifully. How can I help?"

            "It would help a lot if you would spot the markers for me."

            "Sure thing!"

            "Then I could keep my eyes down and watch the road close ahead. Some of those potholes are worse than Manhattan."

            "Impossible."

            We worked out a system that helped her while bothering her least. As soon as I spotted a marker I pointed at it. When she saw it, too-not before-she slapped my knee. We didn't talk because touching helmets did tend to interfere with her driving.

            About an hour later a rolligon showed up ahead and came straight toward us at high speed. Gwen tapped her helmet over her ear; I pressed my helmet to hers. She said, "More agrarian reformers?"

            "Maybe."

            "I'm out of ammo."

            "So am I." I sighed. "We'll just have to get mem to the conference table somehow. After all, violence never solves anything."

            Gwen made an unladylike comment and added, "What about that gun you took away from Sir Galahad?"

            "Oh. Hon, I haven't even looked at it. Hand me the stupid hat."

            "You're not stupid, Richard, just spiritual. Take a look."

            I drew that confiscated side arm from my suit belt, examined it. Then I touched helmets again. "Honey, you're not going to believe this. It's not loaded."

            "Huh!"

            "Indeed 'Huh.' Aside from that I have no comment. And you can quote me."

            I chucked that useless weapon into a comer of the bus and looked out at the other rolligon, now rapidly closing. Why would anyone wear an unloaded weapon? Sheer folly!

            Gwen tapped her ear again. I touched helmets. "Yes?"

            "The ammo for that gun is on the body, you can bet on it."

            "I won't bet; I figured that out. Gwen, if I were to try to search that corpse, I would have to cool the other two first. It's not a good idea."

            "I agree. And no time for it anyhow. There they come."

            Only they didn't, not quite. The other rolligon, while still some two hundred meters away, swung to its left, made it clear that it was avoiding a collision course. As it passed us I read on its side: Vigilante Volunteers-Hong Kong Luna.

            Shortly Marcy called me. "Bozell says he found you but can't reach you by radio."

            "I don't know why not. You reached me."

            "Because I figured out that you would be on the wrong channel. Midnight, whatever you should be doing, it is a dead certainty that you will always be doing something else."

            "You flatter me. What should I have done this time?"

            "You should have been guarding channel two, that's what. The one reserved for surface vehicles."

            "Every day I learn something. Thanks."

            "Anyone who doesn't know that should not be operating a vehicle on the surface of this planet."

            "Captain, you are so right." I shut up.

            We could see Hong Kong Luna over the horizon many minutes before we got there-the emergency landing pylon, the big dishes used to talk to Earth and the bigger ones for Mars and the Belt, the solar power grids-and it got even more impressive as we got closer. Of course everyone lives underground ... but I tend to forget how much of Luna's heavy industry is on the surface-and illogical that I should forget, since most of Luna's great wealth is tied in with raw sunshine, bitter nights, and endless vacuum. But, as my wife pointed out, I'm the spiritual type.

            We passed Nissan-Shell's new complex, hectare after hectare of pipes and cracking columns and inverse stills and valves and pumps and Bussard pyramids. The long shadows carved by the rising Sun made it a picture out of Gustave Dore, by Pieter Brueghel (zoon), orchestrated by Salvador Dali. Just beyond it we found the north lock.

            Because of Aunt Lilybet they let us use the small Kwiklok. Bill went through with Auntie-he had earned that-then Lady Dee and her surviving husband crowded in ahead of Ekaterina and the kids. Dear Diana had distinguished herself again by demanding that she be taken to the spaceport rather than to a city lock. Bill and I had not let her bother Gwen with her royal commands, but it had decreased (if this be possible) her popularity with us. I was glad to see them disappear into the lock. And it worked out all right as Ekaterina's husband cycled outward through the main lock just as we were losing our VIPs.

            Nigel O'Toole took his family (including that pathetic little body) back the same way, after Gwen hugged Ekaterina and promised to call her.

            Then it was our turn... only to find that Tree-San could not be fitted into a Kwiklok. So we backed out and went around to the larger (and slower) lock. Someone, I saw, was lifting down the body from the turret of Hear Me, Jesus and others were unloading its cargo, under the eyes of four armed guards. I wondered what was in that cargo. But it was none of my business. (Or maybe it was-it seemed possible that this cargo had been the cause of carnage and death.) We went into the larger lock-ourselves, bonsai maple, small suitcase, purse, packaged wig, cane, prosthetic foot.

            The lock cycled and we entered a long, sloping tunnel, then passed through two pressure doors. At the second door was a slot machine for vending short-time air licenses but it had a sign on it: OUT OF ORDER-Visitors please leave a half crown for 24 hrs. A saucer with some coins in it rested on top of the machine; I added a crown for Gwen and me.

            At the bottom of the tunnel one more pressure door let us into the city.

            There were benches just inside for the convenience of persons suiting up or suiting out. With a sigh of relief I started unzipping and shortly was fastening in place my artificial foot.

            Dry Bones is a village. Lucky Dragon is a small town. Hong Kong Luna is a metropolis second only to Luna City. At the moment it did not look crowded but this was the dead of the night; only night workers were up and around. Even early risers had two more hours of sleep coming, no matter that it was broad daylight outside.

            But that almost deserted corridor still showed its big-city quality; a sign over the suit racks read: USE THESE RACKS AT YOUR OWN RISK. SEE JAN THE CHECKROOM MAN-BONDED AND INSURED-One Crown/One P-Suit.

            Under it was a hand-written notice: Be smart-See Sol for only half a crown-not bonded, not insured, just honest. Each sign had arrows, one pointing left, one pointing right.

            Gwen said, "Which one, dear? Sol, or Jan?"

            "Neither. This place is enough like Luna City that I know how to cope with it. I think." I looked around, up and down, spotted a red light. "There's a hotel. With my foot back in place, I can take a p-suit under each arm. Can you manage the rest?"

            "Certainly. How about your cane?"

            "I'll stick it through the belt of my suit. No itch." We started toward that hotel.

            Facing the corridor at the hotel's reception window a young woman sat studying-transgenics, Sylvester's classic text. She looked up. "Better check those first. See Sol, next door."

            "No, I want a big room, with an empress-size bed. We'll stack these in a comer."

            She looked at her rooming diagram. "Single rooms I have. Twin beds I have. Happy suites I have. But what you want- no. All occupied."

            "How much is a happy suite?"

            "Depends. Here's one with two king beds, and 'fresher. Here's one with no beds at all but a padded parlor floor and lots of pillows. And here's-"

            "How much for the two king beds?"

            "Eighty crowns."

            I said patiently, "Look, citizen, I'm a Loonie myself. My grandfather was wounded on the steps at the Bon Marche. His father was shipped for criminal syndicalism. I know prices in Loonie City; they can't be that much higher in Kong. What are you charging for what I requested? If you had one vacant?"

            "I'm not impressed, chum; anyone can claim ancestors in the Revolution and most do. My ancestors welcomed Neil Armstrong as he stepped down. Top that."

            I grinned at her. "I can't and I should have kept quiet. What's your real price on a double room with one big bed, and a 'fresher? Not your tourist price."

            "A standard double room with a big bed and its own 'fresher goes for twenty crowns. Tell you what, chum-not much chance of renting my empty suites this late-or this early. I'll sell you an orgy suite for twenty crowns... and you're out by noon."

            'Ten crowns."

            "Thief. Eighteen. Any lower and I'm losing money."

            "No, you're not. As you pointed out, this time in the mom-ing you can't expect to sell it at any price. Fifteen crowns."

            "Let's see your money. But you have to be out by noon."

            "Make that thirteen o'clock. We've been up all night and have had a rough time." I counted out the cash.

            "I know." She nodded at her terminal. "The Hong Kong Gong has had several bulletins about you. Thirteen o'clock, okay-but if you stay longer, you either pay full tariff or move to an ordinary room. Did you really encounter bandits? On the trace to Lucky Dragon?"

            "They tell me there are no bandits in that area. We ran into some rather unfriendly strangers. Our losses were three dead, two wounded. We fetched 'em back."

            "Yes, I saw. Do you want a receipt for your expense account? For a crown I'll make out a real sincere one, itemized for whatever amount you say. And I have three messages for you."

            I blinked stupidly. "How? Nobody knew we were coming to your hotel. We didn't know it ourselves."

            "No mystery, chum. A stranger comes in the north lock late at night, it's a probable seven to two he'll wind up in my bed- one of my beds and no smart remarks, please." She glanced at her terminal. "If you hadn't picked up your messages in another ten minutes, backups would have gone to all inns in the pressure. If that failed to find you, the selectman for public safety might start a search. We don't get handsome strangers with romantic adventures too often."

            Gwen said, "Quit waggling your tail at him, dearie; he's tired. And taken. Hand me the printouts, please."

            The hotel manager looked coldly at Gwen, spoke to roe:

            "Chum, if you have not yet paid her, I can guarantee you something better and younger and prettier at a bargain price."

            "Your daughter?" Gwen inquired sweetly. "Please, the messages."

            The woman shrugged and handed them to me. I thanked her and said, "About this other something. Younger, possibly. Prettier, I doubt. Can't be cheaper; I married this one for her money. What are the facts?"

            She looked from me to Gwen. "Is that true? Did he marry you for your money? Make him earn it!"

            "Well, he says he did," Gwen said thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. We've been married only three days. This is our honeymoon."

            "Less than three days, dear," I objected. "It just seems longer."

            "Chum, don't talk that way to your bride! You're a cad and a brute and probably on the lam."

            "Yes. All of that," I agreed.

            She ignored me, spoke to Gwen: "Dearie, I didn't know it was your honeymoon or I wouldn't have offered that 'something' to your husband. I bow in the dust. But later on, when you get bored with this chum with the overactive mouth, I can arrange the same for you but male. Fair price- Young. Handsome. Virile. Durable. Affectionate. Call or phone and ask for Xia-that's me. Guaranteed-you must be satisfied or you don't pay."

            "Thanks. Right now all I want is breakfast. Then bed."

            "Breakfast right behind you across the corridor. Sing's New York Caf6.1 recommend his Hangover Special at a crown fifty." She looked back at her rack and picked out two cards. "Here're your keys. Dearie, would you ask Sing to send me over a grilled Cheddar on white with coffee? And don't let him charge you more than a slug and a half for a Hangover Special. He cheats just for fun."

            We parked our baggage with Xia and crossed the corridor for breakfast. Sing's Hangover Special was as good as Xia claimed. Then at last we were in our suite-the bridal suite;

            Xia had again done right by us. In several ways. She led us to our suite, watched while we oohed and ahed-bubbly in an ice bucket, coverlet turned back, perfumed sheets, flowers (artificial but convincing) picked out by the only light.

            So the bride kissed her and Xia kissed the bride, and they both sniffled-and a good thing, too, as a lot had happened too fast and Gwen had had no time to cry. Women need to cry.

            Then Xia kissed the groom, and the groom did not cry and did not hang back-Xia is an oriental stack such as Marco Polo is said to have found in Xanadu. And she kissed me most convincingly. Presently she broke enough for air. "Whew!"

            "Yes, 'Whew!'" I agreed. "That deal you mentioned earlier- What do you charge?"

            "Loud mouth." She grinned at me, did not pull away. "Cad. Scoundrel. I give away free samples. But not to bridegrooms." She unwound herself. "Rest well, dears. Forget that thirteen o'clock deadline. Sleep as long as you wish; I'll tell the day manager."

            "Xia, two of those messages called for me to see people at an ugly cow-milking hour. Can you switch us out?"

            "I already thought of that; I read those before you did. Forget it. Even if Bully Bozell shows up with all his Boy Scouts, the day manager won't admit knowing what suite you are in."

            "I don't want to cause you trouble with your boss."

            "Didn't I say? I own the joint. Along with BancAmerica." She pecked me quickly and left.

            While we were undressing, Gwen said, "Richard, she was waiting to be asked to stay. And she's not the wide-eyed virgin little Gretchen is. Why didn't you invite her?"

            "Aw, shucks, Maw, I didn't know how."

            "You could have unpeeled her cheong-sam while she was trying to strangle you; that would have done it. There was nothing under it. Correction: Xia was under it, nothing else. But Xia is a-plenty, I'm certain. So why didn't you?"

            "Do you want to know the truth?"

            "Uh... I'm not sure."

            "Because I wanted to sleep with you, wench, with no distractions. Because I am not yet bored with you. It's not your brain, and not your spiritual qualities of which you almost don't have any. I lust after your sweaty little body."

            "Oh, Richard!"

            "Before we bathe? Or after?"

            "Uh... both?"

            "That's my girl!"

            XIV

            "Democracy can withstand anything but democrats."

            J. HARSHAW 1904-

            "All kings is mostly rapscallions.**

            MARK TWAIN 1835-1910

            While we were bathing I said, "You surprised me, hon, by knowing how to herd a rolligon."

            "Not half as much as you surprised me when it turned out that your cane was a rifle."

            "Ah, yes, that reminds me- Would it bother you to cover for me?"

            "Of course not, Richard, but how?"

            "My trick cane stops being a protection when people know what it is. But, if all the shooting is attributed to you, then people won't learn what it is."

            Gwen answered thoughtfully, "I don't see. Or don't understand. Everybody in the bus saw you using it as a rifle."

            "Did they, now? The fight took place in vacuum-dead silence. So no one heard any shots. Who saw me shoot? Auntie? She was wounded before I joined the party. Only seconds before but we're talking about seconds. Bill? Busy with Auntie. Ek-aterina and her kids? I doubt that the kids saw anything they understood, and their mother suffered the worst shock a mother can; she won't be much of a witness, if at all. Dear Diana and her fancy boys? One is dead, the other was so mixed up that he mistook me for a bandit, and LAdy Dee herself is so self-centered that she never understood what was going on; she simply knew that some tiresome nonsense was interfering with her sacred whims. Turn around and I'll scrub your back."

            Gwen did so; I went on: "Let's improve it. I'll cover for you instead of you covering for me."

            "How?"

            "My cane and your little Miyako use the same caliber ammo. So all shots came from the Miyako-fired by me, not by you- and my cane is just a cane. And you are my sweet, innocent bride who would never do anything so grossly unladylike as shooting back at strangers. Does that suit you?"

            Gwen was so long in answering that I began to think that I must have offended her. "Richard, maybe neither of us shot at anybody."

            "So? You interest me. Tell me how."

            "I am almost as unanxious to admit that I carry a gun as you are to admit that your cane has unexpected talents. Some places are awfully stuffy about concealed weapons... but a gun in my purse-or somewhere on me-has saved my life more than once and I intend to go on carrying one. Richard, the reasons you gave for believing that no one knows about your cane apply also to my Miyako. You're bigger than I am and I had the window seat. When we crouched down, I don't think anyone could see me too well-your shoulders are not transparent."

            "Hmm. Could be. But what about bodies with slugs in them? Six point five millimeter longs, to be precise."

            "Shot by the butchers in that big wheel."

            "They were burning, not shooting."

            "Richard! Richard! Do you know that they didn't have slug guns as well as energy weapons? I don't."

            "Hmm again. My love, you are as devious as a diplomat."

            "I am a diplomat. Reach me the soap, pretty please. Richard, let's not volunteer information. We were just passengers, innocent bystanders and stupid as well. How those agrarian reformers died is not our responsibility. My pappy done taught me to hold my cards close to my chest and never admit anything. This is a time for that."

            "My pappy done taught me the same thing. Gwen, why didn't you marry me sooner?"

            'Took me a while to soften you up, dear. Or vice versa. Ready to shower off?"

            While I was drying her, I remembered a point that we had passed by. "Picture bride, where did you learn to drive a rol-ligon?"

            "'Where?' Mare Serenitatis."

            "Huh?"

            "I learned how through watching Gretchen and Auntie. Tonight was the first time I ever drove one."

            "Well! Why didn't you say so?"

            She started drying me. "Beloved, if you had known, you would have worried. Uselessly. In all the times I've been married I have always made it a rule never to tell my husband anything that would worry him if I could reasonably avoid it." She smiled angelically. "Better so. Men are worriers; women are not."

            I was roused out of a deep sleep by loud pounding. "Open up in there!"

            I couldn't think of a good reason to answer, so I didn't. I yawned widely, being careful not to let my soul escape, then reached out to my right. And woke up sharply and suddenly;

            Gwen was not there.

            I got out of bed so quickly that it made me dizzy; I almost fell. I gave my head a shake to clear it, then hopped into the 'fresher. Gwen was not there. The pounding continued.

            Don't drink champagne in bed and then go right to sleep;

            I had to drain off a liter of used bubbly before I could sigh with relief and think of other matters. The pounding continued, with more shouting.

            Tucked into the top of my foot was a note from my beloved. Smart gal! Even better than fastening it to my toothbrush. It read:

            Dearest One,

            I have an attack of wakeupitis, so I'm getting up and taking care of a couple of errands. First I'm going to Sears Montgomery to return our p-suits and pay the rent on them. While I'm at Sears, I'll pick up socks and drawers for you and panties for me and do some other things. I'll leave a note at the desk here telling Bill to turn in his suit, too- and, yes, he did come in after we did and Xia put him in a single, as you arranged with her. Then I'm off to Wyoming Knott Memorial Hospital to see Auntie, and I'll call Eka-terina.

            You're sleeping like a baby and I hope to be back before you wake up. If not-if you go anywhere-please leave a note at the desk.

            Love you- Gwendolyn

            The pounding continued. I put on my foot, while noting that our p-suits were not where I had last seen them, i.e., arranged in a romantic pose on the floor, a jest created by my bawdy bride. I dressed in the only clothes I had, then watered the little maple, found it did not need much; Gwen must have watered it.

            "Open up!"

            "Go to hell," I answered politely.

            Shortly the pounding was replaced by a scratching noise, so I placed myself close to the door and a bit to one side. This was not a dilating door but the more traditional hinged type.

            It swung open; my noisy visitor plunged in. I reached out and threw him across the room. In one-sixth gee this takes some care-you must have a foot braced against something, or you'll lose traction and it won't work.

            He sort of bounced off the far wall and wound up on the bed. I said, "Get your dirty feet off my bed!"

            He got off the bed and stood up. I continued angrily, "Now explain why you broke into my bedroom... and make it quick before I tear off your arm and beat you over the head with it. Who do you think you are, waking up a citizen who has switched on his Do-Not-Disturb? Answer me!"

            I could see what he was: some sort of town clown; he was wearing a uniform that spelled "cop." His reply, mixing indignation with arrogance, matched his appearance. "Why didn't you open up when I ordered you to?"

            "Why should I? Do you pay the rent on this room?"

            "No, but-"

            "There's your answer. Get out of here!"

            "Now you listen to me! I am a safety officer of the sovereign city of Hong Kong Luna. You are directed to present yourself before the Moderator of the Municipal Council forthwith to supply information necessary to the peace and security of the city."

            "I am, eh? Show me your warrant."

            "No warrant needed. I am in uniform and on duty; you are required to cooperate with me. City Ordinance two seventeen dash eighty-two, page forty-one."

            "Do you have a warrant to break down the door of my private bedroom? Don't try to tell me that doesn't require a warrant. I'm going to sue you and take every crown you have and that monkey suit as well."

            His jaw muscles quivered but all he said was: "Are you coming peacefully or do I have to drag you?"

            I grinned at him. "Best two falls out of three? I won the first one. Come ahead." I became aware that we had an audience at the door. "Good morning, Xia. Do you know this clown?"

            "Mr. Richard, I'm terribly sorry about this. My day manager tried to stop him; he wouldn't stop. I got here as quickly as I could." I saw that she was barefooted and wearing no makeup- so her sleep had been interrupted, too. I said gently,

            "Not your fault, dear. He doesn't have a warrant. Shall I throw him out?"

            "Well..." She looked troubled.

            "Oh. I see. I think I see. Throughout history, innkeepers have found it necessary to get along with cops. And throughout history, cops have had larcenous hearts and a bully's manners. All right, as a favor to you, I'll let him live." I turned back to the cop. "Boy, you can chase back to your boss and tell him that I will be along presently. After I've had at least two cups of coffee. If he wants me any sooner than that, he had better send a squad. Xia, would you like coffee? Let's go see if Sing has coffee and Danish, or such."

            At this point Joe Stormtrooper made it necessary for me to take his gun. I can be shot-I have been shot, more than once- but I can't be shot by anyone who thinks that just pointing a gun at me has changed the odds.

            His gun was nothing I wanted-door-prize junk. So I unloaded it, made sure that his ammo was not the caliber I use, dropped the loads down the oubliette, and handed his gun back to him.

            At the loss of his cartridges he screamed bloody murder, but I patiently explained to him that his gun was as good as ever for the purpose for which he used it and that, if I had let him keep ammo, he could have hurt himself.

            He continued to squawk, so I told him to go squawk to his boss. And turned my back. He was, I feel certain, annoyed. But so was I.

            Forty minutes later, feeling better although still sleepy, and after a rewarding chat with Xia over coffee and jelly doughnuts, I presented myself at the office of the Honorable Jefferson Mao, Moderator of the Council of Selectmen of the Sovereign City of Hong Kong Luna-so it said on the door. I wondered what the Congress of Luna Free State thought about this use of the word "sovereign" but it was none of my business.

            A brisk woman with slant eyes and red hair (interesting genes, I guess) said, "Name, please?"

            "Richard Johnson. The Moderator wants to see me."

            She glanced at her monitor. "You're late for your appointment; you'll have to wait. You may sit down."

            "And I may not. I said that the Moderator wants to see me;

            I did not say that I want to see the Moderator. Punch up that box and let him know that I am here."

            "I can't possibly fit you in for at least two hours."

            'Tell him I am here. If he won't see me now, I'm leaving."

            "Very well, return in two hours."

            "You misunderstand me. I'm leaving. Leaving Kong. I won't be back." I was bluffing as I said it and as I said it, I learned that I was not bluffing. My plans, as yet inchoate, had included an indefinite stay in Kong. Now I suddenly realized that I would not remain in a city that had sunk so far in the qualities that constitute civilization that a cop would break into a citizen's bedroom merely because some officious official decides to summon him. No indeed! A private soldier in a decent, well-run, disciplined military outfit has more freedom and more privacy than that. Hong Kong Luna, celebrated in song and story as the cradle of Luna's freedom, was no longer a fit place to live.

            I turned away and was almost to the door when she called out: "Mr. Johnson!"

            I stopped, did not turn. "Yes?"

            "Come back here!"

            "Why?"

            Her answer seemed to hurt her face. "The Moderator will see you now."

            "Very well." As I approached the door to the inner office, it rolled out of the way... but I did not find myself in the Moderator's private office; three more doors, each guarded by its own faithful hound, lay ahead-and this told me more than I wanted to know about the current government of Hong Kong Luna.

            The guardian of the last door announced me and ushered me through. Mr. Mao barely glanced at me. "Sit down." I sat down, rested my cane against my knee.

            I waited five minutes while the city boss shuffled papers and continued to ignore me. Then I stood up, headed for the door, moving slowly, leaning on my cane. Mao looked up. "Mr. Johnson! Where are you going?"

            "Out."

            "Indeed. You don't want to get along, do you?"

            "I want to go about my business. Is there some reason I should not?"

            He looked at me with no expression. "If you insist, I can cite a municipal ordinance under which you are required to cooperate with me when I request it."

            "Are you referring to City Ordinance two hundred seventeen dash eighty-two?"

            "I see you are familiar with it... so you can hardly plead ignorance in extenuation of your behavior."

            "I am not familiar with that ordinance, just its number. It was cited to me by a clownish thug who crushed into my bedroom. Does that ordinance say anything about breaking into private bedrooms?"

            "Ah, yes. Interfering with a safety officer in the performance of his duty. We'll discuss that later. That ordinance you cited is the bedrock of our freedom. Citizens, residents, and even visitors can come and go as they please, subject only to their civic duty to cooperate with officials, elected, appointed, or deputized, in carrying out their official duties."

            "And who decides when cooperation is needed and what sort and how much?"

            "Why, the official involved, of course."

            "I thought so. Is there anything else you want of me?" I started to stand up.

            "Sit back down. There is indeed. And I require your cooperation. I am sorry to have to put it that way but you don't seem to respond to polite requests."

            "Such as breaking down my door?"

            "You weary me. Sit down and shut up. I am about to interrogate you... as soon as two witnesses arrive."

            I sat down and shut up. I felt that I now understood the new regime: absolute freedom... except that any official from dogcatcher to supreme potentate could give any orders whatever to any private citizen at any time.

            So it was "freedom" as defined by Orwell and Kafka, "freedom" as granted by Stalin and Hitler, "freedom" to pace back and forth in your cage. I wondered if the coming interrogation would be assisted by mechanical or electrical devices or by drugs, and felt sick at my stomach. Back when I was on active duty and repeatedly faced with the possibility of capture while holding classified information, I always had a final friend, that "hollow tooth" or equivalent. I no longer wore such protection.

            I was scared.

            Before long two men came in together. Mao answered good-moming to their greeting and waved them to seats; a third man came in right after them. "Uncle Jeff, I-"

            "Shut up and sit down!" This latecomer was the joker whose gun I had emptied; he shut up and sat down. I caught him looking at me; he looked away.

            Mao put aside some papers. "Major Bozell, thanks for coming in. You, too. Captain Marcy. Major, you have questions to ask one Richard Johnson. There he sits. Ask away."

            Bozell was a short man who carried himself very erect. He had close-cropped sandy hair and an abrupt, jerky manner.

            "Hah! Let's get right to it! Why did you send me on a wild goose chase?"

            "What wild goose chase?"

            "Hah! Are you going to sit there and deny that you told me a cock-and-bull story about an attack by bandits? In an area where there have never been any bandits! Do you deny that you urged me to send a rescue-and-salvage team out there? Knowing that I would find nothing! Answer me!"

            I said, "That reminds me- Can anyone tell me how Aunt Lilybet is this morning? Because I was told to come here, I haven't had time to get to the hospital."

            "Hah! Don't change the subject. Answer me!"

            I answered mildly, "But that is the subject. In that cock-and-bull attack you spoke of, an old lady was injured. Is she still alive? Does anyone know?"

            Bozell started to answer; Mao cut in. "She's alive. Or was an hour ago. Johnson, you had better pray that she stays alive. I have a deposition here"-he tapped his terminal-"from a citizen whose word is above reproach. One of our most important stockholders, LAdy Diana Kerr-Shapley. She states that you shot Mistress Lilybet Washington-"

            "What?"

            "-while creating a reign of terror in which your actions caused the death by anoxia of her husband the Honorable Oswald Progant, broke the wrist of her husband the Honorable Brockman Hogg, and subjected Lady Diana herself to terror tactics and repeated insults."

            "Hmm. Did she say who killed the O'Toole child? And what about the turret gunner? Who killed him?"

            "She states that there was such confusion that she did not see everything. But you went outside while the bus was standing still and climbed up to the turret-no doubt that was when you finished off the poor boy."

            "Are you saying that last, or did she say it?"

            "I said it. A conclusive presumption. Lady Diana was meticulously careful not to testify to anything she did not see with her own eyes. Including this ghostly rolligon full of bandits. She saw nothing of it."

            Bozell added, "There you have it, Mr. Moderator. This hijacker shot up the bus and killed three people and wounded two more... and invented a cock-and-bull story about bandits to cover his crimes. There are no bandits in that area; everybody knows that."

            I tried to get a grip on reality. "Mr. Moderator, one moment, please! Captain Marcy is here. I understand he got a picture of the bandits' rolligon."

            "I ask the questions, Mr. Johnson."

            "But- Did he, or didn't he?"

            'That's enough, Johnson! You will be in order. Or you will be restrained."

            "What am I doing that is out of order?"

            "You're disrupting this investigation with irrelevancies. Wait until you are spoken to. Then answer the question."

            "Yes, sir. What is the question?"

            "I told you to keep quiet!"

            I kept quiet. So did everybody else.

            Presently Mr. Mao drummed on his desk and said, "Major, did you have more questions?"

            "Hah! He never answered my first question. He evaded it."

            The Moderator said, "Johnson, answer the question."

            I looked stupid-my best role. "What is the question?"

            Mao and Bozell both started to speak; Bozell yielded to Mao who went on, "Let's summarize it. Why did you do what you did?"

            "What did I do?"

            "I just told you what you did!"

            "But I didn't do any of the things you said I did. Mr. Moderator, I don't understand how you got into this. You weren't there. That bus is not from your city. I am not from your city. Whatever happened took place outside your city. What is your connection with the matter?"

            Mao leaned back and looked smug. Bozell said, "Hah!" then added, "Shall I tell him, Mr. Moderator? Or will you?"

            "I will tell him. In fact I shall enjoy telling him. Johnson, less than a year ago the Council of this sovereign city made a very wise move. It extended its jurisdiction to cover all surface and subsurface activity within one hundred kilometers of the municipal pressure."

            "And made the Vigilante Volunteers an official arm of the government," Bozell added happily, "charged with keeping the peace to the hundred-kilometer line! And that fixes you, you murderer!"

            Mao ignored the interruption. "So you see, Johnson, while you probably thought that you were out in anarchist wilds, where the writ of law does not run, in fact you were not. Your crimes will be punished."

            (I wonder how soon someone will attempt a power grab like this out in the Belt?) "These crimes of mine- Did they take place less than one hundred kilometers from Hong Kong Luna? Or more?"

            "Eh? Less. Considerably less. Of course."

            "Who measured it?"

            Mao looked at Bozell. "How far was it?"'

            "About eighty kilometers. A little less."

            I said, "What was a little less? Major, are you talking about the bandits' attack on the bus? Or about something that went on inside the bus?"

            "Don't put words into my mouth! Marcy-you tell them!"

            Having said that, Bozell looked blank. He started to add something, stopped.

            I most carefully kept quiet. Presently Mao said, "Well, Captain Marcy?"

            "What do you want from me, sir? The director of the port, when he sent me here, told me to cooperate fully... but not to volunteer anything you did not ask for."

            "I want everything relevant to this case. Did you give Major Bozell a figure of eighty kilometers?"

            "Yes, sir. Seventy-eight kilometers."

            "How did you get that figure?"

            "I measured it on a monitor at my console. Ordinarily we don't print a satellite photograph, just display it. This man- you say his name is Johnson; I knew him as 'Midnight'-if he's the same man. He called me last night at oh one twenty-seven, stated that he was in the Lucky Dragon bus, reported that bandits had attacked the bus-"

            "Hah!"

            "-and that the attack had been driven off but the driver, Aunt Lilybet-Mistress Washington-was hurt and that the turret gunner was-"

            "We know all that. Captain. Tell us about the photograph."

            "Yes, Mr. Moderator. From what Midnight told me, I was able to direct the satellite camera onto target. I photographed the rolligon."

            "And you place the bus at that time seventy-eight kilometers from the city?"

            "No, sir, not the bus. The other rolligon."

            There was the sort of silence sometimes called "pregnant." Then Bozell said, "But that's crazy! There wasn't any-"

            "Just a moment, Bozell. Marcy, you were misled by John-son's lies. What you saw was the bus."

            "No, sir. I did see the bus; I had it on monitor. But I saw at once that it was moving. So I coached the camera back down the trace about ten klicks... and there was the second rolligon, just as Midnight had said."

            Bozell was almost in tears. "But- There was nothing there, I tell you! My boys and I searched that whole area. Nothing! Marcy, you're out of your mind!"

            I don't know how long Bozell would have gone on wishing away a rolligon he could not find, as he was interrupted; Gwen came in. And I reswallowed my heart; everything was going to be all right!

            (I had been worried sick ever since I had seen Mao's triple defenses against anyone walking in on him. A guard against assassination? I don't know; I simply fretted that Gwen might be balked. But I should have had more confidence in my little giant.)

            She smiled and waved me a kiss, then turned and held the door. "Right through here, gentlemen!"

            Two of Mao's own police brought in a wheelchair, laid back so that Auntie could recline. She looked around, smiled at me, then said to the Moderator, "Howdy, Jefferson. How's your momma?"

            "She's well, thank you. Mistress Washington. But you-"

            "What's this 'Mistress Washington' fancy talk? Boy, I've changed your nappies; you call me 'Auntie' same as you always did. Now I heard about how you were planning to pin a medal on Senator Richard for how he saved me from those bandits ... and when I heard that I said to myself, 'Jefferson hasn't heard about the other two that deserve medals quite as much as Senator Richard does-begging your pardon. Senator."

            I said, "Oh, you're quite right. Auntie."

            "So I brought them. Gwen honey, say hello to Jefferson. He's the mayor of this pressure. Gwen is Senator Richard's wife, Jefferson. And Bill- Where's Bill? Bill! You come in here, son! Don't be shy. Jefferson, while it's true that Senator Richard killed two of those bad men with his bare hands-"

            "Not his bare hands. Auntie," Gwen objected. "He did have his cane."

            "You hush up, honey. With his bare hands and his walking cane, but if Bill hadn't been right there-and fast and smart- I wouldn't be here; Jesus would have taken me. But the dear Lord said it wasn't my time yet and Bill put patches on my suit and saved me to serve Jesus another day." Auntie reached out, took Bill's hand. "This is Bill, Jefferson. Make sure he gets a medal, too. And Gwen- Come here, Gwen. This baby girl saved all our lives."

            I'm not sure how old my bride is, but she is not a "baby girl." However, that was the least distortion of fact that was heard in the next few minutes. To put it in its mildest terms, Auntie told a pack of lies. With Gwen nodding and backing her up and looking angelic.

            It was not so much that the facts were wrong as that Auntie testified to things she could not possibly have seen. Gwen must have coached her most carefully.

            Two loads of bandits had tackled us but they had fought each other; that saved us, as all but two of them died in that fratricide. Those two I killed with my bare hands and a walking stick-against laser guns. I am so heroic that I amaze myself.

            While these brave deeds were going on, I know Auntie was unconscious part of the time, and flat on her back all of the time, able to see only the ceiling of the bus. Yet she seemed to believe-I think she did believe-what she was saying. So much for eyewitnesses.

            (Not that I'm complaining!)

            Then Auntie told how Gwen had driven us. I found myself pulling up a trouser leg to show my prosthetic-something I never do-but did this time to show why I had been unable to wear it while wearing a standard p-suit, and thereby unable to drive.

            But it was Gwen who brought down the house when Auntie finished her highly-colored account. Gwen did it with pictures.

            Listen carefully. Gwen had used all her ammo, six rounds, then-neat as always-she had put her Miyako back into her purse. And pulled out her Mini Helvetia, snapped two frames.

            She had tilted her camera down a bit, for it showed not only both bandit vehicles but also three casualties on the ground and one bandit up and moving. The second shot showed four on the ground and the superdoughnut turned away.

            I can't figure an exact time line on this but there must have been at least four seconds from the time she ran out of ammo to the time the giant wheel turned away. With a fast camera it takes about as long to shoot one frame as it does to fire one shot with a semi-automatic slug gun.

            So the question is: What did she do with the other two seconds? Just waste them?

            XV

            "Premenstrual Syndrome: Just before their periods women behave the way men do all the time"

            LOWELL STONE, M.D. 2144-

            We didn't break into a run but we got out of there as fast as possible. True, Auntie had clobbered Mr. Mao into accepting me as a "hero" rather than a criminal-but that did not make him love me and I knew it.

            Major Bozell did not even pretend to like me. Captain Mar-cy's "defection" infuriated Bozell; Gwen's pictures actually showing bandits (where they could not be!) broke his heart. Then his boss gave him the crudest blow by ordering him to get his troops together and get out there and find them! Do it now! "If you can't do it. Major, I'll have to find someone who can. You thought up this idea of the hundred-kilometer border. Now justify your boasts."

            Mao should not have done it to Bozell in the presence of others-especially not in my presence. This I know from professional experience-in each role.

            I think Gwen gave Auntie some signal. As may be. Aunt Lilybet told Mao she had to leave. "My little nurse is going to scold me for staying too long. I don't want her to have to scold me too hard. Mei-Ling Ouspenskaya-do you know her, Jefferson? She knows your momma."

            The same two police officers wheeled Auntie all the way back through that series of offices and out to the public corridor-square, rather, as the city offices face on Revolutionary Square. She said good-bye to us there and the police officers wheeled her away to Wyoming Knott Memorial Hospital, two levels down and north of there. I don't think they expected to do it-I do know Gwen conscripted these two right there in the Moderator's offices-but Auntie assumed that they would take her back to hospital, and they did. "No, Gwen honey, no need for you to come along-these kind gentlemen know where it is."

            (A lady has doors held for her because she expects doors to be held for her. Both Gwen and Aunt Lilybet had this principle down pat.)

            Facing the municipal offices was a large bunting-bedecked sign:

            FREE LUNA! July 4th, 2076-2188

            Was it really Independence Day already? I counted up in my mind. Yes, Gwen and I had married on the first-so today had to be the Fourth of July. A good omen!

            Seated at a bench around a fountain in the center of Revolutionary Square was Xia, waiting for us.

            I had expected Gwen; I did not expect Xia. In the chat I had had with Xia, I had asked her to try to locate Gwen and to tell her where I was going and why. "Xia, I don't like being called in by cops for questioning, especially in a strange town where I don't know the political setup. If I am 'detained'-to put it politely-I want my wife to know where to look."

            I did not suggest what Gwen should do about it. In only three days of marriage to Gwen I had already learned that nothing I could suggest could equal what she would think of, left to her own devious devices-being married to Gwen was not dull!

            I was warmly pleased to find Xia waiting but I was startled at what she had with her. I stared and said, "Somebody book the bridal suite?" On the bench by Xia I saw Gwen's small case, a package containing a wig, a rock maple in bonsai, and a package not familiar to me but self-explained by its Sears Montgomery wrapping. "I'll bet my toothbrush is still hanging in the 'fresher."

            "How much and what odds?" said Xia. "You would lose. Richard, I'll miss both of you. Maybe I'll run over to L-City and visit you."

            "Do that!" said Gwen.

            "Concur," I concurred, "if we're moving to L-City. Are we?"

            "Right away," said Gwen.

            "Bill, did you know about this?"

            "No, Senator. But she had me rush over to Sears and turn in my p-suit. So I'm ready."

            "Richard," Gwen said seriously, "it's not safe for you to stay here."

            "No, it's not," said a voice behind me (proving again that classified matters should not be discussed in public places). "The sooner you chums leave the better. Hi, Xia. Are you with these dangerous characters?"

            "Hi yourself, Choy-Mu. Thanks for last time."

            I blinked at him. "Captain Marcy! I'm glad you came out;

            I want to thank you!"

            "Nothing to thank me for. Captain Midnight-or is it 'Senator'?"

            "Well... actually it's 'Doctor.' Or 'Mister.' But to you it's 'Richard,' if you will. You saved my neck."

            "And I'm Choy-Mu, Richard. But I did not save your neck. I followed you out to tell you so. You may think you won back in there. You did not. You lost. You made the Moderator lose face-you made both of them lose face. So you're a walking time bomb, an accident looking for the spot." He frowned. "Not too healthy for me, either, being present when they lost face... after making the initial mistake of 'bearing bad news to the king.' Understand me?"

            "I'm afraid I do."

            Xia asked, "Choy-Mu, truly did Number-One lose face?" 'Truly he did, luv. It was Aunt Lilybet Washington who did

            it to him. But of course he can't touch her. So it lands on

            Captain- On Richard. So I see it."

            Xia stood up. "Gwen, let's go straight to the station. Not

            waste a second! Oh, damn! I did so much want you to stay a

            few days."

            Twenty minutes later we were at South Tube Station, and about to enter the ballistic tube for Luna City. The fact that we were able to book space in the L-City capsule leaving almost at once controlled our destination, as Choy-Mu and Xia went along to see us off and, by the time we had reached the station via the local city subway, they had convinced me-or had convinced Gwen (more to the point)-that we should take the first thing leaving town, no matter where it went. From that same station there are ordinary (non-ballistic) tubes to Plato, Tycho Under, and Novy Leningrad-had we been six minutes earlier we would have wound up in Plato warren, which would have changed many things.

            Or would it have changed anything? Is there a Destiny that shapes our ends? (Gwen's end was delightfully shaped. Xia's also, come to think of it.)

            There was barely time to say good-bye before we had to rack up and strap in. Xia kissed us all good-bye and I was pleased that Gwen did not let Choy-Mu go unkissed. A true Loonie, he hesitated a long beat to make sure that the lady meant it, then returned it enthusiastically. I watched Xia kissing Bill good-bye-Bill returned it without that hesitation. I decided that Gwen's attempt to play Pygmalion to this unlikely Galatea was succeeding but that Bill would have to learn Loonie manners, or he might lose some teeth.

            We strapped down, the capsule was sealed, and again Bill cradled the little maple's pot against his belly. The racks swung to meet acceleration-one full gee, a high acceleration for Loonies who filled the rest of the car. Two minutes and fifty-one seconds of boost, then we were at orbital speed.

            Odd to be in free fall in a subway. But it certainly is fun!

            It was the first time I had ridden the ballistic tube. It dates back before the Revolution, although then (so I've read) it extended only to Endsville. It was completed later, but the principle was never extended to other subway systems-not economic, I am told, other than for heavily-traveled, long runs that can be dug "straight" the whole way-"straight" in this case meaning "exactly conforming to a ballistic curve at orbiting velocity."

            This subway is the only underground "spaceship" in history. It works like the induction catapults that throw cargo to Ell-Four and Ell-Five and to Terra... except that the launching station, the receiving station, and the entire trajectory are underground ... a few meters underground in most places, about three klicks underground where the tube passes under mountains.

            Two minutes and fifty-one seconds of one-gee boost, twelve minutes and twenty-seven seconds in free fall, two minutes and fifty-one seconds of one-gee braking-it adds up to an average speed of more than five thousand kilometers per hour. No other "surface" transportation anywhere even approaches this speed. Yet it is an utterly comfortable ride-three minutes that feel like lying in a hammock on Terra, then twelve and a half minutes of weightlessness, and again three minutes in that garden hammock. How can you beat that?

            Oh, you could do it faster by accelerating at multiple gee. But not much. If your acceleration could be instantaneous (killing all passengers!) and you decelerated the same way (splat!), you could raise your average speed to just over six thousand kilometers per hour and trim your time back by almost three minutes! But that's the ultimate.

            That is also the best possible time for a rocketship between Kong and L-City. In practice a jumpbug rocket will usually take about half an hour-depends on how high its trajectory is.

            But surely a half hour is short enough. Why tunnel under maria and mountains when a rocket can do the job?

            A rocket is the most lavishly expensive transportation ever invented. In a typical rocketship mission half the effort is spent fighting gravity to go up and the other half is spent fighting gravity in letting down-as crashing is considered an unsatisfactory end to a mission. The giant catapults on Luna, on Terra, on Mars, and in space are giant statements against the wastefulness of rocket engines.

            Contrariwise, the ballistic subway is the most economical transportation ever devised: No mass is burned up or thrown away and the energy used in speeding up is given back at the other end in slowing down.

            No magic is involved. An electric catapult is a motor generator. Never mind that it doesn't look like one. In its acceleration phase it is a motor; electric power is converted into kinetic energy. In its decelerating phase it is a generator; the kinetic energy extracted from the capsule is pulled out as electric power and stored in a Shipstone. Then the same energy is taken from the Shipstone to hurt the capsule back to Kong.

            A Free Lunch!

            Not quite. There are hysteresis losses and other inefficiencies. Entropy always increases; the second law of thermodynamics can't be snubbed. What it most resembles is regenerative braking. There was a time, years ago, when surface cars were slowed and stopped by friction, rudely applied. Then a bright lad realized that a turning wheel could be stopped by treating it as a generator and making it pay for the privilege of being stopped-the angular momentum could be extracted and stored in a "storage battery" (an early predecessor of Shipstones).

            The capsule from Kong does much the same; in cutting magnetic lines of force at the L-City end it generates a tremendous electromotive force, which stops the capsule and changes its kinetic energy into electrical energy, which is then stored.

            But the passenger need know nothing of this. He simply lounges in his "hammock" rack for the gentlest ride possible.

            We had just spent most of three days in rolling seven hundred kilometers. Now we traveled fifteen hundred kilometers in eighteen minutes.

            We had to shoulder our way out of the capsule and into the tube station because there were Shriners impatiently awaiting the opportunity to board for Kong. I heard one say that "they" (that anonymous "they" who are to blame for everything)- "they ought to put on more cars." A Loonie tried to explain to him the impossibility involved in his demand-just one tube, able to handle only one capsule, which could be at this end or at the far end or in free flight in between. But never two capsules in the tube-impossible, suicidal.

            His explanation met with blank disbelief. The visitor seemed to have trouble, too, in grasping the idea that the ballistic tube was privately owned and totally unregulated... a matter that came up when the Loonie finally said, "You want another tube, go ahead! Build it! You are free to do so; nobody is stopping you. If that doesn't satisfy you, go back to Liverpool!"

            Unkind of him. Earthworms can't help being earthworms. Every year some of them die through inability to comprehend that Luna is not like Liverpool, or Denver, or Buenos Aires.

            We passed through the lock separating the pressure owned by Artemis Transit Company from the municipal pressure. In the tunnel just beyond the lock was a sign: GET YOUR AIR CHITS HERE. Seated under it at a table was a man twice as handicapped as I was; his legs ended at his knees. This did not seem to slow him down; he sold magazines and candy as well as air, advertised both sightseeing and guide service, and displayed the ubiquitous sign: TRACK ODDS.

            Most people breezed back and forth past him without stopping. Bill had started to do so, when I checked him. "Wups! Wait, Bill."

            "Senator, I've got to get some water onto this tree."

            "Wait just the same. And stop calling me 'Senator.' Call me 'Doctor' instead. Dr. Richard Ames."

            "Huh?"

            "Never mind; just do it. Right now, we've got to bay sax. Didn't you buy air at Kong?"

            Bill had not. He had entered the city pressure helping with Auntie and no one had asked him to pay.

            "Well, you should have paid. Did you notice that Gretchen paid for all of us at Lucky Dragon? She did. And now we'll pay here, but I'll arrange for longer than overnight. Wait here."

            I stepped up to the table. "Hi there. You're selling air?"

            The air vendor glanced up from working a double-crostic, looked me over. "No charge to you. You paid for air when you bought your ticket."

            "Not quite," I said. "I'm a Loonie, cobber, returning home. With a wife and one dependent. So I need air for three."

            "A nice try. But no prize. Look, a citizen's chit won't get you citizens' prices-they'll still look at you and charge you tourist prices. If you want to extend your visa, you can. At city hall. And they'll collect air fee to cover your extended visa. Now forget it, before I decide to cheat you."

            "Choom, you're hard to please." I dug out my passport- glanced at it to make sure it was my "Richard Ames" passport- and handed it to him. "I've been away several years. If that makes me look like a groundhog to you, that's regrettable. But please note where I was born."

            He looked it over, handed it back. "Okay, Loonie, you had me fooled. Three of you, eh? For how long?"

            "My plans aren't firm. What's the shortest period for the permanent-resident scale?"

            "One quarter. Oh, another five percent off if you buy five years at a time... but with today's prime rate at seven point one, it's a sucker bet."

            I paid for three adults for ninety days and asked what he knew about housing. "Having been away so long I not only don't have cubic, I don't know the market-and I don't relish dossing in Bottom Alley tonight."

            "You'd wake up with your shoes gone, your throat cut, and rats walking over your face. Mmm, a tough question, cobber. You see the funny red hats. Biggest convention L-City has ever had; between it and Independence Day the town is booked solid. But, if you're not too fussy-"

            "We're not."

            "You'll be able to get something better after the weekend, but in the meantime there is an old place in level six, the Raffles, across from-"

            "I know where it is. I'll try there."

            "Better call them first and tell them I sent you. I'm Rabbi Ezra ben David. Reminds me. 'Ames, Richard.' Are you the Richard Ames who's wanted for murder?"

            "My word!"

            "Surprise you? Too true, cobber. I've got a copy of the notice here someplace." He shuffled through magazines and penciled notes and chess problems. "Here it is. You're wanted in Golden Rule habitat-seems you chilled some VIP. So they say."

            "Interesting. Is there a tab out on me here?"

            "In Luna? I don't think so. Why would there be? Still the same old standoff; no diplomatic relations with Golden Rule until they qualify under the Oslo Convention. Which they cannot without a basic bill of rights. Which is not bloody likely."

            "I suppose so."

            "Still... if you need lawyer help, come see me; I do that, too. Catch me here any day after noon, or leave your name at Seymour's Kosher Fish Emporium across from Carnegie Library. Seymour's my son."

            "Thanks, I'll remember. By the way, who is it I'm supposed to have killed?"

            "Don't you know?"

            "Since I didn't kill anybody how could I know?"

            "There are logical lacunae in that which I will not examine. It is set forth here that your victim hight Enrico Schultz. Does that name trigger your memory?"

            "'Enrico Schultz.' I don't think I've ever heard that name. A stranger to me. Most murder victims are killed by close friends or relatives-not by strangers. And, in this case, not by me."

            "Odd indeed. Yet the owners of Golden Rule have offered a substantial reward for your death. Or, to be precise, for delivering you alive or dead, with no emphasis on keeping you alive-just your body, cobber, warm or cold. Should I point out that, if I were your attorney, I would be ethically bound not to exploit this opportunity?"

            "Rabbi, I don't think you would anyhow; you're too much the old Loonie. You're simply trying to chivvy me into hiring you. Mmm. I claim the Three Days."

            "Three days, it is. Do you want skin receipts or will chits suffice?"

            "Since I've lost the look of a Loonie, we had better have both."

            "Very well. A crown or two for luck?"

            The Reverend Ezra stamped our forearms with the date three months hence and with his chop, using a waterproof ink visible only in black light, and showed us, using his test lamp, that we were marked and now could legally breathe for one quarter anywhere in L-City municipal pressure-and enjoy other concomitant privileges such as passage through public cubic. I offered him three crowns over what I had paid for air; he accepted two.

            I thanked him and bade him good day; we went on down the tunnel, each somewhat awkwardly burdened. Fifty meters farther along, the tunnel debouched into a main corridor. We were about to exit, and I was checking my orientation, deciding whether to go left or right, when I heard a whistle and a soprano voice. "Hold it! Not so fast. Inspection first."

            I stopped and turned. She had a face that spells "civil servant"-and don't ask me how. I simply know, from three planets, several planetoids, and still more habitats, that after racking up a number of years toward retirement, all civil servants have this look. She wore a uniform that was neither police nor military. "Just in from Kong?"

            I agreed that we were.

            "Are you three together? Put everything on the table. Open up everything. Any fruits, vegetables, or food?"

            I said, "What is this?"

            Gwen said, "I have a Hershey bar. Want a bite?"

            "I think that counts as bribery. Sure, why not?"

            "Of course I'm trying to bribe you. I have a small alligator in my purse. He's neither fruit nor vegetable; I suppose he could be food. In any case he's almost certainly against your stuffy rules."

            "Wait a minute; I'll have to check the lists." The inspector consulted a very large loose-leaf volume of terminal printout. "Alligator pears; alligator skins, cured or tanned; alligators, stuffed- Is this one stuffed?"

            "Only when he overeats; he's greedy."

            "Dearie, are you trying to tell me that you've got a live alligator in that purse?"

            "Put your hand in my purse at your own risk. He's trained as a guard alligator. Count your fingers before you reach in, then count them again as you take your hand out."

            "You're joking."

            "What odds? And how much? But remember, I warned you."

            "Oh, piffle!" The inspector reached into Gwen's purse- gave a yelp as she snatched her hand out. "It bit me!" She stuck her fingers into her mouth.

            "That's what he's there for," said Gwen. "I warned you. Are you hurt? Let me see."

            The two women inspected the hand, each decided that red marks were the extent of the damage. "That's good," said Gwen. "I've been trying to teach him to grasp firmly but not to break the skin. And never, never bite fingers off. He's learning; he's still young. But you shouldn't have been able to get your hand back that easily. Alfred is supposed to hang on like a bulldog while the radio alarm causes me to come a-running."

            "I don't know anything about bulldogs but he certainly tried to take my finger off."

            "Oh, surely not! Have you ever seen a dog?"

            "Just dressed-out carcasses in meat markets. No, I take that back; I saw one in Tycho Zoo when I was a little girl. Big ugly brute. Scared me."

            "Some are small and some aren't ugly. A bulldog is ugly but not very big. What a bulldog is best at is biting and hanging on. That's what I'm training King Alfred to do."

            'Take him out and show him to me."

            "No indeed! He's a guard beast; I don't want him getting petted and cooed over by other people; I want him to bite. If you want to see him, you reach in and take him out. Maybe this time he'll hang on. I hope."

            That ended any attempt to inspect us. Adele Sussbaum, Unnecessary Public Servant First Class, agreed that Tree-San was not verboten, admired it, and inquired as to its flowers. When she and Gwen started exchanging recipes, I insisted that we had to get moving-if the municipal health and safety inspection was finished.

            We slanted across Outer Ring; I smelted out the Causeway and was oriented. We went down a level and passed through Old Dome, then headed down the tunnel where my memory said the Raffles Hotel ought to be.

            But en route Bill exposed me to some of his political opinions. "Senator-"

            "Not 'Senator,' Bill. Doctor."

            "'Doctor.' Yes, sir. Doctor, I think it's wrong, what happened back there."

            "Yes, it is. That so-called inspection is pointless. It's the sort of expensive, useless accretion all governments acquire over the years, like barnacles on an ocean ship."

            "Oh, I don't meant that. That's okay; it protects the city and gives her an honest job."

            "Strike the word 'honest.'"

            "Huh? I was talking about charging for air. That's wrong. Air should be free."

            "Why do you say that. Bill? This isn't New Orleans; this is the Moon. No atmosphere. If you don't buy air, how are you going to breathe?"

            "But that's just what I mean! Air to breathe is everybody's right. The government should supply it."

            "The city government does supply it, everywhere inside the city pressure. That's what we just paid for." I fanned the air in front of his nose. "This stuff."

            "But that's what I'm saying! Nobody should have to pay for the breath of life. It's a natural right and the government should supply it free."

            I said to Gwen, "Wait a moment, dear; this has got to be settled. We may have to eliminate Bill just to keep him happy. Let's stand right here till we straighten this out. Bill, I paid for air for you to breathe because you have no money. Correct?"

            He did not answer at once. Gwen said quietly, "I let him have pocket money. Do you object?"

            I looked at her thoughtfully. "I think I should have been told. My love, if I am to be responsible for this family, I must know what is going on in it." I turned to Bill. "When I paid for your air back there, why didn't you offer to pay your share out of the money you had in your pocket?"

            "But she gave it to me. Not you."

            "So? Give it back to her."

            Bill looked startled; Gwen said, "Richard, is this necessary?"

            "I think it is."

            "But I don't think it is."

            Bill kept quiet, did nothing, watched. I turned my back on him to face Gwen privately, said softly, for her ears only:

            "Gwen, I need your backing."

            "Richard, you're making an issue out of nothing!"

            "I don't see it as 'nothing,' dear. On the contrary, it's a key matter and I need your help. So back me up. Or else."

            " 'Or else' what, dear?"

            "You know what 'or else' means. Make up your mind. Are you going to back me up?"

            "Richard, this is ridiculous! I see no reason to cater to it."

            "Gwen, I'm asking you to back me up." I waited an endless time, then sighed. "Or start walking and don't look back."

            Her head jerked as if I had slapped her. Then she picked up her case and started walking.

            Bill's jaw dropped, then he hurried after her, still carrying Tree-San.

            XVI

            "Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood."

            OSCAR WILDE 1854-1900

            I watched them out of sight, then started walking slowly. It was easier to walk than to stand still and there was no place near to sit down. My stump ached and all the weariness of the past few days hit me. My mind was numb. I continued to move toward the Raffles Hotel because I was headed that way, programmed.

            The Raffles was even seedier than I had recalled. But I suspected that Rabbi Ezra knew what he was talking about- this, or nothing. In any case I wanted to get out of the public eye; I would have accepted a much poorer hostelry as long as it enabled me to get behind a closed door.

            I told the man at the desk that Rabbi Ezra had sent me and asked what he had. I think he offered me his most expensive room still vacant: eighteen crowns.

            I ran through the ritual dicker but my heart wasn't in it. I settled for fourteen crowns, paid it, accepted a key; the clerk turned a large book toward me. "Sign here. And show me your air receipt."

            "Eh? When did this kaka start?"

            "With the new administration, chum. I don't like it any more than you do but either I comply or they shut me down."

            I thought about it. Was I "Richard Ames"? Why cause a cop to salivate at the thought of a reward? Colin Campbell? Someone with a long memory might recognize that name-and think of Walker Evans.

            I wrote, "Richard Campbell, Novylen."

            "Thank you, gospodin. Room L is at the end of this passage on the left. There's no dining room but our kitchen has dumbwaiter service to the rooms. If you want dinner here, please note that the kitchen shuts down at twenty-one o'clock. Except for liquor and ice, dumbwaiter service ends at the same time. But there is an all-night Sloppy Joe across the corridor and north about fifty meters. No cooking in the rooms."

            "Thank you."

            "Do you want company? Straight arrow, lefthand drive, or versatile, all ages and sexes and catering only to high-class clientele."

            "Thanks again. I'm very tired."

            It was a room adequate for my needs; I didn't mind its shabbiness. There was a single bed and a couch that opened out, and a refresher, small but with all the usual offices, and no water restriction-I promised myself a hot bath... later, later! A shelf bracket in the bed-sitting room seemed to have been intended for a communication terminal; now it was empty. Near it, let into the rock, was a brass plate:

            In This Room on Tuesday 14 May 2075 Adam Selene. Bemardo de la Paz. Manuel Davis, and Wyoming Knott Created the Plan That Gave Rise to Free Luna. Here They Declared the Revolution!

            I was not impressed. Yes, those four were heroes of the Revolution but in the year in which I buried Colin Campbell and created Richard Ames I had stayed in a dozen-odd hotel rooms in L-City; most of them had sported a similar sign. It was like the "Washington Slept Here" signs back in my native country: bait for tourists, any resemblance to truth a happy accident.

            Not that I cared. I took off my foot, lay down on the couch, and tried to make my mind blank.

            Gwen! Oh, damn, damn, damn!

            Had I been a stiff-necked fool? Perhaps. But, damn it all, there is a limit. I didn't mind indulging Gwen in most things. It was all right to let her make decisions for both of us and I hadn't squawked even when she did so without consulting me. But she should not encourage this pensioner to defy me-now should she? I should not have to put up with that. A man can't live that way.

            But I can't live without her!

            Not true, not true! Up until this week-hardly more than three days ago-you lived without her... and you can do without her now.

            I can do without my missing foot, too. But I don't like not having both feet and I'll never get used to the loss. Sure, you can do without Gwen; you won't die without her-but admit it, stupid: In the past thirty years you've been happy just this brief time, the hours since Gwen moved in and married you. Hours loaded with danger and blatant injustice and fighting and hardship, and it all mattered not a whit; you've been bubbling over with happiness simply because she was at your side.

            And now you've sent her away.

            Put on your stupid hat. Fasten it with rivets; you'll never need to take it off again.

            But I was right!

            So? What has being "right" got to do with staying married?

            I must have slept (I was mortal tired), as I remember things that did not happen, nightmares-e.g., Gwen had been raped and killed in Bottom Alley. But rape is as scarce in Luna City as it is commonplace in San Francisco. Over eighty years since the last one and the groundhog who committed it didn't last long enough to be eliminated; the men who responded to her screams tore him to pieces.

            Later it was learned that she had screamed because he hadn't paid her. This made no difference. To a Loonie a hooker is just as sacred in her person as is the Virgin Mary. I am a Loonie only by adoption but I agree deep in my heart. The only proper punishment for rape is death, forthwith, no appeal.

            There used to be, dirtside, legal defenses called "diminished capacity" and "not guilty by reason of insanity." These concepts would bewilder a Loonie. In Luna City a man would necessarily be of diminished mental capacity even to think about rape; to carry one out would be the strongest possible proof of insanity-but among Loonies such mental disorders would not gain a rapist any sympathy. Loonies do not psychoanalyze a rapist;

            they kill him. Now. Fast. Brutally.

            San Francisco should learn from Loonies. So should every city where it is not safe for a woman to walk alone. In Luna our ladies are never afraid of men, be they family, friends, or strangers; in Luna men do not harm women-or they die!

            I had awakened sobbing in grief uncontrollable. Gwen was dead, Gwen had been raped and murdered and it was my fault!

            Even when I had wakened wide enough to fit back into my proper continuity I was still bawling-I knew that it had been just a dream, a nasty nightmare... but my guilt feelings were undiminished. I had indeed failed to protect my darling. I had told her to leave me. "-start walking and don't look back." Oh, folly unplumbable!

            What can I do about it?

            Find her! Maybe she'll forgive me. Women seem to have almost unlimited capacity for forgiveness. (Since it is usually a man who needs forgiveness, this must be a racial survival trait.)

            But first I had to find her.

            I felt overpowering need to go out and start searching- jump on my horse and gallop in all directions. But that is the classic case given in mathematics textbooks of how not to find someone who is lost. I had no idea of where to look for Gwen, but she just possibly might look for me by checking the Raffles-if she had second thoughts. If she did, I must be here, not out searching at random.

            But I could improve the odds. Call the Daily Lunatic; place an advertisement-place more than one sort: a classified ad, a box ad, and-best!-a commercial spiel to go out on every terminal with the Lunatic's hourly news bulletins.

            If that doesn't work, what will you do?

            Oh, shut up and write the ad!

            Gwen, Call me at the Raffles. Richard.

            Gwen, Please call me! I'm at the Raffles. Love, Richard.

            Dearest Gwen, For the sake of what we had, please call me. I'm at the Raffles. Love always, Richard.

            Gwen, I was wrong. Let me try again. I'm at the Raffles. All my love, Richard.

            I jittered over it, finally decided mat number two was best- changed my mind; number four held more appeal. Changed it again-the simplicity of number two was better. Or even number one. Oh, hell, stupid, just place an ad! Ask her to call; if you have any chance of getting her back, she won't boggle at

            how you word it.

            Call it in from the hotel office? No, leave a note there, telling Gwen where you are going and why and what time you'll be back and please wait... then hurry to the newspaper's office and get it on the terminals at once-and into their next edition. Then hurry back.

            So I put on my false foot, wrote out the note to leave at the desk, and grabbed my cane-and that split-second timing I have noticed too many times in my life again took place, a timing that impels me more than anything else to think that this crazy world is somehow planned, not chaos. A knock at my door-

            I hurried to open it. It was she! Glory hallelujah! She seemed even smaller than I knew her to be, and all big round solemn eyes. She was carrying the little potted maple as if it were a love offering-perhaps it was. "Richard, will you let me come back? Please?"

            All happening at once I took the little tree and put it on the floor and picked her up and closed the door and sat her on the couch myself beside her and we were crying sobs and tears and talking all mixed up together.

            After a while we slowed and I shut up enough that I heard what she was saying: "I'm sorry Richard I was wrong I should have backed you but I was hurt and angry and too stinking proud to turn back and tell you so and when I did you were gone and I didn't know what to do. Oh, God, darling, don't ever let me leave you again; make me stay! You're bigger than I am; if I ever get angry again and try to leave, pick me up and turn me around but don't let me leave!"

            "I won't let you leave again, ever. I was wrong, dear; I should not have made an issue of it; that's no way to love and cherish. I surrender, horse and foot. Make a pet out of Bill any way you like; I won't say a word. Go ahead, spoil him rotten."

            "No, Richard, no! I was wrong. Bill needed a stem lesson and I should have backed you up and let you straighten him out. However-" Gwen unwound herself a little, reached for her purse, opened it. I said,

            "Mind the alligator! Careful."

            She smiled for the first time. "Adele certainly took that hook, line and sinker."

            "Do you mean that there is not an alligator in there?"

            "Goodness, sweetheart, do you think I'm eccentric?"

            "Oh, Heaven forbid!"

            "Just a mousetrap and her imagination. Here-" Gwen placed a wad of money, paper and metal, beside her on the couch. "I made Bill give it back. What he had left, I mean; he should have had three times as much. I'm afraid Bill is one of those weaklings who can't carry money without spending it. I must figure out how to spank him for it till he learns better. In the meantime he can't have any cash until he earns it."

            "As soon as he earns any money he should pay me ninety days' air fee," I put in. "Gwen, I really am vexed about that. Vexed at him, not at you. His attitude about paying for air. But I'm sorry as can be that I let it slop over onto you."

            "But you were right, dear. Bill's attitude about paying for air reflects his wrong-headedness in general. So I've discovered. We sat in Old Dome and discussed many things. Richard, Bill has the socialist disease in its worst form; he thinks the world owes him a living. He told me sincerely-smugly!- that of course everyone was entitled to the best possible medical and hospital service-free of course, unlimited of course, and of course the government should pay for it. He couldn't even understand the mathematical impossibility of what he was demanding. But it's not just free air and free therapy, Bill honestly believes that anything he wants must be possible... and should be free." She shivered. "I couldn't shake his opinion on anything."

            "'The Road Song of the Bandar-Log.'"

            "Excuse me?"

            "From a poet a couple of centuries back, Rudyard Kipling. The bandar-log-apes, they were-believed that anything was possible just by wishing it so."

            "Yes, that's Bill. In all seriousness he explains how things should be ... then it's up to the government to make it happen. Just pass a law. Richard, he thinks of 'the government' the way a savage thinks of idols. Or- No, I don't know, I don't understand how his mind works. We talked at each other but we didn't reach each other. He believes his nonsense. Richard, we made a mistake-or I did. We should not have rescued Bill."