The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein Page A

We
removed everything of a personal nature from bodies of our departed
comrades—tor relatives, for identification, for sentiment. Eventually we
had everything tidy—not a job that would fool Interpol but one as to make
it seem unlikely that anything untoward had taken place. We conferred, agreed
that it would be well not to be seen soon, and left severally, myself by a
pressure door above the stage leading up to level six. Thereafter I tried to
call you, Manuel, being worried about your safety and that of this dear
lady.” Prof bowed to Wyoh. “That completes the tale. I spent the
night in quiet places.”
    “Prof,”
I said, “those guards were new chums, still getting their legs. Or we
wouldn’t have won.”
    “That
could be,” he agreed. “But had they not been, the outcome would
have been the same.”
    “How
so? They were armed.”
    “Lad,
have you ever seen a boxer dog? I think not—no dogs that large in Luna.
The boxer is a result of special selection. Gentle and intelligent, he turns
instantly into deadly killer when occasion requires.
    “Here
has been bred an even more curious creature. I know of no city on Terra with as
high standards of good manners and consideration for one’s fellow man as
here in Luna. By comparison, Terran cities—I have known most major ones—are
barbaric. Yet the Loonie is as deadly as the boxer dog. Manuel, nine guards, no
matter how armed, stood no chance against that pack. Our patron used bad
judgment.”
    “Um.
Seen a morning paper, Prof? Or a video cast?”
    “The
latter, yes.”
    “Nothing
in late news last night.”
    “Nor
this morning.”
    “Odd,”
I said.
    “What’s
odd about it?” asked Wyoh. “We won’t talk—and we have
comrades in key places in every paper in Luna.”
    Prof
shook his head. “No, my dear. Not that simple. Censorship. Do you know
how copy is set in our newspapers?”
    “Not
exactly. It’s done by machinery.”
    “Here’s
what Prof means,” I told her. “News is typed in editorial offices.
From there on it’s a leased service directed by a master computer at
Authority Complex”—hoped she would notice “master computer”
rather than “Mike”—“copy prints out there via phone
circuit. These rolls feed into a computer section which reads, sets copy, and
prints out newspapers at several locations. Novylen edition of Daily Lunatic
prints out in Novylen changes in ads and local stories, and computer makes
changes from standard symbols, doesn’t have to be told how. What Prof
means is that at print-out at Authority Complex, Warden could intervene. Same
for all news services, both off and to Luna—they funnel through computer
room.”
    “The
point is,” Prof went on, “the Warden could have killed the story.
It’s irrelevant whether he did. Or—check me, Manuel; you know
I’m hazy about machinery—he could insert a story, too, no matter
how many comrades we have in newspaper offices.”
    “Sure,”
I agreed. “At Complex, anything can be added, cut, or changed.”
    “And
that, señorita, is the weakness of our Cause. Communications. Those
goons were not important—but crucially important is that it lay with the
Warden, not with us, to decide whether the story should be told. To a
revolutionist, communications are a
sine-qua-non
.”
    Wyoh
looked at me and I could see synapses snapping. So I changed subject.
“Prof. why get rid of bodies? Besides horrible job, was dangerous.
Don’t know how many bodyguards Warden has, but more could show up while
you were doing it.”
    “Believe
me, lad, we feared that. But although I was almost useless, it was my idea, I
had to convince the others. Oh, not my original idea but remembrance of things
past, an historical principle.”
    “What
principle?”
    “Terror!
A man can face known danger. But the unknown frightens him. We disposed of
those finks, teeth and toenails, to strike terror into their mates. Nor do I
know how many effectives the Warden has, but I guarantee they are