I liked Prof. He would teach anything. Wouldn’t matter that he knew nothing about it; if pupil wanted it, he would smile and set a price, locate materials, stay a few lessons ahead. Or barely even if he found it tough–never pretended to know more than he did. Took algebra from him and by time we reached cubics I corrected his probs as often as he did mine–but he charged into each lesson gaily.
I started electronics under him, soon was teaching him. So he stopped charging and we went along together until he dug up an engineer willing to daylight for extra money–whereupon we both paid new teacher and Prof tried to stick with me, thumb-fingered and slow, but happy to be stretching his mind.
Chairman banged gavel. “We are glad to extend to Professor de la Paz as much time as he wants–and you chooms in back sign off! Before I use this mallet on skulls.”
Prof came forward and they were as near silent as Loonies ever are; he was respected. “I shan’t be long,” he started in. Stopped to look at Wyoming, giving her up-and-down and whistling. “Lovely señorita,” he said, “can this poor one be forgiven? I have the painful duty of disagreeing with your eloquent manifesto.”
Wyoh bristled. “Disagree how? What I said was true!”
“Please! Only on one point. May I proceed?”
“Uh. . . go ahead.”
“You are right that the Authority must go. It is ridiculous–pestilential, not to be borne–that we should be ruled by an irresponsible dictator in all our essential economy! It strikes at the most basic human right, the right to bargain in a free marketplace. But I respectfully suggest that you erred in saying that we should sell wheat to Terra–or rice, or any food–at any price. We must not export food!”
That wheat farmer broke in. “What am I going to do with all that wheat?”
“Please! It would be right to ship wheat to Terra. . . if tonne for tonne they returned it. As water. As nitrates. As phosphates. Tonne for tonne. Otherwise no price is high enough.”
Wyoming said “Just a moment” to farmer, then to Prof: “They can’t and you know it. It’s cheap to ship downhill, expensive to ship uphill. But we don’t need water and plant chemicals, what we need is not so massy. Instruments. Drugs. Processes. Some machinery. Control tapes. I’ve given this much study, sir. If we can get fair prices in a free market–”
“Please, miss! May I continue?”
“Go ahead. I want to rebut.”
“Fred Hauser told us that ice is harder to find. Too true–bad news now and disastrous for our grandchildren. Luna City should use the same water today we used twenty years ago. . . plus enough ice mining for population increase. But we use water once–one full cycle, three different ways. Then we ship it to India. As wheat. Even though wheat is vacuum-processed, it contains precious water. Why ship water to India? They have the whole Indian Ocean! And the remaining mass of that grain is even more disastrously expensive, plant foods still harder to come by, even though we extract them from rock. Comrades, harken to me! Every load you ship to Terra condemns your grandchildren to slow death. The miracle of photosynthesis, the plant-and-animal cycle, is a closed cycle. You have opened it–and your lifeblood runs downhill to Terra. You don’t need higher prices, one cannot eat money! What you need, what we all need, is an end to this loss. Embargo, utter and absolute. Luna must be self-sufficient!”
A dozen people shouted to be heard and more were talking, while chairman banged gavel. So I missed interruption until woman screamed, then I looked around.
All doors were now open and I saw three armed men in one nearest–men in yellow uniform of Warden’s bodyguard. At main door in back one was using a bull voice; drowned out crowd noise and sound system. “ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT!” it boomed. “STAY WHERE YOU ARE. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. DON’T MOVE, KEEP QUIET. FILE OUT ONE AT A TIME, HANDS EMPTY AND STRETCHED OUT IN FRONT OF YOU.”
Shorty picked up man next to him and threw him at guards nearest; two went down, third fired. Somebody shrieked. Skinny little girl, redhead, eleven or twelve, launched self at third guard’s knees and hit rolled up in ball; down he went. Shorty swung hand behind him, pushing Wyoming Knott into shelter of his big frame, shouted over shoulder, “Take care of Wyoh, Man–stick close!” as he moved toward door, parting crowd right and left like children.