"Wyoh," he said plaintively, "I did my best. The problem has an indeterminately large number of variables. I ran several thousand solutions using many assumptions. The happiest answer came from assuming no increase in tonnage, no increase in Lunar population--restriction of births strongly enforced--and a greatly enhanced search for ice in order to maintain the water supply. That gave an answer of slightly over twenty years. All other answers were worse."

Wyoh, much sobered, said, "What happens in seven years?"

"The answer of seven years from now I reached by assuming the present situation, no change in Authority policy, and all major variables extrapolated from the empiricals implicit in their past behavior--a conservative answer of highest probability from available data. Twenty-eighty-two is the year I expect food riots. Cannibalism should not occur for at least two years thereafter."

"'Cannibalism'!" She turned and buried head against Prof's chest.

He patted her, said gently, "I'm sorry, Wyoh. People do not realize how precarious our ecology is. Even so, it shocks me. I know water runs down hill... but didn't dream how terribly soon it will reach bottom."

She straightened up and face was calm. "Okay, Professor, I was wrong. Embargo it must be--and all that that implies. Let's get busy. Let's find out from Mike what our chances are. You trust him now--don't you?"

"Yes, dear lady, I do. We must have him on our side. Well, Manuel?"

Took time to impress Mike with how serious we were, make him understand that "jokes" could kill us (this machine who could not know human death) and to get assurance that he could and would protect secrets no matter what retrieval program was used--even our signals if not from us. Mike was hurt that I could doubt him but matter too serious to risk slip.

Then took two hours to program and re-program and change assumptions and investigate side issues before all four--Mike, Prof, Wyoh, self--were satisfied that we had defined it, i.e., what chance had revolution--this revolution, headed by us, success required before "Food Riots Day," against Authority with bare hands... against power of all Terra, all eleven billions, to beat us down and inflict their will--all with no rabbits out of hats, with certainty of betrayal and stupidity and faintheartedness, and fact that no one of us was genius, nor important in Lunar affairs. Prof made sure that Mike knew history, psychology, economics, name it. Toward end Mike was pointing out far more variables than Prof.

At last we agreed that programming was done--or that we could think of no other significant factor. Mike then said, "This is an indeterminate problem. How shall I solve it? Pessimistically? Or optimistically? Or a range of probabilities expressed as a curve, or several curves? Professor my friend?"

"Manuel?"

I said, "Mike, when I roll a die, it's one in six it turns ace. I don't ask shopkeeper to float it, nor do I caliper it, or worry about somebody blowing on it. Don't give happy answer, nor pessimistic; don't shove curves at us. Just tell in one sentence: What chances? Even? One in a thousand? None? Or whatever."

"Yes, Manuel Garcia O'Kelly my first male friend,"

For thirteen and a half minutes was no sound, while Wyoh chewed knuckles. Never known Mike to take so long. Must have consulted every book he ever read and worn edges off random numbers. Was beginning to believe that he had been overloaded and either burnt out something or gone into cybernetic breakdown that requires computer equivalent of lobotomy to stop oscillations.

Finally he spoke. "Manuel my friend, I am terribly sorry!"

"What's trouble, Mike?"

"I have tried and tried, checked and checked. There is but one chance in seven of winning!"

I look at Wyoh, she looks at me; we laugh. I jump up and yip, "Hooray!" Wyoh starts to cry, throws arms around Prof, kisses him.

Mike said plaintively, "I do not understand. The chances are seven to one against us. Not for us."

Wyoh stopped slobbering Prof and said, "Hear that? Mike said 'us.' He included himself."

"Of course. Mike old cobber, we understood. But ever know a Loonie to refuse to bet when he stood a big fat chance of one in seven?"

"I have known only you three. Not sufficient data for a curve."

"Well... we're Loonies. Loonies bet. Hell, we have to! They shipped us up and bet us we couldn't stay alive. We fooled 'em. We'll fool 'em again! Wyoh. Where's your pouch? Get red hat. Put on Mike. Kiss him. Let's have a drink. One for Mike, too--want a drink, Mike?"

"I wish that I could have a drink," Mike answered wistfully, "as I have wondered about the subjective effect of ethanol on the human nervous system--I conjecture that it must be similar to a slight overvoltage. But since I cannot, please have one in my place."

"Program accepted. Running. Wyoh, where's hat!" Phone was flat to wall, let into rock--no place to hang hat. So we placed it on writing shelf and toasted Mike and called him "Comrade!" and almost he cried. His voice fugged up. Then Wyoh borrowed Liberty Cap and put on me and kissed me into conspiracy, officially this time, and so all out that my eldest wife would faint did she see--then she took hat and put on Prof and gave him same treatment and I was glad Mike had reported his heart okay.

Then she put it on own head and went to phone, leaned close, mouth between binaurals and made kissing sounds. "That's for you, Mike dear comrade. Is Michelle there?"

Blimey if he didn't answer in soprano voice: "Right here, darling--and I am so 'appee!"

So Michelle got a kiss, and I had to explain to Prof who "Michelle" was and introduce him. He was formal, sucking air and whistling and clasping hands--sometimes I think Prof was not right in his head.

Wyoh poured more vodka. Prof caught her, mixed ours with coffee, hers with chai, honey in all. "We have declared the Revolution," he said firmly, "now we execute it. With clear heads. Manuel, you were opted chairman. Shall we begin?"

"Mike is chairman," I said. "Obvious. Secretary, too. We'll never keep anything in writing; first security rule. With Mike, don't need to. Let's bat it around and see where we are; I'm new to business."

"And," said Prof, "still on the subject of security, the secret of Mike should be restricted to this executive cell, subject to unanimous agreement--all three of us--correction: all four of us--that is must be extended."

"What secret?" asked Wyoh. "Mike agreed to help our secrets. He's safer than we are; he can't be brainwashed, Can you be, Mike dear?"

"I could be brainwashed," Mike admitted, "by enough voltage. Or by being smashed, or subjected to solvents, or positive entropy through other means--I find the concept disturbing. But if by 'brainwashing' you mean could I be compelled to surrender our secrets, the answer is an unmodified negative."

I said, "Wye, Prof means secret of Mike himself. Mike old pal, you're our secret weapon--you know that, don't you?"

He answered self-consciously, "It was necessary to take that into consideration in computing the odds."

"How were odds without you, comrade? Bad?"

"They were not good. Not of the same order."

"Won't press you. But a secret weapon must be secret, Mike, does anybody else suspect that you are alive?"

"Am I alive?" His voice held tragic loneliness.

"Uh, won't argue semantics. Sure, you're alive!"

"I was not sure. It is good to be alive. No, Mannie my first friend, you three alone know it. My three friends."

"That's how must be if bet's to pay off. Is okay? Us three and never talk to anybody else?"

"But we'll talk to you lots!" Wyoh put in.