"No." He added with a smile; "Not at present."

"Suppose you were and wife told you she was marrying again. What would you do?"

"Odd that you should pick that, something like it did happen. I saw my attorney and made sure she got no alimony."

"'Alimony' isn't a word here; I learned it Earthside. Here you might--or a Loonie husband might--say, 'I think we'll need a bigger place, dear.' Or might simply congratulate her and his new co-husband. Or if it made him so unhappy he couldn't stand it, might opt out and pack clothes. But whatever, would not make slightest fuss. If he did, opinion would be unanimous against him. His friends, men and women alike, would snub him. Poor sod would probably move to Novylen, change name and hope to live it down.

"All our customs work that way. If you're out in field and a cobber needs air, you lend him a bottle and don't ask cash. But when you're both back in pressure again, if he won't pay up, nobody would criticize if you eliminated him without a judge. But he would pay; air is almost as sacred as women. If you take a new chum in a poker game, you give him air money. Not eating money; can work or starve. If you eliminate a man other than self-defense, you pay his debts and support his kids, or people won't speak to you, buy from you, sell to you."

"Mannie, you're telling me that I can murder a man here and settle the matter merely with money?"

"Oh, not at all! But eliminating isn't against some law; are no laws--except Warden's regulations--and Warden doesn't care what one Loonie does to another. But we figure this way: If a man is killed, either he had it coming and everybody knows it--usual case--or his friends will take care of it by eliminating man who did it. Either way, no problem. Nor many eliminations. Even set duels aren't common."

"'His friends will take care of it.' Mannie, suppose those young people had gone ahead? I have no friends here."

"Was reason I agreed to judge. While I doubt if those kids could have egged each other into it, didn't want to take chance. Eliminating a tourist could give our city a bad name."

"Does it happen often?"

"Can't recall has ever happened. Of course may have been made to look like accident. A new chum is accident-prone; Luna is that sort of place. They say if a new chum lives a year, he'll live forever. But nobody sells him insurance first year." Glanced at time. "Stu, have you had dinner?"

"No, and I was about to suggest that you come to my hotel. The cooking is good. Auberge Orleans."

I repressed shudder--ate there once. "Instead, would you come home with me and meet my family? We have soup or something about this hour."

"Isn't that an imposition?"

"No. Half a minute while I phone."

Mum said, "Manuel! How sweet, dear! Capsule has been in for hours; I had decided it would be tomorrow or later."

"Just drunken debauchery, Mimi, and evil companions. Coming home now if can remember way--and bringing evil companion."

"Yes, dear. Dinner in twenty minutes; try not to be late."

"Don't you want to know whether my evil companion is male or female?"

"Knowing you, I assume that it is female. But I fancy I shall be able to tell when I see her."

"You know me so well, Mum. Warn girls to look pretty; wouldn't want a visitor to outshine them."

"Don't be too long; dinner will spoil. 'Bye, dear. Love."

"Love, Mum." I waited, then punched MYCROFTXXX. "Mike, want a name searched. Earthside name, passenger in Popov. Stuart Rene LaJoie. Stuart with a U and last name might file under either L or J."

Didn't wait many seconds; Mike found Stu in all major Earthside references: Who's Who, Dun & Bradstreet, Almanach de Gotha, London Times running files, name it. French expatriate, royalist, wealthy, six more names sandwiched into ones he used, three university degrees including one in law from Sorbonne, noble ancestry both France and Scotland, divorced (no children) from Honorable Pamela Hyphen-Hyphen-Blueblood. Sort of earthworm who wouldn't speak to a Loonie of convict ancestry--except Stu would speak to anyone.

I listened a pair of minutes, then asked Mike to prepare a full dossier, following all associational leads. "Mike, might be our pigeon."

"Could be, Man."

"Got to run. 'Bye." Returned thoughtfully to my guest. Almost a year earlier, during alcoholic talk-talk in a hotel room, Mike had promised us one chance in seven--if certain things were done. One sine-qua-non was help on Terra itself.

Despite "throwing rocks," Mike knew, we all knew, that mighty Terra with eleven billion people and endless resources could not be defeated by three million who had nothing, even though we stood on a high place and could drop rocks on them.

Mike drew parallels from XVIIIth century, when Britain's American colonies broke away, and from XXth, when many colonies became independent of several empires, and pointed out that in no case had a colony broken loose by brute force. No, in every case imperial state was busy elsewhere, had grown weary and given up without using full strength.

For months we had been strong enough, had we wished, to overcome Warden's bodyguards. Once our catapult was ready (anytime now) we would not be helpless. But we needed a "favorable climate" on Terra. For that we needed help on Terra.

Prof had not regarded it as difficult. But turned out to be quite difficult. His Earthside friends were dead or nearly and I had never had any but a few teachers. We sent inquiry down through cells: "What vips do you know Earthaide?" and usual answer was: "You kidding?" Null program--

Prof watched passenger lists on incoming ships, trying to figure a contact, and had been reading Luna print-outs of Earthside newspapers, searching for vips he could reach through past connection. I had not tried; handful I had met on Terra were not vips.

Prof had not picked Stu off Popov's passenger list. But Prof had not met him. I didn't not know whether Stu was simply eccentric as odd personal card seemed to show. But he was only Terran I had ever had a drink with in Luna, seemed a dinkum cobber, and Mike's report showed hunch was not all bad; he carried some tonnage.

So I took him home to see what family thought of him.

Started well. Mum smiled and offered hand. He took it and bowed so deep I thought he was going to kiss it--would have, I think, had I not warned him about fems. Mum was cooing as she led him in to dinner.

April and May '76 were more hard work and increasing effort to stir up Loonies against Warden, and goad him into retaliation. Trouble with Mort the Wart was that he was not a bad egg, nothing to hate about him other than fact he was symbol of Authority; was necessary to frighten him to get him to do anything. And average Loonie was just as bad. He despised Warden as matter of ritual but was not stuff that makes revolutionists; he couldn't be bothered. Beer, betting, women, and work-- Only thing that kept Revolution from dying of anemia was that Peace Dragoons had real talent for antagonizing.

But even them we had to keep stirred up. Prof kept saying we needed a "Boston Tea Party," referring to mythical incident in an earlier revolution, by which he meant a public ruckus to grab attention.

We kept trying. Mike rewrote lyrics of old revolutionary songs: "Marseillaise," "Internationale," "Yankee Doodle," "We Shall Overcome," "Pie in the Sky," etc., giving them words to fit Luna. Stuff like "Sons of Rock and Boredom/Will you let the Warden/Take from you your libertee!" Simon Jester spread them around, and when one took hold, we pushed it (music only) by radio and video. This put Warden in silly position of forbidding playing of certain tunes--which suited us; people could whistle.