"Nobody," he growled, "gets in without being vouched for. Who are you?"

"I am," I answered carefully, "Manuel Garcia O'Kelly, and old cobbers all know me. Who are you?"

"Never mind! Show a ticket with right chop, or out y' go!"

I wondered about his life expectancy. Tourists often remark on how polite everybody is in Luna--with unstated comment that ex-prison shouldn't be so civilized. Having been Earthside and seen what they put up with, I know what they mean. But useless to tell them we are what we are because bad actors don't live long--in Luna.

But had no intention of fighting no matter how new-chum this lad behaved; I simply thought about how his face would look if I brushed number-seven arm across his mouth.

Just a thought--I was about to answer politely when I saw Shorty Mkrum inside. Shorty was a big black fellow two meters tall, sent up to The Rock for murder, and sweetest, most helpful man I've ever worked with--taught him laser drilling before I burned my arm off. "Shorty!"

He heard me and grinned like an eighty-eight. "Hi, Mannie!" He moved toward us. "Glad you came, Man!"

"Not sure I have," I said. "Blockage on line."

"Doesn't have a ticket," said doorman.

Shorty reached into his pouch, put one in my hand. "Now he does. Come on, Mannie."

"Show me chop on it," insisted doorman.

"It's my chop," Shorty said softly. "Okay, tovarishch?"

Nobody argued with Shorty--don't see how he got involved in murder. We moved down front where vip row was reserved. "Want you to meet a nice little girl," said Shorty.

She was "little" only to Shorty. I'm not short, 175 cm., but she was taller--180, I learned later, and massed 70 kilos, all curves and as blond as Shorty was black. I decided she must be transportee since colors rarely stay that clear past first generation. Pleasant face, quite pretty, and mop of yellow curls topped off that long, blond, solid, lovely structure.

I stopped three paces away to look her up and down and whistle. She held her pose, then nodded to thank me but abruptly--bored with compliments, no doubt. Shorty waited till formality was over, then said softly, "Wyoh, this is Comrade Mannie, best drillman that ever drifted a tunnel. Mannie, this little girl is Wyoming Knott and she came all the way from Plato to tell us how we're doing in Hong Kong. Wasn't that sweet of her?"

She touched hands with me. "Call me Wye, Mannie--but don't say 'Why not.'"

I almost did but controlled it and said. "Okay, Wye." She went on, glancing at my bare head, "So you're a miner. Shorty, where's his cap? I thought the miners over here were organized." She and Shorty were wearing little red hats like doorman's--as were maybe a third of crowd.

"No longer a miner," I explained. "That was before I lost this wing." Raised left arm, let her see seam joining prosthetic to meat arm (I never mind calling it to a woman's attention; puts some off but arouses maternal in others--averages). "These days I'm a computerman."

She said sharply, "You fink for the Authority?"

Even today, with almost as many women in Luna as men, I'm too much old-timer to be rude to a woman no matter what--they have so much of what we have none of. But she had flicked scar tissue and I answered almost sharply, "I am not employee of Warden. I do business with Authority--as private contractor."

"That's okay," she answered, her voice warm again. "Everybody does business with the Authority, we can't avoid it--and that's the trouble. That's what we're going to change."

We are, eh? How? I thought. Everybody does business with Authority for same reason everybody does business with Law of Gravitation. Going to change that, too? But kept thoughts to myself, not wishing to argue with a lady.

"Mannie's okay," Shorty said gently. "He's mean as they come--I vouch for him. Here's a cap for him," he added, reaching into pouch. He started to set it on my head.

Wyoming Knott took it from him. "You sponsor him?"

"I said so."

"Okay, here's how we do it in Hong Kong." Wyoming stood in front of me, placed cap on my head--kissed me firmly on mouth.

She didn't hurry. Being kissed by Wyoming Knott is more definite than being married to most women. Had I been Mike all my lights would have flashed at once. I felt like a Cyborg with pleasure center switched on.

Presently I realized it was over and people were whistling. I blinked and said, "I'm glad I joined. What have I joined?"

Wyoming said, "Don't you know?" Shorty cut in, "Meeting's about to start--he'll find out. Sit down, Man. Please sit down, Wyoh." So we did as a man was banging a gavel.

With gavel and an amplifier at high gain he made himself heard. "Shut doors!" he shouted. "This is a closed meeting. Check man in front of you, behind you, each side--if you don't know him and nobody you know can vouch for him, throw him out!"

"Throw him out, hell!" somebody answered. "Eliminate him out nearest lock!"

"Quiet, please! Someday we will." There was milling around, and a scuffle in which one man's red cap was snatched from head and he was thrown out, sailing beautifully and still rising as he passed through door. Doubt if he felt it; think he was unconscious. A women was ejected politely--not politely on her part; she made coarse remarks about ejectors. I was embarrassed.

At last doors were closed. Music started, banner unfolded over platform. It read: LIBERTY! EQUALITY! FRATERNITY! Everybody whistled; some started to sing, loudly and badly: "Arise, Ye Prisoners of Starvation--" Can't say anybody looked starved. But reminded me I hadn't eaten since 1400; hoped it would not last long--and that reminded me that my recorder was good for only two hours--and that made me wonder what would happen if they knew? Sail me through air to land with sickening grunch? Or eliminate me? But didn't worry; made that recorder myself, using number-three arm, and nobody but a miniaturization mechanic would figure out what it was.

Then came speeches.

Semantic content was low to negative. One bloke proposed that we march on Warden's Residence, "shoulder to shoulder," and demand our rights. Picture it. Do we do this in tube capsules, then climb out one at a time at his private station? What are his bodyguards doing? Or do we put on p-suits and stroll across surface to his upper lock? With laser drills and plenty of power you can open any airlock--but how about farther down? Is lift running? Jury-rig hoist and go down anyhow, then tackle next lock?

I don't care for such work at zero pressure; mishap in pressure suit is too permanent--especially when somebody arranges mishap. One first thing learned about Luna, back with first shiploads of convicts, was that zero pressure was place for good manners. Bad-tempered straw boss didn't last many shifts; had an "accident"--and top bosses learned not to pry into accidents or they met accidents, too. Attrition ran 70 percent in early years--but those who lived were nice people. Not tame, not soft, Luna is not for them. But well-behaved.

But seemed to me that every hothead in Luna was in Stilyagi Hall that night. They whistled and cheered this shoulder-to-shoulder noise.

After discussion opened, some sense was talked. One shy little fellow with bloodshot eyes of old-time drillman stood up. "I'm an ice miner," he said. "Learned my trade doing time for Warden like most of you. I've been on my own thirty years and done okay. Raised eight kids and all of 'em earned way--none eliminated nor any serious trouble. I should say I did do okay because today you have to listen farther out or deeper down to find ice.

"That's okay, still ice in The Rock and a miner expects to sound for it. But Authority pays same price for ice now as thirty years ago. And that's not okay. Worse yet, Authority scrip doesn't buy what it used to. I remember when Hong Kong Luna dollars swapped even for Authority dollars-- Now it takes three Authority dollars to match one HKL dollar. I don't know what to do... but I know it takes ice to keep warrens and farms going."