The Moon is a Harsh Mistress Read Online Free PDF Page B

old enough to appreciate Wyoming stopped in front of us and gave her
a happy whistle. She smiled and waved him aside. “There’s our
trouble,” I said in her ear. “You stand out like Terra at full.
Ought to duck into a hotel. One off next side corridor—nothing much,
bundling booths mostly. But close.”
    “I’m
in no mood to bundle.”
    “Wyoh,
please! Wasn’t asking. Could take separate rooms.”
    “Sorry.
Could you find me a W.C.? And is there a chemist’s shop near?”
    “Trouble?”
    “Not
that sort. A W.C. to get me out of sight—for I am conspicuous—and a
chemist’s shop for cosmetics. Body makeup. And for my hair, too.”
    First
was easy, one at hand. When she was locked in, I found a chemist’s shop,
asked how much body makeup to cover a girl so tall—marked a point under
my chin—and massing forty-eight? I bought that amount in sepia, went to
another shop and bought same amount—winning roll at first shop, losing at
second—came out even. Then I bought black hair tint at third
shop—and a red dress.
    Wyoming
was wearing black shorts and pullover—practical for travel and effective
on a blonde. But I’d been married all my life and had some notion of what
women wear and had never seen a woman with dark sepia skin, shade of makeup,
wear black by choice. Furthermore, skirts were worn in Luna City then by dressy
women. This shift was a skirt with bib and price convinced me it must be
dressy. Had to guess at size but material had some stretch.
    Ran
into three people who knew me but was no unusual comment. Nobody seemed
excited, trade going on as usual; hard to believe that a riot had taken place
minutes ago on level below and a few hundred meters north. I set it aside for
later thought—excitement was not what I wanted.
    I
took stuff to Wye, buzzing door and passing in it; then stashed self in a
taproom for half an hour and half a liter and watched video. Still no
excitement, no “we interrupt for special bulletin.” I went back,
buzzed, and waited.
    Wyoming
came out—and I didn’t recognize her. Then did and stopped to give
full applause. Just had to—whistles and finger snaps and moans and a scan
like mapping radar.
    Wyoh
was now darker than I am, and pigment had gone on beautifully. Must have been
carrying items in pouch as eyes were dark now, with lashes to match, and mouth
was dark red and bigger. She had used black hair tint, then fizzed hair up with
grease as if to take kinks out, and her tight curls had defeated it enough to
make convincingly imperfect. She didn’t look Afro—but not European,
either. Seemed some mixed breed, and thereby more a Loonie.
    Red
dress was too small. Clung like sprayed enamel and flared out at mid-thigh with
permanent static charge. She had taken shoulder strap off her pouch and had it
under arm. Shoes she had discarded or pouched; bare feet made her shorter.
    She
looked good. Better yet, she looked not at all like agitatrix who had harangued
crowd.
    She
waited, big smile on face and body undulating, while I applauded. Before I was
done, two little boys flanked me and added shrill endorsements, along with clog
steps. So I tipped them and told them to be missing; Wyoming flowed to me and
took my arm. “Is it okay? Will I pass?”
    “Wyoh,
you look like slot-machine sheila waiting for action.”
    “Why,
you
drecklich choom
! Do I look like slot-machine prices?
Tourist
!”
    “Don’t
jump salty, beautiful. Name a gift. Then speak my name. If it’s
bread-and-honey, I own a hive.”
    “Uh—”
She fisted me solidly in ribs, grinned. “I was flying, cobber. If I ever
bundle with you—not likely—we won’t speak to the bee.
Let’s find that hotel.”
    So
we did and I bought a key. Wyoming put on a show but needn’t have
bothered. Night clerk never looked up from his knitting, didn’t offer to
roll. Once inside, Wyoming threw bolts. “It’s nice!”
    Should
have been, at thirty-two Hong Kong dollars. I think she expected a booth but I
would not