Free The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein Page B

But can’t extend trust for you.
Trouble—and it’s your air bottle, not mine.”
    She
smiled warmly. “Mannie, since you trust him, I trust him just as
firmly.”
    I
went back to phone. “Prof, are you on dodge?”
    He
chuckled. “Precisely, Manuel.”
    “Know
a hole called Grand Hotel Raffles? Room L two decks below lobby. Can you get
here without tracks, have you had breakfast, what do you like for
breakfast?”
    He
chuckled again. “Manuel, one pupil can make a teacher feel that his years
were not wasted. I know where it is, I shall get there quietly, I have not
broken fast, and I eat anything I can’t pat.”
    Wyoh
had started putting beds together; I went to help. “What do you want for
breakfast?”
    “Chai
and toast. Juice would be nice.”
    “Not
enough.”
    “Well
… a boiled egg. But I pay for breakfast.”
    “Two
boiled eggs, buttered toast with jam, juice. I’ll roll you.”
    “Your
dice, or mine?”
    “Mine.
I cheat.” I went to lift, asked for display, saw something called THE
HAPPY HANGOVER—ALL PORTIONS EXTRA LARGE—tomato juice, scrambled
eggs, ham steak, fried potatoes, corn cakes and honey, toast, butter, milk, tea
or coffee—HKL $4.50 for two—I ordered it for two, no wish to
advertise third person.
    We
were clean and shining, room orderly and set for breakfast, and Wyoh had
changed from black outfit into red dress “because company was
coming” when lift jingled food. Change into dress had caused words. She
had posed, smiled, and said, “Mannie, I’m so pleased with this
dress. How did you know it would suit me so well?”
    “Genius.”
    “I
think you may be. What did it cost? I must pay you.”
    “On
sale, marked down to Authority cents fifty.”
    She
clouded up and stomped foot. Was bare, made no sound, caused her to bounce a
half meter. “Happy landing!” I wished her, while she pawed for
foothold like a new chum.
    “Manuel
O’Kelly! If you think I will accept expensive clothing from a man
I’m not even bundling with!”
    “Easily
corrected.”
    “Lecher!
I’ll tell your wives!”
    “Do
that. Mum always thinks worst of me.” I went to lift, started dealing out
dishes; door sounded. I flipped hearum-no-seeum. “Who comes?”
    “Message
for Gospodin Smith,” a cracked voice answered. “Gospodin Bernard O.
Smith.”
    I
flipped bolts and let Professor Bernardo de la Paz in. He looked like poor
grade of salvage—dirty clothes, filthy himself, hair unkempt, paralyzed
down one side and hand twisted, one eye a film of cataract—perfect
picture of old wrecks who sleep in Bottom Alley and cadge drinks and pickled
eggs in cheap taprooms. He drooled.
    As
soon as I bolted door he straightened up, let features come back to normal,
folded hands over wishbone, looked Wyoh up and down, sucked air kimono style,
and whistled. “Even more lovely,” he said, “than I
remembered!”
    She
smiled, over her mad. “‘Thanks, Professor. But don’t bother.
Nobody here but comrades.”
    “Señorita,
the day I let politics interfere with my appreciation of beauty, that day I
retire from politics. But you are gracious.” He looked away, glanced
closely around room.
    I
said, “Prof, quit checking for evidence, you dirty old man. Last night
was politics, nothing but politics.”
    “That’s
not true!” Wyoh flared up. “I struggled for hours! But he was too
strong for me. Professor—what’s the party discipline in such cases?
Here in Luna City?”
    Prof
tut-tutted and rolled blank eye. “Manuel, I’m surprised. It’s
a serious matter, my dear—elimination, usually. But it must be
investigated. Did you come here willingly?”
    “He
drugged me.”
    “‘Dragged,’
dear lady. Let’s not corrupt the language. Do you have bruises to
show?”
    I
said, “Eggs getting cold. Can’t we eliminate me after
breakfast?”
    “An
excellent thought,” agreed Prof. “Manuel, could you spare your old
teacher a liter of water to make himself more presentable?”
    “All
you want, in