"Yes, Man. But, Wyoh my only female friend, there is another aspect. Multi-megatonne fusion bombs are inefficient. The explosion takes place in too small a space; most of it is wasted. While a hundred-megatonne bomb is rated as having fifty thousand times the yield of a two-kilotonne bomb, its destructive effect is only about thirteen hundred times as great as that of a two-kilotonne explosion."

"But it seems to me that thirteen hundred times is still quite a lot--if they are going to use bombs on us that much bigger."

"True, Wyoh my female friend... but Luna has many rocks."

"Oh. Yes, so we have."

"Comrades," said Prof, "this is outside my competence--in my younger or bomb-throwing days my experience was limited to something of the order of the one-kilogram chemical explosion of which you spoke, Manuel. But I assume that you two know what you are talking about."

"We do," Mike agreed.

"So I accept your figures. To bring it down to a scale that I can understand this plan requires that we capture the catapult. No?"

"Yes," Mike and I chorused.

"Not impossible. Then we must hold it and keep it operative. Mike, have you considered how your catapult can be protected against, let us say, one small H-tipped torpedo?"

Discussion went on and on. We stopped to eat--stopped business under Prof's rule. Instead Mike told jokes, each produced a that-reminds-me from Prof.

By time we left Raffles Hotel evening of 14th May '75 we had--Mike had, with help from Prof--outlined plan of Revolution, including major options at critical points.

When came time to go, me to home and Prof to evening class (if not arrested), then home for bath and clothes and necessities in case he returned that night, became clear Wyoh did not want to be alone in strange hotel--Wyoh was stout when bets were down, between times soft and vulnerable.

So I called Mum on a Sherlock and told her was bringing house guest home. Mum ran her job with style; any spouse could bring guest home for meal or year, and our second generation was almost as free but must ask. Don't know how other families work; we have customs firmed by a century; they suit us.

So Mum didn't ask name, age, sex, marital condition; was my right and she too proud to ask. All she said was: "That's nice, dear. Have you two had dinner? It's Tuesday, you know." "Tuesday" was to remind me that our family had eaten early because Greg preaches Tuesday evenings. But if guest had not eaten, dinner would be served--concession to guest, not to me, as with exception of Grandpaw we ate when was on table or scrounged standing up in pantry.

I assured her we had eaten and would make tall effort to be there before she needed to leave. Despite Loonie mixture of Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, and ninety-nine other flavors, I suppose Sunday is commonest day for church. But Greg belongs to sect which had calculated that sundown Tuesday to sundown Wednesday, local time Garden of Eden (zone minus-two, Terra) was the Sabbath. So we ate early in Terran north-hemisphere summer months.

Mum always went to hear Greg preach, so was not considerate to place duty on her that would clash. All of us went occasionally; I managed several times a year because terribly fond of Greg, who taught me one trade and helped me switch to another when I had to and would gladly have made it his arm rather than mine. But Mum always went--ritual not religion, for she admitted to me one night in pillow talk that she had no religion with a brand on it, then cautioned me not to tell Greg. I exacted same caution from her. I don't know Who is cranking; I'm pleased He doesn't stop.

But Greg was Mum's "boy husband," opted when she was very young, first wedding after her own--very sentimental about him, would deny fiercely if accused of loving him more than other husbands, yet took his faith when he was ordained and never missed a Tuesday.

She said, "Is it possible that your guest would wish to attend church?"

I said would see but anyhow we would rush, and said goodbye. Then banged on bathroom door and said, "Hurry with skin, Wyoh; we're short on minutes."

"One minute!" she called out. She's ungirlish girl; she appeared in one minute. "How do I look?" she asked. "Prof, will I pass?"

"Dear Wyoming, I am amazed. You were beautiful before, you are beautiful now--but utterly unrecognizable. You're safe--and I am relieved."

Then we waited for Prof to transform into old derelict; he would be it to his back corridor, then reappear as well-known teacher in front of class, to have witnesses in case a yellow boy was waiting to grab him.

It left a moment; I told Wyoh about Greg. She said, "Mannie, how good is this makeup? Would it pass in church? How bright are the lights?"

"No brighter than here. Good job, you'll get by. But do you want to go to church? Nobody pushing."

She thought. "It would please your moth--I mean, 'your senior wife,' would it not?"

I answered slowly, "Wyoh, religion is your pidgin. But since you ask... yes, nothing would start you better in Davis Family than going to church with Mum. I'll go if you do."

"I'll go. I thought your last name was 'O'Kelly'?"

"Is. Tack 'Davis' on with hyphen if want to be formal. Davis is First Husband, dead fifty years. Is family name and all our wives are 'Gospazha Davis' hyphened with every male name in Davis line plus her family name. In practice Mum is only 'Gospazha Davis'--can call her that--and others use first name and add Davis if they write a cheque or something. Except that Ludmilla is 'Davis-Davis' because proud of double membership, birth and option."

"I see. Then if a man is 'John Davis,' he's a son, but if he has some other last name he's your co-husband. But a girl would be 'Jenny Davis' either way, wouldn't she? How do I tell? By her age? No, that wouldn't help. I'm confused! And I thought clan marriages were complex. Or polyandries--though mine wasn't; at least my husbands had the same last name."

"No trouble. When you hear a woman about forty address a fifteen-year-old as 'Mama Milla," you'll know which is wife and which is daughter--not even that complex as we don't have daughters home past husband-high; they get opted. But might be visiting. Your husbands were named 'Knott'?"

"Oh, no, 'Fedoseev, Choy Lin and Choy Mu.' I took back my born name."

Out came Prof, cackled senilely (looked even worse than earlier!), we left by three exits, made rendezvous in main corridor, open formation. Wyoh and I did not walk together, as I might be nabbed; on other hand she did not know Luna City, a warren so complex even nativeborn get lost--so I led and she had to keep me in sight. Prof trailed to make sure she didn't lose me.

If I was picked up, Wyoh would find public phone, report to Mike, then return to hotel and wait for Prof. But I felt sure that any yellow jacket who arrested me would get a caress from number-seven arm.

No huhu. Up to level five and crosstown by Carver Causeway, up to level three and stop at Tube Station West to pick up arms and tool kit--but not p-suit; would not have been in character, I stored it there. One yellow uniform at station, showed no interest in me. South by well-lighted corridors until necessary to go outward to reach private easement lock thirteen to co-op pressure tunnel serving Davis Tunnels and a dozen other farms. I suppose Prof dropped off there but I never looked back.

I delayed locking through our door until Wyoh caught up, then soon was saying, "Mum, allow me to present Wyma Beth Johnson."

Mum took her in arms, kissed cheek, said, "So glad you could come, Wyma dear! Our house is yours!"

See why I love our old biddy? Could have quick-frosted Wyoh with same words--but was real and Wyoh knew.

Hadn't warned Wyoh about switch in names, thought of it en route. Some of our kids were small and while they grew up despising Warden, no sense in risking prattle about "Wyoming Knott, who's visiting us"--that name was listed in "Special File Zebra."