Salem was just a place, no worse (and no better) than rest of Boston. After seeing it I suspected they had hanged wrong witches. But day wasn't wasted; I was filmed laying a wreath on a place where a bridge had been in another part of Boston, Concord, and made a memorized speech--bridge is still there, actually; you can see it, down through glass. Not much of a bridge.

Prof enjoyed it all, rough as it was on him: Prof had great capacity for enjoying. He always had something new to tell about great future of Luna. In New York he gave managing director of a hotel chain, one with rabbit trade mark, a sketch of what could be done with resorts in Luna--once excursion rates were within reach of more people--visits too short to hurt anyone, escort service included, exotic side trips, gambling--no taxes.

Last point grabbed attention, so Prof expanded it into "longer old age" theme--a chain of retirement hostels where an earthworm could live on Terran old-age pension and go on living, twenty, thirty, forty years longer than on Terra. As an exile--but which was better? A live old age in Luna? Or a funeral crypt on Terra? His descendants could pay visits and fill those resort hotels. Prof embellished with pictures of "nightclubs" with acts impossible in Terra's horrible gravity, sports to fit our decent level of gravitation--even talked about swimming pools and ice skating and possibility of flying! (Thought he had tripped his safeties.) He finished by hinting that Swiss cartel had tied it up.

Next day he was telling foreign-divisions manager of Chase International Panagra that a Luna City branch should be staffed with paraplegics, paralytics, heart cases, amputees, others who found high gravity a handicap. Manager was a fat man who wheezed, he may have been thinking of it personally--but his ears pricked up at "no taxes."

We didn't have it all our own way. News was often against us and were always hecklers. Whenever I had to take them on without Prof's help I was likely to get tripped. One man tackled me on Prof's statement to committee that we "owned" grain grown in Luna: he seemed to take it for granted that we did not. Told him I did not understand question.

He answered, "Isn't it true, Colonel, that your provisional government has asked for membership in Federated Nations?"

Should have answered, "No comment." But fell for it and agreed. "Very well," he said, "the impediment seems to be the counterclaim that the Moon belongs to the Federated Nations--as it always has---under supervision of the Lunar Authority. Either way, by your own admission, that grain belongs to the Federated Nations, in trust."

I asked how he reached that conclusion? He answered, 'Colonel, you style yourself 'Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs.' Surely you are familiar with the charter of the Federated Nations."

I had skimmed it. "Reasonably familiar," I said-- cautiously, I thought.

"Then you know the First Freedom guaranteed by the Charter and its current application through F & A Control Board Administrative Order Number eleven-seventy-six dated three March of this year. You concede therefore that all grain grown on the Moon in excess of the local ration is ab initio and beyond contest the property of all, title held in trust by the Federated Nations through its agencies for distribution as needed." He was writing as he talked. "Have you anything to add to that concession?"

I said, "What in Bog's name you talking about?" Then, "Come back! Haven't conceded anything!"

So Great New York Times printed:

LUNAR "UNDERSECRETARY" SAYS:

"FOOD BELONGS TO HUNGRY"

New York Today--O'Kelly Davis, soi-disant "Colonel of the Armed Forces of Free Luna" here on a junket to stir up support for the insurgents in the F.N. Lunar colonies, said in a voluntary statement to this paper that the "Freedom from Hunger" clause in the Grand Charter applied to the Lunar grain shipments--

I asked Prof how should have handled? "Always answer an unfriendly question with another question," he told me. "Never ask him to clarify; he'll put words in your mouth. This reporter-- Was he skinny? Ribs showing?"

"No. Heavyset."

"Not living on eighteen hundred calories a day, I take it, which is the subject of that order he cited. Had you known you could have asked him how long he had conformed to the ration and why he quit? Or asked him what he had for breakfast--and then looked unbelieving no matter what he answered. Or when you don't know what a man is getting at, let your counter-question shift the subject to something you do want to talk about. Then, no matter what he answers, make your point and call on someone else. Logic does not enter into it--just tactics."

"Prof, nobody here is living on eighteen hundred calories a day. Bombay, maybe. Not here."

"Less than that in Bombay. Manuel, that 'equal ration' is a fiction. Half the food on this planet is in the black market, or is not reckoned through one ruling or another. Or they keep two sets of books, and figures submitted to the F.N. having nothing to do with the economy. Do you think that grain from Thailand and Burma and Australia is correctly reported to the Control Board by Great China? I'm sure that the India representative on that food board doesn't. But India keeps quiet because she gets the lion's share from Luna... and then 'plays politics with hunger'--a phrase you may remember--by using our grain to control her elections. Kerala had a planned famine last year. Did you see it in the news?"

"No."

"Because it wasn't in the news. A managed democracy is a wonderful thing, Manuel, for the managers....nd its greatest strength is a 'free press' when 'free' is defined as 'responsible' and the managers define what is 'irresponsible.' Do you know what Luna needs most?"

"More ice."

"A news system that does not bottleneck through one channel. Our friend Mike is our greatest danger."

"Huh? Don't you trust Mike?"

"Manuel, on some subjects I don't trust even myself. Limiting the freedom of news 'just a little bit' is in the same category with the classic example 'a little bit pregnant.' We are not yet free nor will we be as long as anyone--even our ally Mike--controls our news. Someday I hope to own a newspaper independent of any source or channel. I would happily set print by hand, like Benjamin Franklin."

I gave up. "Prof, suppose these talks fail and grain shipments stop. What happens?"

"People back home will be vexed with us... and many here on Terra would die. Have you read Malthus?"

"Don't think so."

"Many would die. Then a new stability would be reached with somewhat more people--more efficient people and better fed. This planet isn't crowded; it is just mismanaged... and the unkindest thing you can do for a hungry man is to give him food. 'Give.' Read Malthus. It is never safe to laugh at Dr. Malthus; he always has the last laugh. A depressing man, I'm glad he's dead. But don't read him until this is over; too many facts hamper a diplomat, especially an honest one."

"I'm not especially honest."

"But you have no talent for dishonesty, so your refuge must be ignorance and stubbornness. You have the latter; try to preserve the former. For the nonce. Lad, Uncle Bernardo is terribly tired."

I said, "Sorry," and wheeled out of his room. Prof was hitting too hard a pace. I would have been willing to quit if would insure his getting into a ship and out of that gravity. But traffic stayed one way--grain barges, naught else.

But Prof had fun. As I left and waved lights out, noticed again a toy he had bought, one that delighted him like a kid on Christmas--a brass cannon.

A real one from sailing ship days. Was small, barrel about half a meter long and massing, with wooden carriage, only kilos fifteen. A "signal gun" its papers said. Reeked of ancient history, pirates, men "walking plank." A pretty thing but I asked Prof why? If we ever managed to leave, price to lift that mass to Luna would hurt--I was resigned to abandoning a p-suit with years more wear in it--abandon everything but two left arms and a pair of shorts, If pressed, might give up social arm. If very pressed, would skip shorts.