Direct Descent by Frank Herbert
Sil-Chan stared at the lever he had touched. “Oh, no—” he said. “You didn’t really hook that to the grav unit!”
Coogan nodded mutely.
Eyes widening, Sil-Chan backed against the desk, sat on it. “Then you weren’t certain obedience would work, that—”
“No, I wasn’t,” growled Coogan.
Sil-Chan smiled. “Well, now, there’s a piece of information that ought to be worth something.” The smile widened to a grin. “What’s my silence worth?”
The director slowly straightened his shoulders. He wet his lips with his tongue. “I’ll tell you, Toris. Since you were to get this position anyway, I’ll tell you what it’s worth to me.” Coogan smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made Sil-Chan squint his eyes.
“You’re my successor,” said Coogan.
***
PART II
Whenever Sooma Sil-Chan moved along these lower corridors of the Library Planet, he liked to think of his ancestors marching through these ancient spaces. Family history was a special favorite in his studies and he felt that he knew all of those people intimately, their crises, their victories—all preserved in the archival records these thousands of years. His thirty-times removed grandfather, Toris, had paced along this very corridor every day of that long-gone life.
Robot menials made way for him and Sooma knew that at least parts of some of these very robots had made way for that other Sil-Chan. The menials were manufactured to last. There was one of them down in his own office, Archival Chief Accountancy, that was known to have gone without need of repair for twenty-one human generations.
The fandoor of the Director’s office opened before him and Sooma Sil-Chan put on his best mask of efficiency. There had been no hint at why Director Patterson Tchung had summoned the Chief Accountant. It was probably some simple matter, but Tchung was notorious as a boring stickler for detail. The Director’s mouth apparently could ramble on for hours while everyone around him battled ennui.
Sil-Chan stepped into the Director’s presence, heard the fandoor seal.
Patterson Tchung sat behind his glistening desk like an ancient simian, his characteristic scowl reduced to a squinting of the brown eyes. Wisps of black hair trailed across Tchung’s mostly-bald pate and his thin lips were drawn into a tight line which Sil-Chan could not interpret. Disapproval?
Even before Sil-Chan took a seat across from him, Tchung began speaking:
“Terrible problem, Sooma. Terrible.”
Sil-Chan eased himself into the cushioned chair carefully. He had never heard that tone from Tchung before. Sil-Chan cast a quick look around the Director’s office, wondering if it contained evidence of this “Terrible problem.” The walls which were focus rhomboids for realized images had been silenced. They presented a uniform silver grey. The only touches of color in the office were behind the Director—a low table cluttered with curios, each one a story from some far-ranging collection ship of this “Pack Rat Planet.” There was a gold statuette from the Researchers of Naos, an arrow thorn from Jacun, a tiny mound of red Atikan whisper seeds in their ceremonial fiber cup of gleaming purple … even an Eridanus fire scroll with its flameletters.…
“Terrible,” Tchung repeated. “We will be destroyed within six months unless we solve it. After all of these thousands of years … this!”
Sil-Chan, familiar with Tchung’s hyperbole as well as with his ability to bore even the dullest of Library workers, wanted to smile, but there was something in Tchung’s manner, something undefinably odd.
Tchung leaned forward and studied his assistant. Sil-Chan was a large man with a square, rather handsome face, green eyes under brows so blonde as to be almost invisible. His hair, of the same pale ivory, was close cropped, a new fashion among the younger archivists.
Misgivings began to fill the Director’s mind. Can this be the man upon whom our survival depends? The nostrils of Tchung’s high-ridged nose flared briefly, his eyes opened wide. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. There could be no turning back.
“Sooma, my young friend, you may be our only hope,” Tchung said.
“What? I don’t …”
“Of course you don’t. But those government accountants who …”
“Those jackals I’ve been guiding through our files?”
“Those accountants,” Tchung corrected him.
“Have I done something wrong? I mean …”
“No!” Tchung passed a hand over his eyes. “I must obey and yet I cannot.”
Now, Sil-Chan saw at least the core of Tchung’s disturbance. Galactic Archives—this Library Planet—had existed for thousands of years by the absolute dictum that its workers must obey the government—no matter the government. The accountants from the current government had descended upon them a fortnight ago, sneering at the “Pack Rats,” demanding this record and that record. Something about that event had created a dilemma for Tchung.
“What’s the problem?” Sil-Chan asked.
“Those accountants came from a war monitor which is parked in orbit above us. Accountants do not need a war monitor.”
Sil-Chan stared at the Director in silence. Was that it? Could that possibly constitute the essence of Tchung’s upset? Sil-Chan thought of a giant war monitor circling over the park-like surface of this unique planet. Up there lay serenity and open vistas, forests and lakes and rivers—even a few low mountains. But down here, in fact all the way to the planet’s core, was a honeycombed hive of storage and recording activity. The Library collection ships went out and came back with their information and their curios. The random-selection system at the heart of the planet’s activity, chosen from all of that accumulated material and broadcast thousands of programs daily all across the known universe—a bit of this and a bit of that, sometimes interesting, but mostly boring … just as boring as old Tchung here.
“That does not strike me as necessarily a terrible problem,” Sil-Chan said.
“There is more. Believe me, there is more.”
Tchung wondered how he could unfold the problem for the younger man and still keep Sil-Chan obedient to the code. It was such a complex problem.…
Sil-Chan sighed. Better men than he had despaired of ever bringing Tchung directly to the point. The man was a committed wanderer. And if the presence of a war monitor was all that …
For his part, Tchung’s thoughts were on the government accountants in their cell-like rooms of this hive planet—the eager men pouring over Archival records, bent on paring down the budget until this ancient institution died. And those men were on the trail of the things they needed.
“I am forced to remind you of our Code,” Tchung said. “Obedience to government. That one rule has kept us alive through crisis after crisis and through more than five thousand governments.”
“The Code, yes. I saw that you …”
“We are here to preserve the present for the future—any present for any future. Wherever the curiosity of our collectors takes them, that is what we preserve.”
“All right! What has happened?”
“Although this crisis may very well be our last one, Sooma, you are to do nothing, think nothing, say nothing that may be construed even remotely as disobedience to the government.”
“Agreed! Agreed!”
“Patience, my young friend. Patience.”
Again, Tchung covered his eyes with a hand. This is the tool upon which I depend. This childless … bachelor … so intent upon his career that he has no time for home and mate … no thoughts at all for the long endurance which is the survival of us all. This youth … this callow … He’s not yet fifty and he …
“Are you ill, sir?” Sil-Chan asked.
Tchung lowered his hand, opened his eyes. “No. You were correct, of course, to call those accountants jackals. They will feast themselves on anything. They mean to destroy us.”
“Just because a war monitor …”
“They mean to destroy us. I assure you of this.”
“Wha
Director Tchung stared over Sil-Chan’s head at an empty space above the fandoor. So impatient! When I was his age I was already married and with two children. How can Records name Sil-Chan as my most logical successor? A man requires familial stability for this position.
“There is no doubt whatsoever about my assessment of our peril,” Tchung said.
The wordy old fool!
Sil-Chan hitched himself forward in his chair. “But how …”
“One of our random broadcasts reviewed an ancient play of the Trosair period. It was a humorous review, in fact very amusing—a farce. It poked fun at an imaginary government called The Myrmidion Enclave.”
Sil-Chan felt his mouth go dry. “Myrmidion …”
“Indeed—a cosmic jest. Coincidence? Tell that to our government. Tell that to Supreme Imperator Hobart of Myrmid. Tell it to the Myrmid Enclave.”
“It has to be a coincidence,” Sil-Chan said. “We’ll show them how the random selection system works. No one interferes with that. We’ll …”
“The accountants come directly from Hobart of Myrmid. Our own Records section, the Central Computer—all agree that the accountants have orders to destroy us.”
“Then we’ll fight!”
“We will not fight!” Tchung sank back into his chair, breathing heavily. “At least, we will not offer them violence.”
“Then let’s send out collection ships to enlist help for …”
“The accountants have already requisitioned every gram of fuel wire on the planet. Our ships are grounded.”
“They can’t do that! We …”
“They are the government,” Tchung reminded him. “And we obey the government.”
Sil-Chan stared at the curios behind the Director. No more collection ships going out? No more additions to the Archives?
“I suppose our great age is against us,” Tchung said. “We’ve existed so long, it was inevitable that one day we would have to cope with … with coincidence.”
“Perhaps if we seceded from …”
“Hah!” Tchung glowered at his subordinate. “And us a hollow ball of storage space full of records and artifacts! We’re completely dependent upon Galactic subsidy. We’ve nothing to draw upon to support ourselves or to fuel our collection ships. We’ve only one commodity—the stored knowledge and information. We’re mankind’s memory. It has suddenly been rediscovered that certain memories can be dangerous.”
“What can we …”
“Not we, you.” Tchung pointed a finger at him. “You can anticipate that snooping accountant staff. You must justify every expenditure, every credit that we …”
“Sir? Nothing I do can justify us if they don’t want to accept our arguments.”
Tchung drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Yes, of course. But the government accountants are inquiring into the Dornbaker Account. I want …”
“Dornbaker Account?” Sil-Chan stared in puzzlement at the Director.
“Yes, the Dornbaker Account. I summoned you because the discrepancies are enormous. I want you to …”
“I’ve never heard of a Dornbaker Account.”
Tchung stared at him. “But you’re the Chief Accountant!”
“I know, sir, but …”
“Wait.” Tchung reached into the message chute behind his desk, retrieved a thick sheaf of inter-Library micros and fed them into the player above the chute. “I asked for the actual material when it … I mean, I didn’t want this playing over any of our internal circuits.”
“If it’s sensitive, I can understand the secrecy, sir. But that’s quite a package. All of that in one account?”
“It’s a condensation, Sooma. A condensation.”
“But why … I mean, if I’m to shepherd these accountants around and … Sir, I’ve never heard of this Dornbaker Account. I swear it. What is it?”
Tchung nodded. “I suspected that. You understand that I do not mistrust your competency. But I was naturally worried about the activities of these … as you say, jackals. I thought I would look into the larger expenses, find what …”
“That’s the very thing I’ve been doing, sir. I have my people poring over everything.”
“Not quite everything. You see, I requested the records on all large expenses of long standing that have not been reviewed or readjusted for several centuries.”
Tchung cleared his throat.
“So?”
“I … uh … turned over the preliminary examination to an assistant. He was distracted for a few days over the costs in the sub-micro refiling system. We all know that’s top priority if we ever hope to effect any big savings in … Oh, dear. I’m explaining this badly.”
“What did your assistant find?”
“The Dornbaker Account. For three days we have been receiving nothing but material on this Dornbaker Account.”
“One account?”
“That’s why I was so sure that my Chief Accountant would know what …”
Sil-Chan pressed backward into his chair. “Impossible! There’s no account in our records that big.”
“I’m afraid there’s at least one such account. Material on it is still pouring out. The last running tab showed eighteen billion stellars spent on the Dornbaker Account in the first seven months of this fiscal year.”
Sil-Chan opened his mouth, closed it without a word. Then: “I shall resign immediately, of course. I cannot …”
“Oh, don’t be a fool! Not a complete fool, at least.”
“Sir, I don’t understand how you got these records and we in Accountancy have never heard of them.”
“It was the way I phrased my request. How do you summon the records each year?”
“Accounts for readjustment, of course.”
“I asked for all large expenses.”
Sil-Chan crimsoned.
“Don’t blame yourself, my boy,” Tchung said. “I know the procedure. How could you suspect such a …”
“Even so, our cross-checks and random accounting procedures … anything that big has to be justified in the budgets!”
“It was marked DA. Does that suggest anything to you?”
“Deteriorated Accumulation—the fuel budget! Deteriorated fuel. I see! It was …”
“… Thrown in with fuel costs. They were large, but we expect them to be large and …”
“Doesn’t the Central Computer explain this Dornbaker Account?”
Tchung referred to the micro projection on his desk, flipped switches and read from the projection. “It refers to Dornbaker access, Dornbaker counterbalance—that’s one million six hundred and eight thousand stellars annually just for robot upkeep—and there’s Dornbaker re-routing and …” Tchung mopped his forehead. “It takes forty-two minutes just to list the subsections of this account. I won’t go on with it.”
Sil-Chan swallowed in a dry throat. “Forty-two minutes just to … Did you say counterbalance?”
“Yes.”
“There’s obviously some stupid error here, sir. How could …”
“No error. When I saw counterbalance, I began to suspect that … well … You must understand, Sooma, that some matters are reserved for the Director. There’s a question of legality here. It seems that we don’t have the legal right to readjust this account.”
“But all that money, sir. How long since that account has even been studied for possible …”
“Five thousand and two Standard Years Modern, six thousand and twenty-nine by the old reckoning.”
Sil-Chan felt a constriction of his chest. He felt suddenly old and incomplete. “I know, sir, that we’ve never been noted for our economies, but …”
Tchung waved him to silence. “I will risk the open channels.” He flipped a switch beside his desk projector, indicated the open microphone to the Central Computer. “Sooma, how would you phrase the question to get as succinct an answer as possible? Seventy-four point four one two percent of standby and primary logic banks already
Sil-Chan nodded, ran a hand through his blond brush. “Computer?”
“Computer recognizes Sil-Chan.” The metallic voice carried an impersonal and attenuated tone which Sil-Chan found uncharacteristic. Perhaps it was Tchung’s own office setting.
“I am propounding a top priority question,” Sil-Chan said. “This question takes precedence over all other matters now being considered. Give us an elementary, condensed explanation which requires no more than a few minutes—What is this Dornbaker Account?”
A rasping buzz sounded from the speaker followed by clicks and tappings, then the metallic voice: “Information available only to the Director.”
“Give us that information!” Tchung ordered.
“Computer recognizes Director Tchung,” the metallic voice said. “Does Director Tchung wish this information disclosed to the other person with him?”
“Yes!”
“Noted and filed. Free Island Dornbaker is a land mass of approximately two hundred and seventy-four kilometers length, one hundred and fifty-eight kilometers width. It is located on planet surface approximately four hundred kilometers from the community of Magsayan which is on the shores of Climatic Control Sea number fifteen. The island …”
“Island?” Sil-Chan interrupted.
“A body of land entirely surrounded by water,” said the computer.”
“I know what an island is!” Sil-Chan snapped. “I was just surprised.”
“Computer cannot always distinguish between surprise and the need to know,” the Computer said.
“Get on with it!” Tchung ordered.
“Dornbaker Free Island is an autonomous area by treaty and numerous precedential decisions in Stellar Law that would be applicable in present circumstances. Beneath the island in roughly a cone shape, the original property attached to the autonomous area projects to within three hundred kilometers of planetary core. There is also the restriction on airspace which …”
“Under the island?” Sil-Chan asked.