Direct Descent by Frank Herbert
Tchung nodded.
The Computer clicked, then: “Surprise or interrogation?”
“Interrogation,” Sil-Chan said.
“Computer obeys. The three hundred kilometers beneath this downward projection were ceded to Galactic Archives when this planet was the Terran Autonomy. That was at the time of the gravitronic unit’s installation. This installation occurred immediately prior to the planetary reduction in mass which made room for storage of …”
“But what do you mean by cone-shaped property?” Sil-Chan demanded.
“That portion of Old Terra within the autonomous boundaries of the Free Island and projecting downward toward this planet’s true core.”
Sil-Chan stared across the desk at Tchung. “Does the Computer mean … Earth?”
The Computer responded ahead of Tchung: “That is the most common referent, but actually most of it is solidified magmas.
“Then the counterbalance …” Sil-Chan said.
“The counterbalance,” the Computer explained, “is required to counteract the tremendous weight differential created by the autonomous mass upon the southern equatorial belt. If that weight were permitted to change the planetary axis and …”
Sil-Chan interrupted: “This thing is saying that there’s a gigantic mass of Old Terra under some island and projecting almost to the planet’s core.”
The Computer said: “Correct restatement.”
“How could we miss such a thing?” Sil-Chan asked. “It must be monstrous. Why the …” He broke off and shook his head.
The Computer said: “Does Sil-Chan wish a psychological explanation, or one derived from probabilities based on the physical limits of …”
“Are there people on that island?” Sil-Chan asked.
The Computer said: “The island is occupied by Clan Dornbaker and related groups—Coogans, Atvards …”
“There is even a Tchung branch on the island,” the Director said.
Sil-Chan chewed his lips. How much did the Director really know?
“Do you wish a continued listing?” the Computer asked.
“How are they governed?” Sil-Chan asked.
“The hereditary ruler of Free Island, always a Dornbaker by name and blood, is called the Paternomer. The Paternomer’s powers are tempered by several factors—a Council of Elders, something called ‘an appeal to the Pleb’ and various religious considerations. Computer’s auto-sensories do not extend into the autonomous area, but evidence has accumulated over the centuries. The present population, stabilized at about three thousand persons, appears to work for a common idyllic vision of …”
“You spoke of religious considerations,” Sil-Chan said.
“The inhabitants give obeisance to ‘The Book of Stone.’ That is a Middle-Era translation of an ancient work from Old Terra which revolves around a leader called ‘The Rock.’”
“I know that one,” Sil-Chan said. “What I don’t understand is how we could have overlooked this thing if it projects right down into the planet that way.”
The Computer took this as another question. “Most auditing is automatic. The physical appearance of interior walls which confine Free Island’s downward projection cannot be differentiated from normal Archives walls. Flights over the island without permission are prohibited in the original treaty. All flight lanes, therefore, automatically bypass Free Island. There are also other factors—deeper and psychological which go into …”
“Let’s get the Dornbakers to cede their blasted projection and have done with it,” Sil-Chan said. “We can’t fight a government economy drive while a thing like that is draining us. If those government accountants even get wind of this, we’re …”
“There can be no question of them ceding,” Tchung said.
“You’re still the Director,” Sil-Chan said. “The Library is the planet, the planet is the Library. You’re the boss.”
“Certain services and credits were agreed upon in the original treaty,” Tchung said. “Computer, explain the accounts payable and the services.”
“Services continue with internal cost readjustments. The credits to the Dornbakers have been accruing unclaimed and without readjustment for more than four thousand periods.”
His voice hoarse, Sil-Chan asked: “How much do we owe them?”
“The full sum is not an intelligible figure,” the Computer said. “That much currency does not exist in the known universe.”
“Could they demand payment?” Sil-Chan whispered.
“It would be legal,” the Computer said.
“Then they own us!”
“Technically, that is true,” the Computer said. “However, no such action by Clan Dornbaker has been taken nor is it anticipated.”
“Is there a legal way to take that island or its downward projection from the Dornbakers?” Sil-Chan asked.
Tchung smiled and closed his eyes.
The Computer clicked rhythmically for almost a minute, then: “You cannot take the island legally. Some compromise may be possible. It should be considered that the Dornbakers do not know about their legal position. Much time has passed since the treaty. They apparently live a primitive life on the island. One possible approach occurs: Free Island is a sanctuary for a large tree called Sequoia Gigantica. These trees require a rather delicate weather balance. Dornbakers nurture a superstition that ‘As long as the Sequoia stand the Free Island shall remain free.’”
“Not the trees,” Tchung said. “We will not threaten the trees.”
“Weather control specifications in the original treaty are, however, open to different interpretations,” the Computer said.
“Not the trees and that’s final,” Tchung said.
Sil-Chan had never heard such force in Tchung’s voice. The old man appeared suddenly hard and decisive—a characteristic Sil-Chan had never before detected.
“What … what can we do?” Sil-Chan asked. He felt that he had been cut loose from his roots. His career, his work—his dream to sit one day in Tchung’s chair—all were floating away from him.
“I will arrange for you to take a private jetter and ago alone to the Free Island,” Tchung said. “Find out how we can use that island to free ourselves from the grip of this Myrmid government and its damnable accountants.”
“Use …” Sil-Chan shook his head. “Sir, if they get the slightest hint that we’re in this fix, the Dornbakers may join our enemies.”
“There is that possibility,” Tchung said. “I trust, however, that you can avoid it. There is no time to lose. I suggest you get going.”
Sil-Chan wet his lips with his tongue. “Do I … Shouldn’t I gather more information about …”
“There’s no better source of the information than the Free Island itself,” Tchung said. “Report to me on a scrambled channel.”
Sil-Chan arose. He felt that he had been maneuvered into an impossible situation. His devotion to the Library was well known … and perhaps that was why he had been chosen for this mission. Loyalty. And he had been the Chief Accountant, the one who had never discovered this Dornbaker Account. Slowly, Sil-Chan left the office. Guilt and Loyalty confused him. They did not seem compatible but he felt himself driven by them.
O O O
After two more days of examining the Dornbaker Account, Tchung sat alone in the quiet of his office. He could sense the weight of all those honeycombed corridors above him—thousands of them—and more below. He was a mote in this system or even less, much less than a mote. And in the immensity of the universe, even this planet with its precious contents dwindled to insignificance.
A glance at his chrono showed it to be late afternoon topside. Sil-Chan already would be on the Free Island. Tchung looked at the projector with its explosive figures. Climate Control: sixty-six thousand stellars monthly? Aih! He rubbed at his temples. It is I who have failed, not poor Sil-Chan.
A deep sigh shook the Director. What if I have made another mistake? But the young man was unmarried and handsome—virile. Re
Abruptly, the autosecretary shattered his reverie with its metallic computer voice: “Ser Perlig Ambroso, chief government accountant, to see Archives Director Tchung.”
Tchung pushed the release button for his fandoor. The fans slammed open and Ambroso burst into the room as though released from a spring. He was a round-cheeked, florid man with sandy hair—the flesh of a once-active man who was now gaining fat instead of muscle. A wine-bibber, the reports said. His eyes were small, blue and hard and he spoke in the flat voice of command. Ambroso had presented a front of good humor at their first meeting. No such front covered him now.
“Tchung!” he spat. “Are you deliberately impeding us?”
“I …of course not!” Tchung stared up at his accuser. That sharp manner. Ambroso was a military man!
“Your computer reacts like a pregnant swert in a drogo swamp,” Ambroso said. He leaned baby-wrinkled knuckles on Tchung’s desk. “When I demand to know why, I am informed that more than three-fourths of your circuits are engaged on a problem to which your staff has assigned top priority. Explain.”
Tchung swallowed. The Dornbaker Account! Oh, Holy Director of Heavenly Archives! If I open those circuits, these government jackals may go directly to the Dornbaker Account.
“What are those circuits doing?” Ambroso demanded.
Tchung hesitated on the brink of an outright lie, then the conditioning of a lifetime’s devotion to his Code took over. “They are working on the problem of greater economy in our operations, Ser Ambroso.”
“We will take care of your economy problems,” Ambroso said. “You clear those circuits.”
“Immediately.” Tchung turned to his controls, flipped the computer switch, said: “The government accountants working in Section CC of the two hundred and twenty-fourth sublevel will have top priority on all computer time. All previous priority commitments are rescinded by this order.”
The speaker emitted a curious coughing buzz, then: “Acknowledged and filed.”
Once more, Tchung looked up at Ambroso. “Forgive us, please. It was not a deliberate obstruction. The first rule of our Code is that we must obey the government.”
“So you say.” Ambroso allowed himself a slow smile. “But if there are further indications that you are attempting to obstruct us, I will land a force from the monitor to insure that there are no recurrences.”
“I’m sure that will not be necessary,” Tchung said.
Again, Ambroso smiled. It was like a tic, gone almost before Tchung could be sure of it. Ambroso started to turn away, paused, his attention caught by the curios on the table behind Tchung. In four swift strides, Ambroso was at the table, lifting the golden statuette from it. The figure was of a small winged boot with a Naos inscription on the base.
“Expensive bauble,” Ambroso said. “Did official funds go for this decoration?”
“A gift from the Researchers of Naos on our ten thousandth anniversary,” Tchung said.
Again, the tic-smile touched Ambroso’s face. He replaced the statuette delicately. “So very long. So very, very long. And all of those centuries you have beamed your nonsense into space. So many wasteful broadcasts without an iota of information.”
Tchung’s features stiffened. “We broadcast many things, that is true. Our information has a varied value. Program selection is, as you know, purely random. Our charter assumes a mathematical probability that significant data will be selected every …”
“Yes, yes,” Ambroso said. “So it’s claimed.”
“Concepts of value differ,” Tchung said. “That does not alter the fact that we gather artifacts and information from the far reaches of our universe … and that we hold back nothing in what we disseminate.”
“Too much rubble to wade through for the occasional gem,” Ambroso said. “Your gems come to be more and more unexpected.”
Tchung concealed his anger and murmured: “It has been said that we deal in the unexpected. But there are times when the unexpected can be devastating.”
“As devastating as the weapons on our monitor?” Ambroso asked.
“Ours are not the ways of violence,” Tchung said.
“And times change,” Ambroso said. “New ways clear out the errors of the past. They make way for …”
“The errors of the future,” Tchung said.
Ambroso glowered at him. “You collect useless junk! Pack Rats!”
“They once were known as Trade Rats,” Tchung said. “The original animals, I mean. They stole from campers in the wilderness, and always left something behind from the nest. That Trade Rat nest might contain a ruby which would be traded for a small piece of plastic. Fortunate the camper when that happened.”
“What about the camper who lost a ruby and got a small bit of plastic?” Ambroso asked. He grinned at Tchung, whirled away and strode from the office.
When the fandoors closed, Tchung picked up the winged boot, rubbed it with his thumb. The Naos Researchers had been particularly grateful. Archives had saved them three centuries of work on the problem of random-desire adjustment in conflicting human groups. The Naos planets were known today for the dynamic spirit of their people, a fact recorded in the inscription beneath the golden boot:
“Information is the tool and the goad of intelligence.”
Tchung replaced the winged boot on the shelf. The thing had filled him with a momentary sense of the hoary antiquity over which he presided—a sense he had not experienced in quite that way since his youth. This was followed immediately by a nostalgia which tightened his throat.
Is it about to end?
Unconsciously, he turned in the direction of Free Island Dornbaker. Your secret is out, but the stakes are higher than anyone anticipated. Act wisely, Sil-Chan … but not too wisely.
O O O
Sil-Chan had approached Free Island Dornbaker at mid-morning, his hands on the jetter’s controls slippery with perspiration. He found himself in the grip of an illogical desire to turn and run. The closer he came to the island, the greater this feeling became.
There had been nerve-straining delays at Magsayan while officials cleared his flight to the island. The officials had professed surprise that an island lay out there in the misty sea, although they had cleared flights around the area all of their professional lives. Sil-Chan had provided them with a special channel code, however, and a voice-only communication had ensued, someone out there identified as Free Island Control being very obstructive and then, unexplainably helpful.
Sil-Chan kept his equipment tuned to the Free Island channel while he winged over the sea. The island was growing more distinct by the minute, emerging from silvery mists. He saw steeply wooded hills, the flashing blue of streams, rare white dots of buildings half hidden in greenery. White surf frothed the coastline.
The place looked wild … un-Terran—not at all like the familiar rolling contours of the parklike mainland. He emerged from the last of the mists into sunlight and more details impressed themselves upon him. Sil-Chan gasped. What had appeared from a distance to be steep hills covered with mossy scrub was actually ranks of gigantic trees. They speared the sky. Monstrous trees!
His speaker burped, crackled and a feminine voice came on: “This is Free Island Control calling the jetter.”
Sil-Chan punched his transmit button: “This is the jetter.”
The feminine voice said: “We have you on longshot. You are approaching on isthmus and bay. At the head of the bay you will see a line of low white buildings. Turn inland directly over them. Come down close. You want to be no more than fifty meters above the ridge behind those buildings when you cross it.”
“Fifty meters, right.” Sil-Chan tuned his altimeter.
The feminine voice continued: “Just over that hill we’ve mowed an east-west landing strip for you. If you line up over the white buildings and stay low, you should …”
<
The feminine voice paused, then: “Yes, mowed. You should’ve taken a copter instead of that hot jobby. I was about to suggest it when the PN said he would like to see one of the new jetters.”
Sil-Chan tried to swallow past a thickness in his throat. “I see the white buildings. There are three of them. I am turning.”
“Fifty meters, no more.”
Sil-Chan checked his crash harness. “Right.”
“Do you see one taller tree on the hill?”
“Yes.”
“As low as possible over that tree. Dip into the valley beyond. Line up with the flagpole at the far end of the mowed field. Stay right down the middle and you’ll miss the tall grass. I sure hope the strip’s long enough.”
So do I, Sil-Chan thought.
The tall tree loomed ahead. He lifted slightly, then dipped and gasped as he saw the tiny field. There was time only for a blurred glimpse of flagpole, trees beyond and a mist-colored cliff rising abruptly right behind the trees. No time to swerve or climb out. He kicked on full flaps, fired the rocket idiot-brakes in the nose and fought to hold control as the ship bucked down into dangerous low speed.
A path of darker green lay down the middle of the lighter green field. He aimed into the center, slammed on the wheel brakes when he felt the ground. The jetter bounced up onto its nose wheel, skidded in the slippery grass, crabbed sideways into tall grass. One wing dipped. The ship cartwheeled—once, twice.
It came to rest upside down.
Sil-Chan hung in his harness trying to breathe deeply while his mind replayed the whirling madcap landscape through which he had just dervished. He felt his heart pounding. His left shoulder ached.
That cost me half my longevity.
The adrenaline reaction began to set in. His hands trembled uncontrollably. He knew he would have to find a supply of anti-S soon. That dive had taken him through months of normal life.
The jetter creaked and settled slightly. A strange quiet intruded upon Sil-Chan’s awareness. The quiet bothered him. Faint swishing grew discernible. A masculine voice intruded on the quiet. “Hey in there! You all right?”