Herbert, Frank - Direct Descent

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Part I

Vincent Coogan pulled at his thin lower lip as he stared at the image

of his home planet growing larger in the star ship's viewscreen.

"What kind of an emergency would make Patterson call me off a Library

collection trip?" he muttered.

The chief navigator turned toward Coogan, noted the down-drooping an-

gles on the Library official's face. "Did you say something, sir?"

"Huh?" Coogan realized he had been speaking his thoughts aloud. He

drew in a deep breath, squared his stringy frame in front of the

viewscreen, said, "It's good to get back to the Library."

"Always good to be home," said the navigator. He turned toward the

planet in the screen.

It was a garden world of rolling plains turning beneath an old sun.

Pleasure craft glided across shallow seas. Villages of flat, chalk-

white houses clustered around elevator towers which plumbed the inte-

rior. Slow streams meandered across the plains. Giant butterflies

fluttered among trees and flowers. People walked while reading books

or reclined with scan-all viewers hung in front of their eyes.

The star ship throbbed as its landing auxiliaries were activated.

Coogan felt the power through his feet. Suddenly, he sensed the

homecoming feeling in his chest, an anticipating that brought senses

to new alertness. It was enough to erase the worry over his call-

back, to banish his displeasure at the year of work he had abandoned

uncompleted.

Director Caldwell Patterson of the Galactic Library sat at the desk

in his office deep in the planet, a sheet of metallic paper in his

hands. He was an old man even by Eighty-first Century standards when

geriatrics made six hundred years a commonplace. Some said he had

been at the Library that long. Gray hair clung in molting wisps to a

pale pate. His face had the leathery, hook-nosed appearance of an

ancient bird.

As Coogan entered the office, a desk visor in front of Patterson

chimed. The director clicked a switch, motioned Coogan to a chair

and said, "Yes," with a tired, resigned air.

Coogan folded his tall frame into the chair and listened with half

his mind to the conversation on the visor. It seemed some outworld

ship was approaching and wanted special landing facilities. Coogan

looked around the familiar office. Behind the director was a wall of

panels, dials, switches, rheostats, speakers, microphones, oscillo-

graphs, code keys, screens. The two side walls were focus rhomboids

for realized images. The wall which was split by the door held eight

miniature viewscreens all tuned to separate channels of the Library

information broadcasts. All sound switches had been turned to mute,

leaving a continuous low murmur in the room.

Patterson began drumming his fingers on the desk top, glaring at the

desk visor. Presently, he said, "Well, tell them we have no facili-

ties for an honor reception. This planet is devoted to knowledge and

research. Tell them to come in at the regular field. I'll obey my

Code and any government order of which I'm capable, but we simply

don't have the facilities for what they're asking." The director cut

the switch on his visor, turned to Coogan. "Well, Vincent, I see you

avoided the Hesperides green rot. Now I presume you're anxious to

learn why I called you back from there?"

censor all Library broadcasts. The censor is on that ship just land

ing."

"They can't do that!" blurted Coogan. "The Charter expressly forbids

chosen broadcasts or any interference with Library function! I can

quote you --"

Patterson interrupted him in a low voice. "What is the first rule of

the Library Code?"

Coogan faltered, stared at the director. He said, "Well --" paused

while the memory came back to him. "The first rule of the Galactic

Library Code is to obey all direct orders of the government in power.

For the preservation of the Library, this must be the primary com-

mand."

"What does it mean?" demanded Patterson.

"It's just words that --"

"More than words!" said Patterson. A faint color crept into his old

cheeks. "That rule has kept this Library alive for eight thousand

years."

"But the government can't --"

"When you're as old as I am," said Patterson, "you'll realize that

governments don't know what they can't do until after they cease to

be governments. Each government carries the seeds of its own de-

struction."

"So we let them censor us," said Coogan.

Doesn t he realize this is more than a Library? asked Coogan.

"I don't know what he realizes," said Patterson. "But we're faced

with a primary emergency and, to complicate matters, the entire staff

is in a turmoil. They're hiding arms and calling in collection ships

against my express orders. That Toris Sil-Chan has been around tell-

ing every --"

"Toris!"

"Yes, Toris. Your boon companion or whatever he is. He's leading

this insurrection and I gather that he --"

"Doesn't he realize the Library can't fight a war without risking de-

struction?" asked Coogan.

Patterson sighed. "You're one of the few among the new generation

who realizes that," he said.

"Where's Toris?" demanded Coogan. "I'll --"

"There isn't time right now," said Patterson. "The Grand Regent's

hatchetman is due any minute."

"There wasn't a word of this out on Hesperides," said Coogan.

"What's this Grand Regent's name?"

"Leader Adams," said Patterson.

"Never heard of him," said Coogan. "Who's the hatchetman?"

"His name's Pchak."

"Pchak what?"

Not a pretty specimen, thought Coogan. There was something chilling

about the stylized simplicity of the man's dress. It reminded Coogan

of a battle cruiser stripped down for action.

Director Patterson came around his desk, shoulders bent, walking

slowly as befitted his age. "We are honored," he said.

"Are you?" asked Pchak. "Who is in command here?"

Patterson bowed. "I am Director Caldwell Patterson."

Pchak's lips twisted into something faintly like a smile. "I would

like to know who is responsible for those insulting replies to our

communications officer. 'This planet is devoted to knowledge and re-

search!' Who said that?"

"Why --" Patterson broke off, wet his lips with his tongue, "I said

that."

The man in the brown toga stared at Patterson, said, "Who is this

other person?" He hooked a thumb toward Coogan.

"This is Vincent Coogan," said Patterson. "He has just returned from

the Hesperides Group to be on hand to greet you. Mr. Coogan is my

chief assistant and successor."

Pchak looked at Coogan. "Out scavenging with the rest of the pack

rats," he said. He turned back to Patterson. "But perhaps there

will be need of a successor."

One of the guards moved up to stand beside the general. Pchak said,

"Since knowledge is unhappiness, even the word is distasteful when

used in a laudatory manner."

Coogan started to take a step forward, was stopped by the other

guard's blaster prodding his middle. A red haze formed in front of

Coogan's eyes, a feeling of vertigo swept over him. In spite of the

dizziness, part of his mind went on clicking, producing information

to be observed. This is standard procedure for oppressors, said his

mind. Cow your victims by an immediate show of violence. Something

cold, hard and calculating took over Coogan's consciousness.

"Director Coogan," said Pchak, "do you have any objections to what

has just occurred?"

Coogan stared down at the squat brown figure. I have to stay in con-

trol of the situation, he thought. I'm the only one left who'll

fight this according to the Code. He said, "Every man seeks advance-

ment."

Pchak smiled. "A realist. Now explain your Library." He strode

around the desk, sat down. "It hardly seems just for our government

to maintain a pesthole such as this, but my orders are to investigate

before passing judgment."

Your orders are to make a show of investigation before putting the

Library to the torch, thought Coogan. He picked up an image control

box from the desk, clipped it to his belt. Immediately, a blaster in

a guard's hand prodded his side.

"What is that?" demanded Pchak.

Coogan swallowed. "These are image controls," he said. He looked

down at Patterson sprawled on the floor. "May I summon a hospital

robot for Mr. Patterson?"

"No," said Pchak. "What are image controls?"

trols. The wall became a window looking down an avenue of filing

cases. Robots could be seen working in the middle distance.

"Terra is mostly a shell," said Coogan. "The major portion of the

matter was taken to construct spaceships during the great outpour-

ing."

"That fable again," said Pchak.

Coogan stopped. Involuntarily, his eyes went to the still figure of

Caldwell Patterson on the floor.

"Continue," said Pchak.

The cold, hard, calculating something in Coogan's mind said, You know

what to do. Set him up for your Sunday punch.

Coogan concentrating on the screen, said: "The mass loss was compen-

sated by a giant gravitronic unit in the planet center. Almost the

entire subsurface of Terra is occupied by the Library. Levels are

divided into overlapping squares one hundred kilometers to the side.

The wealth of records stored here staggers the imagination. It's --"

"Your imagination perhaps," said Pchak. "Not mine."

Coogan fought down a shiver which crawled along his spine, forced

himself to continue. He said. "It is the repository for all the re-

ported doings of every government in the history of the galaxy. The

format was set by the original institution from which this one grew.

It was known as the Library of Congress. That institution had a

reputation of --"

"Congress," said Pchak in his deadly flat tones. "Kindly explain

that term."

pouring out

"Answer my question, Mr. Coogan." Pchak leaned forward. An eager

look came into the eyes of the guard with the blaster. Again Coo-

gan's eyes sought out the still form of Patterson on the floor.

"We have no control of program selection," said Coogan, "except on

ten special channels for answering research questions and ten other

channels which scan through the new material as it is introduced into

the Library."

"No control," said Pchak. "That's an interesting answer. Why is

this?"

Coogan rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, said, "The

charter for the broadcasts was granted by the first system wide gov-

ernment in the Twenty-first Century. A method of random program se-

lection was devised to insure impartiality. It was considered that

the information in the Library should always be freely available to

all --" His voice trailed off and he wondered if he had quoted too

much of the charter. Well, they can read it in the original if they

want, he thought.

"Fascinating," said Pchak. He looked at the nearest guard. "Isn't

that so?"

The guard grinned.

Coogan took a slow, controlled breath, exhaled. He could feel a cri-

sis approaching. It was like a weight on his chest.

"This has to be a thorough investigation," said Pchak. "Let's see

what you're broadcasting right now."

objects, each bearing a tag.

"He is speaking the dead Procyon language," said Coogan. "He's a zo-

ologist of a system which was destroyed by corona gas thirty-four

centuries ago. The things on the floor are the skulls of a native

rodent, he's saying that he spent eleven years classifying more than

eight thousand of those skulls."

"Why?" asked Pchak. He seemed actually interested, leaned forward to

look at the mound of skulls on the floor.

"I think we've missed that part," said Coogan. "It probably was to

prove some zoological theory."

Pchak settled back in his chair. "He's dead," he said. "His system

no longer exists. His language is no longer spoken. Is there much

of this sort of thing being broadcast?"

"I'm afraid ninety-nine per cent of the Library broadcasts -- exclud-

ing research channels -- is of this nature," said Coogan. "It's the

nature of the random selection."

"Who cares what the zoologist's theory was?" asked Pchak.

"Perhaps some zoologist," said Coogan. "You never can tell when a

piece of information will be valuable."

Pchak muttered something under his breath which sounded like, "Pack

rats!"

Coogan said, "Pack rats?"

useless material which cluttered its nest there might be one nugget

of a precious metal. Since the pack rat showed no selection in its

trading -- was random, so to speak -- it might leave the precious

metal in a hunter's camp in exchange for a bottle top."

Pchak got to his feet, walked across the room to the zoologist's im-

age, passed a hand through the projection. "Remarkable," he said,

sarcasm filling his voice. "This is supposed to be a nugget?"

"More likely a twig," said Coogan.

Pchak turned back, faced Coogan.

What else do you hide in this rat's nest? Any nuggets?"

Coogan looked down at Patterson on the floor. There was a stillness

about the thin old figure. "First, may I have a hospital robot at-

tend to Mr. Patterson?"

The general kept his eyes on Coogan. "No. Answer my request."

First rule of the Code -- obey, thought Coogan. With a slow, con-

trolled movement, he shifted a lever on the box at his belt. The

Procyon zoologist vanished and the wall became a screen showing a

page of a book. Here's the bait, thought Coogan, and I hope it poi-

sons you. He said, "This is an early account of military tactics

showing some methods that succeeded and others that failed."

Pchak turned to the screen, put his hands behind him, rocked back and

forth on heels and toes. "What language?"

"Ancient English of Terra," said Coogan. "We have a scanner that'll

give you an oral translation if you'd like."

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摘要：

PartIVincentCooganpulledathisthinlowerlipashestaredattheimageofhishomeplanetgrowinglargerinthestarship'sviewscreen."WhatkindofanemergencywouldmakePattersoncallmeoffaLibrarycollectiontrip?"hemuttered.ThechiefnavigatorturnedtowardCoogan,notedthedown-droopingan-glesontheLibraryofficial'sface."Didyousay...

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Herbert, Frank - Direct Descent

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