Frank Herbert - Direct Descent

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Direct Descent

Frank Herbert

1980

A portion of this book appeared as "Pack Rat Planet" in the December 1954

issue of Astounding Science Fiction, 1954.

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 angles 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 interior. 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.

It was enough to take the bitterness out of his thoughts when he recalled the

words someone on an outworld had etched beside the star ship's main port. The

words had been cut deeply beneath the winged boot emblem of the Galactic

Library, probably with a Gernser flame chisel.

"Go home dirty pack rats!"

The dirty pack rats were home.

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, oscillographs, 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 facilities 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?"

Same old didactic, pompous humbug, thought Coogan. He said, "I'm not exactly

a robot," and shaped his mouth in a brief, wry smile.

A frown formed on Patterson's bluish lips. "We've a new government," he said.

"Is that why you called me in?" asked Coogan. He felt an upsurge of all the

resentment he'd swallowed when he'd received the call-back message.

"In a way, yes," said Patterson. "The new government is going to censor all

Library broadcasts. The censor is on that ship just landing."

"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 command."

"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 destruction."

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

"Perhaps," said Patterson, "if we're lucky. The new Grand Regent is the

leader of the Gentle Ignorance Party. He says he'll censor us. The trouble

is, our information indicates he's bent on destroying the Library as some kind

of an example."

It took a moment for Coogan to accept the meaning of the words. "Destroy --"

"Put it to the torch," said Patterson. "His censor is his chief general and

hatchetman."

"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 telling 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

destruction?" 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?"

"Just Pchak."

He was a coarse man with overdrawn features, none of the refinements of the

inner worlds. A brown toga almost the same color as his skin was belted

around him. Two slitted eyes stared out of a round, pushed-in face. He came

into Patterson's office followed by two men in gray togas, each wearing a

blaster at the belt.

"I am Pchak," he said.

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 research!' 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 suddenly sensed something electric and deadly in the room. It was

evident that Patterson did, too, because he looked directly at Coogan and

said, "We are here to obey."

"You demonstrate an unhappy willingness to admire knowledge," said Pchak.

The guard's blaster suddenly came up and chopped down against the director's

head. Patterson slumped to the floor, blood welling from a gash on his scalp.

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 control of

the situation, he thought. I'm the only one left who'll fight this according

to the Code. He said, "Every man seeks advancement."

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?"

Coogan took two deep breaths, looked at the side wall. "The walls of this

room are focus rhomboids for realized images," he said. "They were turned off

to avoid distractions during your arrival."

Pchak settled back in the chair. "You may proceed."

The guard continued to hold his blaster on Coogan.

Moving to a position opposite the wall, Coogan worked the belt controls. 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 outpouring."

"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 compensated 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 reported 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."

Now what have I said? Coogan wondered. He faced Pchak, said, "Congress was

an ancient form of government. The closest modern example is the Tschi

Council which --"

"I thought so!" barked Pchak. "That debating society! Would you explain to

me, Mr. Coogan, why a recent Library broadcast extolled the virtues of this

form of government?"

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Frank Herbert - Direct Descent

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