Frank Herbert Direct Descent

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"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.
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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 it's 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.
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. Records said he took anti-S
to suppress his normal sexual drive and to free his energies for service to
the Library. A very strange young man.
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 fan-door. 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
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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." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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