Direct Descent (3 page)

Sil-Chan clenched and unclenched his fists. “And what do you intend to do about this Pchak and his Leader Adams?”

“They’re the government,” said Coogan. “As such, the Code requires that we obey their orders. I will obey their orders. And, any man on the staff who even hints at disobedience, I’ll personally turn over to Pchak for disciplinary action.”

Sil-Chan arose slowly. “I’ve known you more than sixty years, Mr. Coogan. That just shows how little you can learn about a rat. After you’ve lost the Library to this madman, you won’t have a friend left here. Not me, not the people who trust you now. Not your wife or your family.” He sneered. “Why—one of your own sons, Phil, is in with us.” He pointed a finger at Coogan. “I intend to tell everyone about the threat you used today to gain control of the Library.”

“Control of the Library is my earned right,” said Coogan. He smiled, pushed down the lever in the control wall. The wall made a quarter turn on a central pivot. “Toris, send up a repair robot when you report back to Pchak. I’ve special installations I want to make here.”

Sil-Chan came to the edge of the desk, staring down at the lever which had controlled the movement of the wall. “Tricked me!”

“You tricked yourself,” said Coogan. “You did it the moment you turned your back on our greatest strength—obedience to the government.”

Sil-Chan grunted, whirled and left the office.

Coogan watched the door as it closed behind the other man, thought,
If I only had as much faith in those words as I’m supposed to have.

O O O

She was a pretty woman with hair like glowing coals, small features except for a wide, sensual mouth. Her green eyes seemed to give off sparks to match her hair as she stared out of the visor at Coogan.

“Vince, where have you been?” she demanded.

He spoke in a tired voice. “I’m sorry, Fay. I had work that had to be done.”

She said, “The boys brought their families from Antigua for a reunion and we’ve been ready for you for hours. What’s going on? What’s this nonsense Toris is bleating?”

Coogan sighed and brushed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what Toris is saying. But the Library is in a crisis. Patterson is dead and I’ve nobody I can trust to hold things together.”

Her eyes went wide; she put a hand to her mouth, spoke through her fingers. “Oh, no! Not Pat!”

“Yes,” he said.

“How?”

“I guess it was too much for him,” said Coogan. “He was old.”

“I couldn’t believe Toris,” she said.

Coogan felt a great weariness just at the edge of his mind. “You said the boys are there,” he said. “Ask Phil if he was part of the group backing Toris.”

“I can tell you myself he was,” she said. “It’s no secret. Darling, what’s come over you? Toris said you threatened to dump the whole surface off into space.”

“It was an empty threat then,” said Coogan. “Toris was going to disobey the government. I couldn’t permit it. That would only—”

“Vince! Have you gone out of your mind?” Her eyes registered amazement and horror. “This Adams means to destroy the Library! We can’t just sit back and let him!”

“We’ve grown lax in our training.” said Coogan. “We’ve had it too easy for too long. That’s a situation I intend to correct!”

“But what about—”

“If I’m permitted to handle things my way, he won’t destroy the Library,” said Coogan. “I was hoping you’d trust me.”

“Of course I trust you, darling, but—”

“Then trust me,” he said. “And please understand that there’s no place I’d rather be right now than home with you.”

She nodded. “Of course, dear.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “tell Phil he’s under house arrest for deliberate disobedience to the Code. I’ll deal with him, personally, later.” He closed the switch before she could reply.

Now for General Pchak,
he thought.
Let’s see if he can give us a hint on how to deal with Leader Adams.

O O O

The room was vaguely egg-shaped for acoustical reasons, cut at one end by the flat surface of a screen and with space in the center for a realized image. The wall opposite the screen was occupied by a curved couch split by drop arms in which control instruments were set.

Pchak was sprawled on the couch, a brown blob against the gray plastic, watching two Krigëllian gladiators spill each other’s blood in an arena which had a shifting floor. As Coogan entered, Pchak turned the screen to a book page in the Zosma language of Krigëllia, scanned a few lines. He looked up at Coogan with an expression of irritation.

“Director
Coogan,” said Pchak, “have you chosen a successor yet?” He slid his feet to the floor. “I find semantics most interesting,
Director
Coogan. The art of using words as weapons appeals to me. I’m particularly interested in psychological warfare.”

Coogan stared thoughtfully at the figure in the brown toga, an idea racing through his mind.
If I get this barbarian started on a study of psychological warfare, he’ll never leave.
He pulled out a section of the curved couch, sat down facing Pchak. “What’s the most important thing to know about a weapon?” he asked.

The general’s forehead creased. “How to use it effectively, of course.”

Coogan shook his head. “That’s an overgeneralization. The most important thing is to know your weapon’s limitations.”

Pchak’s eyes widened. “What it
cannot
do. Very clever.”

“Psychological warfare is an extensive subject,” said Coogan. “According to some, it’s a two-edged sword with no handle. If you grasp it strongly enough to strike down your enemy, you render yourself
hors de combat
before your blow is delivered.”

Pchak leaned against an arm of the couch. “I don’t believe I understand you.”

Coogan said, “Well, the whole argument is specious, anyway. You’d first have to apply the methods of psychology to yourself. As you measured more and more of your own sanity, you’d be more and more incapable of using the weapon against another.”

In a cold voice, Pchak said, “Are you suggesting that I’m insane?”

“Of course not,” said Coogan. “I’m giving you a summary of one of the arguments about psychological warfare. Some people believe any warfare is insanity. But sanity is a matter of degree. Degree implies measurement. To measure, we must use some absolute referent. Unless we could agree on the measuring device, we couldn’t say anyone was sane or insane. Nor could we tell what opponent might be vulnerable to our weapon.”

Pchak jerked forward, a hard light in his slitted eyes.

Coogan hesitated, wondered,
Have I gone too far?
He said, “I’ll give you another example.” He hooked a thumb toward the viewscreen. “You just watched two gladiators settle an issue for their cities. That particular action occurred twenty centuries ago. You weren’t interested in the issue they settled. You were examining their method of combat. Twenty centuries from now, who will examine your methods? Will they be interested in the issues you settled?”

Pchak turned his head to one side, keeping his eyes on Coogan. “I think you’re using clever words in a way to confuse me,” he said.

“No, general,” Coogan shook his head. “We’re not here to confuse people. We believe in our Code and live by it. That Code says we must obey the government. And that doesn’t mean we obey when we feel like it or when we happen to agree with you. We obey. Your orders will be carried out. It doesn’t pay us to lead you into confusion.”

In a strangely flat voice, Pchak said, “Knowledge is a blind alley leading only to unhappiness.”

Coogan suddenly realized that the man was quoting Leader Adams. He said, “We don’t put out knowledge, general. We store information. That’s our first job.”

“But you blat that information all over the universe!” stormed the general. “Then it becomes knowledge!”

“That is under the Charter, not the Code,” said Coogan.

Pchak pursed his lips, leaned toward Coogan. “Do you mean if I ordered you to shut down your broadcasts, you’d just do it? We understood you were prepared to resist us at every turn.”

“Then your information was incorrect,” said Coogan.

The general leaned back, rubbed his chin. “All right, shut them down,” he said. “I’ll give you a half hour. I want all five thousand of them quiet and your special channels, too.”

Coogan bowed, got to his feet. “We obey,” he said.

O O O

In the director’s office Coogan sat at the desk, staring at the opposite wall. The screens were silent. It was almost as though there was some interspatial hole in the room, a lack. The door opened and Sil-Chan entered. “You sent for me?” he asked.

Coogan looked at the man for a moment before speaking, then said, “Why didn’t you return to Pchak’s viewing room as I ordered?”

“Because Pchak dismissed me,” said Sil-Chan curtly.

“Come in and sit down,” said Coogan. He turned on his desk visor, called records. “What’s the parentage and upbringing of the new Grand Regent?” he asked.

After a brief pause, a voice came from the visor: “Leader Adams, also known as Adam Yoo. Mother, Simila Yoo, native of Mundial Group”—Coogan glanced at Sil-Chan—“planet Sextus C III. Father Princeps Adams, native of Hercules Group. Father was killed in accident with subspace translator on University Planet of Hercules XII when son age nine. Young Adams raised with mother’s family on Sextus C II until age eighteen when sent to Shandu for training as a Mundial religious leader. While on Shandu—”

Coogan interrupted, “Send me a transcript of it.” He broke the connection, looked at Sil-Chan. “Still angry, Toris?”

Sil-Chan’s lips tightened.

As though he had not noticed, Coogan said, “Adams’ father was killed in an accident on a university planet. That could be the unconscious origin of his hatred of knowledge.” He looked speculatively at Sil-Chan. “You’re a Mundial native. What’s the group like?”

“If Adams was raised there, he’s a mystic,” said Sil-Chan. He shrugged. “All of our people are mystics. No Mundial family would permit otherwise. That’s why he was taken to the home planet to be raised.” Sil-Chan suddenly put a hand to his chin. “Father killed in an accident—” He looked at Coogan, through him. “That could have been an
arranged
accident.” He leaned forward, tapped the desk. “Let’s say the father objected to the son being raised in the Mundial Group—”

“Are you suggesting that the mother could have arranged the accident?”

“Either she or some of her kinsmen,” said Sil-Chan. “It’s been known to happen. The Mundials are jealous of their own. I had the glax of a time getting permission to come to the Library staff.”

“This happiness through ignorance cult,” said Coogan. “How would mysticism bear on that?”

Sil-Chan looked at the desk surface, forehead creased. “He’ll believe absolutely in his own destiny. If he thinks he has to destroy the Library to fulfill that destiny, there’ll be no stopping him.”

Coogan clasped his hands together on the desktop, gripped them until they hurt.
Obey!
he thought.
What a weapon to use against a fanatic!

“If we could prove the mother or the Yoo Clan had the father killed, that might be a valuable piece of knowledge,” said Sil-Chan.

“A wise man depends upon his friends for information and upon himself for decisions,” said Coogan.

“That’s a Mundial axiom,” said Sil-Chan.

“I read it somewhere,” said Coogan. “You’re a Mundial native, Toris. Explain this mysticism.”

“It’s mostly rubbed off of me,” said Sil-Chan, “but I’ll try. It revolves around an ancient form of ancestor worship. Mysticism, you see, is the art of looking backward while convincing yourself that you’re looking forward. The ancient Terran god Janus was a mystic. He looked forward and backward at the same time. Everything a mystic does in the present must find its interpretation in the past. Now, the interpretation—”

“That’s a subtle one,” said Coogan. “It almost slipped past me.
Interpretation.
Substitute
explanation for interpretation—”

“And you have a librarian,” said Sil-Chan.

“Explanation is something that may or may not be true,” said Coogan. “We’re convinced of an interpretation.”

“Semantics again,” said Sil-Chan. A brief smile touched his lips. “Maybe that’s why you’re director.”

“Still against me?” asked Coogan.

The smile left Sil-Chan’s mouth. “It’s suicide, Vince.” He hitched himself forward. “If we follow your orders, when this Adams says to destroy the Library, we’d have to help him!”

“So we would,” said Coogan. “But it’s not going to come to that. I wish you’d trust me, Toris.”

“If you were doing something that even remotely made sense, of course I would,” said Sil-Chan. “But—” He shrugged.

“I’ve a job for you,” said Coogan. “It may or may not make sense, but I want it carried out to the letter. Take any ship you can get and hop to this Sextus C III in the Mundial Group. When you get there, I want you to prove that the Yoo Clan killed Leader Adams’ father. I don’t care whether it’s true or not. I want the proof.”

“That makes sense,” said Sil-Chan. “If we can discredit the big boss—”

The visor chimed. Coogan hit the switch and a sub-librarian’s face appeared in the screen. “Sir,” the man blurted, “the Library information broadcasts are silent! I just got a call from—”

“Orders of the government,” said Coogan. “It’s quite all right. Return to your duties.” He blanked the screen.

Sil-Chan was leaning on the desk, fists clenched. “You mean you let them close us down without a struggle.”

“Let me remind you of some things,” said Coogan. “We must obey the government to survive. I am director here and I’ve given you an order. Get on it!”

“What if I refuse?”

“I’ll get somebody else to do it and you’ll be locked up.”

“You don’t leave me any choice.” He turned and slammed out of the office.

O O O

Twenty-four times the evening rains passed across the tower far above Coogan’s office. The game of cat-and-mouse with Pchak went on as usual, the little brown general delving deeper and deeper into the files. On the twenty-fifth day Coogan came into his office in mid-afternoon.