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 anticipation 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 starship’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 desktop, 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.”

O O O

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.

O O O

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?”

There’s the viper, thought Coogan. He said, “Well, nobody watches Library broadcasts anyway. What with some five thousand channels pouring out—”

“Answer my question, Mr. Coogan.” Pchak leaned forward. An eager look came into the eyes of the guard with the blaster. Again Coogan’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 government in the Twenty-first Century. A method of random program selection 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 crisis 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.”

O O O

Coogan worked the belt controls and an image realized before the right-hand rhomboid. It was of a man with a hooked nose. He wore leather pants and shirt, shoes with some kind of animal face projecting from the toes, a feather crest hat on his head.

“This is a regular random information broadcast,” said Coogan. He looked at his belt. “Channel Eighty-two.” He turned up the volume.

The man was talking a language of harsh consonants punctuated by sibilant hisses. Beside him on the floor was a mound of tiny round objects, each bearing a tag.

“He is speaking the dead Procyon language,” said Coogan. “He’s a zoologist 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—excluding 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?”

The little brown man smiled. “That’s what we call you,” he said. “And with some justification evidently. You’re packed with the kind of useless material a rodent would admire.”

Time for one small lesson, thought Coogan. He said, “The pack rat, also known as the trade rat, was a rodent indigenous to this planet. It’s now extinct here, but there are examples on Markeb IX and several of the Ring planets. The pack rat lived in forest land and was known for his habit of stealing small things from hunters’ camps. For everything it took, the pack rat left an item from its nest, a bit of twine, a twig, a shiny piece of glass, a rock. In all of that 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 image, 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 attend to Mr. Patterson?”

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

O O O

First rule of the Code—obey, thought Coogan. With a slow, controlled 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 poisons 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.”

The general kept his eyes on the screen. “How do I know this account is accurate?”

“The Library Code does not permit tampering with records,” said Coogan. “Our oath is to preserve the present for the future.” He glanced at Pchak, back to the screen. “We have other battle records, the tactics of every species encountered by humans. For example, we have the entire war history of the Praemir of Roman II.”

Coogan shifted his belt controls and the screen took up a history of warfare which had been assembled for a general sixteen centuries dead. Pchak watched as the record went from clubs and rocks to spears and made a side journey into bizarre weapons. Suddenly, Coogan blanked the screen.

Pchak’s head snapped up. “Why did you stop that?”

Hooked him, thought Coogan. He said, “I thought you might rather view this at your leisure. If you wish, I’ll set up a viewing room and show you how to order the records when there are side issues you’d like to study.” Coogan held his breath. Now we learn if he’s really caught, he thought.

The general continued to study the blank screen. “I have orders to make a thorough investigation,” he said. “I believe this comes under the category of investigation. Have your viewing room prepared.” He turned, went to the door, followed by his guards.

“It’s down on the sixty-ninth level,” said Coogan. “Viewing Room A.” He started toward Pchak. “I’ll get you all set up and—”

“You will remain here,” said Pchak. “We will use Viewing Room B, instead. Send an assistant to explain things.” He glanced back. “You do have an assistant, do you not?”

“I’ll send Toris Sil-Chan,” said Coogan and then remembered what Patterson had said about Toris leading the hotheads who wanted to do battle. He would have bitten off his tongue to retract the words, but knew he dared not change now or it would arouse Pchak’s suspicions. He returned to the desk, had central-routing find Toris and send him to the viewing room. Please don’t do anything rash, he prayed.

“Is this assistant your successor?” asked Pchak, looking down at Patterson.

“No,” said Coogan.

“You must appoint a successor,” said Pchak and left with his two guards.

Coogan immediately summoned a hospital robot for Patterson. The scarab shape came in on silent wheels, lifted the still form on its flat pad extensors and departed.

O O O

The sunset rain was drifting along its longitudinal mark on Terra, spattering a shallow sea, dewing the grasslands, filling the cups of flowers. One wall screen of the director’s office was activated to show this surface scene—a white village in the rain, flutterings of trees. Surface copters whirred across the village, their metal gleaming in the wetness.

Coogan, his thin face wearing a look of weariness, sat at the director’s desk, hands clasped in front of him. Occasionally, he glanced at the wall screen. The spire of a government star ship—tall alabaster with a sunburst insignia on its bow—could be seen beyond the village. Coogan sighed.

A chime sounded behind him. He turned to the control panel wall, depressed a button, spoke into a microphone. “Yes?”

A voice like wire scraped across a tin plate came out of the speaker. “This is the hospital.”

“Well?” Coogan’s voice showed irritation.

“Director Patterson was dead upon arrival here,” said the wire-scraping voice. “The robots already have disposed of his body through the CIB orifice.”

“Don’t say anything about it yet,” said Coogan. He removed his hand from the switch, turned back to the desk. His desk now. Director Coogan. The thought gave him no satisfaction. He kept remembering a still form sprawled on the floor. A terrible way to go, he thought. A Librarian should end at his researches, just quietly topple over in the stacks.

The desk visor chimed. Coogan hit the palm switch and Pchak’s face appeared on the screen. The general was breathing rapidly, beads of sweat on his forehead.

“May I help you?” asked Coogan.

“How do I get the condemned instruction records for the Zosma language?” demanded Pchak. “Your machine keeps referring me to some nonsense about abstract symbolism.”

The door of Coogan’s office opened and Sil-Chan entered, saw that a caller was on the screen, stopped just inside the door. Sil-Chan was a blocky figure who achieved fat without looking soft. His round face was dominated by upswept almond eyes characteristic of the inhabitants of the Mundial Group planets of Ruchbah.

Coogan shook his head at Sil-Chan, his mind searching through memories for an answer to Pchak’s question. It came to him, tagged semantics study. “Zosma,” he said. “Yes, that was a language which dealt only in secondary referents. Each phrase was two times removed from—”

“What in Shandu is a secondary referent?” exploded Pchak.

Calmly, thought Coogan. I can’t afford to precipitate action yet. He said, “Ask for the section on semantics. Did Mr. Sil-Chan show you how to get the records you need?”

“Yes, yes,” said Pchak. “Semantics, eh?” The screen went blank.

O O O

Sil-Chan closed the door, came across the office. “I would imagine,” he said, “that the general is under the impression his researches will be completed in a week or two.”

“So it would seem,” said Coogan. He studied Sil-Chan. The man didn’t look like a hothead, but perhaps it had taken this threat to the Library to set him off.

Sil-Chan took a chair across from Coogan. “The general is a low alley dog,” he said, “but he believes in this Leader Adams. The gleam in his eyes when he talks about Adams would frighten a saint.”

“How was it down in the viewing room?” asked Coogan.

“Pchak is busy studying destruction,” said Sil-Chan. “We haven’t made up our minds yet whether to exterminate him. Where’s Director Patterson?”

A sixth sense warned Coogan not to reveal that the director was dead. He said, “He isn’t here.”

“That’s fairly obvious,” said Sil-Chan. “I have an ultimatum to deliver to the director. Where is he?”

“You can deliver your ultimatum to me,” said Coogan dryly.

Sil-Chan’s eyes showed little glints deep in the pupils as he stared at Coogan. “Vince, we’ve been friends a long time,” he said, “but you’ve been away in the Hesperides Group and don’t know what’s been going on here. Don’t take sides yet.”

“What’s been going on?” asked Coogan. He looked up at Sil-Chan out of the corners of his eyes.

The Mundial native hitched himself forward and leaned an elbow on the desk. “There’s a new government, Vince, and they’re planning to destroy the Library. And that gourd-head Patterson has been giving in to every order they send. Do this! Do that! He does it! He told us flat out he wouldn’t defy a government order.” Sil-Chan’s mouth set in a thin line. “It’s against the Library Code!”

“Who is we?” asked Coogan.

“Huh?” Sil-Chan looked blank.

“The we you said hasn’t decided whether to exterminate Pchak,” said Coogan.

“Oh.” Sil-Chan leaned back. “Only about a third of the home staff. Most of the collection crews are joining us fast as they come in.”

Coogan tapped a finger against the desk. Some eight thousand people, more or less, he thought. He said, “What’s your plan?”

“Easy.” Sil-Chan shrugged. “I’ve about fifty men in Section C on the sixty-ninth level waiting for the word to move against Pchak and his bodyguards. Another three hundred are topside ready to jump the government ship.”

Coogan tipped his head to one side and stared at Sil-Chan in amazement. “Is that your ultimatum?”

Sil-Chan shook his head. “No. Where’s Patterson?”

Something decisive meshed in Coogan’s mind. He got to his feet. “Patterson’s dead. I’m director. What’s your ultimatum?”

There was a moment’s silence with Sil-Chan looking up at Coogan. “How’d he die?” asked Sil-Chan.

“He was old,” said Coogan. “What’s your ultimatum?”

Sil-Chan wet his lips with his tongue. “I’m sorry to hear that, Vince.” Again he shrugged. “But this makes our job simpler. You’re a man who’ll listen to reason.” He met Coogan’s stare. “This is our plan. We take over this Pchak and his ship, hold him as hostage while we convert every broadcast channel we have to public support. With five thousand channels telling the—”

“You bone-brain!” barked Coogan. “That’s as stupid a plan as I’ve ever heard. Adams would ignore your hostage and drop a stellar bomb in our laps!”

“But, Vince—”

“Don’t but, Vince, me,” said Coogan. He came around the desk and stood over Sil-Chan. “As long as you’re running around disobeying the orders of your superiors you’ll refer to me as Mr. Director and—”

Sil-Chan charged to his feet, glared up at Coogan. “I hate to do this, Vince,” he said, “but we have organization and purpose. You can’t stop us! You’re relieved of your directorship until such time as—”

“Shut up!” Coogan strode around behind his desk, put his hand on a short lever low on the control panel. “Do you know what this is, Toris?”

Sil-Chan’s face showed uncertainty. He shook his head.

“This is the master control for the gravitronic unit,” said Coogan. “If I push it down, it shuts off the unit. Every bit of soil, everything beyond the Library shell will drift off into space.”

A pasty color came over Sil-Chan’s features. He put out a hand toward Coogan. “You can’t do that,” he said. “Your wife and family—all of our families are up there. They wouldn’t have a chance!”

“I’m director here,” said Coogan. “The position is my earned right!” With his free hand, he moved four switches on the control wall. “That seals off your sixty-ninth level group behind fire panels.” He turned back to Sil-Chan. “Now, get in touch with every insurgent under you and have them turn in their arms to robots which I’ll release for the job. I know who some of your men are. They’d better be among the ones you contact. If you make one move I don’t like, this lever goes down and stays down!”

“You!” said Sil-Chan. He ground his teeth together. “I knew I should’ve carried a blaster when I came in here. But no! You and Patterson were the civilized types! We could reason with you!”

“Start making those calls,” said Coogan. He pushed his desk visor toward the other man.

O O O

Sil-Chan jerked the visor to him, obeyed. Coogan gave his orders to robot dispatching headquarters, waited for Sil-Chan to finish. The Mundial native finally pushed the visor back across the desk. “Does that satisfy you?” he demanded.

“No.” Coogan steepled his hands in front of him. “I’m arming some of the staff I can trust. Their orders will be to shoot to kill if there’s a further act of insurrection.” He leaned forward. “In addition, we’re going to have guard stations between sectors and a regular search procedure. You’re not getting another chance to cause trouble.”

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.

Pchak is completely hooked, he thought, but what happens when Adams finds out the Library hasn’t been destroyed?

He sat down at his desk, swiveled to face the control panel and activated a tiny screen linked to a spy cell on the sixty-ninth level. Pchak was in the viewing room, studying the Albireo language pre-examining that double-star system’s war history. Behind Coogan, a mechanical hum sounded, indicating someone was emerging from the elevator. Hastily, he blanked the spy screen, turned to his desk just as the door burst open. Toris Sil-Chan staggered into the room, his clothing torn, a dirty bandage over one shoulder.

The Mundial native lurched across the room, clutched the edge of Coogan’s desk. “Hide me!” he said. “Quick!”

Coogan jerked around to the panel, swung it open and motioned toward the hole that was exposed. Sil-Chan darted in and Coogan closed the panel, returned to his desk.

Again the telltale signaled. Two armed guards burst into the room, blasters in their hands. “Where is he?” demanded the first.

“Where’s who?” asked Coogan. He squared a stack of papers on his desk.

“The guy who jumped off that lifeboat,” said the guard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Coogan, “but I can see that I’ll have to call General Pchak and tell him how you’ve burst into my office without preamble and—”

The guard lowered his blaster and retreated one step. “That won’t be necessary, sir,” he said. “We can see the man’s not here. He probably went to a lower level. Please excuse the interruption.” They backed out of the room.

Coogan waited until his spy relays in the corridor told him the men had gone, then opened the panel. Sil-Chan was crumpled on the floor. Coogan bent over him, shook him. “Toris! What’s wrong?”

Sil-Chan stirred, looked up at Coogan with eyes that were at first unrecognizing. “Uh … Vince—”

The director put an arm behind Sil-Chan, supported the man to a sitting position. “Take it easy now. Just tell me what happened.”

“Made a mess of assignment,” said Sil-Chan. “Yoo Clan got wind of what I was after. Had Adams send order … arrest. Lost ship. Got away in escape boat. Landed other side … planet. Pchak’s guards tried stop—” His head slumped forward.

Coogan put a hand to the man’s heart, felt its steady pumping. He eased Sil-Chan back to the floor, went out and summoned a hospital robot. Sil-Chan regained consciousness while the robot was lifting him. “Sorry to go out on you like that,” he said. “I—”

The message visor on the director’s desk chimed. Coogan pushed the response switch, scanned the words of a visual message, blanked the screen and turned back to Sil-Chan. “You’ll have to be treated here,” he said. “Couldn’t risk carrying you through the corridors right now.”

O O O

The spy beam hummed at the door. Coogan pushed Sil-Chan behind the panel, closed it. Pchak strode into the office, a blaster in his hand, two guards behind him. The general glanced at the hospital robot, looked at Coogan. “Where’s the man that robot was called to treat?”

The last guard into the office closed the door, drew his blaster.

“Talk or you’ll be cut down where you stand,” said Pchak.

The showdown, thought Coogan. He said, “These hospital robots are a peculiar kind of creature, general. They don’t have the full prime directive against harming humans because sometimes they have to choose between saving one person and letting another one die. I can tell this robot that if I’m harmed it must give all of you an overdose of the most virulent poison it carries in its hypo arm. I informed the robot that this action will save my life. It naturally is loyal to the Library and will do exactly what I have just now told it to do.”

Pchak’s face tightened. He raised the blaster slightly.

“Unless you wish to die in agony, place your blasters on my desk,” said Coogan.

“I won’t,” said Pchak. “Now what’re you going to do?”

“Your blasters can kill me,” said Coogan, “but they won’t stop that robot until it has carried out my order.”

Pchak’s finger began to tighten on the trigger. “Then let’s give it the—”

The sharp blat! of an energy bolt filled the room. Pchak slumped. The guard behind him skirted the robot fearfully, put his blaster on Coogan’s desk. The weapon smelled faintly of ozone from the blast that had killed Pchak. “Call that thing off me now,” said the man, staring at the robot.

Coogan looked at the other guard. “You, too,” he said.

The other man came around behind the robot, put his weapon on the desk. Coogan picked up one of the weapons. It felt strange in his hand.

“You’re not going to turn that thing loose on us now, are you?” asked the second guard. He seemed unable to take his gaze from the robot.

Coogan glanced down at the scarab shape of the mechanical with its flat pad extensors and back hooks for carrying a stretcher. He wondered what the two men would do if he told them the thing Pchak had undoubtedly known—that the robot could take no overt action against a human, that his words had been a lie.

The first guard said, “Look, we’re on your side now. We’ll tell you everything. Just before he came down here, Pchak got word that Leader Adams was coming and—”

“Adams!” Coogan barked the word. He thought, Adams coming! How to turn that to advantage? He looked at the first guard. “You were with Pchak when he came the first day, weren’t you?”

“I was his personal guard,” said the man.

Coogan scooped the other blaster off his desk, backed away. “All right. When Adams lands, you get on that visor and tell him Pchak wishes to see him down here. With Adams a hostage, I can get the rest to lay down their arms.”

“But—” said the guard.

“One false move and I turn that robot loose on you,” said Coogan.

The guard’s throat worked visibly. He said, “We’ll do it. Only I don’t see how you can get the whole government to give up just because—”

“Then stop thinking,” said Coogan. “Just get Adams down here.” He backed against the control wall and waited.

O O O

“I don’t understand,” said Sil-Chan.

The Mundial native sat in a chair across the desk from Coogan. A fresh Library uniform bulged over Sil-Chan’s bandaged shoulder. “You pound it into us that we have to obey,” he said. “You tell us we can’t go against the Code. Then at the last minute you turn around and throw a blaster on the whole crew and toss them into the hospital’s violent ward.”

“I don’t think they can get out of there,” said Coogan.

“Not with all those guards around them,” said Sil-Chan. “But it’s still disobedience and that’s against the Code.” He held up a hand, palm toward Coogan. “Not that I’m objecting, you understand. It’s what I was advocating all along.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken,” said Coogan. “People were perfectly willing to ignore the Library and its silly broadcasts as long as that information was available. Then the broadcasts were stopped by government order.”

“But—” Sil-Chan shook his head.

“There’s another new government,” said Coogan. “Leader Adams was booted out because he told people they couldn’t have something. That’s bad policy for a politician. They stay in office by telling people they can have things.”

Sil-Chan said, “Well, where does—”

“Right, after you came stumbling in here,” said Coogan, “I received a general order from the new government which I was only too happy to obey. It said that Leader Adams was a fugitive and any person encountering him was empowered to arrest him and hold him for trial.” Coogan arose, strode around to Sil-Chan, who also got to his feet. “So you see,” said Coogan, “I did it all by obeying the government.”

The Mundial native glanced across Coogan’s desk, suddenly smiled and went around to the control wall. “And you got me with a tricky thing like this lever.” He put a hand on the lever with which Coogan had forced his submission.

Coogan’s foot caught Sil-Chan’s hand and kicked it away before the little man could depress the lever.

Sil-Chan backed away, shaking his bruised hand. “Ouch!” He looked up at Coogan. “What in the name of—”

The director worked a lever higher on the wall and the panel made a quarter turn. He darted behind the wall, began ripping wires from a series of lower connections. Presently, he stepped out. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

Sil-Chan stared at the lever he had touched. “Oh, no—” he said. “You didn’t really hook that to the grav unit!”

Coogan nodded mutely.

Eyes widening, Sil-Chan backed against the desk, sat on it. “Then you weren’t certain obedience would work, that—”

“No, I wasn’t,” growled Coogan.

Sil-Chan smiled. “Well, now, there’s a piece of information that ought to be worth something.” The smile widened to a grin. “What’s my silence worth?”

The director slowly straightened his shoulders. He wet his lips with his tongue. “I’ll tell you, Toris. Since you were to get this position anyway, I’ll tell you what it’s worth to me.” Coogan smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made Sil-Chan squint his eyes.

“You’re my successor,” said Coogan.