The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert Read online

  “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.

  * * *

  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 Krigellian 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 Krigellia, 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.

  * * *

  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 on 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 desk top, gripped them until they hurt. Obey! he thought. What a weapon t
o 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.

  * * *

  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 preparatory to 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 life boat,” 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.”

  * * *

  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, the 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 inform 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.”

  Pehak’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 th
ing 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.

  * * *

  “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 lose 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.”