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 its 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.
O O O
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 fandoor. 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 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!
“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 its 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.
O O O
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 fandoor. 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 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!
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