Direct Descent by Frank Herbert Page A

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.”
    “Immediately.” Tchung turned to his controls, flipped the computer switch, said: “The government accountants working in Section CC of the two hundred and twenty-fourth sublevel will have top priority on all computer time. All previous priority commitments are rescinded by this order.”
    The speaker emitted a curious coughing buzz, then: “Acknowledged and filed.”
    Once more, Tchung looked up at Ambroso. “Forgive us, please. It was not a deliberate obstruction. The first rule of our Code is that we must obey the government.”
    “So you say.” Ambroso allowed himself a slow smile. “But if there are further indications that you are attempting to obstruct us, I will land a force from the monitor to insure that there are no recurrences.”
    “I’m sure that will not be necessary,” Tchung said.
    Again, Ambroso smiled. It was like a tic, gone almost before Tchung could be sure of it. Ambroso started to turn away, paused, his attention caught by the curios on the table behind Tchung. In four swift strides, Ambroso was at the table, lifting the golden statuette from it. The figure was of a small winged boot with a Naos inscription on the base.
    “Expensive bauble,” Ambroso said. “Did official funds go for this decoration?”
    “A gift from the Researchers of Naos on our ten thousandth anniversary,” Tchung said.
    Again, the tic-smile touched Ambroso’s face. He replaced the statuette delicately. “So very long. So very, very long. And all of those centuries you have beamed your nonsense into space. So many wasteful broadcasts without an iota of information.”
    Tchung’s features stiffened. “We broadcast many things, that is true. Our information has a varied value. Program selection is, as you know, purely random. Our charter assumes a mathematical probability that significant data will be selected every …”
    “Yes, yes,” Ambroso said. “So it’s claimed.”
    “Concepts of value differ,” Tchung said. “That does not alter the fact that we gather artifacts and information from the far reaches of our universe … and that we hold back nothing in what we disseminate.”
    “Too much rubble to wade through for the occasional gem,” Ambroso said. “Your gems come to be more and more unexpected.”
    Tchung concealed his anger and murmured: “It has been said that we deal in the unexpected. But there are times when the unexpected can be devastating.”
    “As devastating as the weapons on our monitor?” Ambroso asked.
    “Ours are not the ways of violence,” Tchung said.
    “And times change,” Ambroso said. “New ways clear out the errors of the past. They make way for …”
    “The errors of the future,” Tchung said.
    Ambroso glowered at him. “You collect useless junk! Pack Rats!”
    “They once were known as Trade Rats,” Tchung said. “The original animals, I mean. They stole from campers in the wilderness, and always left something behind from the nest. That Trade Rat nest might contain a ruby which would be traded for a small piece of plastic. Fortunate the camper when that happened.”
    “What about the camper who lost a ruby and got a small bit of plastic?” Ambroso asked. He grinned at Tchung, whirled away and strode from the office.
    When the fandoors closed, Tchung picked up the winged boot, rubbed it with his thumb. The Naos Researchers had been particularly grateful. Archives had saved them three centuries of work on the problem of random-desire adjustment in conflicting