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as with his ability to bore even the dullest of Library workers, wanted to smile, but there was something in Tchung’s manner, something undefinably odd.
    Tchung leaned forward and studied his assistant. Sil-Chan was a large man with a square, rather handsome face, green eyes under brows so blonde as to be almost invisible. His hair, of the same pale ivory, was close cropped, a new fashion among the younger archivists.
    Misgivings began to fill the Director’s mind. Can this be the man upon whom our survival depends? The nostrils of Tchung’s high-ridged nose flared briefly, his eyes opened wide. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. There could be no turning back.
    “Sooma, my young friend, you may be our only hope,” Tchung said.
    “What? I don’t …”
    “Of course you don’t. But those government accountants who …”
    “Those jackals I’ve been guiding through our files?”
    “Those accountants,” Tchung corrected him.
    “Have I done something wrong? I mean …”
    “No!” Tchung passed a hand over his eyes. “I must obey and yet I cannot.”
    Now, Sil-Chan saw at least the core of Tchung’s disturbance. Galactic Archives—this Library Planet—had existed for thousands of years by the absolute dictum that its workers must obey the government—no matter the government. The accountants from the current government had descended upon them a fortnight ago, sneering at the “Pack Rats,” demanding this record and that record. Something about that event had created a dilemma for Tchung.
    “What’s the problem?” Sil-Chan asked.
    “Those accountants came from a war monitor which is parked in orbit above us. Accountants do not need a war monitor.”
    Sil-Chan stared at the Director in silence. Was that it? Could that possibly constitute the essence of Tchung’s upset? Sil-Chan thought of a giant war monitor circling over the park-like surface of this unique planet. Up there lay serenity and open vistas, forests and lakes and rivers—even a few low mountains. But down here, in fact all the way to the planet’s core, was a honeycombed hive of storage and recording activity. The Library collection ships went out and came back with their information and their curios. The random-selection system at the heart of the planet’s activity, chosen from all of that accumulated material and broadcast thousands of programs daily all across the known universe—a bit of this and a bit of that, sometimes interesting, but mostly boring … just as boring as old Tchung here.
    “That does not strike me as necessarily a terrible problem,” Sil-Chan said.
    “There is more. Believe me, there is more.”
    Tchung wondered how he could unfold the problem for the younger man and still keep Sil-Chan obedient to the code. It was such a complex problem.…
    Sil-Chan sighed. Better men than he had despaired of ever bringing Tchung directly to the point. The man was a committed wanderer. And if the presence of a war monitor was all that …
    For his part, Tchung’s thoughts were on the government accountants in their cell-like rooms of this hive planet—the eager men pouring over Archival records, bent on paring down the budget until this ancient institution died. And those men were on the trail of the things they needed.
    “I am forced to remind you of our Code,” Tchung said. “Obedience to government. That one rule has kept us alive through crisis after crisis and through more than five thousand governments.”
    “The Code, yes. I saw that you …”
    “We are here to preserve the present for the future—any present for any future. Wherever the curiosity of our collectors takes them, that is what we preserve.”
    “All right! What has happened?”
    “Although this crisis may very well be our last one, Sooma, you are to do nothing, think nothing, say nothing that may be construed even remotely as disobedience to the government.”
    “Agreed! Agreed!”
    “Patience, my young friend. Patience.”
    Again,