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Tchung covered his eyes with a hand. This is the tool upon which I depend. This childless … bachelor … so intent upon his career that he has no time for home and mate … no thoughts at all for the long endurance which is the survival of us all. This youth … this callow … He’s not yet fifty and he …
    “Are you ill, sir?” Sil-Chan asked.
    Tchung lowered his hand, opened his eyes. “No. You were correct, of course, to call those accountants jackals. They will feast themselves on anything. They mean to destroy us.”
    “Just because a war monitor …”
    “They mean to destroy us. I assure you of this.”
    “What makes you think that?”
    Director Tchung stared over Sil-Chan’s head at an empty space above the fandoor. So impatient! When I was his age I was already married and with two children. How can Records name Sil-Chan as my most logical successor? A man requires familial stability for this position.
    “There is no doubt whatsoever about my assessment of our peril,” Tchung said.
    The wordy old fool!
    Sil-Chan hitched himself forward in his chair. “But how …”
    “One of our random broadcasts reviewed an ancient play of the Trosair period. It was a humorous review, in fact very amusing—a farce. It poked fun at an imaginary government called The Myrmidion Enclave.”
    Sil-Chan felt his mouth go dry. “Myrmidion …”
    “Indeed—a cosmic jest. Coincidence? Tell that to our government. Tell that to Supreme Imperator Hobart of Myrmid. Tell it to the Myrmid Enclave.”
    “It has to be a coincidence,” Sil-Chan said. “We’ll show them how the random selection system works. No one interferes with that. We’ll …”
    “The accountants come directly from Hobart of Myrmid. Our own Records section, the Central Computer—all agree that the accountants have orders to destroy us.”
    “Then we’ll fight!”
    “We will not fight!” Tchung sank back into his chair, breathing heavily. “At least, we will not offer them violence.”
    “Then let’s send out collection ships to enlist help for …”
    “The accountants have already requisitioned every gram of fuel wire on the planet. Our ships are grounded.”
    “They can’t do that! We …”
    “They are the government,” Tchung reminded him. “And we obey the government.”
    Sil-Chan stared at the curios behind the Director. No more collection ships going out? No more additions to the Archives?
    “I suppose our great age is against us,” Tchung said. “We’ve existed so long, it was inevitable that one day we would have to cope with … with coincidence.”
    “Perhaps if we seceded from …”
    “Hah!” Tchung glowered at his subordinate. “And us a hollow ball of storage space full of records and artifacts! We’re completely dependent upon Galactic subsidy. We’ve nothing to draw upon to support ourselves or to fuel our collection ships. We’ve only one commodity—the stored knowledge and information. We’re mankind’s memory. It has suddenly been rediscovered that certain memories can be dangerous.”
    “What can we …”
    “Not we, you.” Tchung pointed a finger at him. “You can anticipate that snooping accountant staff. You must justify every expenditure, every credit that we …”
    “Sir? Nothing I do can justify us if they don’t want to accept our arguments.”
    Tchung drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Yes, of course. But the government accountants are inquiring into the Dornbaker Account. I want …”
    “Dornbaker Account?” Sil-Chan stared in puzzlement at the Director.
    “Yes, the Dornbaker Account. I summoned you because the discrepancies are enormous. I want you to …”
    “I’ve never heard of a Dornbaker Account.”
    Tchung stared at him. “But you’re the Chief Accountant!”
    “I know, sir, but …”
    “Wait.” Tchung reached into the message chute behind his desk, retrieved a thick sheaf of inter-Library micros and fed them into the player above the chute.