Chapter 1
Where am I to begin?
This is not an epic saga, though it spans both millennia and star systems. Nor is it a story of passion and romance, though it was passion and romance that drove several of the participants to their doom. It is not even a tale of high adventure, though without high adventure there would be no tale to tell.
This is simply a true chronicle of events, and as such should be presented in the Language of Formal Narration. Were I to do so, however, I would be required to relate to you, in elegant order, all of my life experiences from the day of my birth, and this would give you a distorted view of my importance, since in truth I am little more than an onlooker who nonetheless managed to bring dishonor to his name, his House, and his race.
Therefore, I choose to speak to you in the Language of Informal Recital, and according to its rules, I shall begin my story at the last possible moment, which was, in fact, the first moment of my personal involvement.
That moment occurred as I climbed the broad titanium stairs of the Odysseus Art Gallery and, panting from my exertion in the thick, humid air, approached the front door of the vast, angular building. There were two attendants standing there, both clad in muted purple uniforms with glaring red stripes on their trouser legs, and I deemed it proper to address them in the Dialect of Honored Guests.
“Attention, my good man,” I said formally. “I must have directions to the site of the forthcoming auction.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said the taller of the two attendants. “It not only wears shoes, but it talks, too!”
I immediately realized that I had chosen the incorrect form of address, and quickly changed to the Dialect of Supplication.
“Please, good sir,” I said, dimming my color and lowering my head in a gesture of submission. “A thousand pardons if I have offended. I humbly entreat you to aid me in reaching my destination.”
“That’s a little more like it,” he grunted, and I relaxed somewhat as it became apparent that he had forgiven my social error. “Let’s see your papers.”
I handed him my passport, invitation, and credentials, and waited in silence while he and his companion examined them.
Suddenly he looked up and stared at me.
“Leonardo?” he said dubiously.
“Yes, good sir.”
“What’s someone like you doing with a human name?”
I pointed to my passport. “If you will notice, good sir, Leonardo is not my real name. I am a member of the House of Crsthionn.”
He looked where I indicated, tried twice to pronounce my Bjornn name, and finally gave up.
“Then what are you doing with an invitation for a Leonardo?”
“Leonardo is what I am called at my place of employ here on Far London, good sir.”
“You mean the place where you work?”
“Yes,” I said, remembering to nod my head in affirmation. “At my place of work. I am currently associated with the Claiborne Galleries.”
“You are, huh?” he said dubiously.
“Yes, good sir.” I bent over and hunched my shoulders together, a near-perfect posture of nonaggression. “May I pass now, please?”
He shook his head. “I don’t have anything on my master list about an alien named Leonardo.”
I could have pointed out that Men were as alien to Far London as the Bjornn were, but it would have been inconsistent with the Dialect of Supplication, and I had already offended him once. Therefore I bent even lower.
“My papers are in order,” I said, staring at the gray titanium. “I beg of you, good sir: If I am not allowed to perform my function, the House of Crsthionn will be dishonored.”
“First we’ve got to determine what your function is,” he said. “There’s about 200 million credits’ worth of artwork on display inside. My job is to make sure your function isn’t to steal it.”
“Or maybe eat it,” added his companion with a smile.
“Please, good sirs,” I persisted. “If you will but summon Hector Rayburn or Tai Chong, they will attest to my identity and my right to be here.”
“We got a Rayburn or a Chong inside?” asked the attendant of his companion.
“Beats me,” replied the other one. “I can check on it.”
“Okay. You do that.” The attendant turned back to me. “All right now, Leo.”
“Are you addressing me, good sir?” I asked.
“Who else?”
“You have forgotten my name, good sir,” I said gently. “It is Leonardo.”
“A thousand pardons,” he said, imitating my tone of voice and bowing low. “Leonardo.” Suddenly he straightened up. “Suppose you go around to the east side of the building while we check this out. If either of them vouches for you, I’ll send word to pass you through.”
“I am very anxious to join my associates, good sir,” I said. “Can I not wait right here?”
He shook his head. “You’re causing a traffic problem.”
I looked behind me. There was no one in sight.
“A potential traffic problem,” he said when I turned back to him. I realized that I had somehow given offense to him again, and therefore ceased using the Dialect of Supplication.
“Will this take very long?” I asked.
“What happened to the ‘good sir’?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“It was obviously the improper form of address,” I answered. “I am trying to decide which dialect will not offend.”
“How about silence?” he suggested.
“I know of no wordless dialect,” I replied truthfully. “Won’t you please answer my question?”
“What question?”
“How long will I be kept waiting?”
“How the hell should I know?” he replied irritably. “It all depends on how many Rayburns or Chongs there are inside.” He paused. “Look,” he added, “I’m just doing my job. Now go around to the east side like a nice boy or girl or whatever you are, and someone will let you know when you’ve been cleared.”
I turned around and climbed back down the steps. I was still unused to wearing shoes, and the slidewalk was moving so rapidly that I feared it might upset my balance, so I remained on the street, walked around to the east side of the multifaceted titanium and glass building, and found that it was deserted. I slowed my pace momentarily to admire a ceramic mosaic that was set into the metal wall at human eye level. Finally I came to a plain, unmarked door which was set into the building a tenth of a degree off center. It was locked.
I stood by the door and waited, feeling naked and somehow incomplete, as I always do when I am alone. I tried not to think of the warmth and security of the Family, but when you are the only member of your race on a strange world this is not always an easy thing to do. Five minutes passed, then ten more, and I was certain that with each passing second I was bringing further dishonor upon my Pattern Mother and my House, which made my own disappointment at the possibility of not being able to finally see one of the sculptures by the fabulous Morita seem pale and colorless by comparison.
Two human females passed by and stared openly at me. As they continued walking up the street, one of them whispered something to the other, and both of them began laughing.
And then, finally, Tai Chong stepped through the doorway and hurried over to me. “Leonardo,” she said when she had reached my side, “I’m so sorry about this mix-up!”
“It is all right now that you are here, Great Lady,” I replied, using the Dialect of Affinity, as I always did in her presence.
“Have you been waiting long?” she asked.
“No more than twenty minutes,” I said, hiding my hands behind me so that she could not see them until their color returned to normal.
“This is intolerable!” she said angrily. “I’ll have the security guards’ jobs for this!”
“It was my own fault, Great Lady,” I said, “I offended them through my ignorance of the proper form of address.”
“Nonsense! They’ve been sending aliens around to this door all night.”
The thought came to me that the gallery should have employed less sensitive and more forgiving guards, but I said nothing, and at last Tai Chong reached for my hand to lead me inside.
“Your color has changed,” she noted as I reluctantly extended my fingers.
“I find it warm outside, Great Lady,” I lied, for since she had not learned to identify the Hue of Emotional Distress, I had no desire to cause her further consternation.
“I had no idea that extremes of temperature affected you so greatly,” she said sympathetically. “Would you like me to take you back to your hotel?”
“Please allow me to stay!” I said urgently, trying to control the panic in my voice.
“Well, certainly, if that’s what you want,” she said, staring at me as my color became brighter still. “I was just concerned about you.”
“I thank you for your concern, Great Lady, but it is imperative that I proceed with my education and reflect credit upon my House.” I paused. “Also,” I added with a feeling of guilt, since I was addressing a personal consideration, “I have waited years for the opportunity to see a Morita sculpture.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied with a shrug. “But I’m still going to complain about the guards.”
“It was my fault, Great Lady.”
“I very much doubt it. By the way,” she added as we entered the building, “I thought you were going to start calling me by my given name.”
“I will make a renewed effort to remember, Great Lady,” I said.
“I notice you don’t have any trouble with Mr. Rayburn’s name.”
“He is not a Great Lady,” I explained.
She chuckled dryly. “Someday, Leonardo, I must pay a visit to your world, with all its Great Ladies and not-so-great gentlemen.”
Then we were in the main gallery, a large circular room with off-white ceramic walls and a faceted dome composed of bronzed solar glass, and the last of my discomfort vanished as I felt the warmth and closeness of the crowd. There were perhaps four hundred beings there, all brightly and elegantly clad, all but a handful of them human. Among the other races I discerned a Lodinite, three Ramorians, two Mollutei, a trio of feathered beings from the Quinellus Cluster, and off in a corner, proud and aloof, his gray, leathery arms folded across his narrow chest, was a Canphorite, whose glowing crystal medals proclaimed that he was a survivor of two armed uprisings against the human Oligarchy.
Tai Chong, still holding my hand, began escorting me through the room, introducing me to various friends and associates of hers (whom I addressed gravely in the Dialect of Courtly Diplomacy, the imposed vagueness of which seemed to amuse them). Then Hector Rayburn, looking very dapper in his sleek, shining evening clothes, walked over and greeted us.
“I see you found him, Madame Chong,” he said.
“Those bastards out front have created an Aliens Only entrance,” she said, her anger returning.
Rayburn nodded his head. “I’ve heard they’ve been giving aliens a hard time all evening.”
“It was only a minor misunderstanding, Friend Hector,” I said.
“It was a major breach of manners,” said Tai Chong.
“Well, there doesn’t seem to have been any permanent harm done,” said Rayburn easily. He ignored Tai Chong’s outraged glance. “Leonardo, can I borrow a few minutes of your time?”
“Certainly, Friend Hector.” I turned to Tai Chong. “If it is acceptable to you, Great Lady?”
“The Albion Cluster artwork?” she asked Rayburn.
“Yes,” he replied.
She smiled at me. “Well, that’s what you’re here for. I’ll meet you again after you’ve finished.”
Rayburn led me out of the main gallery and down a narrow tiled corridor.
“She’s going to be hell to live with for the next couple of days,” he remarked.
“I beg your pardon, Friend Hector?”
“Madame Chong,” he explained. “Her and her damned causes. You know those guards were just a couple of dumb clods who didn’t mean any harm, and I know it, but you’ll never convince her of it.” He paused. “I wish she’d defend her human employees with the same vigor.” Suddenly he seemed uncomfortable. “Meaning no offense, of course.”
“I know you meant no offense,” I replied carefully.
“She thinks she can change human nature overnight, and it just can’t be done,” he continued. “One of these days she’s going to jump in and defend the wrong damned alien or schizoid killer or whatever she’s defending that week, and then she’s going to find herself in big trouble.”
Before I could think of a diplomatic answer, we came to a small rectangular gallery that was filled with perhaps fifty paintings and holograms. There were nudes, portraits, landscapes, seascapes, spacescapes, still lifes, and even some nonrepresentational pieces that had been created by a computer equipped with a Durham/Liebermann perception module.
Rayburn waited until I had briefly examined the collection, and then turned to me.
“I’ve got a client who’s interested in investing in a couple of pieces from the Albion Cluster,” he said. “And since that’s your field of expertise, I thought you’d be willing to let me pick your mind.”
“I will be happy to help you in any way I can, Friend Hector,” I answered. “How much money is she prepared to spend?”
“She’s a he,” he said. “And he’ll go up to a quarter of a million credits. I’ve marked a couple of the likelier pieces in my catalog, but I’d like your input.” He paused uneasily. “Also, authentication was never my strong point. I’d especially like to know if you think the Primrose is authentic.” Suddenly his self-assurance seemed to return to him. “I’ll make the final decision, and I’ll take full responsibility for it. But I’d like your input, just the same.”
“If I am to be of any use to you, Friend Hector, I must respectfully request that I be permitted to examine the artwork more closely.”
He seemed relieved. “Certainly. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He walked to the doorway. “I want to sample some of that Denebian wine before it’s all gone.” He paused as he saw my color darken. “You don’t mind, do you? I mean, there’s nothing I could do here but stand around and watch you.”
“No, Friend Hector,” I lied. “I do not mind.”
“Good. I knew all this stuff Madame Chong was spouting about Bjornns not wanting to be alone was just her imagination.” He stepped out into the corridor, and then stuck his head back in. “You won’t forget to check the Primrose?”
“I will not forget, Friend Hector,” I said.
“Fine. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Then he was gone, and I forced myself to concentrate on the artwork rather than my isolation, and gradually the feeling of nakedness retreated behind my total absorption with the work at hand.
Most of the two-dimensional paintings were between six and ten centuries old, though there was one (and not a very good one, at that) which seemed to date back almost three thousand years. The majority of the holograms, especially those composed in static/stace—electrostatic patterns frozen in stasis—were no more than a century old, though, again, there was one that seemed to date back almost five millennia, back to the days when the race of Man was first expanding into the galaxy.
All but two of the pieces were undeniably created by human hands, and I felt there was a chance that one of the other two was also. Only two of the artists were of truly major stature—Jablonski, who had lived a thousand years ago on Kabalka V, and Primrose, who had achieved a certain notoriety on Barios IV before his work fell into disrepute—but all of the pieces fell into clearly defined and easily identified schools of the Albion Cluster.
I examined the Primrose, a minor work by a no-longer-major artist, determined that the canvas was from Barios IV and that the signature was not a forgery, and went on to the rest of the collection.
One painting in particular captured my attention. It was a portrait of a woman, and while it lacked the technique of the Jablonski, it nonetheless held my interest. Her features were exquisitely chiseled, and there seemed to be an air of loneliness about her, a sense of a deep longing for the unattainable. There was nothing in the title to identify her—indeed, it was simply called Portrait—but she must have been a very important lady, for I had seen her likeness twice before, once in a hologram from Binder X, and again in a painting from Patagonia IV.
I walked over to the Jablonski and two of the more exotic static/stace holograms and tried to concentrate on them, but something kept pulling me back to the portrait, and finally I returned to it and began studying the brush strokes, the subtle nuances of light and shading, the slightly off-center positioning of the model.
The artist’s name was Kilcullen, which meant nothing to me. A rapid analysis of the texture of the canvas, the chemical composition of the paint, and the style of the near-calligraphic signature in the upper left-hand corner led me to place the painting’s age at 542 years, and its point of origin as one of the human colonies in the Bortai system.
Suddenly I sensed a feeling of warmth and relief, and instantly knew that I was no longer alone in the room.
“Welcome back, Friend Hector,” I said, turning to him.
“Well,” he said, sipping from an elegant crystal wine goblet, “is the Primrose authentic?”
“Yes, Friend Hector,” I replied. “But it is not one of his better paintings. It may bring 250,000 credits because of his reputation, but it is my judgment that its value will not increase appreciably in the years to come.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am sure.”
He sighed. “That’s a pity. I have a feeling the Jablonski will cost too much.”
“I concur, Friend Hector. It will bring half a million credits at least, and quite possibly 600,000.”
“Well, then,” said Rayburn, “Have you any suggestions?”
“I very much like this painting,” I said, indicating the portrait.
He walked over and studied it for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “It’s quite striking from across the room, but the closer you get, the more you realize that this Kilcullen was no Jablonski.” He stared at it for another moment, and then turned to me. “What do you think it will bring?”
“Perhaps fifty thousand credits,” I responded. “Sixty thousand if Kilcullen has a reputation in the Bortai area.”
He stared at it once more and frowned. “I’m not sure,” he mused. “We’d be going out on a limb, buying a painting by a virtual unknown. I don’t really know if that qualifies as an investment. It may be worth fifty thousand on quality, but that doesn’t mean it’ll appreciate any faster than the inflation rate.” He paused. “I’ll have to think about it.” He stared at the painting again. “It’s striking, I’ll give it that.”
Just then Tai Chong entered the room.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “The auction is due to begin in another five minutes.”
“We’re on our way, Madame Chong,” said Rayburn, and I fell into step behind him.
“Did you find anything of interest in there?” Tai Chong asked me.
“Perhaps one piece, Great Lady,” I answered.
“The portrait of the woman in black?” she asked.
“Yes, Great Lady.”
She nodded her head. “It caught my eye, too.” She paused and smiled at me. “Are you ready to take a look at the Morita sculptures?”
“Oh, yes, Great Lady!” I said enthusiastically. “All my life I have dreamed of seeing a Morita sculpture in person!”
“Then come with me,” she said, taking me by the hand. “You’ll probably never see three of them on one planet again.” She turned to Rayburn. “We’ll be back in a few minutes, Hector.”
“I’ll hold the fort,” he said easily. “We don’t have a professional interest in anything that’s coming up in the next half hour.”
She led me through the circular gallery to a small room that was off to one side. I tried unsuccessfully to control my color, which was fluctuating wildly with excitement, and experienced a moment of almost physically painful embarrassment over such a display of passion concerning a personal and individual interest.
“May I see your credentials, please?” said a burly, purple-clad guard who was blocking our way.
“I was here not five minutes ago,” answered Tai Chong.
“I know, Madame Chong, but those are my orders.”
She sighed and withdrew her identification card.
“Okay. You can go through.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Come on, Leonardo.”
“Not him,” said the guard. “Or is it a her?”
“He’s with me,” she said.
“Sorry,” said the guard firmly.
“Leonardo, show him your invitation.”
The guard shook his head. “Save your time,” he said to me. “Only gallery directors are permitted through.”
“I am a ranking member of the House of Crsthionn,” I said.
“That’s an alien gallery?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered. It was easier than explaining the concept of a Bjornn House to him.
“I’m sorry. This is for the directors of human galleries only.”
I was stunned. I did not know what answer to make, and so I said nothing, though my color registered total humiliation. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I had looked forward to seeing the Morita sculptures; it was as if the Mother of All Things was punishing me for having the audacity to place my personal interests above those of the House, even for a moment. And as I realized that the punishment was a just one, all possibility of anger was drained from me, to be replaced by silent acceptance of the justice of the situation.
But while I may have been silent, Tai Chong wasn’t.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded. “Leonardo has come to Far London on an exchange program, and is associated with the Claiborne Galleries. His papers are in order, and I will personally vouch for him.”
“Madame Chong, we’re at war with more than fifty alien races across the galaxy.”
“Not with the Bjornn!” she snapped.
“Look, I’m just obeying my orders. If you’ve got a complaint, see the director.”
“I most certainly will!” she snapped. “This treatment of an honored visitor is inexcusable!”
“Please, Great Lady,” I said, tugging gently at her glittering sleeve and trying to hide my humiliation. “I do not wish to be the cause of such disharmony. I will see the Morita sculptures another time.”
“By midnight they’ll be in three different spaceships, all bound for God knows where,” she replied. “There won’t be another time.”
“I will see them when they are auctioned.”
“They’re too heavy and bulky to move out to the auction room,” she said. “That’s why they’re on display here.” She turned to the guard. “I’m asking you one last time: Will you let my colleague into the exhibit?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got my orders.”
I sensed that she was barely in control of her temper, and ignoring my own bitter disappointment, I gently touched her hand.
“Please, Great Lady,” I said softly. “There are many other sculptures and paintings for me to look at.”
“Damn it, Leonardo, doesn’t this bother you at all?” she asked in obvious exasperation.
“I have been instructed that when I visit human worlds, I must obey human laws,” I answered carefully.
“This isn’t a law!” she snapped, glaring at the guard. “It’s a policy, and I intend to protest it!”
“That’s certainly your right,” he said with the total unconcern of one who knows that he is not ultimately responsible for his own behavior.
She glared at the guard, her anger almost tangible, then abruptly walked back to the main gallery, leading me by the hand as if I were a small human child. I myself felt strangely tranquil: an even more vitriolic scene had been avoided, and the experience had reinforced the truth that one’s personal desires and goals are ultimately unimportant.
I was new to human society, and this was the first time I had pursued my private wants, in however trivial a manner. It would not be the last.
***