Chapter 2
The auction was just beginning when we rejoined Rayburn, who was engaged in animated conversation with an elderly woman who had dyed her hair green to match the color of her emeralds. I was quite calm, but I could tell that Tai Chong was still seething with anger at the guard.
“Honored guests,” said the auctioneer, “welcome to the Odysseus Gallery’s third semiannual auction. Tonight we will be presenting 143 pieces for your consideration, the majority of them from the worlds of the Albion and Quinellus clusters—and, of course, the piece de resistance of this evening’s offerings, a trio of works by the immortal Felix Morita, which have been donated by the government of Argentine III. I should add that all revenues received for the Moritas will be used to combat the mutated virus that has wrought such havoc in the Argentine system, and that the Odysseus Gallery will be donating one-third of all our commissions earned this evening to the Argentine III Relief Fund.”
“He’ll still make ten times more than he would without the Moritas,” whispered Rayburn with a knowing smile. “That was probably part of the bargain.”
The auctioneer paused until the polite applause subsided. “Now let’s get the evening off to a great beginning with a piece from Earth itself.”
An ancient chrome sculpture was brought out. It had been crafted in Uganda in 2908 A.D. (or -2 G.E.), had somehow turned up on Spica II a century later, and was later added to the collection of Andrea Baros, a famed actress of the Late Republic Era. But while its history was fascinating, its lack of quality was apparent, and the auctioneer was soon trying unsuccessfully to get the interested parties to proceed with more than thousand-credit jumps.
Tai Chong tensely observed the bidding for a moment, and then turned to me.
“You stay with Hector,” she said, and I could see that her rage had not dissipated. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“I hope you are not going to lodge a protest on my behalf, Great Lady,” I said.
“That is precisely what I’m going to do.”
“I would much rather that you didn’t.”
“But why? The museum’s policy is indefensible!”
“Great Lady,” I said, “it is difficult enough to be an alien in this society without calling additional attention to oneself by complaining about your treatment of visiting races.”
“But you’re not one of the ones we’re at war with,” she argued. “You’re one of the—” She suddenly stopped speaking.
“One of the docile ones?” I suggested.
“One of the species with whom we have always had a peaceful and harmonious relationship,” she answered awkwardly.
“There are more than two thousand sentient races in the galaxy, Great Lady,” I pointed out. “No guard can be expected to recognize more than the minutest fraction of them, and since the Oligarchy is at war—”
“The Oligarchy is always at war with somebody,” she interrupted.
“Given those conditions, the policy is sensible.”
“To say nothing of being personally humiliating to you.”
“The individual doesn’t matter,” I answered.
“The individual is all that matters!” she said decisively, and once again I realized just how truly alien she was.
We began attracting curious stares, and Tai Chong lowered her voice when she saw how uneasy I had become as a focal point of such attention.
“I’m sorry, Leonardo, but I have to lodge a protest,” she said. “When they offend one of Claiborne’s associates, they offend Claiborne. I have to stand up for my people, even if they won’t stand up for themselves.”
I could see that further argument would be fruitless, and I stood there silently as she walked off to find the director of the Odysseus Gallery. I forced myself to concentrate on the bidding, and tried not to think of the consequences of her action.
The Jablonski came up for auction in another moment, and when the opening bid was 200,000 credits, I knew I had been right about its eventual price. A private collector from the Antares sector entered the bidding at 450,000, and finally bought it away from a local museum for 575,000.
“Right on the button,” said Rayburn. “You really know your stuff, Leonardo.”
“Thank you, Friend Hector,” I replied, glowing brightly with pride despite my uneasiness about Tai Chong’s protest.
He stared thoughtfully at me.
“Do you really think we can get that portrait for fifty thousand?”
My pattern darkened ambiguously. “Unless he has acquired a reputation on Bortai or its neighboring worlds. If he has, then it may cost sixty thousand credits.”
The Primrose was next, and although it was a typical representation of his Hex Period, it brought a disappointing 190,000 credits, which confirmed the decline in his stature.
Tai Chong, looking quite satisfied with herself, returned, and we watched without much interest as the next three pieces brought average prices.
Then it was announced that the first of the Moritas was about to be auctioned.
“The physical restrictions of the platform preclude our exhibiting it here,” said the auctioneer, “but I trust you’ve all had a chance to see it. This particular Morita is number seven in your catalogs, a stunning mosaic of firestones and sun crystals entitled Dawn. We will start the bidding at half a million credits.”
The bidding reached three million in less than a minute. The Canphorite entered the bidding at four million, but it was finally sold to a large museum from Deluros VIII for 6,500,000 credits, which Tai Chong assured me was not a record for a Morita, although the auctioneer announced that it was indeed a record for Far London, a record he expected to last no more than forty minutes, which was when the next Morita was scheduled to be sold.
Tai Chong bid on a small hologram and lost out to the Canphorite, then purchased an exquisite still life from Terrazane.
A few minutes later Rayburn tapped me on the shoulder.
“Your portrait’s up next,” he said. “I think I may take a shot at it.” He paused. “Fifty thousand tops, right?”
“That is my evaluation, Friend Hector,” I replied.
“The next item,” announced the auctioneer as the painting was brought onto the platform, “is an untitled portrait by Christopher Kilcullen, who first achieved fame as a naval hero whose vastly outnumbered forces destroyed the enemy during the Jhaghon Uprising of 4306 G.E.” He paused, studying his notes. “After his retirement Commander Kilcullen turned to painting, and although he was not prolific, his work now hangs in museums on Spica II and Lodin XI, as well as on his native Bortai. This piece was donated by the Estate of the late Heinrich Vollmeir, governor of Mirzam X, and has a reserve of twenty thousand credits placed upon it.”
“That is not a term with which I am acquainted, Friend Hector,” I whispered.
“A reserve?” he said. “It means that the owner, or in this case his estate, has placed a minimum bid of twenty thousand credits on the painting, and has agreed to buy it back for that amount if there are no higher bids.”
“From which the gallery takes its commission?” I asked.
“That’s right—and I’ll wager that Argentine III doesn’t see a credit of any buy-backs that don’t reach their reserves.”
For almost a minute there was silence, and then Rayburn nodded to one of the auctioneer’s spotters.
“I have a bid of twenty thousand from the Claiborne Galleries,” announced the auctioneer. “Will anyone make it twenty-five?” He looked around the room. “Twenty-five thousand?” He waited another half minute. “Last call for bids,” he announced. “Will anyone say twenty-five thousand?”
Suddenly he smiled at someone on the other side of the room.
“I have twenty-five thousand from Malcolm Abercrombie,” he announced. “Will anyone say thirty?” Rayburn nodded.
“I have thirty. Do I hear thirty-five?” I looked across the room and saw a white-haired gentleman with thick, bushy eyebrows and deep age lines in his face hold up four thin fingers and then make a fist. The liver spots on his hand stood out even more than the plain platinum ring he wore.
“Who is he, Great Lady?” I asked Tai Chong.
“That’s Malcolm Abercrombie,” she replied.
“With which gallery is he associated?” I asked. “His name is unfamiliar to me.”
“He’s a collector,” she replied. “I don’t know much about him, except that he lives here on Far London and is said to be a bit of a recluse.”
“Mr. Abercrombie bids forty thousand.” The auctioneer turned back to Rayburn. “Do I hear fifty?”
Rayburn paused for a long moment, and then nodded almost imperceptibly.
“I have fifty thousand. Do I hear another bid?”
Abercrombie held up five fingers, then made a fist and stuck out his index finger.
The auctioneer stared at him for a moment, puzzled. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Abercrombie,” he said at last, “but is that fifty-one or sixty?”
“Take your choice,” said Abercrombie in a loud, rasping voice, and a number of the people in the crowd laughed.
“I really cannot do that, sir,” said the auctioneer uneasily. “Will you please state your bid?”
“Sixty,” replied Abercrombie to a round of spontaneous applause.
“I have sixty thousand credits,” said the auctioneer, looking straight at Rayburn. “Do I hear more?”
“That’s the limit?” he asked me in a low voice.
“As an investment property, Friend Hector,” I answered.
He paused again, then looked back at the auctioneer and shook his head.
“Do I hear sixty-five thousand?” asked the auctioneer, scanning the crowd without much hope for signs of interest. “Last call for bids.”
“Seventy-five,” said a voice at the back of the room, and everyone turned to see who the new bidder might be.
“I have a bid of seventy-five thousand credits from Reuben Venzia,” said the auctioneer, and a small, olive-skinned man possessed of a large black mustache and a nervous manner nodded his head to confirm the bid.
“Who the hell is he?” asked Rayburn.
Tai Chong whispered something to the woman standing next to her, who in turn whispered back.
“He’s a very successful businessman from Declan IV.”
“Another collector?” asked Rayburn.
Tai Chong consulted with the woman again. “He recently bought an art gallery in the Daedalus system,” she said to Rayburn.
“He’s not going to last very long if he overbids by twenty percent,” said Rayburn. “Who the hell does he think is going to buy it for what he’ll have to ask?”
“I have 100,000 from Malcolm Abercrombie,” announced the auctioneer.
“Maybe he plans to sell it to Mr. Abercrombie,” said Tai Chong wryly.
Venzia made a swift gesture.
“The bid is 125,000 credits, from Mr. Venzia.”
Rayburn turned to me.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded. “I thought you told me that it would bring between fifty and sixty.”
“That’s what it should have brought, Friend Hector,” I replied, my color reflecting the Hue of Bewilderment. “I am at a loss to explain what is happening.”
I still had no explanation two minutes later, when the bidding reached 300,000 credits.
“It’s just not that good a painting!” muttered Rayburn, obviously confused.
“Leonardo,” said Tai Chong, “what can you tell me about this Kilcullen?”
“I have never heard of him before tonight, Great Lady,” I answered.
“And if he lived in the Albion Cluster and his work was worth 300,000 credits, you would have?”
“Without question,” I replied.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” she murmured as Abercrombie bid 375,000 credits.
“Do I hear 400,000?” asked the auctioneer.
Venzia nodded, and an instant later a well-dressed young woman came over to the auctioneer and whispered something to him.
“The auction is suspended for sixty seconds,” announced the auctioneer. His gaze sought out the olive-skinned little man. “Mr. Venzia, would you approach the podium, please?”
“Now, what can this be about?” mused Rayburn.
Venzia walked over to the podium and was soon engaged in an animated conversation with the auctioneer and two assistant directors of the Odysseus Gallery. Within seconds it was obvious that he had lost his temper, and a moment later he stalked out of the main gallery, his face livid with rage. “Mr. Venzia’s bid of 400,000 credits has been disallowed,” announced the auctioneer. “Are there any further bids?” He looked around the room. “Very well. The painting is sold to Mr. Malcolm Abercrombie, for 375,000 credits.”
There was a rustle of appreciative applause, and Abercrombie walked forward to sign for his purchase.
“It doesn’t make any sense!” muttered Rayburn. Suddenly he turned to Tai Chong. “I want to take another look at it.”
“Be my guest.”
“Can I take Leonardo with me?”
“I think you’d better,” she replied. “After all, he’s the one who made our appraisal.”
“Come on, Leonardo,” said Rayburn, stalking off to the small side gallery that had temporarily been turned into a receiving room, and I quickly fell into step behind him.
When we arrived we found that Venzia had gotten there ahead of us, and was arguing with Abercrombie, who was obviously uninterested in the little man.
“But you got it on a fluke!” Venzia was protesting.
“It’s hardly my fault that you didn’t have enough money on deposit here,” said Abercrombie gruffly, tightening his grip on the painting as if he half expected Venzia to reach out and try to grab it.
“Three hundred fifty thousand credits should have covered that painting and half a dozen other Kilcullens as well!”
“It didn’t,” said Abercrombie.
“I want to know why it didn’t!” persisted Venzia. “You and I both know that the damned thing isn’t worth sixty thousand credits.”
“If you know that, why did you try to bid 400,000 credits?”
“I have my reasons,” said Venzia.
“They don’t concern me,” replied Abercrombie calmly.
“Look,” said Venzia, “I’ll pay you half a million credits for it right here and now.”
“You don’t have half a million credits.”
“I don’t have half a million credits on deposit.” snapped Venzia. “My bank will vouch for it.”
“Your offer doesn’t interest me,” answered Abercrombie with some show of irritation. “Now go away before I have the security staff escort you out. I have work to do.”
Venzia glared at him for a moment, then turned on his heel and stalked off toward the main entrance.
Suddenly Abercrombie noticed Rayburn and looked directly at him.
“Are you going to start accusing me of cheating, too?” he demanded.
“Not at all, Mr. Abercrombie,” said Rayburn, stepping forward. “I just stopped by to congratulate you on your purchase.”
“It went too damned high,” said Abercrombie gruffly, ignoring Rayburn’s extended hand.
“It went about seven hundred percent higher than we anticipated,” agreed Rayburn. “Why did you buy it?”
“Because I wanted it,” said Abercrombie. “If you’ve got any other questions, make them quick. I’ve got to arrange to have the painting shipped to my home.”
“Do you mind if my colleague takes another look at it?”
“Your colleague?” repeated Abercrombie. He jerked a thumb in my direction. “You mean that?”
“This is Leonardo,” said Rayburn. “He’s our Albion Cluster expert.”
I made a formal obeisance toward him and began approaching the painting.
“That’s close enough,” said Abercrombie ominously when I got to within about ten feet of him. “Is something wrong, Friend Malcolm?” I asked.
His cold blue eyes stared directly into mine. “I don’t have much use for aliens. Never did, never will.”
“Then I shall content myself with examining the painting from here, Friend Malcolm,” I said.
“I’m not your friend,” said Abercrombie.
I studied it for a moment, and then Rayburn said: “Have you changed your mind, Leonardo?”
“No, Friend Hector,” I replied. “I have not changed my mind.”
“And now, if you’re through,” said Abercrombie, “I’m in a hurry.”
“We’re through,” said Rayburn, turning to me as Abercrombie supervised the wrapping of the painting. “You’re sure you’ve never seen anything by Kilcullen before?”
“No, Friend Hector.”
“Does his work resemble that of any Albion Cluster artist who might reasonably bring that kind of price?”
“No, Friend Hector.”
“Now listen to me, Leonardo,” said Rayburn. “Two different men valued this painting at over 350,000 credits, and I’d like to know why your estimate is at such variance with theirs before I bid on any more pieces from the Albion Cluster. Mr. Abercrombie could be a collector who’s simply infatuated with this single painting, but Venzia owns a gallery, so I’m going to put the question to you again: Is there any similarity between this piece and any other work from the Albion Cluster that might have brought a six-digit price?”
“None, Friend Hector,” I said. “I do not wish to offend Friend Malcolm, but this painting is simply not worth that much money. In fact, the only resemblance it bears to any more noteworthy artwork is the striking similarity of the subject to that in a Binder X hologram which was sold for 150,000 credits almost two years ago.”
Abercrombie turned to me.
“When you say subject, do you mean the model?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, Friend Malcolm.”
“And you’ve seen that model before?” he persisted.
“I do not know, Friend Malcolm,” I answered. “I have seen a remarkable likeness of the model in a Binder X hologram. But I have also seen an equally similar resemblance in a Patagonian painting, and Patagonia IV was abandoned 308 years before Kilcullen was even born.”
“I suppose all humans look alike to you,” suggested Abercrombie, and I had the feeling that he was intently observing my reaction.
“No, Friend Malcolm,” I replied. “I find each of you quite distinctive. Otherwise I could not have made the human artwork of the Albion Cluster my specialty.”
He stared at me for a long moment. I could sense his innate dislike of me, though I could ascertain no logical reason for it. Finally he turned to Rayburn.
“I want a word with you,” he said. “In private.”
“Why not?” replied Rayburn. He turned to me. “Why don’t you rejoin Madame Chong, Leonardo? I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Yes, Friend Hector,” I said, and, glad to finally be free of Abercrombie’s unsettling presence, I returned to the main gallery.
“Where’s Hector?” asked Tai Chong when she saw that I was alone.
“He is speaking with Mr. Abercrombie, who seems to have taken an intense dislike to me,” I said. “I truly did nothing to offend him, Great Lady.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, Leonardo,” she said soothingly. “I just hope you don’t judge all Men by this evening.”
“I don’t judge them at all, Great Lady,” I replied.
“Then perhaps you should.”
She fell silent then, watching distractedly as a small three-dimensional spacescape from Thamaaliki II brought a moderate price, and an early Kamathi sold for somewhat higher than I would have anticipated, given its crudeness of line. Then Rayburn joined us, a curious expression on his face.
“Well?” demanded Tai Chong.
“He just made us the damnedest offer I’ve ever heard!”
“What was it?” she asked.
“In a minute,” he replied. He turned to me. “Leonardo, I want the truth now: What do you think of Malcolm Abercrombie?”
“I think that he must be under considerable tension because of the auction, Friend Hector.”
“Come on,” scoffed Rayburn. “I said the truth.”
“I think he is a narrow-minded xenophobe with a totally inadequate knowledge of current art market values,” I said, and I could feel my color registering the Hue of Absolute Honesty.
“That’s more like it,” said Rayburn with a chuckle. “He thinks even less of you.”
“Get to the point, Hector,” said Tai Chong irritably.
“The point, Madame Chong,” said Rayburn, “is that Malcolm Abercrombie just offered the Claiborne Galleries our choice: an early Sabai ink sketch or fifty thousand credits.”
“In exchange for what?” she demanded.
Rayburn grinned in amusement.
“A week of Leonardo’s time.”
***