Chapter 3
I sat, alone and uneasy, in Malcolm Abercrombie’s study.
I had arrived almost ten minutes early for my appointment with him and remained in the busy, bustling street for almost nine minutes, studying the bold structure of his enormous home, the mathematical precision of his formal gardens, the grace and beauty of the two large stone fountains that fronted the east and west wings of the house.
Finally, when I was certain that I could cause no possible disturbance by appearing before the appointed time, I stepped onto the automatic walkway, prepared to be instantly transported to the front door—and nothing happened.
I began to feel a sense of impending panic. The house was set back almost five hundred feet from the street, and given my physical structure and the somewhat heavy gravity of Far London, I could not possibly traverse the distance in the one minute remaining to me. I had been given three days’ notice in which to prepare for our meeting, and I would nonetheless be late.
I had no choice but to begin walking—and the moment I did so, a mechanical voice asked me whether I desired to approach the front door, the servants’ door, the service entrance, or the door to the guest wing.
“The front door, if you please,” I said with an enormous feeling of relief.
“I am sorry,” said the voice passionlessly, “but my programming will not permit me to transport members of any non-human race to the front door. Will you please make another selection?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Abercrombie,” I said. “I do not yet know if I am to be a guest or a servant.”
“My programming will not permit me to transport members of any non-human race to the guest-wing door. Do you wish to go to the servants’ door?”
“Yes,” I said. “And please hurry. I must be there in thirty seconds.”
“I am programmed to move at only one speed. Please prepare yourself; I shall begin in ten seconds.”
I sighed and braced my feet, and shortly the walkway began moving slowly and smoothly toward the house.
“You may not exit here,” it announced as we passed the front door, and it repeated the order a moment later as we circled the east wing of the house. Finally it came to a stop in front of a less ornate door, and instructed me to get off and enter the house.
I did so, and a sleek, shining robot rolled up to me. It was only the third robot I had seen on Far London.
“Are you Leonardo?” it asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“You are expected. Please follow me.”
It spun around and wheeled off down a paneled corridor, then paused and waited for me to catch up with it.
“If you will enter this study,” it said, opening a door for me, “Mr. Abercrombie will join you shortly.”
I walked into the study, so relieved that my tardiness would go relatively unnoticed that I was hardly aware of the instinctive uneasiness that overtook me once the door closed and I was alone and isolated again. I began examining my surroundings and prepared to be joined momentarily by Malcolm Abercrombie.
That had been forty-five minutes ago, and I was now feeling very naked and alone.
The study itself mirrored my impression of the man: cold, monied, aloof. It was a large room, too large really, with a number of doors, and its walls were remarkably empty of paintings and holograms. There was a polished hardwood desk facing the doorway through which I had entered, but other than an ashtray and an unused set of writing instruments, there was nothing on it: no papers, no computer terminal, nothing. The chair behind the desk was tall and narrow, and as I walked over I noticed that there was a small cushion on it to support Abercrombie’s lower back. There were three high-backed leather chairs, expensive but uncomfortable, lined up along one of the walls, and between two of them was an onyx pedestal which held a small crystal bowl of Altairian design. A row of windows behind the desk overlooked an acre of shrubbery which had been meticulously trimmed into an intricate maze.
To keep my mind from dwelling on my isolation, I once again considered the best means of addressing my host when he finally arrived. He had already indicated some displeasure with the Dialect of Affinity, and since I had not requested the meeting, I rejected the Dialect of Supplication. The problem was that I didn’t know if I was a guest, which would require the Dialect of Honored Guests, or a paid consultant, which would lend itself to the Dialect of Peers. And, of course, there was always the likelihood that I was merely to be an employee for a week, which would support either the Dialect of Craftsmen or (if there were to be no social intercourse between us at all) the Dialect of Business.
I was still pondering the problem when a door opened and Malcolm Abercrombie, dressed in browns and ambers as if to complement the decor of the room, entered the study and walked directly to his desk. A sweet-smelling Spican cigarette protruded from a solid gold holder in his mouth.
He sat down, took a final puff of his cigarette, then removed it from its holder and snuffed it out in the ashtray. He leaned back on his chair, fingers interlaced across his stomach, and stared at me. I stood perfectly still and tried to affect an air of serenity.
“Leonardo, right?” he said at last.
“Right you are, Malcolm,” I responded.
He frowned. “Call me Mr. Abercrombie.”
So much for the Dialect of Peers. I quickly changed to the Dialect of Craftsmen. “Whatever you wish, Mr. Abercrombie. I assure you that I meant no offense.”
“I’ll let you know when I’m offended,” he replied. He stared at me again. “You look uncomfortable standing there. Grab a seat.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A chair,” he said with a look of distaste on his face. “Unless your race is happier standing up. It makes no difference to me.”
I turned to the three straight-backed leather chairs that were positioned against a wall.
“Shall I pull it up to your desk so that we may converse more easily?” I suggested as I walked over to one of them.
“Leave it where it is,” he said gruffly. “We’ll raise our voices if we have to.”
“As you wish,” I said, carefully seating myself on the chair.
“I suppose I should offer you a drink or something,” said Abercrombie. He paused. “Do you people drink?”
“I have already had my daily ration of water,” I answered. “And my metabolism cannot accommodate human stimulants or intoxicants.”
“Just as well,” he said. He stared at me again. “You know, you’re the first alien I’ve ever allowed inside this house.”
“I feel highly honored, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said. I decided that the Dialect of Craftsmen was indeed the appropriate one since the Dialect of Peers did not permit social lies.
“Except for a couple of servants who didn’t work out,” he added. “Finally had to kick them out on their asses.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
He shrugged. “It was my own fault for hiring aliens in the first place.”
“You have hired me,” I pointed out.
“Temporarily.”
We sat in silence for a moment. Then he inserted another cigarette in his holder, lit it, and looked across the room at me.
“What the hell are you doing with a name like Leonardo?” he demanded suddenly.
“When I was younger, I aspired to be an artist,” I replied. “I was not talented enough, but I have always kept my portfolio with me, adding to it from time to time. Shortly after I came to the Claiborne Galleries on an exchange program, I showed my work to Hector Rayburn. It included a Twainist interpretation of da Vinci’s Mona Lisa that appealed to him, and since my name is unpronounceable to humans, Friend Hector decided to call me Leonardo.”
“It’s a stupid name,” said Abercrombie. The Dialect of Craftsmen did not allow me to contradict my employer when he made so forceful a statement so I said nothing at all.
“It belongs on a bearded, paint-spattered Man,” he continued, “not a candy-striped nightmare with orange eyes and a nose on the side of its face.”
“That is an essential part of my Pattern,” I explained. “My breathing orifice is between my eyes. Possibly you cannot see it from this distance.”
“Let’s keep the distance just the way it is,” he said. “Seeing your nose isn’t one of my priorities.”
“I will remain here,” I assured him. “You needn’t be afraid of me.”
“Afraid?” he said contemptuously. “Hell, I’ve lost count of the aliens I’ve killed! I was at the Battle of Canphor VI, and I spent three years in the Rabolian War. Maybe I’ve got to put up with some of you uppity bastards who wear clothes and learn Terran and pretend you’re Men, but I don’t have to like it, or to rub shoulders with you. You stay where you are and we’ll get along just fine.”
Since he had such an obvious distaste for my presence, I became even more curious about why he had requested it, and addressed the question as delicately and inoffensively as the Dialect of Craftsmen would permit. It took three tries before I finally made myself clear.
“I have reason to believe that you might prove useful to me,” he replied.
“In what capacity?” I asked.
“Who’s conducting this interview, you or me?” he said irritably.
“You are, Mr. Abercrombie.”
He took another puff of his cigarette, leaned forward until he could rest his elbows on his desk, and stared at me intently.
“How much do you think I’m worth?”
“I have no idea,” I said, surprised by his question.
“Close to 600 million credits,” he said, watching me carefully for a reaction. “If you do your job, you’ll find that I’m not ungenerous, even to an alien.” He glared unblinkingly at me. “But I want you to know that if you ever try to take advantage of me, I’m the least forgiving sonofabitch you’ll ever meet. You swipe a single ashtray and I’ll spend every one of those 600 million credits hunting you down. Understand?”
It was fortunate for both of us that I was not using the Dialect of Peers, for my answer would have gravely offended him and his reaction to it would probably have caused me acute physical discomfort. I merely said: “The Bjornn do not steal, Mr. Abercrombie. It is contrary to civil and moral law.”
“So is war, but everybody keeps doing it,” he said. “I’ve spent forty years putting together my art collection, and before I give you free access to it, I want to know a little more about you.”
“If you have concern for the safety of your collection, there is no need for me to see it at all,” I said.
“Yes there is,” he responded.
“Surely you are protected by a security system,” I said, my color deepening with the anticipation of seeing a fabulous private collection.
“It wouldn’t be the first time an alien beat a system that was designed to stop a Man.” He paused and frowned. “Why do you keep changing colors?”
“Only the intensity of my colors changes,” I explained. “Not the colors themselves.”
“Answer the question.”
“It is the involuntary expression of a Bjornn’s emotional state.”
“And what does this particular expression mean?” he continued.
“That I am elated at the prospect of seeing your collection,” I replied. “I hope the intensification of my color has not disturbed you.”
“Anything I don’t understand disturbs me,” he answered. “What about the stripes? Do they change too?”
“No,” I replied. “They, like the mark on my face that you referred to earlier, are essential elements of the Pattern of the House of Crsthionn.”
“You mean they’re some kind of tattoo?”
“Yes,” I lied. After all, how does one explain the hereditary Pattern to a man who finds all colors and patterns inferior to his own?
“How old were you when you got your Pattern?” he asked with a show of curiosity.
“Very young,” I answered truthfully.
“They gave it to you after you joined the House of Crsthionn?”
“No, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said, trying to keep my answer simple and relatively truthful. “I became a member of the House of Crsthionn after I had my Pattern.”
“Kind of like an initiation ceremony?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said.
He decided to attack a parallel subject. “What about your wife? Does she have a Pattern, too?”
“Yes.”
“What does her Pattern look like?”
“Very much like mine, I suppose,” I responded. “I have never seen her.”
He blinked. “You’ve never seen your own wife?”
“No, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“Will you ever see her?”
“Of course,” I said. “How else would we propagate?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” he said. “Who knows how you aliens propagate?”
“I could explain it to you,” I offered.
“Spare me the details,” he said, distorting his facial features into a grimace.
“If you wish,” I replied. “I meant no offense. To a Bjornn, the act of propagation is a natural function, just like ingestion and excretion.”
“That’s enough!” he snapped. “I didn’t bring you here to tell me about your toilet habits.”
“Yes, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“It’s disgusting and perverted.”
“I am sorry that you should think so,” I said. “Doubtless I have chosen the wrong mode of expression.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
“You haven’t got a hell of a lot of spunk, have you?”
“I do not understand you, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“I wouldn’t let anyone talk to me the way I’ve been talking to you. I’d spit in his eye and leave.”
“You have offered to pay the Claiborne Galleries for my services,” I explained. “I would bring shame to my House if I did not honor my commitment.”
“But you’d like to take a poke at me, wouldn’t you?” he continued.
“No, Mr. Abercrombie. I do not believe I would enjoy it at all.”
“Jesus!” he muttered contemptuously. “At least the Canphorites went down fighting. What’s the matter with you Bjornns?”
“Perhaps the answer is that, unlike Man and the inhabitants of Canphor VI and VII, the Bjornn do not descend from carnivores, and therefore lack your aggressive traits.”
He stared at me for a moment, and then shrugged. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get down to business.”
“Then my answers have satisfied you?”
“Not especially. But they’ve convinced me that you haven’t got the guts to rob me.” He got to his feet. “Follow me.”
“At what distance?” I asked, recalling his stricture about not approaching him.
“Just shut up and do it,” he growled, walking to a door. He opened it just as I reached him, and I followed him into a large, well-lit gallery, perhaps seventy feet long and twenty wide. Some fifty paintings and holograms hung on the dark wood walls, each by an acknowledged master.
“Exquisite!” I exclaimed, examining a Ramotti landscape from her Late Purple Period. “Such elegant brush-work!”
“Are you familiar with all the paintings?” he asked. “No,” I admitted. “A number of them are unfamiliar to me.”
“But you know the artists?”
I looked again. “Yes.”
“Three of them are phony. Tell me which ones.”
“How much time have I?” I asked.
“As long as you want.” He paused. “You’re glowing again.”
“I enjoy a challenge,” I said—and the intensity of my color vanished an instant later as I realized what a self-centered statement I had uttered.
I walked up and down the gallery, pausing before each painting and hologram, analyzing them as quickly as I could. Finally I returned to Abercrombie, being careful to stop some ten feet short of him.
“You tried to trick me, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said with a smile. “There are four fraudulent pieces.”
“The hell there are!” he snapped.
“The Skarlos portrait, the Ngoni still life, the Perkins hologram, and the Menke nude are all duplicates.”
“I spent 800,000 credits for the Ngoni!”
“Then you were deceived,” I said gently. “Ngoni lived on New Kenya five centuries ago, yet the paint is less than three centuries old.”
“How can you tell?” he demanded.
I tried to explain how a Bjornn can analyze the chemical composition of paints and the diverse textures of canvas, wood, and particle boards, but since human eyes cannot see as far into the infrared and ultraviolet spectrum, it was beyond his comprehension, nor were there any dialects that could incorporate the proper terms into their Terran equivalents, which did not in fact exist.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll take your word for it.” He paused, lost in thought, and then looked up. “I’ll send it to Odysseus for an authentication certificate, and if it doesn’t pass muster, my agent on New Kenya is going to wish he’d never been born.”
“Was I correct about the other three?”
He nodded his head.
“May I assume, then, that I am here to authenticate various purchases you have made or are considering making?”
“No,” he said. “But I wanted to see if you knew your stuff.” He paused, and then added grudgingly: “You do.”
“Thank you, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“Come into the next room,” he said, opening a door at the end of the gallery. I followed him into a small room—small for this house, at least—and found myself in a windowless enclosure, the walls of which were covered by seventeen paintings and five holograms, as well as a pair of exquisitely crafted cameos and a small statue—and each of them featured a likeness of the woman in the Kilcullen painting.
“Well?” he said, after allowing me to briefly examine them.
“I am most impressed,” I said, the intensity of my color deepening once again. “I believe that four of the paintings were rendered prior to the Galactic Era.”
“They were,” he replied. “And the statue predates the birth of Christ.”
“What religion does she represent?” I asked.
“None.”
I felt confused. “But for the same woman to appear in artwork separated by so many thousands of years and trillions of miles would certainly imply that she is a formidable myth-figure in the history of your culture.”
“She has nothing to do with the history of my culture,” said Abercrombie adamantly.
“Then can there be some other explanation for why her likeness has appeared in so many diverse works of art?” I asked.
“I haven’t got any idea,” he replied.
“It is most curious,” I said, standing back and comparing three of the nearer paintings. “It is obviously the same woman. She is always clad in black, and she possesses the same hauntingly sad expression in each rendering.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that she posed for each of the artists,” said Abercrombie irritably. “There’s a seven-millennium span from the earliest to the latest. Men may be tough, but sooner or later we all die. Usually sooner.”
“I am merely suggesting that possibly there is a single source, an ancient painting, or carving, and that all these are simply interpretations of it.”
“Maybe,” he said dubiously. “But I sure as hell haven’t been able to find it.”
I walked slowly around the room once more, examining each piece in turn.
“They have another interesting feature in common,” I said.
“What?”
“Not a single one was rendered by an artist of stature,” I pointed out.
“You’ve never run across any of these artists before?” he asked, surprised.
“No,” I replied.
“What about Kilcullen?”
“His name was unknown to me prior to the auction.”
“Then how could you put a value of fifty thousand credits on the painting?” he asked sharply.
“By analyzing the painting’s age, point of origin, general school, and quality, and then taking into account the artist’s relative obscurity,” I replied.
He seemed to consider my answer for a moment, and then nodded his head.
“Do they have anything else in common that you can see?” he asked.
“You are the only other link that binds them together,” I answered. I paused, aware of the possibility that he might take offense at my next question, but determined to ask it. “May I inquire about your interest in them, Mr. Abercrombie? The model’s appearance in so many portraits is certainly an intriguing mystery, but I must point out that a number of them are relatively crude and amateurish.”
“I’m a collector,” he said with just a trace of pugnacity.
“Then she does have some meaning for you,” I said.
“I like her face,” he replied.
“It is a lovely face,” I agreed, “but surely you must have some further reason.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Two nights ago I saw you bid 375,000 credits for a painting that is demonstrably worth fifty thousand.”
“So what?”
“I simply infer that you must have some reason to bid so much money, above and beyond your admiration for her beauty.”
He stared at me for a moment, and then spoke: “I’m eighty-two years old, my health is deteriorating, my wife is dead, my two sons were killed in the Sett War, I haven’t seen or spoken to my daughter in close to thirty years, I have one grandchild and I dislike her intensely, and I’m worth 600 million credits. What do you think I should do with my money—leave it to a woman I wouldn’t recognize and another one that I can’t stand the sight of?”
I moved a few feet farther away from him, stunned that he could so casually reject the concept and obligations of House and Family.
“Fifty thousand credits, 375,000 credits,” he continued, “what the hell’s the difference? I’d have spent five million credits on the Kilcullen if I had to. I can afford to buy any damned thing I want, and none of my money will do me any good once I’m in the grave.” He paused. “That’s where you come in.”
“Please explain, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“You said the other night that you had seen this model”—he gestured to one of the paintings—“twice before.”
“That is correct.”
“A painting and a hologram, you said.”
“Yes. The painting was from Patagonia IV, although it was purchased by a resident of New Rhodesia, and the hologram was from Binder X.”
“I want them—and any others you can hunt up.”
“I am not aware of any others, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“They’re out there, all right,” he said with conviction. “I’ve been tracking them down for twenty-five years, and I wasn’t aware of the two you saw.”
“I would not begin to know where to look for them,” I said.
“You know where to begin looking for two of them,” he replied. “You know where they were sold, and you can find out who bought them.”
“I suppose I can,” I admitted. “But that does not mean that their new owners will care to part with them.”
“They’ll sell, all right,” promised Abercrombie. “You just find them for me, and I’ll take it from there.” He set his jaw firmly. “Then we’ll start hunting for the others.”
“I very much doubt that I will be able to find even the two works that I saw in a week’s time, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said.
“Then you’ll take a month,” he said. “So what?”
“You are only employing me for a period of one week,” I pointed out.
“I’m employing you for as long as I need you,” he responded sharply.
“But I have obligations to the Claiborne Galleries,” I protested.
“You leave the Claiborne Galleries to me.”
“I mean no disrespect, Mr. Abercrombie, but I have come to Far London on an exchange program, and I must—”
“Look,” he interrupted me, “if I have to buy Claiborne lock, stock, and barrel to get what I want, I will! Is that clear?”
I could think of no reply, and so I made none.
“You’ll be well paid,” he continued less harshly. “Salary, expenses, you name it.”
“But I am here to gain knowledge of Claiborne’s procedures so that I may impart them to other members of my House, just as one of Claiborne’s human employees is currently learning from the House of Crsthionn.”
“Your House is in business to make money, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then I’ll pay your House ten thousand credits a month for as long as you work for me. That’s over and above your personal salary. Does that solve your problem?”
“I do not know,” I said, perplexed, my color fluctuating wildly. “I will have to consider your offer very carefully.”
“Let me make it easy for you. If you turn it down, I’ll fire you right here and now. You’ll lose your job, and your House won’t get its money. How does that sit with your precious concept of dishonor?”
“Surely you do not mean this, Mr. Abercrombie!”
He stared coldly at me. “Try me,” he said in level tones. “I don’t make empty threats, and I always get what I want.”
“Then I have no choice,” I said unhappily. “I must accept your offer.”
“Good. That’s settled. I’ll get in touch with Rayburn this afternoon and tell him our new arrangement.”
“Hector Rayburn is my peer. The manager of the Claiborne Galleries is Tai Chong.”
“Madame Chong,” he repeated grimly. “I know all about her.”
“She is very knowledgeable.”
“She’s also a bleeding-heart alien-lover who sometimes forgets which race she belongs to.”
“You must not speak of my Great Lady like that!” I said as firmly as I could.
“Ah!” he said with a smile. “So you’ve got some spunk after all! Let me give you a little advice, Leonardo—save it for yourself and don’t waste it on her. She’s what I call a weekend bleeding heart, and that’s the worst kind of all.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Madame Cheng’s the type who’ll run out to one of your worlds on a weekend and march up and down the streets with you demanding whatever the hell it is you people demand—but comes Monday morning, when the Navy moves in and starts breaking open heads, she’s back on Far London feeling like a fulfilled person and wondering who she can help liberate next weekend.”
“I will listen no further to such things!” I protested, my color fluctuating wildly. “My Great Lady has been kind and considerate to me in every way.”
“You can’t put kindness in your bank account, or send it off to your House. I’m giving you coin of the realm—and nobody tells me what to say in my own home.”
I could think of no reply, and so I remained silent.
“All right,” he said with an air of finality. “That’s settled.”
“When am I to begin?” I asked at last.
“You’ve already started.”
“But I must get Madame Chong’s permission.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
“But—”
“Are you questioning my word?” he demanded ominously.
“No, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said with a sigh of resignation. “Where shall I work?”
“Wherever you have to. If you need the library, use it. If you have to fly to the Albion Cluster, go there. If you need to buy something, buy it. Have everything billed to me. I’ll call my bank and clear your name and ID with them.”
“And if I want to study your collection?”
“I’ll instruct the robots to let you in any time of the night or day—but only to see the collection. The rest of the house is off limits to you. Is that clearly understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“And one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“There was a man called Venzia who went up to 350,000 credits for the Kilcullen painting the other night, and would have gone a lot higher if he hadn’t messed up his credit deposit. See if you can find out why.”
“Possibly he, too, is enamored of the model’s face,” I suggested.
“I doubt it.”
“Might I ask why?”
“Because I haven’t made any attempt to keep my purchases a secret, and he’s never yet made me an offer for any of my artwork.”
“I will look into the matter, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said.
“See that you do,” he said, dismissing me.
And this was how I left the employ of Tai Chong, who felt compassion for all races, and joined the service of Malcolm Abercrombie, who disliked all races equally—including, I suspected, his own.
***