Chapter 5
I entered the local branch of the library, presented myself to the head librarian, waited while he confirmed that Mr. Abercrombie would indeed pay for the computer time, and then was escorted to a small cubicle in what was labeled the “Off-World Section,” but was in fact an area consisting entirely of non-humans.
The section was relatively crowded, and the feeling of uneasiness that had manifested itself as I walked from my hotel through the relatively empty Far London streets to the library had totally vanished by the time I activated the computer.
“Good morning,” said a not-very-mechanical voice. “How may I serve you?”
“I require a brief biographical sketch about a circus performer named Rafael Jamal,” I said in the Dialect of Command. “I especially want the details of his military record.”
“Would you prefer a verbal answer or a hard copy?” asked the computer.
“May I have both?” I asked.
“Certainly—but it will cost more.”
“That is acceptable.”
“I require some preliminary data,” said the computer. “To what race does Rafael Jamal belong?”
“The race of Man,” I answered.
“Is he alive, and if not, when did he live?”
“He lived approximately 350 years ago, in the first century of the Oligarchy.”
“What was his planet of residence?”
“I do not know,” I admitted. “But I suspect that it was Patagonia IV, for he was an invalid at the time he produced a painting there, and he died shortly thereafter.”
“Thank you,” said the computer. “I am searching my library files.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I am now accessing the Patagonia IV Public Information computer,” it announced.
It went dark for perhaps twenty seconds, and then came to life again.
“Patagonia IV is no longer a human colony. I am now accessing the Historical Census Files on Deluros VIII.”
I waited patiently, and at last I had my answer.
“Jamal, Rafael,” said the computer. “True name: Pedro Santini. Born 4503 G.E., died 4538 G.E. Unmarried, died leaving no heirs, estate finally sold at public auction. Resided until age sixteen on Delvania III, then joined the Balaban Brothers Five-Star Circus, where he worked as a trapeze artist under the name of Rafael Jamal until he lost the use of his legs during a fall on Patagonia IV in 4533 G.E. Left leg amputated in 4536 G.E.”
“What about his military service?” I asked.
“He did not serve in the military.”
“Then he must have seen some military action in an unofficial capacity,” I insisted.
“That is incorrect,” said the computer. “He went directly from school to the Balaban Brothers Five-Star Circus, and remained there until his accident.”
“I cannot understand this,” I said.
“If I have been unclear, I can translate my answer into 1,273 languages and dialects other than Terran,” offered the computer.
“That will not be necessary,” I said, lost in thought. Finally an idea occurred to me. “Would you please see if Delvania III underwent any military attack or civil disorder during the time that Rafael Jamal lived there?”
“Checking … no, it did not.”
“Did the Balaban Brothers Five-Star Circus ever perform on a world that was in the midst of a military disturbance?”
“Checking … no, it did not.”
“But it must have!” I said.
“The answer is negative,” replied the computer. “May I be of any further service?”
“Yes,” I said. “There are four men: Rafael Jamal, Brian McGinnis, Peter Klipstein, and Christopher Kilcullen. I want you to access their histories from the Historical Census Files on Deluros VIII, and then analyze the data and tell me everything that they had in common.”
I went through the process of answering the computer’s basic questions again, and then waited while it accessed the necessary data.
“Analyzing,” it announced at last.
There was a full minute of silence. An extraordinary length of time given that it already had all the data it required.
“Rafael Jamal, Brian McGinnis, Peter Klipstein, and Christopher Kilcullen all belonged to the race of Man,” said the computer. “All four were males. I can find no other similarities between them.”
“Are you quite certain?” I asked.
“I am incapable of error,” replied the computer. “It should be noted that the data on Brian McGinnis is minimal and was accessed from Earth rather than Deluros VIII, but since Rafael Jamal, Peter Klipstein, and Christopher Kilcullen have nothing in common other than their race, and gender, more information about Brian McGinnis would not change my answer.”
“Thank you,” I said with a sigh of disappointment. Just to be on the safe side, I had it analyze the artists whose paintings were hanging in Abercrombie’s house, but it could find no connection between them, neither of military service nor anything else. Finally another idea occurred to me. “I want you to analyze a painting,” I said. “Is that possible?”
“Yes,” replied the computer.
“Where can I access it?”
“There is a print of it in a book entitled Britain in Africa: A Century of Paintings, which was published on Earth in 1922 A.D. There are probably many copies still in existence, but the only one of which I am aware is in the library on Pico II. The painting is untitled, but it is the only one in the book by Brian McGinnis.”
“I have located a copy of the book in the main library of Selica II, where access will be much more rapid and less expensive than Pico II,” announced the computer. “Please stand by while I have its contents transmitted to me.”
“I will wait,” I said.
The computer darkened, and then lit up a moment later. “The painting by Brian McGinnis is now in my memory banks,” it told me. “What facets of it would you like me to analyze?”
“The woman,” I replied.
“I can find no data concerning the model’s name or identity.”
“It is entirely possible that she never existed,” I said. “She has appeared in paintings, holograms, and sculptures from all across the galaxy over a span of more than seven millennia, and she seems to have been rendered only by members of the race of Man.” I paused. “I have access to the paintings and holograms in the collection of Malcolm Abercrombie. Can you now go through your library to see if her likeness occurs in any artwork that is not a part of that collection?”
“Yes.”
“And,” I continued, “if you should find her likeness elsewhere, can you supply me with a hard copy of it?”
“Yes … checking.”
The machine went dark again, and remained dark for so long that I finally became aware of my isolation from the other patrons and began walking around the library, drawing warmth and comfort from the proximity of the other beings there. When five minutes had passed I reentered my cubicle, and waited another ninety seconds until the computer came back to life.
“I have found seven sources which may be representations of the same woman,” it announced. “They will appear on the holographic screen just to your left whenever you are ready.”
“Excellent,” I said, suddenly very excited. “Please begin.”
A female face with high cheekbones and narrow eyes suddenly appeared on the screen.
“This is a statue of Proserpine, the Roman Queen of the Underworld,” said the computer. “It was created in 86 A.D. by Lucius Piranus.”
I studied the image. There were similarities in bone structure, and her hair may well have been black (though it was impossible to tell from the sculpture), but the eyes were too small, and she was smiling, whereas the woman I sought seemed consumed by a secret sadness.
“No,” I said, disappointed. “This is not the same woman. Please continue.”
Another face appeared on the screen, and this time it was the woman I sought, beyond any question.
“This is a silkscreen print of Kama-Mara, a dual spirit of erotic desire and death who is said to have tempted Buddha during his meditations. The artist is unknown; the date of the print is estimated at 707 A.D.”
“It is her,” I said. “But if she is an Indian spirit, why are her features not Indian?”
“I have insufficient data to answer your question,” said the computer. “Shall I continue?”
“Please.”
Another image appeared, so real that I could almost touch the sadness that emanated from it. It was her again.
“This is a painting of Mictecaciuatl, the Lady of the Place of the Dead in Mexican mythology. Artist unknown, painting rendered in 1744 A.D.”
“Please continue,” I said, my enthusiasm returning. Her face appeared again, this time in a hologram.
“This is an untitled hologram, created by Wilson Devers, a big-game hunter on Greenveldt, in 718 G.E.”
There followed three more paintings from Earth, Spica II, and Northpoint, each of them an exact replication of Abercrombie’s mysterious woman.
“There are no other portraits of her in your library banks?” I asked when the last of them vanished from the screen.
“There are no other accurate portraits of her,” replied the computer. “If she was rendered so poorly as to be unrecognizable, or was the subject of a nonrepresentational painting, I would be unable to identify her.”
“I see,” I said. “Can you now give me a brief biographical sketch of the artists?”
“Including Lucius Piranus?”
“No,” I replied. “Let us temporarily remove his statue from consideration.”
“Two of the artists are unknown,” began the computer. “Wilson Devers, born in 678 G.E. on Charlemagne, relocated to Greenveldt in 701 O.E., received his hunting license in 702 G.E., remained a professional hunter until his death in 723 G.E.”
“Did he ever serve in the military?” I asked.
“No.”
“How did he die?”
“He was killed by an errant sonic blast from a client’s weapon. Shall I continue?”
“Please.”
“Barien Smythe, born in 3328 G.E. on Sirius V, relocated to Spica II in 3334 G.E. …” The computer paused briefly. “His profession is listed as spaceship designer, but there is enough data for me to conclude that he was actually employed by a rival cartel and engaged in industrial espionage. He died in 3355 G.E. as a result of an explosion that demolished an entire factory complex.”
“And the other two?” I asked.
“Milton Mugabe, born on Earth in 1804 G.E. He became an aquaculturalist specializing in the breeding and harvesting of sharks, large carnivorous fish of Earth’s oceans, and was killed by a shark attack in 1861 G.E. The other man is Enrico Robinson, born in 4201 G.E. He became a prizefighter in 4220 G.E., changed his name to Crusher Comanche in 4221 G.E., relocated to Northpoint in 4224 G.E., and died of internal injuries received during a prizefight in 4235 G.E.”
“Do these artists share any single trait or experience in common with each other, or with the four that I mentioned earlier?”
“No.”
“It didn’t take you very long to determine that,” I noted.
“I anticipated your question.”
“Can computers do that?” I asked, mildly surprised.
“I am so programmed,” it replied. “Although had you not asked it, I would not have volunteered the answer.”
“I see. May I have hard copies of the illustrations?”
“Including the Piranus sculpture of Proserpine?”
“Yes,” I said. “And while you’re doing so, can you also give me a biographical sketch of Lucius Piranus?”
“He was a minor Roman artist, born in 43 A.D., relocated to Crete in 88 A.D., died of natural causes in 111 A.D.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Is there any other way in which I may serve you?” asked the computer.
I sighed. “Not at the moment, I am afraid.”
“I will, of course, keep your request for illustrations of the model and biographies of the artists on file, and whenever I access other library computers and share their memories, I will pursue your quest for further data.”
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“It is my function,” replied the computer.
“Wait,” I said, remembering Abercrombie’s other directive. “There is one more thing I would like you to do for me.”
“Yes?”
“I need an expanded biographical sketch of Reuben Venzia.”
“May I please have your Security Access Code?”
“I do not know what that is.”
“I can’t release information on a living person, other than those who have been officially designated as Public Figures, to anyone without the proper Security Access Code.”
“Can you at least tell me where to find him?”
“Certainly. He is sitting 263 feet north-northeast of you.”
“You mean he’s here now?” I exclaimed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I cannot attempt to answer you unless you have a Security Access Code,” responded the computer.
“Thank you,” I said. “That will be all.” The computer darkened again, while I tried to fathom why Venzia should be in this place at this time. Finally I left my cubicle, and as I began walking through the Off-World Section toward the exit, I saw Venzia rise from a table in the main section and begin walking on a course that was designed to intercept me just as I reached the doorway.
“Leonardo isn’t it?” he said, extending his hand as he approached me.
I stared at his outstretched hand rather stupidly for a moment, since no human except Tai Chong had ever willingly made physical contact with me. Finally I recalled that it was a sign of greeting, and I took it.
“That is correct,” I said, utilizing the Dialect of Peers. “And you are Mr. Venzia. I recognize you from the art auction.”
“Call me Reuben,” he said easily. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“I am incapable of metabolizing coffee,” I replied.
“Choose whatever you want,” said Venzia. “I’d like talk to you.”
“That is most generous of you, Mr. Venzia.”
“Reuben,” he corrected me.
“Reuben,” I repeated. “I must inform you, however, that I obtain my nourishment at restaurants which cater to non-humans.”
“Fine,” he said, heading toward the exit. “Let’s go.”
“I have never seen a Man in one of them,” I continued.
“I’d like to see them try to keep me out,” he said.
“Very well, then.”
“I haven’t seen you for almost two months,” he remarked as we walked out into the open air. “Have you been off-world?”
“Yes,” I said, choosing the sidewalk to the slidewalk as I always do. “Although I cannot imagine why you would expect to see me, even had I remained on Far London. After all, we met only once.”
“Oh, people in the same line of business tend to run into one another, especially on a planet as underpopulated as Far London.” He paused. “How did you like New Rhodesia?”
I came to a sudden stop and turned to him. “How did you know I went to New Rhodesia?” I asked.
“An educated guess,” he said. He gestured down the sidewalk. “Shall we continue?”
I proceeded in silence, pondering his last remark, and uncomfortably aware of the curious stares that we were attracting. A non-human on a human world is always an object of curiosity and occasionally even derision, but for a Man to walk in company with one of us is so unusual that the onlookers didn’t even try to hide their distaste and disapproval. I became uneasy and suggested to Venzia that he might prefer to lead or follow me in order to attract less attention.
“Let ’em look,” he said with a shrug. “It makes no difference to me.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked.
“Why should it?” he replied. “If they’ve got nothing better to do with their time, it’s hardly my concern.”
I considered his answer, which was typically human in its careless lack of concern for the opinions or welfare of the Herd, as we continued walking. After we had gone two blocks we came to one of the restaurants I regularly frequented, and I led him inside.
“It’s a bit of a dump, isn’t it?” he commented, staring at the bare tables and wrinkling his nose at the myriad odors that assailed us. “Wouldn’t you rather go to a nicer place? It’s my treat.”
“It is true that there are nicer places to eat,” I acknowledged, aware from the reaction of the diners and waiters that even here we were objects of intense interest, “but I am not allowed to enter them. Besides, this restaurant is usually crowded; I find that comforting.”
“You like crowds?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “Have it your way.” He waved to a waiter. “Let’s have a table.”
The waiter, a pale blue tripodal Bemarkani, approached us.
“Are you quite certain you wish to dine here, sir?” it asked Venzia.
“As a matter of fact, I’m quite certain that I don’t,” responded Venzia with an expression of distaste. “But my friend and I want a table. Now hop to it.”
The Bemarkani’s nostrils began flaring—its equivalent of a hostile glare—as if I were destroying the character of his establishment by bringing a Man into it, then led us to a table at the very back of the restaurant, where we could not be seen from the doorway.
“This won’t do,” said Venzia.
“May I ask why not, sir?” responded the Bemarkani.
“Take a look,” said Venzia. “These chairs weren’t built for Men. I’d have to be four feet tall and have a tail to fit into one of them. It’s totally unacceptable.”
The Bemarkani silently led us to another table, also toward the back of the room, and Venzia, after wiping the table off with a handkerchief, nodded and sat down.
“It’s not really much better,” he remarked, “but what the hell—nothing in here looks all that comfortable.” He paused. “Where do you usually sit, Leonardo?”
“Wherever they place me,” I replied.
“It must get pretty damned uncomfortable from time to time.”
“It does,” I admitted.
“Then why do you put up with it?”
“There are compensations.”
“The crowd? If you’d make a stink about where they seat you, you could enjoy it in comfort.” He paused. “Well, let’s get our cheerful, smiling waiter back and tell him what we want.”
I ordered a drink composed of pulped vegetable matter from Sigma Draconis II, a world very similar to my own, while Venzia asked for coffee, was informed that there was none available, and settled for a glass of water.
“It smells pretty awful in here,” said Venzia after the waiter had left.
“The kitchen supplies the needs of some thirty to forty different races,” I replied. “In time one gets used to the odors.”
“Let’s hope we’re not here that long,” he said devoutly.
“May I ask why we are here at all?”
“We’re here because I want to know the full extent of your interest in the paintings you’ve been tracking down,” he replied.
“I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you,” I said. “I have been retained by Malcolm Abercrombie to help him acquire certain works of art to add to his personal collection.”
“Why you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, why did he choose you?” said Venzia. “I know a little bit about Abercrombie, and he’d sooner cut off his right arm than give the time of day to an alien.”
“I had previously seen two pieces that he wanted, and he commissioned me to seek out the owners and purchase them.”
“Recent pieces?” demanded Venzia intently.
“Recent is a relative term,” I replied.
“Within the past ten years?”
“No. The most recent was from the very early days of the Oligarchy.”
He lit up a small cigar, ignoring the hostile glances he received from two Teronis at the next table. “Did you have any luck?” he asked in a more relaxed tone of voice.
“Yes,” I replied. “Mr. Abercrombie was able to obtain both pieces.”
“And now you’re trying to hunt down others featuring the same subject.” It was more a statement than a question.
“That is correct.”
“Well, you’ve gone about as far as you can with the library computer.”
“How do you know what I asked the computer?” He smiled again. “I told it to notify me if anyone began asking questions about Mictecaciuatl and Kama-Mara.”
“You spied on me!”
“I wouldn’t call it spying,” he said. “I have no idea what questions you asked, though I can make a pretty good guess. How many paintings did the computer identify for you?”
I felt that he had no right to ask, but again, I could see no reason for not answering him. “Six.”
“You discarded the Piranus sculpture?”
“Yes.”
“Good decision.” He exhaled deeply. “Well, six is all you’re ever going to get out of this computer. And, to save you some wear and tear on your expense account, none of them are available.”
“Have you purchased them yourself?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Hell, no. I don’t want them.”
“I am afraid that I do not understand,” I said. “The first time I saw you were trying to buy the Kilcullen painting for 400,000 credits.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“But—”
“I knew Abercrombie wouldn’t let anyone outbid him,” he interrupted, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “I just wanted to see if there were any other interested parties.”
“Why would you do that, if you have no interest in the paintings?” I asked.
“I have my reasons.”
“Might I know them?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Leonardo.”
“May I know why not?”
“Because I have a feeling that you can’t tell me anything I don’t already know—yet,” he added meaningfully. “When you can, we’ll get together again. I might have a job for you.”
“I am already employed by the Claiborne Galleries.”
“I thought you said you were working for Abercrombie,” he said sharply.
“So I am. But Claiborne is my official employer during my tenure here. Abercrombie is paying them for my services.”
“I’ll pay even better.”
“Leaving Claiborne against their wishes would bring dishonor to my House,” I explained. “I could never do that.”
“You won’t have to leave them,” said Venzia.
“I do not understand.”
“Claiborne is one of the biggest art houses in the galaxy,” he began. “They’ve got branches on seventy-three planets—”
“Seventy-five,” I corrected him.
“Seventy-five, then,” he said. “You hold forty or fifty auctions a year, and arrange God knows how many private sales.”
“That is true,” I acknowledged. “But I fail to see how—”
“Let me finish,” said Venzia. “You have access to a lot of information about these auctions and sales.”
“It is my understanding that you have recently purchased an art gallery,” I said. “Surely you have access to the same information.”
“I need advance access,” he said, emphasizing the word. “In point of fact, I need you.”
“I could not even consider helping you,” I said firmly. “It would be unfair to the other potential bidders.”
“I’m not a potential bidder.”
“But you own an art gallery.”
“There’s not a single piece of art on the premises,” he replied. “It’s just a mailing address on Declan IV.”
“Then why …” I began, trying to formulate my question.
“Because I need the kind of information that an art gallery is privy to—but I’m finding out that large chains like Claiborne get it a lot faster than one-man companies.”
“But if you don’t want the artwork, what do you want?” I asked.
“The names and addresses of the artists.”
“Claiborne handles almost a million transactions a year,” I noted. “What could you possibly do with all those names?”
“I don’t want all of them,” he said. “Just the ones who painted the woman you and Abercrombie are so interested in.”
“Why?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Not until you have something to tell me that’s of equal interest.”
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“But you will.”
“It would be unethical.”
“How?” he persisted. “I’m not trying to cut Claiborne out of its commission, or preempt any potential bidders. I just need information.”
“I cannot—”
“Don’t say no yet,” he interrupted. “Think about it for a day or two, and you’ll see that what I want can’t possibly harm Claiborne or the artists.”
“Even if that were so, it would be disloyal to Malcolm Abercrombie for me to turn such information over to you, when he is employing me to find such information exclusively for him.”
“It’s not disloyal,” he said irritably. “I told you: I don’t want the damned paintings!” He paused and forced a tight smile to his lips. “We’ll discuss it again in a few days. In the meantime, let me give you something as a gesture of my good faith.”
“I cannot accept your money,” I said. “Since I will not leave Claiborne to work for you, accepting payment would be unethical.”
“Who’s talking about payment? I have some information that will make your current job a little easier.”
“My job?”
He nodded his head. “Have you got a pocket computer with you?”
“Yes,” I said, withdrawing it from my pouch.
“Activate it.”
I did as he asked.
“Contact the Deluros VIII Cultural Heritage Museum,” he said, speaking very slowly and enunciating each word clearly so that the machine could not misinterpret him, “and use Access Code 2141098 to call up material on Melaina, a goddess who was also known as the Black Mare of Death; Eresh-Kigal, the Goddess of the Underworld; and Macha, the Irish Queen of Phantoms.” He then placed his thumb over the sensor. “From Kenya’s MacMillan Library on Earth, use this thumbprint for access to call up material on K’tani Ngai, Empress of the Dark Domain. And from the library computer on Peloran VII, call up material on Shareen d’Amato, who supposedly haunts the spacemen’s cemetery there. No access code is required.”
He stopped speaking and handed the computer back to me.
“And portraits exist of all these myth-figures?” I asked.
He nodded affirmatively. “The myths may differ, but the woman is the same.”
“You are quite sure?”
“I could hardly expect you to consider my offer if I lied to you, could I?”
“No, you could not,” I admitted. “I thank you for your help.”
“My pleasure.” He withdrew a small card and inserted it briefly into the computer. “That’s my address on Far London and my vidphone access number. Contact me whenever you’re ready to talk a little business.” He got to his feet. “Since our conversation is finished, I trust you’ll forgive me for leaving you here, but the truth of the matter is that the smell is making me sick.”
“One last question!” I said so emphatically that I drew additional stares from the nearby tables and a surly look from the waiter.
“Just one, Leonardo,” he replied. “There’s a difference between good faith and philanthropy.”
“Why has her portrait always been rendered by unknowns?”
“I wouldn’t call them unknowns,” answered Venzia. “Some of them were quite famous. I gather this Kilcullen was quite a military hero, and our boy on Patagonia IV was supposedly the greatest trapeze artist of his time.”
“But they were unknown as artists,” I persisted.
“True enough,” he conceded. Once again he looked amused. “Good question, Leonardo.”
“What is the answer?”
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you.”
“But you agreed to.”
“I agreed to let you ask one more question,” replied Venzia. “I never agreed to answer it.”
“May I ask why not?”
He smiled and shook his head. “That’s another question.”
Then he was gone, and I was left alone at my table to wonder why a man who professed no interest whatsoever in possessing any of the various renderings of this mysterious woman should be so vitally interested in the artists, or why he had more facts at his fingertips than Malcolm Abercrombie had been able to amass in a quarter of a century.
***