The Dark Lady Read online

  “Probably,” she agreed. “But just in case he's late, or tied up elsewhere, you'll find his address coded on the back of it, and you can contact him at his home.” She withdrew a small hologram. “And this,” she said, handing it to me, “is a print of the painting you'll be authenticating.”

  I studied it briefly. “It is the same woman,” I said.

  “I know,” she replied. “You don't forget that face once you've seen it.”

  I looked at the print again, and saw a strange script beneath it. It seemed almost legible, but the more I tried to make sense of it, the less I succeeded. Finally I handed it back to Tai Chong.

  “I cannot read the writing below it, Great Lady.”

  “That's one of the newer script fonts they've been using in some catalogs,” she explained. “It's called Antares Elegant, I believe. It looks lovely, but I can see why it might be difficult for you to read.” She stared at it. “It says that the artist's name is Sergio Mallachi. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “No,” I replied. “Does it also give the title of the painting?”

  “Yes,” said Tai Chong. She shrugged. “It's rather odd, and just a bit intriguing.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “The Dark Lady.”

  8.

  The spaceport at Charlemagne made me realize just how minor a world Far London actually was.

  To begin with, we did not land on the planet itself, but docked instead at a huge orbiting hangar, where a public address system issued instructions to arriving passengers, directing them to connecting flights, customs inspections, orbital hotel accommodations, and shuttle flights to the planet's surface.

  Once I determined that Valentine Heath was not among the crush of people waiting at the dock, I went directly to the customs area, waited until my luggage had been subjected to a sensor scan, had my passport validated, and then took a very slow slidewalk to the shuttle departure dock. The next planetary shuttle was not due to leave for almost an hour, and since the food aboard the ship had been created with the human palate in mind, I began looking for a restaurant that catered to non-humans.

  To my surprise, I couldn't find any. Humans and non-humans alike mingled in a number of restaurants, and nobody seemed to find this at all unusual. I entered one of them, still half-expecting to be told that aliens, or at least Bjornns, were not welcome, and was immediately escorted to a small table along one of the walls. Just behind me were two Men, discussing some sporting event while drinking coffee, and to my left was a table housing two Teroni and a Lodinite. The Teroni were eating the slick, greasy meat that was the staple of their diet, while the Lodinite was munching on a nondescript mass of vegetable matter.

  The menu appeared— in Terran— on a small computer screen above the table, and although I could read it, I requested a Bjornn translation, just to see what would happen. After a moment I realized that this was a shocking breach of manners for a guest, but before I could cancel or countermand the order, the requested translation appeared, and, not wishing to cause further difficulty, I ordered a drink composed of the crushed pulps of fruits from Charlemagne's tropical zones. Immediately two columns appeared on the screen, the first a list of races who would find the drink physically harmful (three of them— the Domarians, the Sett, and the Emrans— were warned that this particular blend of fruits would be potentially fatal to them), the second a somewhat smaller list of races who would not undergo any ill effects but whose metabolism was such that the drink would act as an intoxicant.

  Since the Bjornn appeared on neither list, I verified the order, was served almost immediately, and spent the next quarter hour sipping the drink and enjoying the feeling of warmth and security that emanated from the mass of nearby patrons. Finally I decided that it was time to leave, so I fed Abercrombie's credit number into the computer, waited until it was confirmed, and returned to the shuttle dock.

  Once there, I was again struck by Charlemagne's complexity. Most of the human worlds I had visited had one or, at the most, two major cities, for Man had assimilated so many planets so quickly that he had barely begun to populate them. Successful colonies usually began as small cities which continued to spread as more and more Men emigrated to them; unsuccessful colonies began and ended as mere outposts. But while I had heard of Deluros VIII, with its seventeen billion Men, and other major worlds such as Earth, Spica VI, Terrazane, and Sirius V, I had never actually experienced any planet where Men covered more than the tiniest percentage of the surface.

  Now, however, I was deluged with information about Charlemagne. There were perhaps twenty lines of various colors running across the polished flooring of the dock, and passengers were instructed to follow the color to the shuttle which would transport them to their destination: red to Centralia, purple to Blackwater, gold to New Johannesburg, orange to the Eastern Frontier District, and so on. My information was that Valentine Heath lived in the city of Oceana, and I followed the appropriate line to the proper shuttlecraft.

  The craft itself was compartmentalized like any other spaceliner of the Oligarchy, with a first-class cabin containing perhaps three dozen comfortable seats created for the human figure, and, further back, the second- and third-class sections, divided into oxygen and chlorine environments, and filled with a miscellany of seats that could accommodate anything from a six-ton Castorian to a diminutive Tretagansii.

  As I prepared to make my way back to the second-class section, however, I noticed that a Canphorite was sitting at the very front of the first-class cabin, and that a trio of blue-tinted beings who had entered ahead of me were in the process of seating themselves in the cabin as well.

  I turned to a uniformed woman who was directing traffic within the craft.

  “Excuse me, Great Lady,” I said.

  Yes?” she replied.

  I indicated an empty seat just ahead of me. “Is it permitted?”

  “Is what permitted?”

  “Am I allowed to sit here?”

  “Of course,” she said. “In fact, once we start the engines, you're not allowed to stand.”

  “I was referring to the first-class cabin, Great Lady.”

  “There are no classes on shuttle flights,” she replied.

  “But the structure of the cabin is such that— ”

  “The shuttle was built for use in the Spinot system,” she explained. “We recently purchased it, and we haven't renovated it yet. Just take any seat you want.”

  “Thank you, Great Lady,” I said.

  I walked up the aisle and looked into the second-class section. It was quite crowded, and ordinarily I would have immediately entered it and sought out a seat, but although the first-class cabin was less than half full, I decided that this one time I would ride in it, just to experience what human passengers experienced. My decision made, I walked to a seat and strapped myself into it, making sure that the webbing was spread evenly across my body and wondering what Abercrombie and my Pattern Mother would say if they could see me now.

  The brief trip to Charlemagne's surface was uneventful, and a few moments after landing I stood at the disembarkation gate, looking for Valentine Heath. I couldn't find him, and finally I approached a computer terminal to ask if he had left a message for me. He had not.

  I decided that the best thing to do would be to register at my hotel and then try to make contact with Heath. To that end, I went to the baggage reclamation area, retrieved my luggage, and registered my voiceprint with a representative of the Oceana Police Department.

  As I walked out the exit and stood in the bright Charlemagne sunlight, I found myself facing a seemingly endless line of vehicles. The nearest of them pulled directly in front of me, and its back door sprung open.

  “Welcome to Oceana,” said the driver, a stocky, balding human with an ingratiating smile. “Where are you headed?”

  “I wish to be taken to the Excelsior Hotel, my good man,” I said in the Dialect of Honored Guests.

  “Have you got a reservation?” he
asked.

  “Most certainly,” I responded, entering the vehicle and taking my luggage with me. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged, and the vehicle began moving. “Just that they usually operate at capacity. I thought I'd save you a trip if you hadn't booked ahead.”

  “That is most considerate of you.”

  “It's my job,” he said. “Is this your first visit to Charlemagne?”

  “Yes, it is,” I said.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “I have every confidence that I shall,” I said, looking out the window at a vast expanse of brown dried grass. “May I ask you a question, my good fellow?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Your fair city is called Oceana,” I noted. “Where is the ocean?”

  He laughed. “Wrong time of year.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “We're just a couple of hundred miles south of the equator, so instead of summer and winter we get dry and rainy seasons. Do you see that plain?” he asked, gesturing out the window.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, when the rainy season comes, it becomes a lake almost two hundred miles wide and about eighteen inches deep. The first man to set up shop here came right after the rains and thought it was an ocean, so he named the place Oceana. By the time he found out what a blunder he'd made, the name had already been approved by the Pioneer Corps and registered by the Cartography Department back on Caliban, and it would have been just too damned much trouble to change it.” He paused. “That's the reason the spaceport is so far from the city. If it were any closer, it'd be under water for half the year.”

  “How very interesting,” I said.

  “It's more embarrassing than interesting,” replied the driver with another laugh. “We still get an occasional tourist here who books his vacation just based on the name.”

  We reached the outskirts of Oceana, a metropolis of shining steel buildings and angular glass towers, of broad thoroughfares cleaving through tastefully arranged commercial and residential areas. Finally the clusters of buildings pressed closer and closer together, seeming almost to touch the frail, wispy, low-hanging clouds, and the vehicle came to a stop.

  “Here we are,” announced the driver.

  I completed the transaction, then emerged from the vehicle and approached one of the six liveried doormen, who in turn took my luggage and escorted me inside to a relatively small reception area which was surrounded by a plethora of very exclusive shops and boutiques. I became increasingly aware of the fact that there was only one other non-human within sight, a tripodal being wearing the hotel's gold and magenta colors and a maintenance insignia, but no one else seemed to take notice of it, and I was shortly ascending to the sixty-fourth floor via an express elevator.

  Once there, I walked down a short, brightly lit corridor until I came to a door at the end of it. I spoke my name, waited until my voiceprint registered, and then walked into my suite as the door receded.

  I found myself in an oversized sitting room that contained four chairs, a large couch covered by white Tumigan leather, a small, well-stocked bar made of Doradusian hardwoods, a stone fireplace, and a large window that overlooked the city.

  Standing at the bar, a half-filled glass in his hand, was a tall, elegantly groomed, expensively tailored man with hair the color of the sun-scorched Oceana grasslands and oblique green eyes that had just a touch of gray in them. I instantly recognized him as Valentine Heath.

  “Come in and make yourself comfortable,” he said easily. “Sorry I couldn't get out to the spaceport, but I wouldn't have spotted you anyway. They told me you were a Bjornn.”

  “I am,” I replied.

  He looked surprised. “I've met a couple of Bjornns in the past,” he said, “and they certainly didn't look like you.”

  “Doubtless they belonged to a different House,” I said.

  “They were green and black, and their skins seemed to be covered by endless patterns of concentric circles.”

  “That would be the House of Ilsthni,” I said. “They are jewelers.”

  “Right,” he said with a smile. “Anyway, I'm pleased to meet you, Leonardo. I'm Valentine Heath.”

  “May I ask you a question, Mr. Heath?” I said, I was about to address him as “Friend Valentine,” but I decided against the Dialect of Affinity until I could determine how and why he had broken into my suite.

  “Of course— and call me Valentine.”

  “Why are you here, Mr. Heath?”

  “Valentine,” he corrected me. “I thought you might have some difficulty locating my address. It's my understanding that you've never been to Charlemagne before, and Oceana's got a pretty complex street grid and an absolutely nonsensical numbering system.”

  “I seem not to be making myself clear, Mr. Heath,” I said. “Why are you here in my room?”

  “I hope you don't think it insensitive of me, Leonardo, but there are four entrances to the hotel. I was afraid I might choose the wrong one and miss you.”

  “But the security lock is coded to my voiceprint. How did you get in?”

  “Never trust security locks, Leonardo,” he said with a smile. “Any maid or bellman can gain entrance to it. If I were you, I'd leave my valuables in the hotel safe.” He paused. “Can I fix you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Something to eat, perhaps? Room service offers quite a large selection and they deliver within ten minutes.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, then, why don't you relax and we'll just have a pleasant visit.”

  “I am not tired,” I said. “Perhaps I could see the painting now.”

  “Later,” he said. “Let's get to know each other first.”

  Suddenly I began to feel very uneasy in the presence of a man who had broken through my suite's security system and seemed totally uninterested in showing me the painting that I had come all this way to appraise.

  “Let us get to know each other while walking around your city,” I suggested. “I found it quite fascinating as I drove through it.”

  “It really doesn't come to life until after dark,” he replied. “If you want to see Oceana, you must wait until the sun goes down.”

  I didn't want to alert him to my fears, but it seemed imperative that I leave the suite and surround myself with witnesses to whatever fate he had in store for me.

  “While on the spaceliner from Far London, Friend Valentine,” I said, emphasizing the form of address, “I read that Oceana has an outstanding art museum. If it is open, perhaps we can go there.”

  He shook his head. “I hate to disappoint you, Leonardo, but it's been closed for renovations.”

  “How can that be?” I said. “The article said that it was built only two years ago.”

  “It seems that someone robbed it last week, and they're installing a more sophisticated security system.” He walked over to a chair and sat down. “So why don't we just spend the afternoon here?”

  I stared at him for a moment, looking for telltale bulges in his clothing that would signify the presence of a weapon. I could not discern any, but I realized that it didn't matter anyway: He was far larger and stronger than I was.

  Mustering my courage, I said: “Friend Valentine, my luggage has not yet arrived. I think I should go back down to the lobby to make sure that it has not been misplaced.”

  “The porter will be bringing it along any minute now,” he assured me. “He's probably loaded it onto a cart with a bunch of other bags, and is dropping them off one room at a time.”

  “Nevertheless,” I said, “I have some personal belongings that are quite dear to me.”

  He pointed to the hotel intercom console. “If you're really worried about it, call up the reception desk and see if your luggage is on its way.”

  “I would feel much more secure if I were to go in person,” I said truthfully, edging a step toward the door.

  He shrugged. “If you're that worried, go ahead.”


  “You don't intend to stop me?” I blurted out.

  He seemed amused at the idea. “Why should I want to stop you?”

  “I thought... that is, it seemed... ” Flustered and embarrassed, I was unable to form a cogent sentence.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You just changed colors.”

  “It is the Hue of Humiliation,” I explained. “I thought, for some reason, that you wanted to keep me here.”

  Heath chuckled. “You're free to go anywhere you want.” He paused. “On the other hand, I'm afraid I'll have to take advantage of your hospitality until nightfall.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “It's quite simple, really,” he said. “The police are looking for me.”

  “You are a fugitive?” I exclaimed, my fears returning.

  “No, just a suspect.”

  “Then why do you hide from the police?” I asked. “Surely the best course of action is to make yourself available to them and answer their questions truthfully.”

  “That's only the best course of action if you're innocent,” he replied with a smile. “I happen to have done exactly what they think I did.” He paused. “I really hate to inconvenience you like this, Leonardo, but it's only for a few more hours. Once it's dark out, I'll have no difficulty eluding them.”

  “Did you kill someone?” I asked, backing away from him.

  “Certainly not! I'm an opportunist, not a murderer.”

  Suddenly a thought occurred to me. “The painting— is it stolen?”

  “I'd never steal anything so mundane,” he replied. “The brush strokes are really quite trite, you know.”

  “But you do steal paintings?”

  He took a sip of his drink, then looked up with an amused expression on his face. “You make me sound like an art thief, Leonardo.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “For a moment,” I said, relaxing somewhat but still ready to retreat again, “I thought you might be responsible for the closing of the art museum.”

  “I am,” he replied calmly.

  “But you just said you aren't an art thief!”