The Dark Lady Read online

  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, 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 ultima
tely 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.

  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 pièce de résistance 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, 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.”