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  This seemed to confirm my conviction that the subject was indeed derived from an ancient war myth, and I inquired whether Jamal had fought for the Navy or for some independent force. Mr. Minneola seemed confused, and finally admitted that he had no knowledge whatsoever of Jamal's military record.

  It was my turn to be confused, for I had never heard of a Man referred to as a hero unless he had excelled in military action. My host explained that I was mistaken, departed the room for a moment, and returned with a scrapbook of circus posters from all over the galaxy, explaining that he was an enthusiastic patron of circuses and a student of their history. He thumbed through the book until he came to a colorful if poorly rendered poster of a very young, athletic-looking man in skintight, sequin-covered garments, swinging on a device called a trapeze. This was Jamal, and according to Mr. Minneola he was a famed circus entertainer whose specialty was a quintuple somersault from one trapeze to another without benefit of a net. His career had ended with a tragic accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down, and he had died some four years later.

  I thanked Mr. Minneola for his time and courtesy, began the search for a hotel (a number of them had vacancies, but non-humans were not permitted inside them), finally found a dilapidated hostelry on the outskirts of what the colonists termed the Native Quarter (although there were no sentient natives on New Rhodesia, and indeed it was simply a euphemism for ghetto), and reported to Mr. Abercrombie that I had located the painting but that the owner refused to part with it for any price. Far from seeming discouraged, the news seemed to excite him; like most Men, he seemed to cherish only those things for which he had to fight.

  On the return flight, I was supposed to transfer ships at the orbiting hangar at Pellinath IV, but at the last moment we had to divert to Pico II, as the Bellum, Pellinath's only sentient race, were resisting incorporation into the Oligarchy's economic system, and the Navy had moved in to forcibly convince them to reconsider. No citizens or associate members of the Oligarchy were allowed in the area, and I had to wait on Pico for three days, until the Bellum had been beaten into acquiescence.

  Though I found its bleak landscape and extinct volcanoes fascinating, I was told that Pico II was considered a minor and unimportant world by the Oligarchy, its sole claim to fame being the fact that the notorious criminal Santiago had once been imprisoned there more than two thousand years ago. It was a relatively underpopulated world then, and so it remains today.

  I visited the local library and asked its computer for biographical data on Rafael Jamal, with special attention to his military record. It searched its memory for almost three minutes before replying that the only reference it had to Jamal was a single newstape article concerning his accident. I suggested that it tie in to a larger computer on Pellinath or some other nearby world, discovered that the fee for expending so much energy on this energy-poor planet was exorbitant, and decided to start running the names of the artists in Abercrombie's collection through it instead. The first seven names had indeed served in the military— but the eighth had not, and by the time the computer had processed the nineteen names it could find, it turned out that five of them had no record of military service. I refused to abandon my theory that the woman was some ancient military myth-figure until I had determined whether the five had seen some sort of unofficial guerrilla action, but I realized that I would have to wait until I could access the Far London computer.

  When it became apparent that our stay on Pico II was to last more than a few hours, I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon in the Rarities and Collectibles Room. There were a number of books there— actual books, with paper and binding— and since I had never seen one before, I selected a number of hefty ancient volumes dealing with human art, went off to a cubicle in the Alien Section, and began thumbing through the pages of a book of modernist spacescapes. An hour later I had worked my way through about half the books when suddenly I came upon yet another portrait of Mr. Abercrombie's unknown woman.

  As always, she was dressed in black, and, as always, the exquisite regularity of her features was highlighted by an expression of infinite sorrow. I quickly checked the pertinent data and found that the portrait was completed on Earth in 1908 A.D., in a country called Uganda. The artist was a naturalist named Brian McGinnis, who was known primarily for the discovery of two rare species of orchid that grew on the slopes of a volcanic mountain; his only prior artwork had been a series of pastels of various orchids.

  The biographical sketch of McGinnis went on to say that he had been born in a country called Scotland, had received his education in botany and biology, had spent four years in the military, and had gone to Uganda, a wild and primitive land, at the age of twenty-eight. He published seventeen monographs, thirteen on orchids, three on local fauna, and one on volcanic formations, and died of an unknown disease at the age of thirty-six, in the year 1910 A.D.

  I have analyzed such data as I had been able to accumulate on the four artists, and I am still convinced that my theory is correct. If Jamal had indeed served in the military, it was the only thing they had in common, other than the fact that all four were human males who had each committed the same woman to canvas or hologram— and I am confident that when I access a Far London computer, it will confirm Jamal's military service.

  I then asked the library computer to determine the current whereabouts of the McGinnis painting, but again, it was unable to help me, nor could it give me any information concerning Reuben Venzia, a man about whom Mr. Abercrombie wants some information. In truth, I cannot understand why the people of Pico II have never bothered to upgrade their library computer.

  I finally went back to my room, prepared to contact Mr. Abercrombie and relate this new find to him, but the hotel's subspace tightbeam did not have the power to reach Far London, and the cost of patching the message through Zartaska and Gamma Leporis IX, the least complicated route, was so great that I decided to wait until I returned to Far London to inform him of my discovery.

  I spent the remainder of my time on Pico II in the library, examining every volume of artwork there in the hope of finding yet another rendering of Mr. Abercrombie's mysterious woman, but with no success; and when the announcement came through that the Navy had subdued the Bellum, I reported to the ship and continued my voyage back to Far London.

  When I arrived I went directly to Mr. Abercrombie's house, and found, to my amazement, that the Jamal painting was already hanging in his gallery. I expressed my surprise that he had purchased it so quickly, when Mr. Minneola had seemed so determined not to part with it, and he replied triumphantly that when he went after something he always got what he wanted. In this case, to use Mr. Abercrombie's own words (and I apologize for his vulgarity): “I damned near had to buy him a circus of his own.” His own purchasing agent, it would seem, had somehow circumvented the Navy's blockade to bring him the painting, which is how it arrived ahead of me.

  He seemed elated when I told him of the McGinnis painting, and ordered me to spare no expense in tracking it down. When I explained that I didn't know how to begin, and suggested that the painting, which was far from famous and had been rendered six thousand years earlier, might very well no longer exist, he became loud and even abusive at the suggestion, insisted that I was trying to sabotage his attempts to complete his collection, and demanded that I leave his presence and get back to work.

  To the hunger for privacy which I mentioned earlier, I must now add another trait Mr. Abercrombie possesses that is unique to the race of Man and might well be an additional symptom of mental instability: obsession.

  This woman doubtless never existed. She can have no possible meaning for Mr. Abercrombie. She has never been rendered by an artist of note. And yet my employer has spent a considerable portion of his fortune purchasing her portraits, and I am convinced that had Mr. Minneola not been willing to sell his painting, Mr. Abercrombie would not have hesitated to steal it. All this because of a human woman with a hauntingly sad face.


  I might add that the model herself remains a fascinating mystery. How is it that men separated by thousands of years and hundreds of thousands of light-years have come to render the very same subject? Why has she never been painted by one of the masters? In fact, why has she never been painted by any race but Man? Why is she never smiling, or wearing any color other than black? Other than the fact that all the men who painted her may have engaged in some form of armed conflict, what else do they have in common that I have somehow overlooked? Who is she, and what does she represent to them? Why has her name never been used in any of the portraits’ titles?

  I consider these fascinating questions constantly, and I am very grateful that I am a Bjornn and not a Man, or I, too, could fall prey to obsession.

  As always, I wish you prosperity for the House and security for the Family.

  Your devoted Pattern Son,

  LEONARDO

  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, 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, 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 fo
und 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?”