The Dark Lady (4 page)

“Do you mind if my colleague takes another look at it?”

“Your colleague?” repeated Abercrombie. He jerked a thumb in my direction. “You mean
that
?”

“This is Leonardo,” said Rayburn. “He's our Albion Cluster expert.”

I made a formal obeisance toward him and began approaching the painting.

“That's close enough,” said Abercrombie ominously when I got to within about ten feet of him.

“Is something wrong, Friend Malcolm?” I asked.

His cold blue eyes stared directly into mine. “I don't have much use for aliens. Never did, never will.”

“Then I shall content myself with examining the painting from here, Friend Malcolm,” I said.

“I'm not your friend,” said Abercrombie.

I studied it for a moment, and then Rayburn said: “Have you changed your mind, Leonardo?”

“No, Friend Hector,” I replied. “I have not changed my mind.”

“And now, if you're through,” said Abercrombie, “I'm in a hurry.”

“We're through,” said Rayburn, turning to me as Abercrombie supervised the wrapping of the painting. “You're sure you've never seen anything by Kilcullen before?”

“No, Friend Hector.”

“Does his work resemble that of any Albion Cluster artist who might reasonably bring that kind of price?”

“No, Friend Hector.”

“Now listen to me, Leonardo,” said Rayburn. “Two different men valued this painting at over 350,000 credits, and I'd like to know why your estimate is at such variance with theirs before I bid on any more pieces from the Albion Cluster. Mr. Abercrombie could be a collector who's simply infatuated with this single painting, but Venzia owns a gallery, so I'm going to put the question to you again: Is there
any
similarity between this piece and any other work from the Albion Cluster that might have brought a six-digit price?”

“None, Friend Hector,” I said. “I do not wish to offend Friend Malcolm, but this painting is simply not worth that much money. In fact, the only resemblance it bears to any more noteworthy artwork is the striking similarity of the subject to that in a Binder X hologram which was sold for 150,000 credits almost two years ago.”

Abercrombie turned to me.

“When you say subject, do you mean the model?” he asked sharply.

“Yes, Friend Malcolm.”

“And you've seen that model before?” he persisted.

“I do not know, Friend Malcolm,” I answered. “I have seen a remarkable likeness of the model in a Binder X hologram. But I have also seen an equally similar resemblance in a Patagonian painting, and Patagonia IV was abandoned 308 years before Kilcullen was even born.”

“I suppose all humans look alike to you,” suggested Abercrombie, and I had the feeling that he was intently observing my reaction.

“No, Friend Malcolm,” I replied. “I find each of you quite distinctive. Otherwise I could not have made the human artwork of the Albion Cluster my specialty.”

He stared at me for a long moment. I could sense his innate dislike of me, though I could ascertain no logical reason for it. Finally he turned to Rayburn.

“I want a word with you,” he said. “In private.”

“Why not?” replied Rayburn. He turned to me. “Why don't you rejoin Madame Chong, Leonardo? I'll be along in a minute.”

“Yes, Friend Hector,” I said, and, glad to finally be free of Abercrombie's unsettling presence, I returned to the main gallery.

“Where's Hector?” asked Tai Chong when she saw that I was alone.

“He is speaking with Mr. Abercrombie, who seems to have taken an intense dislike to me,” I said. “I truly did nothing to offend him, Great Lady.”

“I'm sure you didn't, Leonardo,” she said soothingly. “I just hope you don't judge all Men by this evening.”

“I don't judge them at all, Great Lady,” I replied.

“Then perhaps you should.”

She fell silent then, watching distractedly as a small three-dimensional spacescape from Thamaaliki II brought a moderate price, and an early Kamathi sold for somewhat higher than I would have anticipated, given its crudeness of line. Then Rayburn joined us, a curious expression on his face.

“Well?” demanded Tai Chong.

“He just made us the damnedest offer I've ever heard!”

“What was it?” she asked.

“In a minute,” he replied. He turned to me. “Leonardo, I want the truth now: What do you think of Malcolm Abercrombie?”

“I think that he must be under considerable tension because of the auction, Friend Hector.”

“Come on,” scoffed Rayburn. “I said the
truth."

“I think he is a narrow-minded xenophobe with a totally inadequate knowledge of current art market values,” I said, and I could feel my color registering the Hue of Absolute Honesty.

“That's more like it,” said Rayburn with a chuckle. “He thinks even less of you.”

“Get to the point, Hector,” said Tai Chong irritably.

“The point, Madame Chong,” said Rayburn, “is that Malcolm Abercrombie just offered the Claiborne Galleries our choice: an early Sabai ink sketch or fifty thousand credits.”

“In exchange for what?” she demanded.

Rayburn grinned in amusement.

“A week of Leonardo's time.”

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 effect 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.