The Dark Lady

by Mike Resnick

“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 G.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 to 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 th
e 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 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 n
ames 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.”