by Mike Resnick
He stopped speaking and handed the computer back to me.
“And portraits exist of all these myth-figures?” I asked.
He nodded affirmatively. “The myths may differ, but the woman is the same.”
“You are quite sure?”
“I could hardly expect you to consider my offer if I lied to you, could I?”
“No, you could not,” I admitted. “I thank you for your help.”
“My pleasure.” He withdrew a small card and inserted it briefly into the computer. “That's my address on Far London and my vidphone access number. Contact me whenever you're ready to talk a little business.” He got to his feet. “Since our conversation is finished, I trust you'll forgive me for leaving you here, but the truth of the matter is that the smell is making me sick.”
“One last question!” I said so emphatically that I drew additional stares from the nearby tables and a surly look from the waiter.
“Just one, Leonardo,” he replied. “There's a difference between good faith and philanthropy.”
“Why has her portrait always been rendered by unknowns?”
“I wouldn't call them unknowns,” answered Venzia. “Some of them were quite famous. I gather this Kilcullen was quite a military hero, and our boy on Patagonia IV was supposedly the greatest trapeze artist of his time.”
“But they were unknown as artists,” I persisted.
“True enough,” he conceded. Once again he looked amused. “Good question, Leonardo.”
“What is the answer?”
“I don't think I'm going to tell you.”
“But you agreed to.”
“I agreed to let you ask one more question,” replied Venzia. “I never agreed to answer it.”
“May I ask why not?”
He smiled and shook his head. “That's another question.”
Then he was gone, and I was left alone at my table to wonder why a man who professed no interest whatsoever in possessing any of the various renderings of this mysterious woman should be so vitally interested in the artists, or why he had more facts at his fingertips than Malcolm Abercrombie had been able to amass in a quarter of a century.
6.
The next two weeks were uneventful. I was unable to find any other paintings of Abercrombie's model, and I spent most of my time investigating the list of names that Venzia had read into my pocket computer.
The results were puzzling. The renderings of Melaina, Eresh-Kigal, Macha, and K'tani Ngai to which he had referred me were all of our mystery woman— but when I delved further into the lore surrounding Melaina, the Black Mare of Death, I found five other renderings, all different. Curious, I next researched K'tani Ngai, and discovered that in every other portrait and carving, except the one in the MacMillan Library, she was a black woman, usually portrayed with the hands and feet of a leopard. The same held true for Macha and Eresh-Kigal.
The only other name on his list was Shareen d'Amato, and I had the Far London library computer access the computer on Peloran III. Its answer to my query was brief but intriguing:
D'AMATO, SHAREEN. DATE OF BIRTH, UNKNOWN. DATE OF DEATH, UNKNOWN. CLAIMED CITIZENSHIP ON BANTHOR III, BUT BANTHOR III POSSESSES NO RECORD OF HER.
“Wait!” I said excitedly. “Do you mean to say that Shareen d'Amato actually existed?”
YES.
“When and where?”
AS EXPLAINED, A COMPLETE BIOGRAPHY OF SHAREEN D'AMATO IS UNAVAILABLE.
“Give me such facts as you possess.”
SHE WAS THE CONSORT OF JEBEDIAH PERKINS FROM 3222 G.E. TO 3224 G.E.
“That's all you know about her?”
YES.
“When was her portrait painted?”
IN 3223 G.E.
“By Perkins?”
YES.
“Give me Perkins’ biographical data.”
JEBEDIAH PERKINS, BORN 3193 G.E., SPACESHIP PILOT WITH KARANGA INDUSTRIES FROM 3215 TO 3219 G.E., PILOT WITH BONWIT CARTEL FROM 3219 TO 3222 G.E., PILOT WITH FALCON CORPORATION FROM 3222 TO 3224 G.E., DIED IN 3224 G.E. WHILE PILOTING A SHIPFUL OF SCIENTIFIC OBSERVERS TO THE VICINITY OF THE QUINIBAR SUPERNOVA.
“Did he get too close?” I asked.
UNKNOWN.
“Was Shareen d'Amato aboard the ship?”
UNKNOWN. IT IS GENERALLY SUPPOSED SO, BUT THERE IS NO VERIFIABLE DATA.
“Was there ever a photograph or hologram taken of Shareen d'Amato?”
UNKNOWN.
“Why is she believed to haunt the spacemen's cemetery on Peloran VII?”
UNKNOWN.
“Has anyone ever claimed to see her there?”
UNKNOWN.
“Thank you,” I said, breaking the connection.
It was frustrating that the computer could supply so little information, but the one piece of positive data it had supplied was fascinating: Unlike all the other goddesses and myth-figures, Shareen d'Amato had actually lived, and had presumably posed for the portrait that now resided in one of the art museums on Peloran VII.
I found a vidphone booth in the library and called Abercrombie to tell him of my discovery.
“Interesting,” he said after activating the vidphone and listening to my information. “What museum owns the painting?”
“I can find out by this afternoon,” I said. “But the intriguing thing is that she actually lived!”
He shook his head. “I doubt it.”
“But the computer said— ”
“The computer is wrong,” he interrupted me. “If she was born in the Third Millennium of the Galactic Era, how the hell did her image turn up on all those earlier paintings and holograms and statues?”
I hadn't considered that, and I had no answer for him.
“Start using your brain, Leonardo,” he continued. “If this d'Amato woman actually existed, then the painting's an aberration, a fluke.”
“I can research her more thoroughly,” I suggested.
“How?” he asked contemptuously. “Your best bet was Peloran VII, and the computer there has already told you everything it knows.” He paused. “Look— I'm not writing a scholarly thesis on this woman. I hired you to find her portraits, not to tell me that she shacked up with some spaceship pilot more than fifteen hundred years ago. Now track down the painting and find out how much they want for it.”
“Yes, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said.
He stared sharply at me. “By the way, I've never heard of Jebediah Perkins. How did you find out he had painted her?”
“Reuben Venzia told me.”
“Venzia!” he repeated, leaning forward with interest. “Have you finished researching him?”
“I haven't yet begun,” I replied. “He sought me out two weeks ago and volunteered some information concerning the woman in the paintings.” I paused. “Thus far, everything he told me has been verified.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And what did you give him in exchange for this information?”
“Absolutely nothing, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said truthfully.
“Nobody gives anything away for nothing!” he snapped. “Exactly what did you promise to give him? Paintings of my model?”
“Nothing,” I repeated, shocked. “He asked for certain specific information concerning upcoming art auctions, but I refused to divulge it or help him in any manner.”
“What kind of information?” he persisted.
“Information concerning portraits of the subject that you collect.”
“And he gave you all this stuff on the paintings after you refused to help him?” said Abercrombie with obvious disbelief.
“That is correct,” I said. “He is interested only in the subject herself. He has no interest in the portraits.”
“No interest?” Abercrombie yelled. “He went to 350,000 credits for the Kilcullen painting, you lying, tiger-striped bastard!”
“But he never had any intention of purchasing it,” I explained.
“Just how gullible do I look to you?” demanded Abercrombie coldl
y.
“He says that he was merely trying to... ”
I suddenly realized that the screen was blank and I was talking into a deactivated vidphone. I checked to make sure that we hadn't been inadvertently disconnected, and then, experiencing a surprising sense of elation, I returned to the computer. I was unhappy that I had upset Abercrombie, of course, but I was also relieved that I would be able to continue my researches rather than have to go out to his house to explain in detail what I had learned. (Not that I couldn't have told him just as easily by vidphone or even computer, but he preferred to have his employees meet him in person, which made no sense to me at all, since once I appeared on his premises he usually ignored me for hours and then insisted that I cover everything we had to discuss in a brief sentence or two.)
I spent the next three hours having the library computer check various sources for more information about Shareen d'Amato, but it was unable to add anything substantive, though it supplied me with a number of romantic legends concerning her ghost, which supposedly haunted the cemetery, greeting the shades of departed spacemen and offering them drink and sexual comfort on their way to the next life.
Then, as I was about to leave the library to obtain nourishment, the computer came to life again.
“In my continuing search for data, I have found a book containing material on Brian McGinnis,” it announced.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“In a small local library on Aguella VII.”
“Aguella VII is not a human colony,” I said. “I wonder how a book about an African botanist came to be there?”
“The book is not about McGinnis, but rather about the early days of Great Britain's colonization of Uganda,” replied the computer. “It was donated, along with 308 other volumes about Uganda, by Jora Nagata, a structural engineer of Ugandan ancestry who emigrated to Aguella VII in 2167 G.E. and worked on several projects as a consultant to the Aguellan government.”
“Can I access the book?” I asked.
“I have committed the pertinent sections to memory, and will reproduce them on the screen,” answered the computer.
There followed some fifteen hundred words on McGinnis, whose primary claim to fame seemed to be that he occasionally displayed more bravery than intelligence in his dealings with the local fauna. Once, by the simple expedient of yelling and fluttering a white handkerchief in the wind, he diverted a stampeding herd of buffalo from a native village that he was visiting, and on numerous other occasions he went alone and unarmed into the jungle to observe the various carnivores. His discovery of the two new orchid species, one of which bore his name, was not even mentioned.
“Is that all?” I asked when I had finished reading.
“That is all the written text.”
“You say that as if there's something else.”
“There is a photograph of Brian McGinnis.”
“Please let me see it.”
Suddenly the screen was covered by a sepia-toned print of a young man, clad in short pants and short-sleeved shirt, his rifle cradled in his arms, a look of enormous pride on his bronzed face, standing with his foot on the neck of a large spotted cat which the caption said was believed to be a man-eater. There were four figures standing behind him: three were dark-skinned, obviously his assistants or colleagues. The fourth was pale-skinned, a woman, and I knew who it was before I ordered the computer to enlarge her image, since she alone was clad in black despite what I had read of the intense heat and sunlight that one encounters in Earth's equatorial zone.
It was her. She had the same sad eyes, the same prominent cheekbones, even the same hair style.
“Who is the woman?” I demanded.
“I cannot answer that,” responded the computer. “There is no mention of her in the book, and she is not identified in the photograph.”
“Do you recognize her?”
“She is the subject of the portraits that you have been seeking.”
“Why did you not tell me about this photograph?”
“You specified that you were only interested in works of art, and while some photographs do indeed qualify as art, it is my best judgment that this photograph is primarily one of documentation.”
“I am now interested in all photographs of this woman as well as all other artwork,” I said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do your memory banks contain any others?” I persisted.
There was a fifteen-second pause.
“No.”
“I want you to reaccess all the library computers you have contacted on my behalf and determine if any of them contain photographs of the woman, and then continue your search for her among those computers that you have not yet accessed.” I paused. “Start with the library on Peloran VII and see if it possesses a photograph or hologram of Shareen d'Amato.”
“Have you any further instructions?”
“No. You can contact me at my hotel or Malcolm Abercrombie's residence as soon as you have further data.”
I left the cubicle, walked to the vidphone booth, and placed a call to Abercrombie to tell him what I had learned— and also to get his input, since I now had proof that his mystery woman had lived at the turn of the twentieth century A.D., some two thousand years after her image began appearing in various human artwork. I knew that the science of cloning had not existed prior to the time of the photograph, but I was unable to formulate any other logical explanation that would encompass all the facts I had thus far amassed.
There was no answer, and, assuming him to be asleep or busy at his computer, I decided that I might as well begin the journey to his house, since he would doubtless demand my presence the moment I contacted him. I left the library with great reluctance, for I was certain that a photograph or hologram of Shareen d'Amato must exist somewhere within the Oligarchy and I was unbearably anxious to see it, but I realized that it would take the computer a considerable amount of time to arrange for its networking, and I decided that the sooner I left, the sooner I would be able to return.
It took me almost forty minutes to reach Abercrombie's estate, for the streets were crowded with lunch-hour traffic, and I lingered amid the crush of bodies, enjoying the sensation of warmth and security they inadvertently provided. Eventually I reached the outskirts of the city, and a few moments later I stepped onto the automatic walkway that led to Abercrombie's mansion.
“Please identify yourself,” said the mechanical voice of the security system.
“I am Leonardo.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I do not need an appointment,” I replied, surprised by the question. “I work for Mr. Abercrombie.”
“I have no record of a current employee named Leonardo.”
“This is ridiculous. I was here two days ago.”
“Two days ago you were employed by Mr. Abercrombie,” replied the voice. “This afternoon you are not.”
“There must be some mistake,” I said uneasily. “Please check your records again.”
“Checking... You are not in Mr. Abercrombie's employ.”
“Please let me speak to him,” I said.
“His standing order is that he will not speak to strangers.”
“But I am not a stranger!” I protested.
“I am prohibited by my programming from contacting him on your behalf.”
“Then I will approach the house and speak to him in person,” I said, taking a step forward.
“I cannot permit entrance by unauthorized personnel,” said the voice. “Please step back. In five seconds the walkway will possess a lethal electrical charge. Four. Three. Two.”
I quickly moved backward.
“The walkway is now impassable,” announced the voice. “Please do not approach the house via the lawn as precautions have been taken to prevent your access.”
“Get the idea, you turncoat alien bastard?” boomed Abercrombie's amplified voice.
“Mr. Abercrombie, what is the meaning of this
?” I asked, confused and frightened.
“It means that when I hire someone, even someone like you, I expect his loyalty!”
“I have given you my complete loyalty,” I responded.
“I paid you to get me some background on that sonofabitch, not to consort with him!” he roared.
“I have not consorted with him,” I explained. “He sought me out, and I rejected his proposition.”
“Then why did you hide it?”
“I hid nothing.”
“Bullshit! You met with him two weeks ago, and I still wouldn't know about it if you hadn't blundered and let it slip out!”
“I thought it too trivial to mention,” I said. “He asked for my help and I refused it.”
“You should have gone with him when you had the chance,” said Abercrombie. “Now it's too late.”
“I do not understand what you are saying, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“Nobody double-crosses Malcolm Abercrombie! I paid you ten times what you're worth to help me get the only thing in the universe that I want, and the second you're out of my sight you start cozying up to that little wart Venzia. It serves me right for trusting an alien. That's one goddamned mistake I'll never make again.”
“You are totally misinterpreting what I have said to you, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“I'm properly interpreting what you haven't got the guts to say to me!”
“If I could just speak to you in person... ” I pleaded.
“I've seen more of you than I care to see,” he replied. “Now get the hell off my property.”
“But this is just a misunderstanding!” I continued. “I implore you to give me the opportunity to explain!”
“It's over,” he said. “I've already served notice to the Claiborne Galleries and the House of Crsthionn that I've terminated your employment because of your disloyalty. Now, unless you want me to report you to the police for trespassing, I think you'd better crawl off to whatever hole you came out of.”
“You've told the House?” I repeated, as the full impact of what he said struck me.
“You heard me.”
“The House?” I said again, my limbs so numb I could barely keep my balance.
There was no answer.
