Authors: Mike Resnick
Tai Chong, still holding my hand, began escorting me through the room, introducing me to various friends and associates of hers (whom I addressed gravely in the Dialect of Courtly Diplomacy, the imposed vagueness of which seemed to amuse them). Then Hector Rayburn, looking very dapper in his sleek, shining evening clothes, walked over and greeted us.
“I see you found him, Madame Chong,” he said.
“Those bastards out front have created an Aliens Only entrance,” she said, her anger returning.
Rayburn nodded his head. “I've heard they've been giving aliens a hard time all evening.”
“It was only a minor misunderstanding, Friend Hector,” I said.
“It was a major breach of manners,” said Tai Chong.
“Well, there doesn't seem to have been any permanent harm done,” said Rayburn easily. He ignored Tai Chong's outraged glance. “Leonardo, can I borrow a few minutes of your time?”
“Certainly, Friend Hector.” I turned to Tai Chong. “If it is acceptable to you, Great Lady?”
“The Albion Cluster artwork?” she asked Rayburn.
“Yes,” he replied.
She smiled at me. “Well, that's what you're here for. I'll meet you again after you've finished.”
Rayburn led me out of the main gallery and down a narrow tiled corridor.
“She's going to be hell to live with for the next couple of days,” he remarked.
“I beg your pardon, Friend Hector?”
“Madame Chong,” he explained. “Her and her damned causes.
You
know those guards were just a couple of dumb clods who didn't mean any harm, and
I
know it, but you'll never convince her of it.” He paused. “I wish she'd defend her human employees with the same vigor.” Suddenly he seemed uncomfortable. “Meaning no offense, of course.”
“I know you meant no offense,” I replied carefully.
“She thinks she can change human nature overnight, and it just can't be done,” he continued. “One of these days she's going to jump in and defend the wrong damned alien or schizoid killer or whatever she's defending that week, and then she's going to find herself in big trouble.”
Before I could think of a diplomatic answer, we came to a small rectangular gallery that was filled with perhaps fifty paintings and holograms. There were nudes, portraits, landscapes, seascapes, spacescapes, still lifes, even some nonrepresentational pieces that had been created by a computer equipped with a Durham/Liebermann perception module.
Rayburn waited until I had briefly examined the collection, then turned to me.
“I've got a client who's interested in investing in a couple of pieces from the Albion Cluster,” he said. “And since that's your field of expertise, I thought you'd be willing to let me pick your mind.”
“I will be happy to help you in any way I can, Friend Hector,” I answered. “How much money is she prepared to spend?”
“She's a he,” he said. “And he'll go up to a quarter of a million credits. I've marked a couple of the likelier pieces in my catalog, but I'd like your input.” He paused uneasily. “Also, authentication was never my strong point. I'd especially like to know if you think the Primrose is authentic.” Suddenly his self-assurance seemed to return to him. “I'll make the final decision, and I'll take full responsibility for it. But I'd like your input, just the same.”
“If I am to be of any use to you, Friend Hector, I must respectfully request that I be permitted to examine the artwork more closely.”
He seemed relieved. “Certainly. I'll be back in a few minutes.” He walked to the doorway. “I want to sample some of that Denebian wine before it's all gone.” He paused as he saw my color darken. “You don't mind, do you? I mean, there's nothing I could do here but stand around and watch you.”
“No, Friend Hector,” I lied. “I do not mind.”
“Good. I
knew
all this stuff Madame Chong was spouting about Bjornns not wanting to be alone was just her imagination.” He stepped out into the corridor, then stuck his head back in. “You won't forget to check the Primrose?”
“I will not forget, Friend Hector,” I said.
“Fine. I'll see you in a little while.”
Then he was gone, and I forced myself to concentrate on the artwork rather than my isolation, and gradually the feeling of nakedness retreated behind my total absorption with the work at hand.
Most of the two-dimensional paintings were between six and ten centuries old, though there was one (and not a very good one, at that) which seemed to date back almost three thousand years. The majority of the holograms, especially those composed in
static/stace
— electrostatic patterns frozen in stasis— were no more than a century old, though, again, there was one that seemed to date back almost five millennia, back to the days when the race of Man was first expanding into the galaxy.
All but two of the pieces were undeniably created by human hands, and I felt there was a chance that one of the other two was also. Only two of the artists were of truly major stature— Jablonski, who had lived a thousand years ago on Kabalka V, and Primrose, who had achieved a certain notoriety on Barios IV before his work fell into disrepute— but all of the pieces fell into clearly defined and easily identified schools of the Albion Cluster.
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 ultimately 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.
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.”