Authors: Mike Resnick
“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 found 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?”
“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 the 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.”