The Dark Lady

mysterious woman, but with no success; and when the announcement came through that the Navy had subdued the Bellum, I reported to the ship and continued my voyage back to Far London.
    When I arrived I went directly to Mr. Abercrombie's house, and found, to my amazement, that the Jamal painting was already hanging in his gallery. I expressed my surprise that he had purchased it so quickly, when Mr. Minneola had seemed so determined not to part with it, and he replied triumphantly that when he went after something he always got what he wanted. In this case, to use Mr. Abercrombie's own words (and I apologize for his vulgarity): “I damned near had to buy him a circus of his own.” His own purchasing agent, it would seem, had somehow circumvented the Navy's blockade to bring him the painting, which is how it arrived ahead of me.
    He seemed elated when I told him of the McGinnis painting, and ordered me to spare no expense in tracking it down. When I explained that I didn't know how to begin, and suggested that the painting, which was far from famous and had been rendered six thousand years earlier, might very well no longer exist, he became loud and even abusive at the suggestion, insisted that I was trying to sabotage his attempts to complete his collection, and demanded that I leave his presence and get back to work.
    To the hunger for privacy which I mentioned earlier, I must now add another trait Mr. Abercrombie possesses that is unique to the race of Man and might well be an additional symptom of mental instability: obsession.
    This woman doubtless never existed. She can have no possible meaning for Mr. Abercrombie. She has never been rendered by an artist of note. And yet my employer has spent a considerable portion of his fortune purchasing her portraits, and I am convinced that had Mr. Minneola not been willing to sell his painting, Mr. Abercrombie would not have hesitated to steal it. All this because of a human woman with a hauntingly sad face.
    I might add that the model herself remains a fascinating mystery. How is it that men separated by thousands of years and hundreds of thousands of light-years have come to render the very same subject? Why has she never been painted by one of the masters? In fact, why has she never been painted by any race but Man? Why is she never smiling, or wearing any color other than black? Other than the fact that all the men who painted her may have engaged in some form of armed conflict, what else do they have in common that I have somehow overlooked? Who is she, and what does she represent to them? Why has her name never been used in any of the portraits’ titles?
    I consider these fascinating questions constantly, and I am very grateful that I am a Bjornn and not a Man, or I, too, could fall prey to obsession.
    As always, I wish you prosperity for the House and security for the Family.
    Your devoted Pattern Son,
    LEONARDO

5.
    I entered the local branch of the library, presented myself to the head librarian, waited while he confirmed that Mr. Abercrombie would indeed pay for the computer time, and then was escorted to a small cubicle in what was labeled the “Off-World Section,” but was in fact an area consisting entirely of non-humans.
    The section was relatively crowded, and the feeling of uneasiness that had manifested itself as I walked from my hotel through the relatively empty Far London streets to the library had totally vanished by the time I activated the computer.
    “Good morning,” said a not-very-mechanical voice. “How may I serve you?”
    “I require a brief biographical sketch about a circus performer named Rafael Jamal,” I said in the Dialect of Command. “I especially want the details of his military record.”
    “Would you prefer a verbal answer or a hard copy?” asked the computer.
    “May I have both?” I asked.
    “Certainly— but it will cost more.”
    “That is acceptable.”
    “I require some preliminary data,” said the computer. “To what race does Rafael Jamal belong?”
    “The race of Man,” I answered.
    “Is he alive, and if not, when did he live?”
    “He lived approximately 350 years ago, in the first century of the Oligarchy.”
    “What was his planet of residence?”
    “I do not know,” I admitted. “But I suspect that it was Patagonia IV, for he was an invalid at the time he produced a painting there, and he died shortly thereafter.”
    “Thank you,” said the computer. “I am searching my library