The Dark Lady

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