The Dark Lady

“Bjornn society is a matriarchy. Males are infinitely replaceable; females are the source of strength and stability within the House. Therefore, all males leave the House, and usually the planet, upon reaching maturity, lest they prove disruptive to the orderly life of the House.”
    “From what you've said, it seems to me they'd miss the social life of their Houses.”
    “Desperately.”
    “Do they ever return?”
    “Only for breeding, or to take further instruction in the ethos of their Houses.” I stared directly at Heath. “One meets many deleterious influences while traveling abroad in the galaxy, and occasionally one must return home to reimmerse oneself in the moral imperatives of the Bjornn.”
    Heath looked amused. “I do believe I've just been insulted.”
    “If so, then I apologize.”
    “Graciously accepted,” he said. “And now, shall we get back to discussing Abercrombie and his collection?”
    “I am ethically compelled not to.”
    “Ethics can be such a bother,” he said wryly. “Especially, it would seem, for a Bjornn.”
    “I come from a very harmonious and honorable society,” I replied. “Doubtless I was inadequate in my description of it.”
    “I doubt it. I get the distinct impression that it stifles a certain type of individual initiative.”
    “The individual is nothing. The House is all.”
    “You don't really believe that nonsense, do you?” he asked.
    “I most certainly do.”
    “Well, after a couple of weeks with me, you'll have a more practical outlook.”
    “We shall not be together that long.”
    “Certainly we will,” he replied easily. “You've got to examine the painting, and then you wanted to meet Mallachi. That's four or five days right there.”
    “But you said two weeks,” I pointed out.
    “So I did.”
    “What will consume the extra time?” I asked.
    “Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something,” he answered confidently, and somehow I knew that I had not heard the last of his questions about Malcolm Abercrombie and his collection.

9.
    As night fell, I still had not formed a judgment concerning Valentine Heath. He was interesting and amusing, and he treated me with civility and respect; but if he was to be believed (and I saw no reason to doubt him), he was a thoroughly amoral felon who was currently harboring stolen artwork and would doubtless be selling some of it to an unsuspecting Tai Chong before too much longer. Even before we descended to the ground floor of the Excelsior Hotel, I had decided to remain in his company only long enough to obtain the Mallachi painting, and then to return to Far London as quickly as possible.
    “Shall we hire a vehicle, or is there some form of public transportation you would prefer?” I asked as we approached the front door.
    “Public transportation?” he repeated with a mock grimace. “Rubbing shoulders with the proletariat while they exhale smoke and garlic in your face? Bite your tongue, Leonardo!”
    “Then I will flag down a vehicle,” I said, stepping outside.
    “Allow me,” he said, signaling to a large, luxurious silver vehicle that was halfway down the street. It immediately came to life and pulled up to the door.
    “My pride and joy,” he said, opening a door for me. “Even the cigar lighter is fusion-powered. What do you think of it?”
    “It is quite large,” I remarked as I climbed into the immense back seat.
    “If you're thirsty, there's a built-in bar,” he said, joining me and pressing a button that raised a small liquor cabinet between us.
    “No, thank you.”
    “There's also a video with an octaphonic sound system,” he continued.
    “How interesting,” I said.
    He pressed another button, and I stifled a yelp as the entire seat began vibrating.
    “For those days when you're bone-weary from dodging the police,” he explained.
    He knocked on the opaque glass that separated us from the front seat, and the driver, a Mollutei, slid the panel back.
    “Yes, Mr. Heath?” he said through a translator pack, which came out in perfect Terran.
    “The subterranean penthouse, James,” he said.
    “Yes, Mr. Heath,” replied the Mollutei, sliding the glass panel shut again.
    “What is a subterranean penthouse?” I asked.
    He chuckled. “An underground apartment.”
    “I noticed that you called your driver James,” I said. “I was not aware that the Mollutei possessed human names.”
    “They don't. But I can't pronounce his name, so I call him James.” He paused. “The