The Dark Lady

Leonardo, of the race of Bjornn, a business associate from Far London. He will be my guest for the next few hours.”
    “Registered,” said the voice.
    Suddenly a section of the wall slid back and Heath walked through, gesturing me to follow him. We followed a well-lighted corridor to a nearby elevator, and a moment later had descended to the basement level.
    “Here we are,” he said, walking to a door and standing before it while his voiceprint and retinagram were cleared. Then it slid silently into the wall, and we entered his darkened apartment.
    “Lights,” he commanded.
    Instantly the various lamps and light fixtures came to life, and I found myself in an elegantly furnished room that was equipped with a plethora of entertainment devices ranging from a full-sized holographic video to a number of highly complex games of skill, all keyed to a single computer. A recording of a string quartet serenaded us in decaphonic sound, while hypnotic ripples of light formed intricate pastel patterns on the walls and ceilings. A display case along one wall held some twenty sculptures and artifacts from around the galaxy, most of them quite small and delicate, each of them stunningly executed. A chrome tabletop floated two feet above the ground in front of a fur-covered couch, and on it were three leather-bound books from Earth.
    “Can I get you a drink?” asked Heath.
    “No, thank you,” I said.
    “You are the driest creature I've ever met,” he noted. “Are you getting hungry? I've got an exceptionally well-equipped kitchen, though I must confess that I've never cooked a meal in my life. You'll have to fix it yourself.”
    “Perhaps later,” I said. “I would like to see the Mallachi painting now.”
    “If you wish,” he said, walking into another room. He returned a moment later with a large canvas, which he propped up on the couch. It matched the hologram Tai Chong had given me.
    “Dreadful, isn't it?” he commented as we both looked at it.
    “He is not very skilled,” I admitted.
    “I wouldn't have had the gall to offer it to Tai Chong,” continued Heath, “except that the woman is so beautiful that she almost overcomes the inadequacies of the artist.” He continued to stare at the painting for a moment. “She really is quite striking, isn't she?”
    “Yes, she is,” I agreed. “Do you know if Mallachi has painted any other portraits of her?”
    “I doubt it,” answered Heath. “In fact, to the best of my knowledge this is his first painting.”
    “Can you tell me anything about him?”
    “Not very much,” replied Heath. “He spends most of his time on the Inner Frontier, though he makes his home on Quantos IX. He never talks about his profession, but from bits and pieces I've managed to pick up, I believe him to be a bounty hunter, and a highly successful one at that.”
    “If he is a wealthy man, and he does not paint for a living, why did he give you the portrait to sell?” I asked.
    “I gather that she left him a few months ago.”
    “And he is so heartbroken that he wants no reminders of her in his home?”
    “Or so furious.”
    I studied the sad face in the painting. “Did he say why she left him, or where she might have gone?”
    Heath shook his head. “I hardly know the man, Leonardo.” He looked at the painting again. “Do you really think Abercrombie will want this thing?” he asked dubiously.
    “He will want it.”
    “The man has no taste at all.”
    “He collects portraits of her,” I said.
    “He must be a completist.”
    “He would like to be.”
    “How hard can it be?” asked Heath. “After all, she can't be thirty-five years old. How many people can have painted her?”
    “More than you might suppose,” I replied. “Men have been painting and sculpting her for eight thousand years.”
    “She must have a commonplace face.”
    “Have you ever seen it before?” I asked.
    He stared at her portrait once more, then shook his head. “Never,” he admitted.
    “Did Mallachi ever speak of her?”
    “You make it sound like we're old friends,” complained Heath. “In point of fact, I've met the man twice. The only thing he told me was that he met her out on the Frontier somewhere.”
    “How long were they together?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Who knows?”
    “I think I would like to speak to Mallachi,” I said.
    “Why?”
    “To find out if she really exists.”
    “I already told you: She was his mistress.”
    “But you never saw