The Dark Lady

five feet six inches. Weight, 128 pounds. Hair, black. Eyes, black. Age, between twenty-eight and thirty-six years, based on skin texture and skeletal structure, with a possible error of... ”
    “Deactivate,” commanded Heath. He turned to me. “Does that sound like an apparition?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Then are you satisfied?”
    “No.”
    “No?” he repeated. “Why not?”
    “Your computer is a machine, and as such, it can only analyze the data it was programmed to analyze. It cannot take into account the facts I have accumulated about the Dark Lady's past.”
    He stared at me for a long moment.
    “You know, you're becoming rather argumentative,” he said. “I trust I'm not the cause of this newfound aggression.”
    “I apologize if I have offended you,” I said.
    “I'm not offended, just surprised.” He sighed. “All right, Leonardo, what do you think she is?”
    “I do not know.”
    “You've no explanation for why she claims to have known these long-dead artists?”
    “No,” I said. “And I should point out that most of the men who painted her were not artists.”
    “Oh?” he said, surprised. “What were they?”
    “I have been unable to establish a common link among them,” I admitted.
    He seemed to consider the problem for a moment, then shrugged and mixed himself another drink.
    “Well, there's no sense driving ourselves crazy worrying about it. Maybe Abercrombie will be able to figure it out.”
    “Why should Malcolm Abercrombie chance upon the solution?” I asked. “He knows even less about her than you do.”
    “We're going to deliver her to him,” said Heath.
    “I do not understand.”
    Heath smiled. “Perhaps ‘deliver’ is the wrong word. We're going to negotiate with him for the pleasure of her company.”
    “You cannot sell one sentient being to another!”
    “Nobody's selling anything, Leonardo,” he said easily. “We're just performing a social service for two people who might find out that they have a lot in common.”
    “She is not a piece of property to be rented by the hour!” I said, horrified.
    “Who said anything about prostitution?” asked Heath innocently. “From what you tell me, between his age and his tumor, Abercrombie's probably past the point of being able to do anything about it even if he wanted to.” He leaned forward. “But he's spent tens of millions of credits buying paintings of her. The man's got an obsession that's taken up a third of his life. Surely the chance to actually see her in the flesh, to know that she exists, to talk to her and maybe commission an artist of his own choice... it's got to be worth something to him.”
    “She said that she will never meet Abercrombie.”
    “And I'm sure she believes it,” replied Heath. “But believing something doesn't necessarily make it true. Hell, she also believes that she isn't human.”
    “This is kidnapping!” I protested.
    “We would be guilty of kidnapping if we had taken her against her will,” he said. “She came with us voluntarily.”
    “But she did not know what you planned to do.”
    “You seem to think that she's some kind of royalty, to be treated with deference and abject respect,” complained Heath. “Let me remind you that she consorts with killers, she arranged for her lover to be brutally slaughtered by bounty hunters, she's been kicked off Acheron, and she hasn't got a credit to her name. She should be grateful that we consented to take her along at all.” He paused. “Look,” he said more reasonably, “if it will appease your conscience, I'll give her ten percent of whatever I can get from Abercrombie. It'll probably be more money than she's ever seen at one time.”
    “She will not accept it.”
    “Of course she will.”
    “She will not,” I repeated. “She has already said as much.”
    “She will, when she realizes that the alternative is being delivered to Abercrombie and not getting ten percent.”
    “I cannot permit this!”
    “Leonardo,” said Heath, “let me be absolutely straightforward with you. I find myself in a somewhat awkward financial position.” He paused and sighed. “In point of fact, I am currently a fugitive from justice. I can't go back to Charlemagne for the foreseeable future, and I'm sure the police have frozen all my assets there. They will doubtless have put a trace on all my credit accounts, so I don't dare use them either. I must have a prompt infusion of cash, and this seems to afford me the best