The Dark Lady

time.”
    “By midnight they'll be in three different spaceships, all bound for God knows where,” she replied. “There won't be another time.”
    “I will see them when they are auctioned.”
    “They're too heavy and bulky to move out to the auction room,” she said. “That's why they're on display here.” She turned to the guard. “I'm asking you one last time: Will you let my colleague into the exhibit?”
    He shook his head. “I've got my orders.”
    I sensed that she was barely in control of her temper, and ignoring my own bitter disappointment, I gently touched her hand.
    “Please, Great Lady,” I said softly. “There are many other sculptures and paintings for me to look at.”
    “Damn it, Leonardo, doesn't this bother you at all?” she asked in obvious exasperation.
    “I have been instructed that when I visit human worlds, I must obey human laws,” I answered carefully.
    “This isn't a law!” she snapped, glaring at the guard. “It's a policy, and I intend to protest it!”
    “That's certainly your right,” he said with the total unconcern of one who knows that he is not ultimately responsible for his own behavior.
    She glared at the guard, her anger almost tangible, then abruptly walked back to the main gallery, leading me by the hand as if I were a small human child. I myself felt strangely tranquil: An even more vitriolic scene had been avoided, and the experience had reinforced the truth that one's personal desires and goals are ultimately unimportant.
    I was new to human society, and this was the first time I had pursued my private wants, in however trivial a manner. It would not be the last.

2.
    The auction was just beginning when we rejoined Rayburn, who was engaged in animated conversation with an elderly woman who had dyed her hair green to match the color of her emeralds. I was quite calm, but I could tell that Tai Chong was still seething with anger at the guard.
    “Honored guests,” said the auctioneer, “welcome to the Odysseus Gallery's third semiannual auction. Tonight we will be presenting 143 pieces for your consideration, the majority of them from the worlds of the Albion and Quinellus clusters— and, of course, the pièce de résistance of this evening's offerings, a trio of works by the immortal Felix Morita, which have been donated by the government of Argentine III. I should add that all revenues received for the Moritas will be used to combat the mutated virus that has wrought such havoc in the Argentine system, and that the Odysseus Gallery will be donating one-third of all our commissions earned this evening to the Argentine III Relief Fund.”
    “He'll still make ten times more than he would without the Moritas,” whispered Rayburn with a knowing smile. “That was probably part of the bargain.”
    The auctioneer paused until the polite applause subsided. “Now let's get the evening off to a great beginning with a piece from Earth itself.”
    An ancient chrome sculpture was brought out. It had been crafted in Uganda in 2908 A.D. (or -2 G.E.), had somehow turned up on Spica II a century later, and was later added to the collection of Andrea Baros, a famed actress of the Late Republic Era. But while its history was fascinating, its lack of quality was apparent, and the auctioneer was soon trying unsuccessfully to get the interested parties to proceed with more than thousand-credit jumps.
    Tai Chong tensely observed the bidding for a moment, and then turned to me.
    “You stay with Hector,” she said, and I could see that her rage had not dissipated. “I'll be back shortly.”
    “I hope you are not going to lodge a protest on my behalf, Great Lady,” I said.
    “That is precisely what I'm going to do.”
    “I would much rather that you didn't.”
    “But why? The museum's policy is indefensible!”
    “Great Lady,” I said, “it is difficult enough to be an alien in this society without calling additional attention to oneself by complaining about your treatment of visiting races.”
    “But you're not one of the ones we're at war with,” she argued. “You're one of the— ” She suddenly stopped speaking.
    “One of the docile ones?” I suggested.
    “One of the species with whom we have always had a peaceful and harmonious relationship,” she answered awkwardly.
    “There are more than two thousand sentient races in the galaxy, Great Lady,” I pointed out. “No guard can be expected to recognize more than the minutest fraction of them, and