The Dark Lady

have been thrust.
    Strangest of all is the Dark Lady. In a universe that seems progressively less logical to me, she is the least logical facet of all. I call her human, but in truth she is neither human nor non-human, neither real nor ethereal, neither presence nor manifestation. She is of this time, and yet she lived eight millennia ago. Nor is she a reincarnation, for reincarnations are born and live and die; they do not vanish from an enclosed environment in the vacuum of space.
    I have seen her, have met and spoken to her, and still my questions about her continue to mount: Why does she appear when and where she does? What is she? Who is she? What made her beckon her lover to his death? What was her connection to an obscure botanist who lived on distant Earth six thousand years ago? Why do men believe that she haunts a spacemen's graveyard on Peloran VII? What was her relationship to a circus performer who was crippled in a fall from a trapeze three centuries ago?
    And what am I to say when Reuben Venzia discovers that I have returned from my mission and offers to exchange information about the Dark Lady with me? If I tell him the truth, he will assume that I am lying; if I do not tell him the truth, I will actually be lying. In either case, I will dishonor the House of Crsthionn. And if I refuse to speak to him after Tai Chong has ordered me to, I will still bring dishonor to the House.
    I require ethical guidance, and yet I am forbidden to speak to you, so I shall have to depend upon Tai Chong, who accepts stolen paintings and reveals confidences, to supply me with it. With all contact with my own race forbidden to me, she is the only female I know other than the Dark Lady, and I do not know where to find the Dark Lady. Therefore, Tai Chong will have to serve the function of my Pattern Mother until I fulfill my obligation to the Claiborne Galleries and perform the ritual.
    Please believe that I am sorry for the pain I have caused. I truly never intended to
    A burst of cold air swept over me, and as I put my stylus down, Heath reentered the room. He stamped his feet until most of the snow had fallen off them, then removed his gloves and blew heavily onto his hands.
    “It's really starting to come down,” he announced, walking over to me. “I think I'll enjoy the rest of my day's supply of majesty and grandeur through the window, with a drink in my hand.” His gaze fell on the letter I had been writing. “May I?”
    “If you wish,” I said.
    He picked up the letter and stared at it. “What the hell is this? I can't read a word of it.”
    “It is a letter to my Pattern Mother.”
    “That's the strangest script I've ever seen,” he said. “It looks more like a graphics design.”
    “I have written to her in the Bjornn language, in the Dialect of Regret.”
    He handed it back to me. “I thought you'd done another drawing of the Dark Lady.”
    “I am not a good enough artist,” I said. “Perhaps someday in the future I will be able to create a rendering worthy of its subject.”
    “Of course, to do that, you'd probably have to have another look at her, wouldn't you?” asked Heath thoughtfully.
    “Perhaps,” I agreed. “Although her face was quite memorable. When I close my eyes and remember, I can still see its every detail.”
    “So can I,” acknowledged Heath. “But memory can be deceptive. I think you'd be better able to create your portrait if you saw her again.”
    “Friend Valentine,” I said wearily, “I will not help you to steal Malcolm Abercrombie's art collection.”
    “Have I suggested it?” he asked innocently.
    “Many times.”
    “You're a very distrusting fellow, Leonardo.”
    At that instant there was a series of three high-pitched mechanical whines.
    “What was that?” I asked, startled.
    Heath frowned. “The security system. Someone's approaching the front door.”
    “Who can it be?”
    “Who knows?” said Heath. “I ordered some supplies for the kitchen, but I can't imagine they'd be making deliveries in this weather.”
    “We are totally isolated here,” I said. “What if it is a thief?”
    Heath chuckled. “Then we'll invite him in and swap stories.”
    “Should you not have a weapon at the ready?” I suggested.
    “I thought you were the one who abhorred violence,” he said, amused.
    As I paled to the Hue of Humiliation, I was grateful that my Pattern Mother could not see me, and I realized that her decision was the proper one: I had indeed become