well be an additional symptom of mental instability: obsession.
This woman doubtless never existed. She can have no possible meaning for Mr. Abercrombie. She has never been rendered by an artist of note. And yet my employer has spent a considerable portion of his fortune purchasing her portraits, and I am convinced that had Mr. Minneola not been willing to sell his painting, Mr. Abercrombie would not have hesitated to steal it. All this because of a human woman with a hauntingly sad face.
I might add that the model herself remains a fascinating mystery. How is it that men separated by thousands of years and hundreds of thousands of light-years have come to render the very same subject? Why has she never been painted by one of the masters? In fact, why has she never been painted by any race but Man? Why is she never smiling, or wearing any color other than black? Other than the fact that all the men who painted her may have engaged in some form of armed conflict, what else do they have in common that I have somehow overlooked? Who is she, and what does she represent to them? Why has her name never been used in any of the portraits’ titles?
I consider these fascinating questions constantly, and I am very grateful that I am a Bjornn and not a Man, or I, too, could fall prey to obsession.
As always, I wish you prosperity for the House and security for the Family.
Your devoted Pattern Son,
LEONARDO
5.
I entered the local branch of the library, presented myself to the head librarian, waited while he confirmed that Mr. Abercrombie would indeed pay for the computer time, and then was escorted to a small cubicle in what was labeled the “Off-World Section,” but was in fact an area consisting entirely of non-humans.
The section was relatively crowded, and the feeling of uneasiness that had manifested itself as I walked from my hotel through the relatively empty Far London streets to the library had totally vanished by the time I activated the computer.
“Good morning,” said a not-very-mechanical voice. “How may I serve you?”
“I require a brief biographical sketch about a circus performer named Rafael Jamal,” I said in the Dialect of Command. “I especially want the details of his military record.”
“Would you prefer a verbal answer or a hard copy?” asked the computer.
“May I have both?” I asked.
“Certainly— but it will cost more.”
“That is acceptable.”
“I require some preliminary data,” said the computer. “To what race does Rafael Jamal belong?”
“The race of Man,” I answered.
“Is he alive, and if not, when did he live?”
“He lived approximately 350 years ago, in the first century of the Oligarchy.”
“What was his planet of residence?”
“I do not know,” I admitted. “But I suspect that it was Patagonia IV, for he was an invalid at the time he produced a painting there, and he died shortly thereafter.”
“Thank you,” said the computer. “I am searching my library files.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I am now accessing the Patagonia IV Public Information computer,” it announced.
It went dark for perhaps twenty seconds, then came to life again.
“Patagonia IV is no longer a human colony. I am now accessing the Historical Census Files on Deluros VIII.”
I waited patiently, and at last I had my answer.
“Jamal, Rafael,” said the computer. “True name: Pedro Santini. Born 4503 G.E., died 4538 G.E. Unmarried, died leaving no heirs, estate finally sold at public auction. Resided until age sixteen on Delvania III, then joined the Balaban Brothers Five-Star Circus, where he worked as a trapeze artist under the name of Rafael Jamal until he lost the use of his legs during a fall on Patagonia IV in 4533 G.E. Left leg amputated in 4536 G.E.”
“What about his military service?” I asked.
“He did not serve in the military.”
“Then he must have seen some military action in an unofficial capacity,” I insisted.
“That is
This woman doubtless never existed. She can have no possible meaning for Mr. Abercrombie. She has never been rendered by an artist of note. And yet my employer has spent a considerable portion of his fortune purchasing her portraits, and I am convinced that had Mr. Minneola not been willing to sell his painting, Mr. Abercrombie would not have hesitated to steal it. All this because of a human woman with a hauntingly sad face.
I might add that the model herself remains a fascinating mystery. How is it that men separated by thousands of years and hundreds of thousands of light-years have come to render the very same subject? Why has she never been painted by one of the masters? In fact, why has she never been painted by any race but Man? Why is she never smiling, or wearing any color other than black? Other than the fact that all the men who painted her may have engaged in some form of armed conflict, what else do they have in common that I have somehow overlooked? Who is she, and what does she represent to them? Why has her name never been used in any of the portraits’ titles?
I consider these fascinating questions constantly, and I am very grateful that I am a Bjornn and not a Man, or I, too, could fall prey to obsession.
As always, I wish you prosperity for the House and security for the Family.
Your devoted Pattern Son,
LEONARDO
5.
I entered the local branch of the library, presented myself to the head librarian, waited while he confirmed that Mr. Abercrombie would indeed pay for the computer time, and then was escorted to a small cubicle in what was labeled the “Off-World Section,” but was in fact an area consisting entirely of non-humans.
The section was relatively crowded, and the feeling of uneasiness that had manifested itself as I walked from my hotel through the relatively empty Far London streets to the library had totally vanished by the time I activated the computer.
“Good morning,” said a not-very-mechanical voice. “How may I serve you?”
“I require a brief biographical sketch about a circus performer named Rafael Jamal,” I said in the Dialect of Command. “I especially want the details of his military record.”
“Would you prefer a verbal answer or a hard copy?” asked the computer.
“May I have both?” I asked.
“Certainly— but it will cost more.”
“That is acceptable.”
“I require some preliminary data,” said the computer. “To what race does Rafael Jamal belong?”
“The race of Man,” I answered.
“Is he alive, and if not, when did he live?”
“He lived approximately 350 years ago, in the first century of the Oligarchy.”
“What was his planet of residence?”
“I do not know,” I admitted. “But I suspect that it was Patagonia IV, for he was an invalid at the time he produced a painting there, and he died shortly thereafter.”
“Thank you,” said the computer. “I am searching my library files.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I am now accessing the Patagonia IV Public Information computer,” it announced.
It went dark for perhaps twenty seconds, then came to life again.
“Patagonia IV is no longer a human colony. I am now accessing the Historical Census Files on Deluros VIII.”
I waited patiently, and at last I had my answer.
“Jamal, Rafael,” said the computer. “True name: Pedro Santini. Born 4503 G.E., died 4538 G.E. Unmarried, died leaving no heirs, estate finally sold at public auction. Resided until age sixteen on Delvania III, then joined the Balaban Brothers Five-Star Circus, where he worked as a trapeze artist under the name of Rafael Jamal until he lost the use of his legs during a fall on Patagonia IV in 4533 G.E. Left leg amputated in 4536 G.E.”
“What about his military service?” I asked.
“He did not serve in the military.”
“Then he must have seen some military action in an unofficial capacity,” I insisted.
“That is
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