The Dark Lady (26 page)

“Contradiction,” announced the computer. “Acts of individual heroism are frequently committed in compliance with direct orders, such as a soldier who is told to hold a position in the face of overwhelming enemy strength without being told how.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Please ignore my qualification.”

“Registered.”

“It is possible that she may be attracted to a military man,” I continued, trying to order my thoughts more carefully, “but since war is a series of brief engagements punctuated by nonengagements of indeterminate length, I believe that it is impossible to predict her appearance in a pitched battle, simply because the time and location of the battle is itself impossible to predict. I also believe that the same principle holds true in regard to law enforcement officials and any others who are charged with maintaining public safety.”

“Agreed.”

“Therefore, while she may indeed appear next in the company of a military man or a police officer or a bounty hunter, if we are to have any chance of predicting where she will eventually appear, we must look elsewhere.”

I waited for the computer to tell me why I was mistaken, but it remained silent.

“I therefore suggest that we search for a man who possesses a job that is neither military nor involved with public safety, but which nevertheless requires him to put himself in life-threatening situations on a regular basis.”

“Contradiction. This eliminates from consideration all men who put themselves into life-threatening situations for some reason other than employment.”

“That is a very interesting concept,” I said. “In fact, a man who invites death with no hope of financial gain might very well be more attractive to the Dark Lady than, say, a circus daredevil. Do you agree?”

“I have no opinion, since the Dark Lady is
your
hypothetical creation.”

“Then, for the purpose of this exercise, please consider as a given the fact that she would find such a man more attractive.” I paused. “Let us next consider what categories this group would include: mountain climbers, amateur athletes who practice martial arts... ” I sighed dejectedly as dozens of similar interests and hobbies occurred to me. “The list is endless.”

“The two examples you named are both avocations,” noted the computer. “You must, by your definition, also include mentally and emotionally unstable men who possess a death wish.”

“No,” I replied. “Such men do not voluntarily place themselves in life-threatening situations. They are psychologically compelled to do so.”

“Are not all men who willingly place themselves in life-threatening situations psychologically compelled to do so?” asked the computer.

“It is possible,” I admitted. “Nevertheless, we must draw the line somewhere. I wish to consider only those men who are clinically sane.”

“Registered,” said the computer. “Have you some reason for choosing this criterion?”

“I do not believe that the Dark Lady, who is sane, would be attracted to a madman.”

The computer did not contradict me, and I realized with a sense of growing excitement that I had taken yet another step, however small, toward identifying the man I sought.

“So we have narrowed down our list to those sane men who voluntarily risk their lives without thought of remuneration,” I said. “Now, among these men, who must number in the hundreds of millions, there must be risks of greater and lesser magnitude. After all, a father who enters the room of a child that possesses a contagious disease is voluntarily risking his life with no thought of financial reward, yet the act itself is of a lesser magnitude than the man who hunts dangerous game with primitive weapons for the love of sport and excitement. Are you capable of making such distinctions?”

“Not without more data than can be provided by any source to which I have access.”

“Including the Central Census Bureau on Deluros VIII?” I asked.

“That is correct.”

“All right,” I said. “Do you recall that I once asked you what the various artists who had painted the subject known as the Dark Lady had in common?”

“They possessed no common link,” said the computer.

“But there
is
a common personality profile, is there not?”

“Yes,” responded the computer. “It is a very broad profile, but it exists.”

“Then we shall eliminate all those men who do not fall into the parameters of that profile.”

“Registered.”

“Next, eliminate all drug addicts, who almost certainly risk their lives every time they indulge in their addictions, but are frequently incapable of comprehending the risk they are taking, or at least do not consider it to be a life-threatening risk.”

“Registered.”

There were probably still tens of millions of possibilities... but I had begun with billions. It was yet another step.

“Furthermore,” I stated, “the Dark Lady has never, to my knowledge, appeared to a child, so we will declare an arbitrary minimum age of sixteen years.”

“Registered.”

“And the man must still be active.”

“I am unclear on this point,” said the computer. “Must he be physically active, or active in a death-inviting manner?”

“What is the difference?”

“A man in a wheelchair can still risk his life, just as a healthy, vigorous man can decide to stop risking his life.”

“He must still enter life-threatening situations with regularity,” I replied.

“Registered.”

“He need not be handsome or physically attractive,” I added, for many of the men who had known her were unattractive by any known standards.”

“Registered.”

“She does not take physical form for those who risk their lives only once or twice, so let us further assume that the man we seek has been placing himself in life-threatening situations for a considerable period of time.”

“'A considerable period of time’ is too inexact,” said the computer.

I tried to imagine how long the Kid, who was one of the youngest of her known consorts, had been an outlaw.

“Let us say a minimum of five years,” I said, hoping that I hadn't overestimated the length of his lawless career.

“Registered.”

I tried to think of further limiting criteria, but my mind was a blank.

“Based on the data I have given you,” I said at last, “how many men still possess the requisite qualifications?”

“I must access the Census Bureau on Deluros VIII to answer your question.”

“Please do so.”

“Whenever I access an off-world computer for data, there is a cost involved. To whose account should it be billed?”

It was a difficult question. Obviously I could not pass the cost along to Claiborne or Malcolm Abercrombie, since this had nothing to do with them. On the other hand, I myself could not pay for it, since all my salary was deposited in a House of Crsthionn account.

“Please charge the cost to Reuben Venzia,” I said after some consideration.

“I have no authorization to make such a billing. Please stand by while I access his personal computer.” There was a moment's silence. “Reuben Venzia has agreed to accept all charges. I am now accessing Deluros VIII. I estimate that it will take thirty to forty minutes for me to complete my survey. I can continue speaking to you during the interim, or if you wish to use any of the library's other facilities, I can summon you when I am ready.”

“I think I will leave for a few minutes,” I said.

The computer went dark, and I left the cubicle, expecting to feel the usual flood of warmth and security that I experienced whenever I entered a crowd of sentient beings. As I walked to the center of the room, surrounded by some twenty non-humans, I did indeed feel an immediate sense of well-being, but it did not begin to compare to the surge of emotion I had felt each time I further narrowed down the Dark Lady's field of potential suitors. Ordinarily this would have troubled me deeply, but I was so intent on deducing the identity of the man who would be the next to entice her across the barrier between spirit and flesh that I scarcely noticed it at all.

I remained in the company of my fellow beings for half an hour, feeling more and more anxious with each passing minute. Finally I returned to the cubicle and simply stared at the blank screen until the computer came to life again a few moments later.

“Summoning Leonardo of Benitarus II,” it said over the library's public address system.

“I am right here,” I replied. “Do you have the information I seek?”

“Based on the records of the Central Census Bureau on Deluros VIII, which may be incomplete, 7,213,482 men fulfill your criteria.”

“Are you still tied in to Deluros?” I asked.

“No, but I have temporarily retained all the pertinent data in my memory banks,” answered the computer. “I will erase it when you have completed your inquiry.”

“Based on the data you have accumulated, can you see any obvious means of narrowing the list even further?”

“Yes,” replied the computer. “If the Dark Lady is to visit the man you seek, I suggest the elimination of all married men.”

“But Christopher Kilcullen was married,” I pointed out.

“He was divorced from his fourth wife at the time he painted the portrait of the Dark Lady.”

“I had forgotten that,” I admitted. “How many of the men are married?”

“4,302,198 are married.”

“Eliminate them,” I ordered.

“Done.”

“How many remain on the list?”

“2,911,284 men remain,” responded the computer.

“We can't check out almost three million men,” I murmured. “We must reduce the number still further.”

“Waiting... ”

“Let us assume that if someone has been courting the Dark Lady assiduously for more than twenty years, she would have already appeared to him,” I suggested.

“Nothing in the data you have given me would imply that this is true.”

“I know, but I must try to narrow the list. How many men will this criterion eliminate?”

“1,033,102 men will be eliminated.”

“And how many remain?”

“1,878,182 men remain.”

“Eliminate those men who have voluntarily entered life-threatening situations on less than twenty occasions.”

“682,646 men will be eliminated.”

“Now eliminate those men who have voluntarily entered life-threatening situations on less than fifty occasions.”

“1,121,400 men will be eliminated.”

“How many remain?”

“74,136 men remain.”

“Now eliminate those men who have voluntarily entered life-threatening situations on less than one hundred occasions,” I said, trying without success to think of yet another limiting factor.

“72,877 men will be eliminated.”

“How many remain?”

“1,259 men remain.”

“Now eliminate those men who have voluntarily entered life-threatening situations on less than two hundred occasions.”

“1,252 men will be eliminated.”

“So we're down to seven men.”

“
If
you are using a valid criterion,” cautioned the computer.

“If I am, we might as well follow it through to the end. How many of these men have voluntarily entered life-threatening situations on less than 250 occasions?”

“All seven men will be eliminated.”

“Then I shall need another criterion,” I said.

“The next logical step is to determine which man has risked his life more frequently than the other six.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But there is very little difference between them. Each seems to live in continual mortal danger.” I paused. “Still, for the record, I suppose you should give me the name of the man who heads the list.”

“Gottfried Schenke of Tumiga III.”

“In what manner does he continually face death?” I asked.

“He collects the mollusks that live in the largest ocean of Tumiga III.”

“Why is that dangerous?”

“The waters are inhabited by numerous carnivorous fish and animals. Schenke has been hospitalized four times in the last nine years as a result of their attacks.”

“But hundreds of millions of people swim in carnivore-infested waters all across the galaxy,” I protested. “Surely tens of millions of them have entered the water more than 250 times!”

“That is true.”

“Then why is only Schenke on the list?”

“Because your criterion specified that each man must knowingly and voluntarily enter a life-threatening situation. All but the smallest handful of swimmers do not know or believe that they are entering such a situation, and would not enter it if they were aware of the dangers or felt personally threatened by them.”

“I see,” I replied. Suddenly another criterion occurred to me. “Now eliminate from that list of seven men those who are homosexuals.”

“Three men are eliminated. Four men remain, including Gottfried Schenke.”

“Who are the other three?”

“Wilfred Kramer of Hallmark, a big-game hunter in the jungles of Hallmark, Alsatia IV, and Karobus XIII.” The computer paused. “Eric Nkwana of New Zimbabwe, who holds seventeen mount-diving records.”

“What is mount-diving?” I asked.

“A sport in which the participant dives from a mountaintop into a rushing river.”

I shuddered at the thought of it.

“Who is the other?” I asked.

“Vladimir Kobrynski of Saltmarsh. He has been a prizefighter, a skydiver, a test animal, a— ”

“A test animal?” I interrupted. “Please explain.”

“He volunteered to receive injections of virulent diseases for which cures were being sought.”

“Is that not contrary to our nonbenevolence criterion?”

“I do not believe so,” responded the computer. “At the time he was serving a prison sentence for the crime of manslaughter, resulting from the altercation on Altair III. He volunteered for the injections in exchange for a reduction of his sentence. Shall I continue?”

“Please do.”

“He has also been a hunter and an explorer, and he is currently an artist.”

“What is life-threatening about being an artist?” I asked, mystified.

“He has created a new art form called plasma painting, a highly dangerous procedure whereby hard radiation is illuminated and manipulated into a glowing work of cosmic art which dissipates in less than a minute.”