The Dark Lady by Mike Resnick

him what I had learned— and also to get his input, since I now had proof that his mystery woman had lived at the turn of the twentieth century A.D., some two thousand years after her image began appearing in various human artwork. I knew that the science of cloning had not existed prior to the time of the photograph, but I was unable to formulate any other logical explanation that would encompass all the facts I had thus far amassed.
    There was no answer, and, assuming him to be asleep or busy at his computer, I decided that I might as well begin the journey to his house, since he would doubtless demand my presence the moment I contacted him. I left the library with great reluctance, for I was certain that a photograph or hologram of Shareen d'Amato must exist somewhere within the Oligarchy and I was unbearably anxious to see it, but I realized that it would take the computer a considerable amount of time to arrange for its networking, and I decided that the sooner I left, the sooner I would be able to return.
    It took me almost forty minutes to reach Abercrombie's estate, for the streets were crowded with lunch-hour traffic, and I lingered amid the crush of bodies, enjoying the sensation of warmth and security they inadvertently provided. Eventually I reached the outskirts of the city, and a few moments later I stepped onto the automatic walkway that led to Abercrombie's mansion.
    “Please identify yourself,” said the mechanical voice of the security system.
    “I am Leonardo.”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “I do not need an appointment,” I replied, surprised by the question. “I work for Mr. Abercrombie.”
    “I have no record of a current employee named Leonardo.”
    “This is ridiculous. I was here two days ago.”
    “Two days ago you were employed by Mr. Abercrombie,” replied the voice. “This afternoon you are not.”
    “There must be some mistake,” I said uneasily. “Please check your records again.”
    “Checking... You are not in Mr. Abercrombie's employ.”
    “Please let me speak to him,” I said.
    “His standing order is that he will not speak to strangers.”
    “But I am not a stranger!” I protested.
    “I am prohibited by my programming from contacting him on your behalf.”
    “Then I will approach the house and speak to him in person,” I said, taking a step forward.
    “I cannot permit entrance by unauthorized personnel,” said the voice. “Please step back. In five seconds the walkway will possess a lethal electrical charge. Four. Three. Two.”
    I quickly moved backward.
    “The walkway is now impassable,” announced the voice. “Please do not approach the house via the lawn as precautions have been taken to prevent your access.”
    “Get the idea, you turncoat alien bastard?” boomed Abercrombie's amplified voice.
    “Mr. Abercrombie, what is the meaning of this?” I asked, confused and frightened.
    “It means that when I hire someone, even someone like you, I expect his loyalty!”
    “I have given you my complete loyalty,” I responded.
    “I paid you to get me some background on that sonofabitch, not to consort with him!” he roared.
    “I have not consorted with him,” I explained. “He sought me out, and I rejected his proposition.”
    “Then why did you hide it?”
    “I hid nothing.”
    “Bullshit! You met with him two weeks ago, and I still wouldn't know about it if you hadn't blundered and let it slip out!”
    “I thought it too trivial to mention,” I said. “He asked for my help and I refused it.”
    “You should have gone with him when you had the chance,” said Abercrombie. “Now it's too late.”
    “I do not understand what you are saying, Mr. Abercrombie.”
    “Nobody double-crosses Malcolm Abercrombie! I paid you ten times what you're worth to help me get the only thing in the universe that I want, and the second you're out of my sight you start cozying up to that little wart Venzia. It serves me right for trusting an alien. That's one