Alan Foster: Cyber Way

What might he be besides a truly odd duck? A collector like himself? Collectors could be fanatics.

Where the hell was Security, anyway?

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to force your way in here just to hear the same thing I’ve been telling you over the phone. So one more time: the picture is not for sale.”

“You won’t even discuss price with me?”

Kettrick gestured expansively at his surroundings. “I presume that by now you have some idea of who I am. Whatever you might offer me, I’ve no need of it, and I must add you don’t look like you could offer much. If it’s any consolation to you, the amount wouldn’t matter. I don’t sell anything out of my collection.”

For a long moment the visitor did not reply, just stood there staring at Kettrick with those obsidian eyes. It made the industrialist uneasy, though he was careful not to show it.

“Suppose that I was the richest man in the world,” the visitor said suddenly. “Suppose that I could offer you anything and everything you ever dreamed of.”

Kettrick smiled condescendingly. “But I already have everything I ever wanted. A fine family, grandchildren, even a moderately famous son-in-law. I live out in the Gulf in a grand house that’s half above and half below crystal clear waters. Business is good, the economic climate for the next year even better. I head one of the few corporations in Florida that has no tariff war with the EEC and we’re free reciprocals with the West African Economic Union. I even like my work. So why should I part with something I love just for money?”

Kettrick saw the fingers of his visitor’s right hand flexing. So, he could move more than his mouth and legs.

“I understand. I will bother you no longer about buying the picture. It is clear I cannot persuade you. I will manage without the painting itself if you will let me have one copy of it. Holo, vid, still flat color: anything will do.”

Kettrick’s patience was running out. He had work to do. “If you’re anything of a collector yourself, you must know I can’t allow that. If it was just up to me, I’d say sure, go ahead. But it would cost me my insurance. Regulations forbid reproductions. Nothing to do with you personally, but once you let reproductions of items you own out in public, potential thieves have a way of finding out what you own that’s worth stealing. It lets them steal to order. It’s an annual problem at museums. My collection stays private and out of the public eye.” He leaned forward curiously. “In fact, I’d give a lot to know how you found out about this particular piece.

“It does not matter,” said the visitor quietly.

“It matters to me.”

“If I tell you, will you let me make a copy of the painting?”

Kettrick shook his head. Pity. The fellow seemed intelligent enough. He just had one big blind spot where the painting was concerned.

He wasn’t through. “It belongs with me. It is a part of my heritage, not yours. You don’t know what you have.”

“Yes, I do. I have a beautiful, special, and according to you yourself, a most unique piece of primitive art. It fits in very nicely with the rest of my collection. As for it not being a part of my particular ethnic heritage, my collection contains primitive art from all over the world. I have my share of African and early Black American art, yes, but also work from China, Tibet, and most of the South Pacific. I’m sure there must be hundreds, thousands of reproductions of this particular type of art widely available in public collections for your perusal. Why not content yourself with some of them?”

“There is no other like this one.”

“So you say. I’ve only your word for that. Again, it doesn’t matter. The painting stays in my collection, and my collection stays private until I decide to donate it or tour it some day. At that time, and only at that time, you can take all the pictures you want—along with everyone else.”

“That is no help to me. I need the image now.”

“I can’t help what you need.”

“I have told you that it has to do with my religion.”

“Again, I’ve only your word for that. Even so, you’re not part of some official delegation seeking its recovery. You’re an individual acting on his own with motives of his own. For all I know, you’re just another collector who wants a copy of my painting for your own personal use. Who do you think you’re dealing with here, friend? This isn’t downtown. We’re not dealers swapping formula on the street.” The visitor shifted his weight but not his stare. “This is the fourth time I have made this request of you. You cannot refuse me a fourth time.”

Kettrick couldn’t keep from chuckling aloud. 4‘That’s one of your customs, not one of mine. I’m not bound by it. You can make all the requests you want. It won’t do you any good. Is four a special number for you?” It was not necessary for the visitor to reply.

“Well, in this case it’s a special number for me too, because this is the last time I’m going to talk to you.” The three men from Security had entered so silently that Kettrick hardly noticed their arrival. If the visitor had, he did not acknowledge their presence.

“Now I happen to be a very busy man,” Kettrick explained, “and you’ll excuse the cliché, because in my case it happens to be true. So I’ll only say this once more. I’ve given you rather more of my time than I intended to. You’ve used it all up, both on the phone and in person. It’s clear you’ve come a long way and so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you’re a collector or lover of primitive art like myself, and not a thief.

“If you bust in here again like you did a little while ago, I’ll have you arrested. The jails here in the Bay are as modem as you’ll find anywhere—but sometimes the air treatment systems do break down, and even though it’s almost spring,

I still think you’d find that kind of environment unpleasant. Also, Florida is kind of a seine for the East coast, a net that stretches from St. Pete to Miami, and we catch all kinds of Caribbean sludge in it. A lot of crazyboys high on abbreviations that represent chemical combinations you don’t want anything to do with. Pupapapas peddling Brazilian and Peruvian babies. Snuff-film importers. Great guys to share a holding cell with.

“You take my advice and go back where you came from. Concentrate your energies on a different piece of art.”

“I cannot do that,” the visitor said softly. “The enterprise I am engaged in requires precision and timing. I need this particular piece, or a copy, and I cannot wait any longer.”

“That’s too bad.” Kettrick gestured slightly and two of the security guards moved forward until they were flanking the visitor. One of them put a big hand on the man’s shoulder. He ignored it.

“Then I suppose I will have to find some way to work around your intransigence.”

“That sounds like the sensible thing to do,” agreed the industrialist, nodding and smiling.

The security team escorted the stranger out of Kettrick’s office. From the rear the visitor looked like a splinter of black oak embedded in a mass of white flesh. Kettrick felt sorry for the guy. Under different circumstances the two of them might have spent an enjoyable evening together discussing early American art. Not that he’d been especially friendly. Distant without actually being impolite.

No, his attitude would have ruled out dinner. Sarah wouldn’t have liked him. She preferred people whose eyes met your own. Kettrick knew she wouldn’t cotton to someone who daydreamed while you were trying to hold a conversation with them.

That business about not being able to refuse a fourth request would probably mean something to an anthropologist. It meant nothing to Kettrick. That was one of the pleasures of being a wealthy collector. You could affect an attitude of great knowledge without having to go to the trouble of actually acquiring it, because all of your friends knew infinitely less about the subject than you did.