Times Without Number by John Brunner Page A

the gold

mask was almost certainly the work of a celebrated Aztec goldsmith called

Nezahualcoyotl -- Hungry Dog. And that established its origin in the

middle fifteenth century, most likely in the great town of Texcoco.

Another puzzle for him! If the mask was the work of such a famous

craftsman that Red Bear's staff could identify it so positively, why

should a collector of art-objects give it away, even if he didn't want

it for his own collection? Surely the logical thing would be to sell it,

and use the proceeds to enlarge . . .

A great light suddenly broke in on Don Miguel. Facts clicked together

in his mind and formed a pattern, a pattern which made sound sense. He

slammed fist into palm and rounded on Don Pedro.

"I see itl And yet I do not see it! If -- Don Pedro, send speedily to the

Holy Office here in Jorque and ask for a skilled inquisitor to attend

me and answer certain questions. Then have a coach reserved for me,

and be sure the driver knows the way to the home of Don Arcimboldo,

for I purpose to call on him tonight."

"It shall be done," promised Don Pedro, and hurried away.

Don Miguel conversed lengthily with the inquisitor who came in answer to

his request, in private and alone. When they parted it was near dark, yet

he refused Don Pedro's invitation to stay and take a bite to eat. Instead,

he buckled on his sword, threw a cloak about him, and headed into the

dusk as though fiends were hot on his heels.

VII

Don Arcimboldo's town house in Jorque, though far from new, was handsome

and spacious and stood in extensive grounds. The interior bespoke luxury

and good taste. The same raw materials that Don Miguel had encountered

at the Marquesa's -- creeping plants trained on sculptured artificial

boughs, hothouse flowers that turned the rooms into miniature gardens,

exquisite tiling and panelling and many priceless antique ornaments --

had been employed here, but by someone with far superior judgment.

It seemed a shame, Don Miguel felt, to come here for the first time

on such an errand. But, weighted down with his burden of suspicion,

he hardened his heart.

The major-domo who had admitted him presented his master's apologies,

saying that he was at dinner but would shortly be finished and would

wait on his distinguished guest; in the meantime, would Don Miguel be

so kind as to occupy himself in the library?

Don Miguel would. Wine was brought for him by a Guinea-girl --

exceptionally beautiful, hence either very expensive or born into the

service of the family, for slaves were prohibitively costly nowadays

-- who poured him his first glass and offered it with a curtsey, then

retired to sit in the darkest corner among the bookcases, her white eyes

and white teeth glimmering in the shadow.

Glass in hand, Don Miguel wandered absently around the room. It was not

merely a library, despite its name. It was almost a museum, and shelf

after shelf contained ornaments and curios. The majority of them were,

as he had been led to expect, of Saxon, Norse and Irish origin; there

were, however, many Moorish and Oriental items, in gold and silver and

turquoise and even jade.

He nodded in bitter satisfaction and shifted his attention to the books,

which proved that Don Arcimboldo enjoyed truly catholic -- but definitely

not Catholic -- taste. There was one case which would probably have sent

Father Peabody into hysterics . . . or perhaps not. Reconsidering the

idea, Don Miguel concluded that his long acquaintance with the Marquesa

had probably cured the priest of his tendency to hysteria. Nonetheless,

the maiority of these volumes were on the Index, and not by any means

all for simple heresy.

He selected a finely illustrated edition of the Satyricon of Petronius

Arbiter to pass the time until Don Arcimboldo should enter, and settled

himself in a superb leather chair, very comfortable and tooled all over

with gilt.

When at length the host did appear, he was full of apologies for