A bird called from somewhere in the palms. It was one of the macaws Orcutt decided as he sought for its shape amongst the fronds. High above the trees the steel ribs of the herbarium arched into the evening sky carrying the transparent skin of glass over the tropical garden below. He pushed his way through the giant ferns spreading over the walk a banana tree pedant with fruit swayed before him, and below him the stream from the waterfall wound though the rockery.
Ahead he could see the curtain of water plunging in a broad white sheet of foam from the precipice a full story above, hearing its roar now in the basin a story below as he emerged onto the ledge from the forest behind him. The mist from the falling water rose in fragrant wetness lifting the voices of the bathers to his ears. The girls frolicked in the pool and lounged in their nakedness upon the ledges and rocks in an idyllic display.
Orcutt studied the scene with the concentration of a connoisseur. They were a choice bouquet to be sure, a nice mixture of yellows, reds, blacks and whites; of brunettes and blondes and auburns, all the shapes delectable of course in their variety and perfection. A sigh escaped him. All one could really do was procure the best the market had to offer and let the Patron exercise his taste.
Yes, he reflected, tableau management was not only an art, but a science, an industry. Few suspected the skill and ingenuity he exercised in procuring the variety and numbers of girls, bringing them to perfection, and keeping them useful. With a final self-satisfied glance at The Waterfall he resumed his tour.
Sighing, Orcutt turned his mind from the contemplation of the sublime to the nuisance of Trapnell's last communication. The dolt had procured the 'possibles', but the promising one, the Sarah Moore, the one that could prove most interesting to The Patron, had eluded them. He cared little for the details of Trapnell's pursuit he simply wanted the woman and his fingers texted the terse order to Trapnell on his communicator. He touched the finger-print-reader by the elevator door, it opened to him and he entered, lifting his body and mind into the next level of entertainment in Bountiful Towers.
Silently the lift slid to stop the door opening into the lobby of the Grotto Theater. He studied the miniature Roman Amphitheater before him and the way it brought the audience close to the stage with its wings of rockery and tangled greenery.
He was sure the Patron would be delighted with the presentation of Katia's Vyrobrovna's new ballet. In this setting it would be perfect. From what he had seen at The Court her mounting of 'Daphnis and Chloe' would be a sensation. The tempting costumes, or lack of them, and the seductive effectiveness of the dancers in enhancing the inherent eroticism of the ballet should be a total turn-on.
The dancers themselves were a treasure in these times, so beautiful and so well trained. Katia was a gem herself, a perfect Chloe. A tone, melodious and insistent, roused him from his musings. Instantly he touched his pager and the Patron's voice filled the space about him.
"Orcutt, where are you?"
"In the Grotto Theater, sir"
"Would you come up to the gallery?" It wasn't a question of course it was a summons.
"I'm on my way, sir." Orcutt registered the undertone of impatience in the Patron's voice, the familiar discontent, and the summons to the gallery raised an apprehension in him. The Patron was fixating on his art collection, and most particularly on his current curious dissatisfaction with the paintings he had acquired in the past.
Orcutt carried this disconcerting apprehension all the way up to the Patron's suite atop Bountiful Towers trying to prepare himself for the interview. He stepped from the elevator directly into the expanse of The Gallery, which served as an anteroom to the Patron's suite in The Penthouse.
The Gallery was an enormous maze divided and subdivided by partitions displaying the paintings, furnished with divans and coffee tables. It was a gathering place for the elite of Cornucopian society, and a repository for the great art of the past that had celebrated the nude human figure and vanished from the outer world.
He threaded his way through the glorious maze of naked gods and goddesses, of nymphs and satyrs, of voluptuous Venus's, Diana's and everyday beauties highlighted upon the walls. There was such a plethora of erotic nakedness here that it overwhelmed the senses and dulled the sensibilities. Little wonder that the Patron was jaded Orcutt mused in making his way to The Studio.
The door was open and within he could see the Patron seated before an easel that held a painting. Propped against it were two others on the floor. The man sat beneath the floodlight in his usual immaculate contemplation. Orcutt had never seen his master in anything but a dark jacket, gray trousers, and tie. The man was trim and fit and ageless in his stylish perfection.
"May I be of assistance?" Orcutt announced.
"Whose work is this?" The voice was crisp, incisive.
Orcutt moved to examine the paintings. An abstraction rested on the easel and the two flower pieces were propped below. The work was unfamiliar to him, the artist's initials , 'S.M.' no help.
"No one I recognize", Orcutt admitted.
"Man or woman?"
"Impossible to tell for sure, Sir. The work is bold, vigorous, sensual, erotic actually. The flower pieces remind me of O'Keeffe at her most daring, but the drawing is firmer, more resilient. As for the abstraction it's quite gorgeous, juicy with color and its hints of sensual organic shapes. Perfectly balanced in surface tension. I sense somehow that the artist is a woman, but..."
Orcutt's voice trailed away in a realization flooding into his consciousness. He had just recently seen a painting in The Court so similar in style and meaning that it had to be the same artist. In fact he had left Eva Valiente with an open commission for more work by this painter, but his inquiries about the artist had been refused. Suddenly the coincidence of the erotic artist's initials, "S.M.', with the sensual 'Sarah Murdock' of the shoe-store video merged with the photo in Trapnell's file, and the memory of the woman he had collided with that morning as he was leaving The Court leaped into his consciousness.
"May I ask how this work came to your attention Sir?" he asked.
The Patron swiveled about in his chair and faced Orcutt. "It was culled from one of the underground galleries." The intensity of the eyes in that placid face always startled Orcutt and relieved him when the gaze was directed elsewhere. "I want to find this artist, this woman, who paints like that. That's your specialty isn't it? Finding promising candidates?"
Orcutt inclined his head. "To be sure. The eroticism of these canvases would certainly offend the keepers of public morals. But the art world is a small one. Work such as this will be easily recognized and someone will tell us who 'S.M.' is. In fact I have a hunch that 'S.M.' will soon be in our hands. If I may take one of the canvases to aid our search?"
The Patron shrugged, rose from the chair and paused at the door, "Take them all but bring me S.M."
In the silence that followed the Patron's departure Orcutt chose the flower piece, an orchid that pulsed with the sexual intensity of the organ for which it was the metaphor. He knew full well what Bountiful Towers wanted with the sensual Sarah Murdock, but what he wondered did the Patron want with the artist S.M."? Of course one never concerned oneself with such matters where the Patron was concerned, one simply did his bidding.
