Children of a Dead Earth Book One Read Online Free
Author: Patrick S Tomlinson
relax. Tomorrowâs dinner with Theresa couldnât come fast enough.
Benson snorted.
Seventeen minutes later, someone knocked on the door. Benson set down the tablet and got up from the sumptuous chair to answer it. A tiny woman, no more than a hundred and sixty centimeters tall and hunched with age, swept into the living room. She wore her silver hair in a bun so tight it seemed to quiver under the strain, held in place by a pair of wicked looking black lacquered chopsticks, doubtless far older than even the woman herself.
She ignored Benson completely as she spotted the painting on the far wall and stalked over to it.
âGood afternoon to you too, Devorah.â
She looked back at him. âHmm? Yes, yes. Bring me that stool, would you?â
Benson could only chuckle as he grabbed a stool from the breakfast bar and set it down in front of the painting. He offered the older woman a hand up, but she didnât even glance at it as she hopped onto the stool like a mountain goat. She leaned in close and murmured softly to herself.
âWhoever framed it used good glass, thatâs a plus. Wouldnât be surprised to see if I went back far enough in the museum stock room records that some display glass took a walk.â She pulled a pair of pristine white gloves from a pocket and slipped them on her weathered hands, then removed the painting from the wall. She moved to the table and set it face down.
After a momentâs study, she unlatched the backing plate and set it aside. Then she reached out and gently removed the painting from the frame with a careful reverence normally reserved for crying babies or ticking bombs.
She laid it face up in the open air for the first time in who knew how long. A large, antique magnifying glass appeared from somewhere on her tiny frame.
âThe texturing lines up with the pigmentation, and the layering is obvious.â She rubbed a gloved fingertip along the edge of the painting, a spot that had been hidden behind the frame. She licked her fingertip, then held it to her nose and inhaled deeply. âTraces of linseed oil.â
âWhat does that tell you?â
She glanced up at Benson as though only just remembering he was in the room.
âSeveral things, detective. First, it means itâs a real painting, not a print thatâs been doctored with layers of brush-stroked lacquer. Second, the only linseed plant aboard the Ark is stored in the Genome Archive, which means this is pre-launch.â
Benson nodded along, not wanting to deflate her obvious excitement. âSo, itâs genuine?â
âIt was genuinely painted on Earth, yes. But whether it was painted by Monet, or just an incredibly talented forger, I canât say yet. I need to take it back to the museum to run some spectrographic and radioactive decay tests.â
Bensonâs left eyebrow inched up. âArenât those destructive tests?â
The curator shrugged. âWe need only milligrams of material. A few strands of canvas and a flake or two of paint from the margins will be enough. Then weâll know not only what time it came from, but where the paint was ground.â
âYou have records on paint that go back that far?â
âI have every record, from every museum, and every publication, current until one month before the launch, and stretching back at least four centuries. Surely law enforcement has similar resources?â
Benson could only laugh at that. âIâm sorry, Devorah, I donât mean to poke fun, but I think youâll find that the people of Earth spent a great deal more time committing crimes than creating art, and that many in the policing profession were not nearly so⦠clinical as you.â
âI
Benson snorted.
Seventeen minutes later, someone knocked on the door. Benson set down the tablet and got up from the sumptuous chair to answer it. A tiny woman, no more than a hundred and sixty centimeters tall and hunched with age, swept into the living room. She wore her silver hair in a bun so tight it seemed to quiver under the strain, held in place by a pair of wicked looking black lacquered chopsticks, doubtless far older than even the woman herself.
She ignored Benson completely as she spotted the painting on the far wall and stalked over to it.
âGood afternoon to you too, Devorah.â
She looked back at him. âHmm? Yes, yes. Bring me that stool, would you?â
Benson could only chuckle as he grabbed a stool from the breakfast bar and set it down in front of the painting. He offered the older woman a hand up, but she didnât even glance at it as she hopped onto the stool like a mountain goat. She leaned in close and murmured softly to herself.
âWhoever framed it used good glass, thatâs a plus. Wouldnât be surprised to see if I went back far enough in the museum stock room records that some display glass took a walk.â She pulled a pair of pristine white gloves from a pocket and slipped them on her weathered hands, then removed the painting from the wall. She moved to the table and set it face down.
After a momentâs study, she unlatched the backing plate and set it aside. Then she reached out and gently removed the painting from the frame with a careful reverence normally reserved for crying babies or ticking bombs.
She laid it face up in the open air for the first time in who knew how long. A large, antique magnifying glass appeared from somewhere on her tiny frame.
âThe texturing lines up with the pigmentation, and the layering is obvious.â She rubbed a gloved fingertip along the edge of the painting, a spot that had been hidden behind the frame. She licked her fingertip, then held it to her nose and inhaled deeply. âTraces of linseed oil.â
âWhat does that tell you?â
She glanced up at Benson as though only just remembering he was in the room.
âSeveral things, detective. First, it means itâs a real painting, not a print thatâs been doctored with layers of brush-stroked lacquer. Second, the only linseed plant aboard the Ark is stored in the Genome Archive, which means this is pre-launch.â
Benson nodded along, not wanting to deflate her obvious excitement. âSo, itâs genuine?â
âIt was genuinely painted on Earth, yes. But whether it was painted by Monet, or just an incredibly talented forger, I canât say yet. I need to take it back to the museum to run some spectrographic and radioactive decay tests.â
Bensonâs left eyebrow inched up. âArenât those destructive tests?â
The curator shrugged. âWe need only milligrams of material. A few strands of canvas and a flake or two of paint from the margins will be enough. Then weâll know not only what time it came from, but where the paint was ground.â
âYou have records on paint that go back that far?â
âI have every record, from every museum, and every publication, current until one month before the launch, and stretching back at least four centuries. Surely law enforcement has similar resources?â
Benson could only laugh at that. âIâm sorry, Devorah, I donât mean to poke fun, but I think youâll find that the people of Earth spent a great deal more time committing crimes than creating art, and that many in the policing profession were not nearly so⦠clinical as you.â
âI
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