Powerstone by Malcolm Archibald Read Free Book Online

success; the ability to preserve the artistic treasures of the
world.’
    As a child, Irene had visited the
North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh but she had been too young to appreciate the experience, and had been
glad to escape to less cultural environments. Maturity, however, had brought
appreciation and Ms Manning’s enthusiasm was contagious. She stared at each
work of genius, actively enjoying the tour.
    ‘Because I am not attached to any
man, Irene, there have been many rumours about me. I am sure that you are aware
of them.’ Ms Manning paused at another door, her grey eyes steady. Irene felt
the sudden surge of her heart, wondering if Ms Manning was about to proposition
her, and how best to react. The naked swim suddenly became more sinister.
Perhaps acceptance was the price of ultimate success in The Neophyte competition.
    Ms Manning’s smile was reassuring.
‘The rumours are false. I am like everybody else in my emotional needs, but
rather than find them with another person, I find them in art; great art, the best
in the world.’
    Irene felt herself relax. ‘It’s
awesome,’ she said softly. She looked back at the gallery, allowing her eyes to
scan backward, unconsciously assessing the value of each masterpiece that hung
on the wall. ‘What is this room worth?’
    ‘It could not be bought,’ Ms
Manning said, ‘but its real value is not in dollars, but in art. Follow.’
    The door was of plain wood,
varnished to a soft sheen, and led to another room of spectacular sculptures.
Three Assyrian warriors strode across a stone plateau, their beards plaited and
swords displayed. Behind them stretched a screen of brilliant mosaic. ‘These
pieces all come from Asia ,’ Ms Manning said. ‘Do you recall
the fall of Baghdad , when the museums were looted?
And the destruction wrought by the Taliban in Afghanistan ? I had my people working there to salvage what I could,
and this is the best of the results.’ Her smile was a little wistful. ‘You may
think it wrong to keep looted art, but it is safer here than anywhere else.’
    Irene met the smile, aware that Ms
Manning was challenging her, possibly in an attempt to shock, or probing for a
conscience.
    ‘You see, Miss Armstrong, we live
in a disrupted world and nobody knows how long it will last.’ Ms Manning’s
voice had altered, and Irene knew that she was speaking about something close
to her heart. ‘Our world is crumbling; we live faster and more disrupted lives,
families are splintering and the hegemony of western civilisation is
threatened. These are facts, not opinions.’
    Irene nodded. Nobody could deny
that the present frantic pace of the world could not continue.
    ‘The barbarians are at the gates
of Rome ,’ Ms Manning was no longer
smiling. ‘Al-Qaeda is only one threat; China is rapidly replacing the United
States as the world’s superpower, India may be next, and who knows what new
thing will come out of Africa?’
    Irene listened, aware that Ms
Manning was revealing another side of her character. This was not the
hard-nosed businesswoman talking, but a concerned, even a scared woman. ‘And
when this world ends, Miss Armstrong, what will we have to show for millennia
of civilisation?’
    Realising that the question was
rhetoric, Irene waited for an answer. ‘Art. We will have art, but only if we
collect it now and preserve it somewhere safe. Somewhere like this.’ She
smiled again in a lightning change of mood that Irene found immediately
suspect.
    ‘Follow.’ Ms Manning pushed open
another door.
    There were more rooms of
sculpture, one for each continent, and chambers of silverware and jewellery,
ancient parchments and mediaeval books, carved stones from Europe and treasures from Mayans and
Aztecs, Maori figurines from New Zealand and magnificent jade artefacts from China , multi-armed Hindu gods from India and intricate gold work from West Africa .
    ‘This is amazing,’ Irene repeated
as she walked from treasure to treasure,