Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

Chapter 398: Chapter 398 — The Aftermath of Old Affairs

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Rachel Lambert was born in 1910—three years younger than Katharine Hepburn. The two women could be considered of the same generation.

And yet now, someone she could practically call ”big sister” had returned to her enviable twenties—radiant and luminous on the screen.

How could she not feel a trace of envy?

Even if it existed only in film, not in reality.

Rachel covered her mouth in disbelief.

”Can something like this truly be done?”

Henry answered honestly.

”The limits of computer technology lie in imagination and hardware capability. Whether it’s color fading due to aging, or a film that was originally shot in black and white—

”Subtle differences in grayscale correspond to different colors. We only need to analyze those tonal variations and restore the original hues.

”But the amount of data involved is enormous. It’s beyond the processing power of commercially available home computers. This result was only possible thanks to Stark Industries’ supercomputers.”

Technically, ordinary machines could do it too—if one were willing to let a single photograph render for days on end. But there was no need to dive into that level of detail. Mrs. Lambert wasn’t an engineer.

”Oh... I see.”

Rachel’s expression dimmed slightly.

Noticing her disappointment, Henry quickly added:

”If you have old photographs or films you’d like restored, we can handle them as a special project.”

”Really?” Rachel brightened, then hesitated. ”What if there’s only a single photograph left? No negative?”

Henry smiled.

”It must be a precious memory. If you’re concerned, you can bring the original to Stark Pictures. If there aren’t too many items, scanning and archiving would only take a day.

”You can take the originals back immediately afterward. The digital restoration timeline would depend on your requirements and the volume involved. Would that work?”

Henry was smoothly building goodwill when Tony Stark’s voice cut in.

”Hey, hey. I built the supercomputer. Shouldn’t you ask me before volunteering it? What am I, a grandfather clock you only acknowledge when it strikes the hour?”

Rachel turned to Tony with wide, pleading eyes.

”Is that not allowed?”

Even Tony Stark wasn’t immune to that look.

”Alright, alright—don’t look at me like that. Go talk to Mr. ’Women’s Best Friend’ here. He’ll solve everything.”

Henry let out an awkward chuckle at his new title.

Paul Mellon, meanwhile, had not been idle.

”Mr. Brown,” he asked calmly, ”what would such a supercomputer cost?”

Henry answered without overthinking.

”The one Stark Pictures uses was custom-built by Stark Industries. Many components were bespoke, so pricing is difficult to calculate precisely.

”But based on current requirements for image processing, a suitable supercomputer would likely fall within the ten to thirty million dollar range. Since we’re not competing in performance rankings, we don’t need to pursue absolute top-tier specifications.”

”Thirty million dollars? That’s not expensive at all,” Paul said lightly, glancing at his wife with understated extravagance. ”Shall we build one ourselves?”

Even Tony Stark was briefly stunned.

This wasn’t the future world’s richest man yet—just a newly minted heir still finding his footing and feeling triumphant over squeezing Sony.

Henry quickly stepped in.

”Mr. Mellon, if it’s only for this purpose, please allow us to handle it. Supercomputers come with significant maintenance costs and specialized staff salaries.

”If you have concerns, we can draft a formal contract outlining all terms clearly to avoid future disputes.”

Paul nodded mildly.

”That would be acceptable.”

One round of subtle sparring—decided.

The young future Iron Man still couldn’t quite overpower America’s old blue-blood aristocracy.

Sensing tension, Rachel changed the subject.

”Henry, we actually came to see you for a reason.”

”Oh? How may I help?” Henry asked directly. He knew people like this did not attend parties for idle conversation.

”Do you remember,” Rachel said gently, ”mentioning at our home that the painting Lady with an Ermine might be authentic?”

Henry nodded.

”I do. Though that was three years ago. In hindsight, I may have been presumptuous. If I was mistaken, please forgive youthful indiscretion.”

Rachel patted his hand reassuringly.

”There’s nothing to forgive. After your remark, we gathered those who claimed to possess the original for authentication.

”That process wasn’t simple. Museums were involved. It took until mid-this year to organize a formal evaluation.

”We invited over a dozen trusted experts. Their collective conclusion was that the painting you identified most closely matched the characteristics of the original.”

Henry blinked.

”’Most closely matched’? What kind of phrasing is that?”

Rachel sighed.

”The prevalence of forgeries is beyond imagination. Even museum pieces have been exposed as copies. Sometimes the original artist created multiple nearly identical works.

”Without clear records, how can later generations determine authenticity? In many cases, if no obvious flaws exist, the judgment becomes a matter of which piece best aligns with the era’s characteristics.”

”That’s... complicated,” Henry admitted.

”It is.”

Rachel accepted a wrapped bundle from an attendant and carefully unfolded it.

Inside lay the famed image—Lady with an Ermine.

Henry instinctively refrained from taking it.

”This is...?”

Rachel explained calmly.

”The authenticated original has been donated to the National Gallery in Washington. Borrowed museum pieces were returned according to contract.

”But the private collectors declined to reclaim their forgeries. Those remain with us.

”This entire authentication process began because of your comment. Without it, the true masterpiece might have remained hung among imitations on our wall.

”My husband and I agreed to gift one of the replicas to you. It is not the original—but do not underestimate it. Experts believe it to be a seventeenth or eighteenth-century copy. An antique in its own right.”

Henry finally accepted the painting, visibly surprised.

”May I truly accept this?”

”Of course,” Paul Mellon replied. ”Your insight prevented us from making a foolish mistake. I only hope you won’t use this reward unwisely.”

Henry answered sincerely.

”Rest assured, Mr. Mellon. I will preserve it carefully.”

Publicly accepting it also meant he could never pass it off as authentic—but that had never been his intention.

Some gifts weren’t about value.

They were about doors quietly opening.p

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