The End of the Matter by Alan Dean Foster

“I’ll be sure and let you know, ma’am.”
    “Mirable,” she corrected him. “Mirable Dictu.” She sidled toward the door. “It’s nice to find someone who’s not a fanatic about what they’re here for. Scientists get too wrapped up with thinkin’, and the prospectors never do. Good to have a guest who embodies a bit o’ both.”
    His last view was of her perambulating form drifting suggestively toward the stairway. He almost called out to her. However . . . He sighed. With serious business unfinished, he had no time for such foolery. But if Alaspin proved to be the final dead end, as he half suspected it would, then he might have time and need of some sympathetic company. In that event, he might strike up a more serious friendship with the voluptuous Mirable.
    She was the first one he asked about the enormous man with the white hair and gold earring. As expected, Mirable had no knowledge of anyone fitting that description.
    Several days of questioning around the town produced memories of numerous men with rings in their ears, some of the ornaments gold or gold-colored. But if the men were the right size they didn’t wear the earring, and if they wore one they were never big enough. Or they were large enough and beringed, but their hair was brown or red or black or blond.
    A cargo loader finally told Flinx of a friend who almost fit the description. The only thing he was unsure of was the earring’s color. In a burst of excitement, Flinx tracked the man down and found that he still worked in Alaspinport.
    Unfortunately, he was only twenty-two years old and had never been to Moth in his life. Nor did he know offhand of anyone resembling himself who was older.
    That disappointment had nearly caused Flinx to give up.
    “Eh, my handsome young guest,” Mirable had chided him, “so many years you think on this, and then a couple of days and you’re ready to forget it?”
    He stayed on Alaspin and kept asking questions.
    Various inquiries around the town the next day elicited no leads, but did bring Flinx to the office of a garrulous, enthusiastic clerk. He was in charge of Temporary Residences, and Flinx had to see him to get his permit stamped so he could legally remain on Alaspin.
    “Entry to Alaspin is strictly limited and watched,” the clerk rambled on. “You already had a taste of our security procedures when you set down at the port.” Flinx nodded. They had seemed unusually thorough for a frontier world. “That’s because of the gems.” The clerk winked. “Local police have to keep tabs on everyone. Claim stealing, robbery—we have our share. Adds to the spice of life here.”
    Sure, Flinx thought, when you can sit in a nice, cool office and watch the arrests and shootings on the tridee.
    “And it’s not only the gemstones,” he went on. “Oh no. Constant fighting between the research people and the prospectors. Constant. It’s not easy keeping peace between them. Each group has little sympathy for the other. The scientists think the miners are destructive Neanderthals, and the miners consider the scientists cloud-walkers each with a fat credit pipeline to some research group.”
    “I don’t understand,” Flinx admitted openly. “A little conflict I can see, but persistent battling—what for? Isn’t each group after different things?”
    The clerk shook his head at the newcomer’s ignorance. “Let me give you an example. Have you ever heard of the Idonian Mask?”
    Flinx shook his head.
    “It cost the lives of sixteen people, on Alaspin and off, before the Commonwealth finally stepped in. Declared it a treasure of the people and appropriated it for the Pre-Commonwealth Societies Museum on Hivehom.” He eyed Flinx. “The mask was about your height and twice your width, Flinx, and decorated with sixty thousand carats of flawless blue diamonds set to form the face and history of some long-gone local god or politician or chief thug—they don’t know which yet. All done on