worked, poured crysorillium.”
“Now
that
I’ve heard of,” Flinx interrupted.
The clerk nodded, smiling sagely. “Uh-huh . . . rare heavy metal that looks a little like iridescent azurite, only greener and much tougher. Thranx call it
fonheese,
or Devoriar metal. They prize the stuff, but it’s even more valuable to men, because there’s none of it on Earth, and little on the other explored worlds. Here they call it blue gold.
“Itinerant old dirt-grubber found the mask first, nearly forty years ago,” the clerk went on. “I still remember the first faxes of it. Beautiful thing. The local scientists went crazy on seeing it. They said it held clues to a hundred missing years of Alaspinian history. Of course, the miner and his buddies were only interested in how many diamonds and how many kilos of crysorillium they could get out of it.
“The mask went back and forth, changing hands between miners and scientists and back again, losing a certain amount of metal and diamonds with each transfer and replacing them with blood. Nor were all the deaths between contesting miners and researchers, no. I remember the story of two thranx scientists who published simultaneous identical interpretations of the mask’s upper writing. They ended up in a duel and killed each other. That’s why the Commonwealth government had to step in and take the thing over, to prevent any more deaths. Even so, the last two people the mask ‘killed’ were murdered over a plot to break into the museum and steal it.”
He waved a hand at the bustling street outside the office window. “From what’s been learned, they say Alaspin once boasted several hundred different societies, united by a worldwide system of engineering and weights and measures, that sort of thing. But each society different. There are tens of thousands of mapped ruined structures out there, Flinx, and that’s estimated to be only a small portion of the total. Each culture worshipped its own gods. So, you see, it became kind of a sporting competition to see whose temples could be the most lavishly decorated. Jungle and swamp have taken many of them over, but it’s still a treasure hunter’s paradise out there, for anyone who wants to risk the weather, the hostile flora and fauna, and the aborigines.”
“Aborigines?” Flinx exclaimed. That was enough to set the clerk to gabbing again.
“The sociologists working here aren’t sure about the abos. They don’t seem to bear much resemblance to reconstructions of what the original Alaspinians were like. No one can decide for sure if they’re in fact degenerate remnants of the original dominants, or simply another semisentient group that’s evolved to take the place left by the vanished major culture.” He fumbled with some tapes. “I’ve got to get back to my own work, young man. Sorry if I bored you.”
“No, you’ve been very informative,” Flinx told him honestly.
“That’s Alaspin then, son. A place where fortunes and reputations can be made, sometimes together. And I am sorry,” he added, remembering his visitor’s original reason for coming, “that I don’t know of your oversized quarry with the gold ring.”
Flinx left the office, and found himself wandering in no particular direction through the town. Casual conversation and random questioning had gained him nothing. His best chance for finding out anything lay with the local arm of the Commonwealth peaceforcers. They should have records of just about everyone who ever set foot on this world and passed through the screenings at the port. But a direct inquiry would likely be met with questions. The police did not supply faxes and biographs to anyone who walked in off the street and asked for them. He didn’t think they would cooperate without a few answers—answers Flinx would rather not give.
Passing a street vendor, he palmed a food stick and replaced it without being detected. Old habits were hard to break. But stealing the right fax
“Now
that
I’ve heard of,” Flinx interrupted.
The clerk nodded, smiling sagely. “Uh-huh . . . rare heavy metal that looks a little like iridescent azurite, only greener and much tougher. Thranx call it
fonheese,
or Devoriar metal. They prize the stuff, but it’s even more valuable to men, because there’s none of it on Earth, and little on the other explored worlds. Here they call it blue gold.
“Itinerant old dirt-grubber found the mask first, nearly forty years ago,” the clerk went on. “I still remember the first faxes of it. Beautiful thing. The local scientists went crazy on seeing it. They said it held clues to a hundred missing years of Alaspinian history. Of course, the miner and his buddies were only interested in how many diamonds and how many kilos of crysorillium they could get out of it.
“The mask went back and forth, changing hands between miners and scientists and back again, losing a certain amount of metal and diamonds with each transfer and replacing them with blood. Nor were all the deaths between contesting miners and researchers, no. I remember the story of two thranx scientists who published simultaneous identical interpretations of the mask’s upper writing. They ended up in a duel and killed each other. That’s why the Commonwealth government had to step in and take the thing over, to prevent any more deaths. Even so, the last two people the mask ‘killed’ were murdered over a plot to break into the museum and steal it.”
He waved a hand at the bustling street outside the office window. “From what’s been learned, they say Alaspin once boasted several hundred different societies, united by a worldwide system of engineering and weights and measures, that sort of thing. But each society different. There are tens of thousands of mapped ruined structures out there, Flinx, and that’s estimated to be only a small portion of the total. Each culture worshipped its own gods. So, you see, it became kind of a sporting competition to see whose temples could be the most lavishly decorated. Jungle and swamp have taken many of them over, but it’s still a treasure hunter’s paradise out there, for anyone who wants to risk the weather, the hostile flora and fauna, and the aborigines.”
“Aborigines?” Flinx exclaimed. That was enough to set the clerk to gabbing again.
“The sociologists working here aren’t sure about the abos. They don’t seem to bear much resemblance to reconstructions of what the original Alaspinians were like. No one can decide for sure if they’re in fact degenerate remnants of the original dominants, or simply another semisentient group that’s evolved to take the place left by the vanished major culture.” He fumbled with some tapes. “I’ve got to get back to my own work, young man. Sorry if I bored you.”
“No, you’ve been very informative,” Flinx told him honestly.
“That’s Alaspin then, son. A place where fortunes and reputations can be made, sometimes together. And I am sorry,” he added, remembering his visitor’s original reason for coming, “that I don’t know of your oversized quarry with the gold ring.”
Flinx left the office, and found himself wandering in no particular direction through the town. Casual conversation and random questioning had gained him nothing. His best chance for finding out anything lay with the local arm of the Commonwealth peaceforcers. They should have records of just about everyone who ever set foot on this world and passed through the screenings at the port. But a direct inquiry would likely be met with questions. The police did not supply faxes and biographs to anyone who walked in off the street and asked for them. He didn’t think they would cooperate without a few answers—answers Flinx would rather not give.
Passing a street vendor, he palmed a food stick and replaced it without being detected. Old habits were hard to break. But stealing the right fax
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