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                   _THE POLITE PEOPLE OF PUDIBUNDIA_

                           By R. A. LAFFERTY

                    _This was a world where minding
                    your manners was more than just
                   a full-time job--it was murder!_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1961.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


"Well, you will soon see for yourself, Marlow. Yes, I know there are
peculiar stories about the place. There are about all places. The young
pilots who have been there tell some amusing tales about it."

"Yes. They say the people there are very polite."

"That is the honorable ancestor of all understatements. One of the
pilots, Conrad, told us that the inhabitants must always carry seven
types of eyeglasses with them. None of the Puds, you see, may ever
gaze directly on another. That would be the height of impoliteness.
They wear amber goggles when they go about their world at large,
and these they wear when they meet a stranger. But, once they are
introduced to him, then they must thereafter look on him through blue
glasses. But at a blood relative they gaze through red, and at an
in-law through yellow. There are equally interesting colors for other
situations."

"I would like to talk to Conrad. Not that I doubt his reports. It is
the things he did not report that interest me."

"I thought you knew he had died. Thrombosis, though he was sound enough
when first certified."

"But if they are really people, then it should be possible to
understand them."

"But they are not really people. They are metamorphics. They become
people only out of politeness."

"Detail that a little."

"Oh, they're biped and of a size of us. They have a chameleon-like skin
that can take on any texture they please, and they possess extreme
plasticity of features."

"You mean they can take on the appearance of people at will?"

"So Bently reported."

"I hadn't heard of him."

"Another of the young pilots. According to Bently, not only do the Puds
take on a human appearance, they take on the appearance of the human
they encounter. Out of politeness, of course."

"Quite a tribute, though it seems extreme. Could I talk to Bently?"

"Also dead. A promising young man. But he reported some of the most
amusing aspects of all: the circumlocutions that the Puds use in
speaking our language. Not only is the Second Person eschewed out of
politeness, but in a way all the other Persons also. One of them could
not call you by your name, Marlow. He would have to say: 'One hears of
one who hears of one of the noble name of Marlow. One hears of one even
now in his presence.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Yes, that is quite a polite way of saying it. But it would seem that
with all their circumlocutions they would be inefficient."

"Yet they are quite efficient. They do things so well that it is almost
imperative that we learn from them. Yet for all our contacts, for all
their extreme politeness coupled with their seeming openness, we have
been able to learn almost nothing. We cannot learn the secret of the
amazing productivity of their fields. According to Sharper, another of
the young pilots, they suggest (though so circumspectly that it seems
hardly a suggestion, certainly not a criticism) that if we were more
polite to our own plants, the plants would be more productive for us;
and if we gave the plants the ultimate of politeness, they would give
us the ultimate of production."

"Could I talk to Sharper, or is he also--"

"No, he is not dead. He was quite well till the last several days. Now,
however, he is ailing, but I believe it will be possible for you to
talk to him before you leave, if he does not worsen."

"It would still seem difficult for the Puds to get anything done.
Wouldn't a superior be too polite to give a reprimand to an inferior?"

"Probably. But Masters, who visited them, had a theory about it, which
is that the inferior would be so polite and deferential that he would
do his best to anticipate a wish or a desire, or would go to any
lengths to learn the import of an unvoiced preference."

"Is Masters one of the young pilots?"

"No, an old-timer."

"Now you _do_ interest me."

"Dead quite a few years. But it is you who interest me, Marlow. I have
been told to give you all the information you need about the Polite
People of Pudibundia. And on the subject of the Polite People, I must
also be polite. But--saving your presence, and one hears of one who
hears and all that--what in gehenna is a captain in Homicide on the
Solar Police Force going to Pudibundia about?"

"About murder. That is all I ever go anywhere about. We once had a
private motto that we would go to the end of the Earth to solve a case."

"And now you have amended your motto to 'to the end of the Earth and
beyond'?"

"We have."

"But what have the Polite People to do with murder? Crime is unknown on
Pudibundia."

"We believe, saving their feelings, that it may not be unknown there.
And what I am going to find out is this. There have been pilots for
many years who have brought back stories of the Puds, and there are
still a few--a very few--young pilots alive to tell those stories. What
I am going to find out is why there are no old pilots around telling
those stories."

       *       *       *       *       *

It wasn't much of a trip for a tripper, six weeks. And Marlow was
well received. His host also assumed the name of Marlow out of
politeness. It would have been impossible to render his own name in
human speech, and it would have been impossible for him to conceive
of using any name except that of his guest, with its modifiers. Yet
there was no confusion. Marlow was Marlow, and his host was the
One-Million-Times-Lesser-Marlow.

"We could progress much faster," said Marlow, "if we dispensed with
these formalities."

"Or assumed them as already spoken," said the
One-Million-Times-Lesser-Marlow. "For this, in private, but only in the
strictest privacy, we use the deferential ball. Within it are all the
formulae written minutely. You have but to pass the ball from hand to
hand every time you speak, and it is as if the amenities were spoken.
I will give you this for the time of your stay. I beg you never to
forget to pass it from hand to hand every time you speak. Should you
forget, I would not, of course, be allowed to notice it. But when you
were gone, I should be forced to kill myself for the shame of it. For
private reasons I wish to avoid this and therefore beseech you to be
careful."

The One-Million-Times-Lesser-Marlow (hereafter to be called OMTLM
for convenience but not out of any lack of politeness) gave Marlow
a deferential ball, about the size of a ping-pong ball. And so they
talked.

"As a police official, I am particularly interested in the crime
situation on Pud," said Marlow. "An index of zero is--well, if I could
find a politer word I would use it--suspicious. And as you are, as well
as I can determine, the head police official here, though in politeness
your office would have another name, I am hoping that you can give me
information."

"Saving your grace, and formula of a formula, what would you have me
tell you about?"

"Suppose that a burglar (for politeness sake called something else)
were apprehended by a policeman (likewise), what would happen?"

"Why, the policeman (not so called, and yet we must be frank) would
rattle his glottis in the prescribed manner."

"Rattle his gl--I see. He would clear his throat with the appropriate
sound. And then the burglar (not so called)?"

"Would be covered with shame, it is true, but not fatally. For the
peace of his own soul, he would leave the site in as dignified a manner
as possible."

"With or without boodle?"

"Naturally without. One apprehended in the act is obliged to abandon
his loot. That is only common politeness."

"I see. And if the burglar (not so called) remains unapprehended? How
is the loss of the goods or property recorded?"

"It goes into the coefficient of general diminution of merchandise,
which is to say shrinkage, wastage or loss. At certain times and places
this coefficient becomes alarmingly large. Then it is necessary to use
extraordinary care; and in extreme cases a thrice-removed burglar may
become so ashamed of himself that he will die."

"That he will die of shame? Is that a euphemism?"

"Let us say that it is a euphemism of a euphemism."

"Thrice-removed, I imagine. And what of other crimes?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Here OMTLM rattled his glottis in a nervous manner, and Marlow
hurriedly transferred his deferential ball to the other hand, having
nearly forgotten it.

"There being no crime, we can hardly speak of _other_ crimes," said
OMTLM. "But perhaps in another matter of speaking, you refer to--"

"Crimes of violence," said Marlow.

"Saving your presence, and formula of a formula, what would we have to
be violent about? What possible cause?"

"The usual: greed, lust, jealousy, anger, revenge, plain perversity."

"Here also it is possible for one to die of shame, sometimes the
offender, sometimes the victim, sometimes both. A jealous person
might permit both his wife and her paramour to die of shame. And the
State in turn might permit him to perish likewise, unless there were
circumstances to modify the degree of shame; then he might still
continue to live, often in circumscribed circumstances, for a set
number of years. Each case must be decided on its own merits."

"I understand your meaning. But why build a fence around it?"

"I do not know what you mean."

"I believe that you do. Why are the Polite People of Pudibundia so
polite? Is it simply custom?"

"It is more than that," said the polite Pud.

"Then there is a real reason for it? And can you tell it to me?"

"There is a real reason for it. I cannot tell it to you now, though,
and perhaps not ever. But there is a chance that you may be given a
demonstration of it just before you leave. And if you are very wise,
you may be able then to guess the reason. I believe that there are
several who have guessed it. I hope that we will have time for other
discussions before you leave our sphere. And I sincerely do hope
that your stay on Pudibundia is a pleasant one. And now, saving your
presence, we must part. Formula of a formula."

"Formula of a formula and all that," said Marlow, and went to discover
the pleasures of Pudibundia.

Among the pleasures of Pud was Mitzi (Miniature Image a
thousand-times-removed of the Zestful Irma) who had now shaped up into
something very nice. And shaped up is the correct term.

At first Marlow was shocked by the appearance of all the females he met
on Pud. Crude-featured, almost horse-faced, how could they all look
like that? And he was even more shocked when he finally realized the
reason. He had become used to the men there looking like himself out of
politeness. And this--this abomination--was the female version of his
own appearance!

But he was a man of resources. He took from his pocket a small picture
of Irma that he always carried, and showed it to the most friendly of
the girls.

"Could you possibly--?"

"Look like that? Why, of course. Let me study it for a moment. Now,
then."

So the girl assumed the face of Irma.

"Incredible," said Marlow, "except Irma is red-headed."

"You have only to ask. The photo is not colored and so I did not know.
We will try this shade to start with."

"Close, but could you turn it just a little darker?"

"Of course."

And there she was Irma of the most interesting face and wonderful hair.
But the picture had been of the face only. Below that, the girl was a
sack. If only there were some way to convey what was lacking.

"You still are not pleased with me," said the Miniature Image a
thousand-times-removed of the Zestful Irma (Mitzi). "But you have only
to demonstrate. Show me with your hands."

Marlow with his hands sculptured in the air the figure of Irma as he
remembered it, and Mitzi assumed the form, first face on, then face
away, then in profile. And when they had it roughly, they perfected it,
a little more here, a little less there. But there were points where
his memory failed him.

"If you could only give me an idea of the convolutions of her ears,"
said Mitzi, "and the underlying structure of the metatarsus. My only
desire is to please. Or shall I improvise where you do not remember?"

"Yes, do that, Mitzi."

And how that girl could improvise!

       *       *       *       *       *

Marlow and Mitzi were now buddies. They made a large evening of it.
They tied one on; formula of a formula, but they tied one on. They
went on a thrice-removed bender. At the Betelgeuse Bar and Grill,
they partook of the cousin of the cousin of the alcohol itself in the
form of the nono-rhumbezoid, made of nine kinds of rum. At the B-flat
Starlight Club, they listened to the newest and most exciting music on
all Pudibundia. At Alligator John's, one checks his inhibitions at the
door. Here one also checks his deferential ball. Of course the formulae
are built into the walls and at each exchange it is always assumed that
they are said.

But the Iris Room is really the ultimate. The light comes through
seven different colors of glass, and it is very dim when it arrives.
And there the more daring remove their goggles entirely and go about
without them in the multi-colored twilight. This is illegal. It is
even foolhardy. There is no Earthly equivalent to it. To divest oneself
and disport with Nudists would be tame in comparison. But Mitzi and her
friends were of the reckless generation, and the Iris Room was their
rendezvous.

The orgy will not be detailed here. The floor show was wild. Yet we
cannot credit the rumor that the comedian was so crude as to look
directly at the audience even in that colored twilight; or they so
gauche as to laugh outright at the jokes, they who had been taught
always to murmur, "One knows of one who knows of one who ventures to
smile." Yet there was no doubting that the Iris Room was a lively
place. And when they left it at dawn, Marlow was pleased and sleepy and
tipsy.

There was a week of pleasure on Pudibundia: swimming with Mitzi down
at West Beach, gourmandizing with Mitzi at Gastrophiles, dancing with
Mitzi, pub-crawling, romancing, carrying on generally. The money
exchange was favorable and Marlow was on an expense account. It was a
delightful time.

But still he did not forget the job he was on, and in the midst of his
pleasure he sought always for information.

"When I return here," he said slyly, "we will do the many things that
time does not allow. When I come back here--"

"But you will not return," said Mitzi. "Nobody ever does."

"And why not? It is surely a pleasant place to return to. Why won't I
return?"

"If you cannot guess, then I cannot tell you. Do you have to know why?"

"Yes, I have to know why. That is why I came here, to find out. To find
out why the young men who come here will never be able to return here,
or to anywhere else."

"I can't tell you."

"Then give me a clue."

"In the Iris Room was a clue. It was not till the color-filtered light
intruded between us that we might safely take off our goggles. I would
save you if I could. I want you to come back. But those higher in
authority make the decisions. When you leave, you will not return here,
or anywhere else. But already one has spoken to one who has spoken to
one who has spoken too much."

"There is a point beyond which politeness is no longer a virtue, Mitzi."

"I know. If I could change it, I would."

       *       *       *       *       *

So the period of the visit was at an end, and Marlow was at his last
conference with OMTLM, following which he would leave Pudibundia,
perhaps forever.

"Is there anything at all else you would like to know?" asked OMTLM.

"There is almost _everything_ that I still want to know. I have found
out nothing."

"Then ask."

"I don't know how. If I knew the questions to ask, it is possible that
I would already know the answers."

"Yes, that is entirely possible."

OMTLM seemed to look at him with amused eyes. And yet the eyes were
hidden behind purple goggles. Marlow had never seen the eyes of OMTLM.
He had never seen the eyes of any of the Puds. Even in the Iris Room,
in that strangely colored light, it had not been possible to see their
eyes.

"Are you compelling me to do something?" asked Marlow.

"I may be compelling you to think of the question that has eluded you."

"Would you swear that I have not been given some fatal sickness?"

"I can swear that to the very best of my knowledge you have not."

"Are you laughing at me with your eyes?"

"No. My eyes have compassion for you."

"I have to see them."

"You are asking that?"

"Yes. I believe the answer to my question is there," Marlow said firmly.

OMTLM took off his purple goggles. His were clear, intelligent eyes
and there was genuine compassion in them.

"Thank you," said Marlow. "If the answer is there, it still eludes me.
I have failed in my mission for information. But I will return again. I
will still find out what it is that is wrong here."

"No, you will not return."

"What will prevent me?" asked Marlow.

"Your death in a very few weeks."

"What will I die of?"

"What did all your young pilots die of?"

"But you swore that you did not know of any sickness I could have
caught here!" Marlow cried.

"That was true when I said it. It was not true a moment later."

"Did all the pilots ask to see your eyes?"

"Yes. All. Curiosity is a failing of you Earthlings."

"Is it that the direct gaze of the Puds kills?"

"Yes. Even ourselves it would kill. That is why we have our eyes always
shielded. That is also why we erect another shield: that of our ritual
politeness, so that we may never forget that too intimate an encounter
of our persons may be fatal."

"Then you have just murdered me?"

"Let us say rather that one hears of one who hears of one who killed
unwillingly."

"Why did you do it to me?" demanded Marlow.

"You asked to see my eyes. It would not be polite to refuse."

"It takes you several weeks to kill. I can do it in a few seconds."

"You would be wrong to try. Our second glance kills instantly."

"Let's see if it's faster than a gun!"

       *       *       *       *       *

But OMTLM had not lied.

It is not polite to lie on Pudibundia.

Marlow died instantly.

And that is why (though you may sometimes hear a young pilot tell
amusing stories immediately--oh, very immediately--on his return from
Pudibundia) you will never find an old pilot who has ever been there.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Polite People of Pudibundia, by R. A. Lafferty