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 or 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? Or 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 manner 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? 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 certainly 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 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 was 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-rhumbeziod, 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 layers 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 Nudist would be tame by 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 wa
s 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 colour-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 might 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.
IN THE GARDEN
Originally published in If, March 1961.
The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there be life traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. So they skipped several steps in the procedure.
The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. There was spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omitted several tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thought on the body?
Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; it required a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they found nothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Then it came, clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.
“Limited,” said Steiner, “as though within a pale. As follow the rest of the surface to find another, or concentrate though there were but one city, if that is its form. Shall we on this? It’ll be twelve hours before it’s back in our ken if we let it go now.”
“Let’s lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest of the world to make sure we’ve missed nothing,” said Stark.
There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult of analysis, that of the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This was designed simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this might be so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and the designer of it were puzzled as how to read the results.
The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locator had refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself, bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he had extraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. He told the machine so heatedly.
The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, that Glaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinary perception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference, the machine insisted.
It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but built others more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the owners of Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.
And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (or Eppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on a number of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could not even read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety percent of the acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been a sound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Mi it had read Positive on a two-inch long worm, one only out of billions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at all was shown by the test.
So it was with mixed emotions that Steiner locked onto the area and got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently one individual, though this could not be certain) and got very definite action. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, and assumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.
Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it ever p
roduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrug of the shoulders in a man. They called it the “You tell me light.”
So among the intelligences on that body there was at least one that might be extraordinary, though possibly in a crack-pot way. It is good to be forewarned.
“Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner,” said Stark, “and the rest of us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will go down on that one the next time it is in position under us, in about twelve hours.”
“You don’t want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere away from the thoughtful creature?”
“No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reason that Thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will go down boldly and visit this.”
So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, the captain; Caspar Craig, supercargo, tycoon and fifty-one percent owner of the Little Probe; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; and F. R. Briton, S. J., a Jesuit priest who was linguist and checker champion of the craft.
Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationary in the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probe went down to visit whatever was there.
“There’s no town,” said Steiner. “Not a building. Yet we’re on the track of the minds. There’s nothing but a meadow and some boscage, a sort of fountain or pool, and four streams booming out of it.”
The R a Lafferty Fantastic Megapack Page 15