 Lanfierre has all of the following beliefs about humanity EXCEPT:
But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to begin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking about Optimum Dome Conditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a bogus postman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied his rear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of the handkerchief pocket. It was this rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting his fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayed and chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returning them. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. Conformity had become more than a social force; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it, Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see that genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own small efforts, rarer. Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. "It's like this, MacBride. And if there was a house sitting on such a mountain and if winds did blow, it would shake exactly the way that one does. You've got winds in your brain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—" At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammed shut. MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for the ghostly babble of voices to commence. MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and then they both looked back at the dancing house. It expressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and got neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. "I can't wait to see what he's got in there," Lanfierre murmured, watching the house with a consuming interest. Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off his shoes. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watch from outside. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear, the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a more satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion. The sun and moon both looked down upon a garden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.
 They are untrustworthy
 They are oblivious  They are self-absorbed  They are untrustworthy  They are vapid