My reverie was interrupted by deMauve, who had announced my name. I looked up guiltily to find everyone staring at me.
“. . . the Russetts have come all the way from Jade-under-Lime, in Green Sector West,” continued the head prefect. “I’m sure you will join me in welcoming them to our humble community, and offering them assistance in whatever way possible.”
He went on to explain how my father and I had ignored the substantial dangers in the trip to Rusty Hill, and how the Caravaggio would be having its official redisplaying celebration on Friday. Those who were still paying attention—quite a few of them, it seemed—applauded dutifully as we stood up to be recognized, and Dad and I nodded politely in return.
I decided it was probably best to listen to what was going on and leave my cutlery-inspired daydreaming for another day. DeMauve ran through news that, while pertinent to the village, was of little interest to me: Linoleum production was being cut due to deflation, and while bad news for the village profit-and-loss sheet—the color garden would be insipid within a month—it was good news for the Greys. Or at least, it would have been if the Council hadn’t also decided to cultivate another nine acres of glasshouse. By the mutterings on the Grey tables, it seemed that factory work, despite the industrial accidents, was still preferable to growing pineapples.
DeMauve paused for a moment, then turned over his notepad. As he did so, the door creaked open. The prefects looked up angrily to see who had dared to enter once assembly was in progress, but they all relaxed when they saw it was the Apocryphal man. He was covered in dried mud, was wearing only socks and carried a string bag with apples in it. He meandered over to the serving table, helped himself to a plate of rolls, then walked back out. DeMauve simply ignored him, and carried on as though he weren’t there.
“Many of you will know that the Great Western Pipeline was laid as far as Rusty Hill,” he continued. “As I have intimated in the past, I have been in correspondence with Head Office to see if the spur line might be continued all the way to East Carmine, and thus bring us within the National Colorization Program.”
Excited murmurings followed this statement as the residents mulled over the Chromatic riches this would involve. Not just a small garden, but the whole area surrounding the village—the trees, grass and flowers.
It would place East Carmine on the map and possibly, if its luck really held, enable it to host another Jollity Fair.
“This very day,” deMauve continued, “we have received a visit from a representative of National Color, and although what he has to tell us is not precisely what we might have liked, he does offer a possible solution to our request. I will let His Colorfulness fill you in.”
The Colorman stood up and joined deMauve at the lectern. His voice was more authoritarian than deMauve’s, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been ridiculously high and squeaky. This was, after all, a man from National Color. He represented freedom from a drab world, and the Word of Munsell personified. Everyone was in awe of National Color—even, it was said, Head Office.
Jade-under-Lime was already on the network, so I remained unex- cited by the possibility. I wasn’t the only one. I flicked a surreptitious look at Jane, who was staring at the table and scratching a bit of crud off her knife with a fingernail.
“Thank you for affording me the hospitality of your village,” the Colorman began. “I am humbled by the kindness you have shown me, and honored to be conducting the Ishihara on Sunday for the eight residents who have reached their twentieth year and are ready to begin discharging their Civil Obligation to society in a productive and meaningful fashion.”
It was a good opener, and safe. Nothing controversial. He had everyone’s attention, and after outlining how every village was deserving of National Color’s fullest consideration in the pursuit of full colorization, he went on to describe the work that was being undertaken on everyone’s behalf, and how color was a privilege that had to be earned, not a right to be expected. It sounded like a speech he had given many times, as he doubtless had, since all villages wanted pretty much the same thing—more color. It was only in his final sentence that he got down to realities:
“Crucially, connection to the grid relates to your scrap-color collection numbers, which I am sorry to say have fallen far short of the target.” He directed this comment at the prefects, who looked uneasy. “If deliveries to Central Recycling can be stepped up,” he carried on, “National Color will happily reevaluate your submission at a later date.”
He thanked us for our time, was greeted with applause, then returned to his seat.
“Our thanks go to His Colorfulness for his words and thoughts on the subject,” said deMauve, who had retaken his place at the lectern, “and I want to make perfectly clear that our missed targets do not reflect upon the toshers, washers, sorters and packers who have been doing sterling work for many years. No, the problem is twofold: increased Fade, which is out of our hands, and lack of raw material, which we might be able to do something about.”
He paused for effect.
“That is why, with Harmony, Little Carmine and Great Auburn all worked out, we have decided to relax the Rules on how far toshing parties may go. As of today, High Saffron is once again within limits.”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but by the murmuring around the hall, it seemed to be something that generated universal unease. I caught Dad’s eye, and he shrugged; he didn’t know either. But deMauve hadn’t finished. Before toshing parties were consigned to High Saffron, a comprehensive study needed to be carried out of the terrain and scrap-color potential, ease of extraction and so forth—and he needed volunteers to go over there and have an initial look.
“Since the Rules state,” he continued, “that full disclosure of the risks must be divulged, I have to report that we have sent eighty-three explorers to High Saffron over the past half century, and all of them failed to return. Obviously,” he added, “the village is prepared to be generous in these matters. One hundred merits have been allocated for those who undertake this hazardous duty. After they return,” he added, in case anyone was thinking of having a splurge on some up-front cash. “So—any takers?”
Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t swamped by volunteers. In fact, the room was so quiet you might have heard a drop of paint splash.
“Very well,” said deMauve. “I will leave you to muse on it and contact me directly.”
He spoke a bit more about auditions for Red Side Story, related the news that Travis Canary was missing, presumed Nightloss, then gave the usual warnings about potential swan attack and Lightning Avoidance Drill. After that, he paused briefly to gather his thoughts.
“Today’s lesson is from Munsell’s Book of Truth, chapter nine.”
“This is where we’d use the Redlax,” whispered Tommo as deMauve opened the heavy book on the lectern. I had to admit that it would be quite a prank, and at least make one of my twenty-eight thousand assemblies truly memorable.