The Chair Census
3.6.03.12.009: Croquet mallets are not to be used for knocking in the hoops. Fine: one merit.
“Ah!” said Sally Gamboge when she saw me. “We were told you were in the zone. Reason?”
“The Vermeer.”
“Of course,” she replied, “what other reason could you have?
We’re here to help you conduct your chair census.”
“You are?”
“Yes indeed,” replied Bunty in a friendly manner that was completely at odds with her hue, “since you have so selflessly committed yourself to the exploration of High Saffron, we thought we would selflessly commit ourselves to helping you finish the task that you were sent here to do.”
“You don’t mind us helping, do you?” asked Sally Gamboge, who wore a smile wholly alien to her features. “Well—” She didn’t wait for an answer, and instead went to the first door and banged three times in a way that wasn’t designed to be friendly. A middle-aged man answered, and started when he saw the unwelcome flash of synthetic yellow on his doorstep.
“Chair census,” announced Mrs. Gamboge, “by order of Head Office. You have no objections, I trust?”
It wasn’t a question she actually wanted or needed an answer for, and she swiftly directed her charges to conduct a “full chair search” while I stood on the step with the resident.
“Hello,” I said. “Edward Russett.”
“Hello,” said the man, glaring at me suspiciously.
“It’s a Head Office assignment,” I said, feeling a bit stupid.
“And that gives you the freedom to look through my house?”
“Anyone conducting a census is an agent of Head Office, and has right of access.”
“Hmm,” he said doubtfully. “Aren’t you the one starting a Question Club?”
“I hope so.”
“Then you can ask this: Why did the Previous insist on separate taps for hot and cold?”
“Why not raise the question yourself at the first meeting? I may not be able to make it.”
The Yellows all trooped out a few minutes later, and reported seven chairs, two sofas and a piano stool.
“Thank you for your time,” I said as politely as I could, and followed the Gamboges and Bunty as they moved next door. They were already beginning to attract a small group of Greys. It was early afternoon, and the zone was mostly empty—but then I didn’t think they would have attempted a census when people were at home.
Mrs. Gamboge knocked at the door of the next house, and it opened to reveal a young woman who stared at the prefect in an insolent manner that, if outside the Greyzone, would have instantly led to a heavy demerit.
“Chair census,” announced Sally Gamboge, “by order of Head Office.”
The young Grey looked at us all in turn. “Right. And I’m the Colorman.”
The impertinence was too much for Courtland. “Are you calling my mother a liar, Wendy?”
“We don’t have many Rules in our favor,” she retorted, “but privacy of dwelling is one of them.”
“Russett,” said the prefect, “show Wendy your assignment.”
I told her I didn’t have it with me, but Bunty produced it like a conjuring trick.
“I took the liberty of fetching it from your bedroom,” she said, handing it over.
“That seems to be in order,” murmured the Grey after studying my assignment carefully, and the Yellows walked in without another word. They were more cautious this time, as though expecting a Riffraff snare under the hall carpet or something.
“Sorry about this,” I said to Wendy as we stood in the hall. She didn’t answer, and instead glared at me until the Yellows returned with a list of chairs in their notebooks.
“Listen,” I said as Mrs. Gamboge was about to knock on the door of the next dwelling, “this is all a bit awkward—why don’t we ask the Greys to do a self-declaration?”
“That would be a waste of time,” declared Bunty. “Greys are the most consummate of liars.”
“You don’t actually have to be here at all,” added Penelope, who despite being the smallest and youngest, managed to ooze just as much unpleasantness as the rest of them. “Why don’t you bog off home and leave the serious census taking to the professionals?”
“I’m staying,” I said.
Mrs. Gamboge grunted, and knocked on the next door. She took a step back when the door was answered—by Jane.
“Well, well,” she said, “you don’t see a Yellow in the Greyzone for years, and then four come along together.”
“This isn’t your house, Jane,” observed Mrs. Gamboge suspiciously.
“The Rot take your hue, Gamboge.”
They all took a sharp intake of breath, and I could see them rankle at not just the insult, but the supreme lack of respect that accompanied it.
“Three days to go until the Night Train,” remarked Sally, “and still unrepentant. I pity your poor Reboot mentor. Mind you, there’s always the Magnolia Room for hard nuts. Show her your warrant, Russett.”
Jane read the assignment, then waved the Yellows past.
“What’s going on, Jane?”
“Did I say you could use my name?”
“No.”
“Then don’t. Now, I want you to stop all this.”
“I don’t have any control over the Yellows.”
“Come on, Red—show some grit for a change. Stand up and be counted.”
I took a deep breath. “I want you to come with me to High Saffron.”
“And I told you: I don’t do death on a first date.”
“You could do with the merits. You could buy your way out of Reboot. You said yourself that legging it on the conveyor or staying at Rusty Hill wasn’t an ideal situation.”
Courtland walked past. Jane put out her foot and he stumbled on it, glared at her and then went into the basement.
“Watch out for that one. The village will go all to Beige in a match pot when his mother retires. You and I are going to have to take care of him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take him out,” she said, “you and me. Together. Now that would be a first date to remember.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, hoping she was pulling my leg, “I never do death on a first date.”
She laughed. Delightfully so, in fact. But then her attention was taken by the Yellows, who were opening cupboards and drawers to “check for folding chairs,” as they put it, and Jane leaned forward and spoke in a urgent voice.
“Fun’s over. You have to put a stop to this!”
“But I’ve got to conduct my chair census. Orders from Head Office.”
“Plums to Head Office,” she replied. “You think the Yellows are really here to count chairs?”
“What else would they be doing?”
She sighed.
“It’s a merit sweep, dummy. They’re using your chair census as an excuse to go through our stuff and log infractions. The more demerits they find, the harder we have to work to earn them back. But they can only do it during an official Head Office census—it’s the Rules.”
“I go to High Saffron tomorrow.”
“Exactly. The census dies with you, so they’re just exploiting the opportunity while they can. The thing is, there is stuff here they shouldn’t find. Things that have to stay hidden. If they find them, the Yellows can’t leave the zone and will end up beneath a patio or something. Perhaps we’ll get away with it, but as likely as not we won’t. You want the death of four Yellows on your conscience?”