“Here’s how it works,” said Tommo, picking up his cue. “When your father comes to reorder the swatches, all you do is sneak into his office and write a ‘two’ in the ordering column next to Lincoln. He won’t notice, and it’s not likely deMauve will either. All you do then is ‘liberate’ the extra swatch when it arrives from National Color. Simple, hey?”
“What if my father doesn’t order any Lincoln?”
“Haven’t you heard? Robin Ochre was selling off the village swatches on the Beigemarket. The mutual auditor from Bluetown told me he sold almost the entire stock.”
Those were the “irregularities” surrounding Ochre that deMauve had been speaking of. It went against everything a swatchman had sworn to uphold. DeMauve was right: A fatal self-misdiagnosis may have been the best thing for him.
“It’s a brilliant plan,” I concurred.
“Splendid! And remember: If you need anything, anything at all, you only have to ask. We can fix pretty much anything, can’t we, Tommo?”
“Indeed we can,” he replied, “except get your Open Return back—or wangle you a date with Crazy Jane.”
Courtland laughed out loud.
“Do you remember when Jabez asked her to go to a tea dance with him?”
“Yes,” mused Tommo. “I hadn’t realized you could actually tear an eyebrow off.”
“So,” said Courtland, “we’re all agreed about the Lincoln.”
He gave me another smile, patted me on the shoulder and returned to his work. Tommo took my arm and steered me firmly toward the door.
“I think that went pretty well,” said Tommo as we walked back toward the village, “although you might have been a tad more obsequious.”
“I’ll try to remember that for next time.”
“Stout fellow. You won’t regret helping us out, you know. Doors can really open to anyone willing to play the system.
“Oh,” said Tommo as he snapped his fingers, “once you’ve got your paws on your dad’s swatch safe, would you let me borrow some 7-85-57?”
He was referring to Redlax, a cross-spectral laxative of instantaneous and unprecedented violence. Even a glimpse would have someone running for the thunderbox as if his life depended on it.
“If you’re having problems with your number twos,” I confided, “perhaps you might speak to my father.”
“It’s not for me,” said Tommo with a laugh. “I was thinking of using it to play a prank on deMauve—put it into his copy of Harmony just as he’s about to bore our chops off at assembly.”
I was struck speechless. He had to be pulling my leg. No one would try something like that.
“It, er, wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where the Redlax came from.”
“I’m not too concerned over the consequences of the prank,” replied Tommo, summing up his worldview in one swift statement, “more the prank itself.”
We took a path back toward the town, and on the way encountered a group of a half-dozen girls who had just come off their shift at the linoleum factory. They were all dressed in dungarees with their hair tied up in printed gingham head scarves, and were giggling and chatting in an exuberant manner.
“Good evening, ladies,” said Tommo politely.
“Good evening, Master Thomas,” said the tallest of the group, an attractive willow of a girl who was shaking out her long tresses as she removed her headscarf. “Who’s the newbie?”
“This is Master Edward Russett, Melanie. All the way from some dreadful dump near the inner boundary. He has scruples, counts chairs and has seen the Last Rabbit.”
“What’s it like?” piped up the youngest of the group, a short girl with pigtails and a birthmark on her cheek.
“Well, y’know, kind of . . . rabbitlike.”
“Will you draw me a picture?”
“I could do you a shadow puppet.”
“Chairs, rabbits and scruples, eh?” cooed the tall one, taking a step closer and tugging at my tie in a playful manner. “That sounds like a combustible mix.”
She was being almost intolerably forward. The girls in Jade-under-Lime were all demure and polite, and I felt myself grow hot.
“Tommo is wholly mistaken,” I said, trying to sound sophisticated.
“Then you have no scruples?” asked the girl called Melanie in a low voice as she touched my cheek with the back of her hand. Her companions let loose a volley of sniggering. It was embarrassing, but not without a tinge of pleasure—Melanie’s touch was warm and almost tender. Constance had held my hand six and a half times, if you don’t count the tea dancing, but never once touched me on the cheek—unless you include the time she slapped me for suggesting that her mother “had politeness issues.”
“Yes,” I stammered, feeling awkward and seriously out of my depth, “that is to say—”
“Let us know when he makes up his mind as to whether he has scruples or not, Tommo,” sang Melanie as she stepped back, my humiliation complete, and they all dissolved into peals of laughter.
Although I felt hopelessly ill at ease, the girls’ free and easy laughter was one of the most wonderful sounds I had ever heard. But I was no longer of interest, and they all started to chatter again and moved off toward the Greyzone.
“If you want to meet any of those delightful ladies in private, I can arrange things for a five percent fixer’s fee,” said Tommo as we watched them walk off. “Do you want to see their unofficial feedback ratings?”
I stared at him, unsure of what to do or say. That an illicit market in youknow existed in Jade-under-Lime, despite Old Man Magenta’s watchful eye, I was pretty sure. In fact, it was entirely possible that everyone indulged quite happily. But I’d been unprepared for the fact that someone like Tommo—it would have to be someone like Tommo—would not only be able to arrange things but do it so openly, and seemingly without fear of punishment. It explained his cash merits, too.
“But not to a complementary color,” he added, in case I was a deviant or something. “I may live in a partial Rule vacuum, but even I have standards of decency. If you’re not up for a bit of youknow,” he continued, doubtless reading the look of shocked disapproval that had crossed my face, “they’re all game for a cheeky bundle or a lambada in private. But,” he added after a moment’s thought, “I can’t help you with Jane. And don’t even think of tall Melanie—she’s on a promise from Courtland.”
“Courtland doesn’t strike me as the sort of Yellow to do such a decent thing—bring a Grey up—what with Bunty McMustard waiting in the wings.”
Tommo laughed.
“He’s not going to actually go through with it, dummy. Courtland tells me Melanie will do anything for him. Anything. And it doesn’t cost him a bean. He knows Bunty will hang on for him indefinitely, so he’ll just dump Mel when the Council decides they need some more Yellows.”
“No!” I muttered.
“Daring, isn’t it?” Tommo agreed. “Thinking of trying it yourself?”
“Never! I mean, that’s the most dishonest and cruel thing anyone can do to someone, not to mention contravening at least eight Rules—including Fundamental Number One. What’s he going to say when this gets out?”
Tommo shrugged. “Deny it, I guess. Who are they going to believe? Melanie-Nobody-at-All or Alpha-Yellow-Prefect-in-Waiting Courtland ‘Big Banana’ Gamboge?”
“I’ll tell them.”
“You heard him promise her?”
“No—”
“Then wake up, pinhead. Forget fundamentals. Rule one as far as Courtland is concerned is Don’t get involved. Courtland will one day be the Yellow prefect. Just keep that in your mind and fix on it. It will make your life a lot easier, I can tell you. Now, can I fix you up with someone?”