“No, thanks.”
“If you change your—”
“I won’t. What would the prefects say if they knew you were brokering youknow?”
Tommo stared at me, oblivious to the implied threat. He leaned closer and whispered, “I simply bring the buyer to the market, and I have a broad client base. A very broad client base. Why do you think a loser like me is the junior Red monitor? You need to loosen up. If you can get the poker out of your hoo-ha, you’re going to enjoy it here.”
“But what about the Rules?”
He leaned closer and smiled. “You’re living in the Fringes now, Eddie. Out here, the Rulebook is printed on rubber paper. Will you excuse me until later? I have to fetch some sandwiches for Ulrika.”
“Ulrika?”
“Of the flak,” he replied, as though it were obvious.
The Colorium
2.1.03.01.115: All trips beyond the Outer Markers have to be approved by a prefect or a senior monitor.
It was half past five by then, and most Chromatics were either returning home, about to indulge in hobbies or just socializing. For the Greys, it was time to move on to their third job. I wouldn’t be able to try to quiz Jane any more until she came around to make supper, and I was still intrigued about her. But try as I might, I couldn’t help thinking about Jabez asking her for a date, and how painful it must be to lose an eyebrow.
Dad’s Colorium was two doors down from the town hall, sandwiched between the post office and the co-op. The bell tinkled as I opened the door. I found myself in a largish waiting room full of villagers who were either reading well-thumbed back issues of Spectrum or staring vacantly at the posters on the walls, which were mostly public information banners. One explained how malingering was a waste of one’s Civil Obligation, and was also village time theft. Another suggested that you wash your hands after touching something that Riffraff might have touched, and a third explained how premarital youknow might lead to a fall in personal standards that would lead ultimately to disharmony and, with continued persistence, Reboot.
My father’s consulting room was partitioned by frosted-glass panels, through which I could see the vague outlines of people moving. I waited until a patient walked out, and before Dad could call “Next!” I knocked on his door and entered.
The consulting room was pretty much the same as at Jade-under-Lime, only larger. There was a couch under a glazed ceiling, and to one side an X-ray machine, the swatch safe and several glass-fronted cupboards packed with bandages and a few instruments. I noticed that there was even an arc light, on a wheeled stand, that was plugged into the wall.
“What a relief!” he said as I entered. “It’s only you.”
He got up and walked across to the filing cabinet, placed a file back into its slot and then closed the drawer.
“I can give you five minutes,” he said, rummaging through a mountain of treatment-request forms that all needed his backdated signature. “Ochre has left the practice in an appalling state. I’ve got five women to time correctly for Chromovulation by the end of the month, the sniffles is definitely getting worse and get this: Ochre’s been stealing and selling the village’s swatches!”
“The village is buzzing with it,” I replied, giving the impression of a lad with his finger on the pulse. “How many have gone?”
He sat back in his swivel chair and shook his head sadly.
“I haven’t inventoried them all, but certainly five hundred or so, stolen over a period of several years—in clear contravention of about twenty-seven different Rules and the Chromaticologist’s oath!”
“Wow,” I exclaimed, overwhelmed by Ochre’s audacity. Adherence to the strict rule of Rule was maintained not just by the severity of the punishment, but by the certainty of being caught.
“We’ve still got a few hundred,” said Dad, walking across to the swatch safe and flicking through the six-inch-square envelopes that protected the hues, “but mostly the ones he couldn’t sell on the Beigemarket. The sort that deal with athlete’s foot, male-pattern baldness and excessive wrinkling of the scrotum.”
“It wasn’t a fatal self-misdiagnosis, was it?”
“I think not. DeMauve believes he’d been indulging in the palette rather heavily. Beyond lime—perhaps even beyond Lincoln.”
“You think he was Chasing the Frog?”
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. If he was, then it’s little wonder the Council returned an accidental- death verdict at the inquest. They were doing Ochre’s family and the rest of the village a favor.”
It explained the “misdiagnosis.” “Chasing the Frog” was what hardened greeners did when their cortex was too burned for even Lincoln to have an effect. They would go into the Green Room and partake of the color painted within—the shade of green that you saw only once in your life, when it was time to go.
The color painted within the Green Room was known as “sweetdream” and would render you unconscious in twelve minutes and dead in sixteen, but during those twelve minutes every synapse in your brain would fire in a sparkling fountain of pleasure. The cries from the Green Room were never of pain or fear. They were of ecstasy. Chasing the Frog was a dangerous game. Time it right and you were sitting on a cloud. Time it wrong and you’d be good only for the renderers.
“Falsifying a cause of death?” I muttered. “That’s got to be five thousand demerits there and then.”
Dad shrugged and I thought for a moment. “The Rules are pretty malleable out here, aren’t they?”
“In most places, Eddie, if you look—which I don’t recommend.”
“You’re right,” I said, thinking of Jane, and how I should really just drop the whole wrongspot issue.
“Ochre’s wife and daughter can’t be having a great time of it,” he added. “The Council exonerated them of all wrongdoing as regards the swatch theft, but even so—guilt by association and whatnot. Next!”
The door opened, and a Grey man walked in. He was a senior, and bent double by either toil in the fields or toil in the factory—toil, anyway. He had a runny nose and watery eyes. It didn’t take a six-year Chromaticologist’s training to see what the problem was.
“It’s the sniffles, Mr. G-67,” said Dad kindly. “There’s a lot of it about. Unfortunately, we have problems with the Long Swatch, so I don’t have anything I can show you for it—it’ll be a week’s bed rest.”
The Grey seemed very pleased with the outcome, and handed my father his merit book.
“Ah,” said Dad as he flicked through the pages of the man’s employment record and feedback score.
“Tell me, Mr. G-67, have you been suffering from heavy legs recently?”
“No, sir.”
“I would strongly suggest that you have.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Grey obediently. “Awful they’ve been these past few years. So heavy I sometimes can’t get out of bed.”
“Exactly as I thought,” replied my father. “I am giving you three weeks and four days’ additional bed rest.
We’ll also remove this.”
Dad took the MALINGERER badge off the Grey’s lapel, doubtless placed there by Sally Gamboge.
The man’s worn features cracked into a smile. He thanked Dad profusely and tottered out of the room.
“Heavy legs?” I asked.
“He’s got less than half a percent of his Civil Obligation to complete before retirement,” murmured Dad, filling in a treatment form, “and he looks like he deserves to finish early.”
“That’s not really allowed, is it?”
Dad shrugged. “Not really. But the Greys have been worked half to death by the Gamboges, and if it’s in my power to afford them a break, I’ll do so.”
“Are you giving everyone with the sniffles time off work?”
“No. I’m going to get hold of some 196-34-44 tomorrow—it’ll have the outbreak cured in a twinkling.”