“Just checking. If Courtland says ‘Jump,’ you just ask ‘How high and in what direction?’ ” Tommo waved at Courtland, and he gestured with a lazy jerk of his head for us to enter the work area, where he was sitting at one of the three sorting tables. I looked around curiously. Etched onto the surface of each table were three large intersecting circles representing the traditional primary colors, the intersections denoting the secondary hues. Sorting was a simple enough process. Each sorter was responsible for one of the three colors. Courtland, for example, would pick any yellow items from the tosh pile and place them in the pure yellow section of his intersecting circles, with the brightest shade at the top and the dullest at the bottom. At the same time, he would pick out any yellow-value object he could see from the red section, say, and place it in the intersecting area that belonged to both red and yellow, and from that it could be deduced that the object was orange. It was the same with the rest of the sorting table: Anything in the intersection of yellow and blue would have to be green; and anything in red and blue, purple. In this way, thanks to the talents of those highly perceptive in red, yellow and blue, the entire unseeable Spectrum of color could be laid upon the table. After sorting, the objects would then be bagged and sent off to the pigment plant to be milled, squeezed and enriched—and from there to communal enjoyment.

I noticed that the blue table seemed neat and orderly, as was Courtland’s. The red table less so. Untidy, to be truthful. In fact, I could see red items in the reject tosh pile that should have been placed, but had been missed.

“Who sorts your red?” I asked.

“Dullard Yewberry,” said Tommo, staring at the misplaced red tosh without a flicker. “He’s only acting prefect, so his perception is not first-rate. Why?”

“No reason.”

“Hello, Court,” said Tommo in a servile tone. “This is Eddie Russett. Eddie, this is Courtland Gamboge, son of the Yellow prefect and next one up.”

Courtland was tall, handsome and well dressed. He had a large jaw, strong eyebrows and odd, unblinking eyes that seemed to stare. Upon his lapel was a parade of badges awarded for meritorious work, and on his cheek a recent scar.

“How much red you got?” he asked.

“Enough,” I replied.

“Keeping your cards close to your chest, eh? Good idea. And what’s your HUMILITY badge for?”

I told him about Bertie Magenta and the elephant trick, and all that hoo-ha.

“They’ve given him a chair census to conduct,” said Tommo with a smirk.

Courtland sniggered. “It gets less imaginative each time. Now, Master Russett, do you need anything?”

“Not that I can think of right now.”

“Bear it in mind. Tommo and I like to think we can fix most things around here. If you want a good job or need to borrow a few extra merits until payday or are in the poo with the prefects, we can . . . make things happen.”

There was a pause.

“This is where you say ‘Wow’ or ‘Gosh’ or ‘Terrific,’ ” Tommo prompted.

“Gosh,” I said.

“Gosh indeed, Russett,” said Courtland. “But it’s very much quid pro quo. We do things for you, and you do things for us—to the mutual benefit of all. No point in living the Grey life just because the Rules have so little room for maneuver, hey?

“But before we get too embroiled in complexities, you will need to do something for us. Something to prove your mettle.” He leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “We want some Lincoln. You have access to your father’s swatch safe. Do that for us and we’ll be the best of friends.”

I frowned. This was a new one. Most bullies were uncomplicated characters who simply wanted unearned respect and cash. Stealing swatches was on another level entirely. Lincoln, or 125-66-53, was a chromatropic painkiller ten times more powerful than lime. Even a glimpse was enough to lower the heart rate, and a good ten-second stare would bring on a sense of dreamy otherworldliness and hallucinations. Some maintained that greening was a harmless indulgence, but heavy greeners risked damaging their visual cortex. Too much Lincoln and you could lose all sense of color—natural and univisual. Peddling Lincoln was peddling misery. I stared at them both in turn.

“I’m afraid I might have to pass on your request.”

Courtland looked back at me, unblinking, then put his hand on my shoulder in a friendly but firm gesture and said in a low voice, “What’s your first name again?”

“Eddie.”

“What you must realize, Eddie, is that I’m the highest Yellow you’re ever likely to be able to count as a friend. Friendship, I’m sure you will agree, is a very useful commodity if you’re going to spend the rest of your life in this backwater.”

“I’m only here for a month.”

“Were you fool enough to give deMauve your ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Then you could be here for longer. But here’s the bottom line: Defrauding the village out of some Lincoln might seem something of a Rule dilemma right here and now, but actually it’s a very wise long-term investment, wouldn’t you agree?”

He said it in a serious, businesslike manner, but with a strong undercurrent of menace. I’d seen Alpha Primes throwing their weight around, but never so blatantly. I looked across at Tommo, who was at the window, checking for prefects.

“I think that’s pretty reasonable, don’t you?” he said.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m not going to steal any Lincoln from my father.”

“Hoo,” said Tommo, “scruples.”

“I wasn’t for one moment suggesting you steal anything,” murmured Courtland with a smile. “A missing swatch of Lincoln would have the prefects all in a lather. No. Tommo has a much better idea.”

“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.