“According to Tommo.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” he assured me. “A fine sense of humor and a terrific kisser—if a little too much tongue for my taste.”

I must have looked shocked, for he stifled a laugh and was nudged by the fellow next to him, whereupon they both started shaking with suppressed mirth at the joke. I was going to say something dazzlingly amusing and erudite in reply, but I couldn’t think of anything, so instead just grinned with affected good humor.

“Whose toe is this?” asked Doug when a small black object plopped into his glass as he poured himself some water.

“Tommo’s.”

He picked it out and slipped it into someone else’s mug farther down the table.

“Good afternoon, Edward.”

Dad had just arrived at the table, and he wasn’t alone. He was with a woman about his age, that is to say, in her late forties. She was wearing a dazzlingly bright red dress that sparkled when she moved—she was liberally draped with jewelry, bright red gemstones in silver settings. Her outfit probably contravened several dress codes and anti-showiness directives, but I couldn’t see anyone truly complaining, as she looked magnificent.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I replied politely, since the prearranged “Edward” code meant he was with a lady he was trying to impress.

“This is Mrs. Ochre,” my father explained, “an old friend.”

“Good afternoon,” I said, thinking her mode of dress was an odd way to show mourning, unless that was what was meant by the black velvet choker around her neck.

“She’s asked us to join the Chromogentsia this evening for the Debating Society meeting,” continued my father.

Since I wasn’t yet Ishiharaed, I didn’t officially have the 50 percent-plus perception required to join the Chromogentsia. But children of members were allowed to attend in order to help out, since Greys were barred, lest listening in to the Debating Society’s conversations “gave them ideas.”

“I accept,” I said politely. “Thank you very much.”

She seemed pleasant enough, if a mite flirty and not a little overdressed. I didn’t think it would help if I remarked how saturated her daughter had been that morning, so instead I just said I was pleased to make her acquaintance and was sorry for her loss. She thanked me and said the Debating Society would look forward to meeting us—and could I bring a rice pudding?

The conversation ended with the raucous sound of hundreds of chairs being pushed out, as anyone who was sitting down suddenly stood up and shuffled to find the correct place when deMauve and the other Council members filed in. I let myself be guided by the shuffle and ended up at the end of the table with Tommo to one side and Doug on the other.

“Good afternoon to you all,” the head prefect began. He was greeted with a murmured “Good afternoon” in return, the three thousand or so bored voices a low rumble in the hall. He was actually a long way away, but a large voice trumpet was suspended from the ceiling in front of him, and he spoke into that. Old Man Magenta’s voice was so loud, he never needed one.

I’d attended six and a half thousand assemblies in my life, and according to current longevity estimates, I would probably attend twenty-two thousand more before I was done. They were tedious after the first couple of hundred, and none but the Yellows really paid any attention past the thousandth. For the rest of us, assembly was just a hole in your lifetime, wrapped in boredom. Whispering, dozing, prodding one another and passing notes were so utterly forbidden that they simply weren’t worth the risk, so the majority of villagers used assembly as a time for silent contemplation. Fenton claimed to have learned to sleep with his eyes open, which would have been useful if it were true. I just used the time for doing mental arithmetic, refining my theories about enhanced queuing or trying to figure out a loophole plausible enough to enable me to go into the potentially profitable spoon business. It had been tried before, but never successfully. Randolph Aubergine had attempted to market “half-scale models” of garden trowels, but the concept didn’t pass the strict Rule Compliance Procedures, and the idea was abandoned.

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.