Free Shades of Grey by Jasper Fforde Page B

are surfers,” he said as he walked past, “and don’t you yell at me, Mr. Warwick.”
    I ignored him, as protocol dictated, noted that he didn’t sneeze as he mounted the stairs, then walked slowly to my room to unpack.
    I placed my clothes neatly in the single chest of drawers in case of an inspection, but kept all my private stuff in my overnight valise. I had brought it with me, as the valise was the only private place that we had—two cubic feet that we could call our own. The Rule was so inviolably sacrosanct that without the next of kin’s agreement, a valise couldn’t even be opened after death. But there was a downside: Anything I had left behind at home would not be covered by the 1.1.01.02.066 Privacy Rule and could be discovered and confiscated, and, if appropriate, I would be punished. So I had to take everything unruleful with me, just in case.
    Needless to say, most people’s cases held contraband, either surplus-to-requirement spoons, illegally held hue or Leapbacked technology. Most often, though, the valise contained private collections of pre-Epiphanic artifacture, which was regarded as unofficial currency, always useful as a hedge against deflation. A doll’s head might be worth a cream tea, and a good piece of jewelry could be exchanged for a weekend in Redpool.
    Everyone owned something left behind by the Previous, for the simple reason that they left behind a lot. In my own modest collection I had a mock-tortoiseshell comb with all its teeth, various metal buttons, some coins, half a Bakelite telephone receiver, a Trik Trak car and, best of all, a lemon-sized motor known to the Previous as a PerMoCo, Inc., Mk6b 20W Everspin™, and probably used to power some sort of domestic appliance. I had found it in the river a mile beyond Jade-under-Lime’s Outer Markers, the long, slow bend being a good spot for alluvial toshing. I had been up there alone panning for buttons when I came across the Everspin and a lot more besides. I returned to the village that morning with an armful of brightly colored red plastics and a shiny painted-metal toy that turned out to be vivid blue.
    The senior toshing monitor immediately organized an expedition upstream, where it was found that a new channel had been cut through the remnants of an old village. Despite being almost three foot-hours into the Outfield and arguably closer to the village of Greenver’s Chase, it was claimed by Jade-under-Lime’s Council as Color-trove, and yielded several hundred tons of highly colored scrap over the next six years. The Council were extremely grateful. I was awarded two hundred merits and allowed to keep the Everspin, which was something of a treat: Under Rule 2.1.02.03.047, all Leapbacked technology not subject to an exemption was put “beyond use,” a term that generally involved several sharp blows with the blacksmith’s hammer. My Everspin didn’t work, of course. Or at least it didn’t when I found it. But after six months of drying out it started to rotate again, albeit slowly, and only when the weather was chilly. But I kept the Everspin’s everspinning to myself. Previous agreements notwithstanding, it would have been confiscated.
    I returned to the kitchen and found the kettle singing merrily to itself and half boiled out. I was just replenishing the water when there was a soft rap at the back door. I opened it to find a young man with a pale complexion, an almost nonexistent nose and overly large eyes that made him look as though he were constantly surprised. He seemed ill at ease, and wrung his hands nervously.
    “Master Edward?” he inquired. “My name is Dorian G-7. I’m the village photographer and editor of the East Carmine Mercury. Would you like some shortbread?”
    I thanked him and helped myself from the open biscuit tin he was holding.
    “What do you think?”
    “To be honest, somewhat . . . gritty.”
    He looked despondent.
    “I was afraid you’d say that. I had to use sand instead of sugar.