People were already standing before the board at the village entrance before dawn had fully broken.
He walked over to one side and waited for the people ahead to finish reading.
One group of readers gave way to another, then another. The gap in front of the board never cleared.
Some squeezed their way out after reading, and as soon as they got through, others filled their places.
Footprints covered the muddy ground before the board, deep and shallow, overlapping.
The same notice was still on the board. Two words at the top, written in thick strokes. Several lines below, packed one against another.
A shower had fallen during the night, leaving a few damp spots on the paper, but the ink had not run.
Only when the people ahead moved aside did he step into the middle.
He picked out just the line in the center to read.
That line concerned assignments: how many jobs someone had to have completed before they qualified to register.
The number was written on the paper. It was not high. The lines above and below were both longer.
He read that line once, from the first word to the last.
A line of small print beneath it stated who had approved it. The lettering was half a size smaller, and he had to lean closer to make it out.
The Transcription Notebook was tucked under his arm. He pulled it out and opened it to the middle.
The notebook recorded assignments. One job per line, in chronological order.
The early entries were small jobs: errands, delivering letters, watching gates. Every one was recorded, with whose job it was and the date of completion written in the narrow lines beside it. Farther on, the entries grew sparser and the jobs bigger. A single line