Leo Frankowski - Copernick's Rebellion

Patricia slowed down. Beyond the lot, she saw a solid wall of tree houses. On the front porch of one, a man sat in shorts and sandals, a tall drink in his hand.

Patricia stopped and lowered the passenger window. “I’m looking for Life Valley!”

“This is good,” the man said in a relaxed, friendly voice. “Because that’s exactly what you’ve found.”

“Well, how do I drive in there?”

“You don’t ma’am. Would you care for some lemonade?”

“Uh. Yes. Thank you.” The dry heat hit her as she left the Lincoln and walked to the porch. “What do you mean, I don’t? Do I need some kind of permission?”

“No, ma’am. I mean you don’t drive. This is as far as the roads go. Beyond here, it’s footpaths and shank’s mare.” He handed her a tall frosted glass. “Pardon my saying it, ma’am, but you look a lot like that television lady, Patricia Cambridge.”

So much for playing the supersleuth, Patricia thought. “I guess that’s because I’m her. But I’m just on vacation now.”

“Well, I’ll be. It’s surely a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Harold Dobrinski, but most folks just call me Hank.”

Patricia smiled. “My pleasure, Hank, and call me Patty.”

“Thank you, Patty. My wife is a big fan of yours and she is going to be sore unhappy about not being here. Would you believe that this very afternoon, the batteries in the TV went dead in the middle of your show, and Meg, that’s my wife, went out to buy some new ones. She’ll be back in an hour or so, if you’d care to wait. You surely do look like a cool shower would be welcome, or maybe a dip in the pool?”

“Thank you, but I really have to get settled in. Is there a good hotel around here?”

“Fraid not, ma’am, no hotels, good, bad, or middl’n. There’s been some talk about some being designed, but nothing’s grown up yet.”

“There’s no place to stay at all?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. Most of these tree houses have a guest room or three. I’d lend you one of mine, but both are full up. I think Barb Anderson has an empty. We’ll put you up there.”

“Uh. Well, thank you. But I can’t impose on…”

“That’s right, ma’am. You can’t impose, ‘cause it’s no imposition. What do you think the guest rooms are for? It’s not like you’ll be living in the same room with another family. Guest rooms all have a private entrance, and a kitchen and a bath. You won’t have to see the Andersons unless you’re of a mind to pay a social call. It’s just that you’ll be living in the same plant as them. Has to be that way, you know.”

“Has to?”

“A tree house has to have somebody living in to stay healthy. Guest rooms sometimes go empty for months, so they have to be part of a home that’s lived in, you know.”

“Oh. I remember Dr. Guibedo saying saying something about that. Have you seen him recently?”

“Seen him? No, ma’am, I can’t say that I’ve ever met the gentleman. Heard about him, of course.”

“How long have you lived here, Hank?”

“About two years, ma’am.”

“Call me Patty. You mean you’ve lived here for two years and haven’t seen Dr. Guibedo? I thought he lived here.”

“I suppose he might, Patty. But you know, before I came out here, I lived fourteen years in Andulusia, Alabama, but I never once met the mayor there. Now, if you’ve finished that lemonade, give me your car keys and we’ll see about getting you settled in. Uh, you might want to think about changing those high heels for something you can walk on grass in.”

When her bags were out of the Lincoln, Patty said, “Uh, what do I do about the car?”

“You just leave that to me, Patty. I’ll see that she’s parked somewhere. You going to be staying long?”

“A week, maybe.”

“Then I’ll see that its covered with a tarp. You would be amazed at what a sandstorm can do to a fine car like this.” Hank picked up her suitcases and led Patty to a neighboring tree house. “You ever lived in a tree house, Patty?”

“No, but I know my way around one.”

“Then I’ll just let you rest up for a while.” He set the bags in the middle of the forty-foot room. “If you’ve a mind, later, Meg and I would truly enjoy your stopping by.”

“Thanks. I might.” Patricia got out her NBC credit card. “What do I owe you?”

“Owe me? Why, you don’t owe me anything, ma’am.”

“But surely, some small gratuity…”

“Ma’am, my social security pays me ten times what I spend, and I don’t think anybody in the valley’s set up to use plastic money.”

“But I…”

“Paid in full by the pleasure of meeting you. But like I said, drop by. Meg would like it.”

After he left, Patricia showered, then took a long soak in a ten-foot tub. Jet lag was catching up with her and she was asleep by sunset.

She was up at dawn, and, dressed in a rustic fushia leotard and thigh-high sandals, she went exploring.

There were no street numbers on the houses. There weren’t even any streets. People had mostly just planted their houses where it suited them and the houses had mostly grown to within a dozen feet of each other, somehow respecting each other’s space. The paths between them rarely went for two hundred feet without branching at odd angles, and those two hundred feet were never straight. A far cry from Manhattan Island!

Among the tree houses, the air had a pleasant temperature, neither hot nor cold, dry nor humid.

There were a lot of people out, and in western fashion, they all seemed to have time to stop and chat. But nobody had ever met Dr. Guibedo.

At noon she had lunch with a tall bachelor who was disappointed when she wouldn’t stay, and she went on, talking to people, asking questions.

By five she decided it was time to head back and asked directions.

“The parking lot? Well, it’s in that direction. About eight miles as I recollect.”

By six it was in this direction, and about ten miles away. The walls pressed in on her, a horrid green jungle.

By seven she knew that she was hopelessly lost. She sat down, exhausted, on a park bench and fended off three pickup attempts in the growing dusk. She started to drift off into sleep.

“Land sakes, child! Are you sick?”

Patricia looked at the tiny, shriveled old woman in front of her. “What? Oh, no. I’m not sick. I’m just tired. Tired and lost.”

“Lost, huh? Well, you shouldn’t be out here in the dark. Ain’t proper, not for a young woman of any breeding.” The woman’s dress was thirty years out of date.

“Is it unsafe?”

“Unsafe? Well, I don’t recollect anybody being hurt. But there’s boys in this neighborhood who are downright rambunctious! Singing and carrying on till all hours! You just come along with me. My house is just around the corner, and there’s a spare room hasn’t been used in months. Well, up, child!”

Patricia obediently followed the old woman home.

At the end of the second day, she was told that she was sixteen miles from the parking lot.

On the third day, she hired a twelve-year-old boy to guide her back. Children had plenty of uses for money, and no social security checks.

She spent a day recuperating and cursing her boss at NBC. Then she went out again.

Patricia Cambridge parked her bicycle in the growing dusk by the largest private tree house she had ever seen. She was very unsure of herself as she knocked on the door. Two weeks of dead ends and false leads were telling on her. It opened.

“Can I be of service to you, my lady?”

Patricia was shocked by the creature’s appearance. While transparent blouses were in that season, going about bare-breasted was not. It was a minute or two before she noticed that while from the waist up her greeter looked like a well-developed adolescent, from the waist down she was more goat than human. And her ears were pointed.