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three thousand calories to make, and my tree houses are about ten percent efficient. So if a tree house isn’t
doing anything else but making wood,
you have maybe five hundred pounds of
wood per acre per minute.”
    Patricia was trying
to take notes, but she always had problems with large numbers. “But it is
doing other things, isn’t it, Dr. Guibedo?”
    “Sure. It keeps
you cool in the summer and warm in the winter and it makes food and beer for
you. And it has to use some of what it makes to keep itself alive. And then, when it was
little, it didn’t have an acre of photosynthetic area to work with.”
    “Doesn’t it give
you the creeps to live in something that’s alive?” Scratchon said.
    “You like
better maybe living in something’s that dead?”
    “Dr. Guibedo,
you were going to tell us about how to take care of them,” Patricia said,
working hard to keep them from fighting.
    “Nothing much
to tell. The floors and walls absorb foreign material, so you don’t have to clean
them. The wastebaskets
and toliets work about the same way, only a lot faster, of course. The closets and
cupboards you gotta dust out. You should maybe mark on the kitchen cupboards what food
grows where, unless you like surprises.”
    “But what about
watering it and fertilizer, Dr. Guibedo?”
    “Well, Patty, once it’s this big, the
roots go down pretty far, so you don’t have
to worry about watering it. The toliet gives it all the fertilizer it
needs,” Guibedo said.
    “Then there’s
nothing to do but live in it?”
    “That’s right,
Patty, but you got to use it. A tree house will die if there is nobody living there. I made them that way so that we won’t have a bunch of
empty slums some day. And talk to
your tree, Burty. They like that.”
    “Thank you, Dr.
Guibedo,” Patricia said.
    “So thank you, Patty. If you don’t need me any more, I got to run. I have three more tree houses
here in Forest Hills and I want to look in on them.”
    Guibedo left before
Scratchon could say any more to him; he said it to Patricia. “So my own
damned neighbors are growing these things! That jelly belly is using me for
advertising.”
    “You’re not
being fair, Mr. Scratchon. After all, he gave you this house!”
    “And now I’ve
got to live in the thing. He’s a sneaky S.O.B.”
    “Nonsense. He’s
a very nice old man, and he’s trying to do something nice for people. These
tree houses are only toys in this part of Queens, but think about what they’ll mean to the
people starving in India,” Patricia said.
    “Yeah. They’ll
be able to raise more cannon fodder for the Neo-Krishnas to throw at us. And
when they do, our economy will be in such bad shape that this time we’ll have trouble
defeating them.”
    “I don’t think
that Dr. Guibedo looks at it that way.”
    “What he thinks he’s doing doesn’t make much difference. What he is doing is
destroying the free world.”
    A knock sounded at
the front door.
    “Now who the
hell?…” Scratchon opened the massive front door.
    “I guess I got
the right place, Burt.” Major General George Hastings was in uniform, smartly
tailored class— A blues. He had the small, compact build of a fighter pilot.
    “George! It’s
been months! What brings you to New York?”
    “Just passing
through La Guardia with a little time on my hands.”
    “Hey, you got
your second star! Looks like somebody in the old squadron made good.”
    “You haven’t
done so badly yourself, Burt.” Hastings noticed Patricia. “Oh. I hope I’m
not interrupting anything.”
    “Not in the
least. George Hastings, Patricia Cambridge. George and I were in the Twenty
Third Interceptor Wing over Sri Lanka. Now he’s the commander of Air Force
Intelligence. Ms. Cambridge is with NBC, so watch what you say, George.”
    “Here I was
hoping that you would be a foreign spy and try to seduce military secrets out of
me.” Hastings smiled at Patricia.
    “Maybe I could
take a night course and train for the