Read Leo Frankowski for Free Online Page B

this!”
    “Didn’t Dr.
Guibedo say something about it absorbing foreign matter so that cleaning was
unnecessary?” Patricia asked.
    “Tell that to my
housekeeper. She quit! And look at the floor itself. That floor is five degrees
out of plumb! Not a building inspector in the country would accept that in a real house. But
BOCA hasn’t even passed codes on these trees.”
    “But Dr. Guibedo
sent the seeds for one of these Laurel trees to every public official in the
country, Mr. Scratchon. I haven’t heard any complaints yet.”
    “You will. Take
a look at this food. It’s supposed to be hot, but it’s really only lukewarm. This
mess is supposed to be pancakes with maple syrup. The darned stuff grows with the syrup
already on! Can you imagine trying to start out a day with a plate of this
sloppy gruel?”
    “Well, it is
unsightly.” Patricia put a dainty fingertip to her tongue. “But it is real
maple syrup.”
    “This ‘dishwasher’
actually eats the scraps off the plates. The first time I watched it, I was so
disgusted I almost tossed the meal I had just eaten. Not that that would have been any
great loss.”
    “A
dishwasher?” Patricia asked, delighted.
    “And the toilet works the same way.
The stuff just lays there until—”
    “Isn’t the
living room this way?” Toilets again!
    “Anyway, I gave
up on the bathroom entirely. I’ve been using the one in my real house in
front,” said Scratchon, following Patricia into the living room.
    “You can’t get
a picture to hang straight on these curving walls. And when you cut loose the
furniture to rearrange it, a new set grows back in a week. I’ve had to pay to
have two sofas hauled away.” Scratchon gave a fatherly smile to the
camera. “So my advice to the viewing audience is to stay with their fine, modern, man- made homes.”
    “So you feel
that there is nothing of value to be had from a tree house, Mr.
Scratchon?”
    “Well, Ms.
Cambridge, I have one piece of good news. The place is showing definite signs of
dying. I knew
these things wouldn’t last. In a month or so, if any of your viewers need
firewood, tell them to bring an ax.”
    “Now let me
show you what a real house is like.”
    As the cameras were being moved around an
in- ground pool to Scratchon’s conventional
dark-brown— brick house, he said,
“Ms. Cambridge?”
    “Call me
Patty.”
    “What would you
say to having dinner with me tonight, Patty?”
    “I’d love to,
but I can’t. I don’t know how late I’ll be up getting this show ready for
tomorrow.”
    “That makes you
free tomorrow afternoon, doesn’t it?”
    “I guess it
does.” Patricia smiled.
    “Can I pick you
up at four?”
    “Let me drop by here.” Patricia
was embarrassed about her apartment.
    “You’ve got a
date.”
     
    Guibedo had borrowed
a television set from a neighbor especially to watch the program about his tree house. As he watched,
anticipation turned through sadness into horror.
    “Ach! Nails in
your walls! Cutting loose your furniture! And not using your toilet! Laurel,
you’re starving to death!”
    Guibedo invested in
a cab and arrived at Scratchon’s tree house at the same time that Patricia
did.
    “Dr. Guibedo!
What are you doing here?”
    “On your
program, Scratchon he said that my Laurel here is dying, so I came right over. But he
must have used
the toilet, she looks pretty good now.”
    “It has perked
up quite a bit since yesterday, Dr. Guibedo. You really care about these trees,
don’t you?”
    “Sure. They’re
like my children. And the Laurel series is special. We mailed out one hundred
thousand of her seeds to people.”
    “I heard about that—every VIP in the
country got one. That was quite an
advertising effort.”
    “A lot of kids
volunteered to help me. Friends of my nephew. We sent a Laurel to every big shot
in the world! Pretty soon everybody’ll want one.”
    “Dr. Guibedo,
have you seen Burt? I tried to call him but his phone was out of