Copernick's Rebellion

“Oh, yes. Genius often runs in a family.” Patricia steered the conversation to a topic that she knew something about. “Take the Bach family, for example…”

Seven months later, the fashions demanded that women wear a padded turtleneck bra with wide transparent sleeves. Keeping to the letter of the decree, Patricia’s midriff was bare to three inches below her belly button, where a black bikini bottom and transparent pantaloons began.

“This is Patricia Cambridge with The World at Large. We’re on location today in Forest Hills, Queens, doing a follow-up on an experiment initiated a year ago on this program.

“The huge tree house you see behind me is Laurel, grown incredibly from the potted plant we saw in Dr. Guibedo’s window just a year ago.

“Mr. Burt Scratchon has been living here for six months, and he will be giving us the grand tour. Tell me, Mr. Scratchon, what is living in a tree house really like?”

“Ms. Cambridge, it’s pure hell. Only my sense of duty to the American public has kept me living in this green slum. I’ll be happy when this experiment is over and I can move back into my solid brick home.

“Look at that phone line. Tight as a guitar string. What with its incredible growth, this ‘house’ has ripped off its own telephone wire twice since I’ve been here!”

“It can’t be all that serious, Mr. Scratchon.” Patricia led the way into the house.

“Serious enough when you are trying to run a business. And look at this damned stuff!” His face reddened. Control, man! Mustn’t alienate the public. Sell!

“Uh, this is being taped, Mr. Scratchon. The technicians have all night to edit out anything improper. Just go on,” said Patricia.

“This flooring material, for example.” Scratchon kicked loose a piece of the carpeting. “Totally unsanitary. It can’t be cleaned. My housekeeper filled four vacuum bags on the hall floor alone before she gave up. A bachelor has a hard enough time keeping good help without 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 order.”

“That figures.” Guibedo pointed to the phone wire lying on the ground. “The telephone people haven’t learned how to wire a tree house yet.”

“But still, he should have called if he wasn’t going to be here. We had a date. I’ve knocked at both houses and no one’s home.”

“Well, you check his regular house again. I’m going to look Laurel over.”

“Uh. I guess he could be sick.” Patricia went to the big Tudor brick house facing onto 169th Street.

Guibedo pulled the door branch and called inside, “Hey! Scratchon! You home?”

He walked inside. The lights were on, the furniture had regrown in its proper place, and everything was as neat as a mausoleum.

“Scratchon! It’s Guibedo!”

The kitchen cupboards were full. The bathroom was in order except that where the toilet area should have been was just smooth wood.

“So where did Laurel put the new toilet?” Guibedo muttered. “Anybody home?” He turned toward the bedroom. No one there, either.

Puzzled by the Laurel’s missing toilet, Guibedo walked slowly out of the tree house, sealing the door behind him. “No one home, Patty.”

“He wasn’t in the old house, either,” Patricia said. “And we had a dinner date.”

“So come with me. I could use maybe some schnapps.”

“Uh, okay. Why not?” Patricia followed him to the car.