Copernick's Rebellion

by Leo A. Frankowski

  As to the long-term problems with rejuvenation, well, I’ll have a lot of time to work on them.

  —Heinrich Copernick

  From his log tape

  General Hastings walked unannounced into the office of the NBC news chief. “Well, Norm. You’ve come a long way from being a combat reporter.”

  Norman Boswell looked up from the papers on his cluttered desk. “Major George Hastings. No. Major General George Hastings. You’ve come a ways, too, but you’re still a brash son-of-a-bitch. How the hell did you get past my secretary?”

  “It’s the uniform, Norm. It gets them every time. She practically saluted.”

  “She practically saluted herself out of a job! Now, before your unfortunately hasty departure, what the hell do you want?”

  Hastings moved a cigar box, sat on the papers on Boswell’s desk, and said, “A little information, Norm, and a little help. I want to know more about Dr. Martin Guibedo. What can you show me?”

  “The door. It’s over there. Get off my goddamn desk and use it.”

  “Shortly, shortly. Now, one of your employees, a Miss Patricia Cambridge, knows a lot about Guibedo. She has interviewed him, had dinner with him, and done a documentary on him. I think she either knows where he is, or knows how to find him.”

  “I should send a sweet kid like Patty out on a manhunt? Bullshit! You want Guibedo? Send out your own damn goons!”

  “My son, I’ll tell you a secret. They’ve tried. Many times, they’ve tried.”

  “That’s a secret? Next tell me about the secret Statue of Liberty hiding in New York Harbor. Every goddamn cop in the country carries a photo of Guibedo in his wallet! Why should your spooks be any different? The answer is no. I won’t do it or get Cambridge involved. Now get out of my office!”

  Hastings leaned toward Boswell, crumpling an eight—by-ten glossy photo in the process. “I think you should reconsider that, Norm.”

  “I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. Out!”

  “No, but you have an obligation to our favorite uncle. You’re a sergeant in the reserves, Norm. He might need to call you up.”

  “So it’s threats now, is it? Well, have you ever thought about what a news chief can do to a public servant?”

  “Feel free. I’m clean. Have you ever thought about what a general officer can do to a sergeant?”

  Hastings left the office whistling the tune to “Call Up the God Damn Reserves!”

  “No! Uncle Martin, I won’t do it!”

  “What! This I hear from the little kid I carried through the snow on my back in Germany? Heiny, I tell you my left kidney has failed and the other one is weak! If you do not help me, I will die!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Two months ago it was your right lung, and before that it was your prostrate gland, and before that it was your thyroid. Every time you insisted that I do a hack-and-patch job on you, and every time I’ve wasted two weeks doing the special programming. Well, no more!”

  “But Heiny, my kidneys—”

  “I know. I also know that your left lung is weak and your pituitary is below par. Look. We have a standard program for replacing your entire glandular system. It’s a proven program that we’ve used successfully on hundreds of people. What’s more, I can start you on it in ten minutes, not two weeks. In fifteen days you’ll be a new man. That I’ll do for you, but no more hack and patch!”

  “There’s still some life in this old heart, Heiny.”

  “Less than you think, and if your heart goes, I won’t have two weeks for programming the standard program. Take it or leave it.”

  “Heiny, you make me ashamed, but I guess I gotta take it.”

  * * *

  When Norman Boswell got to his office, his IN basket contained a telegram that began “Greetings…” It informed him that he was to report in uniform to the base commander, Lackland AFB, Texas, no later than noon, March 19, 2003.

  He swore at the wall for a full hour, chewed out the girl who brought him his coffee, and called Patricia Cambridge into his office.

  Boswell stretched and rolled his neck, relaxing himself. “Ah. Patricia, come in, come in. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks, boss. What can I do for you?”

  “For me? I think it’s what I can do for you. First, I want to say how pleased I am with your work. In just eight years with NBC, your accomplishments have been remarkable!”

  “Thank you. And it’s nine.”

  “Nine?”

  “I’ve been with NBC for nine years.”

  “Oh. Right, foolish of me. As I was saying, I’m proud of you, and I’m putting you in for a substantial raise.”

  “Ooh! Thank you!”

  “It should come through in a few weeks. Furthermore, I think you’re ready for bigger things.”

  “Bigger than a popular show?”

  “Bigger. Real news reporting in the grand old style! The kind of thing that sent Stanley across Africa in search of Dr. Livingstone. The kind of thing that exposed Nixon at Watergate or Blackstone’s deeds in Geneva. Big!”

  “Field reporting? What about my show?”

  “Oh, Mary can fill in while you’re gone. But for you —the Quest for Dr. Martin Guibedo!”

  “But that’s a dead end! It’s been years! Nobody has seen Guibedo since he broke jail.”

  “Wrong, Patty. Somebody’s seen him because somebody broke him out. Look. A lot of stuff passes over this desk. Most of it’s solid news, but a lot of it is hints, suggestions, possibilities. When it conies to Guibedo, those hints all point in one direction—Death Valley.”

  “I know, boss. His nephew owns it. But look, Jim Jennings did a show on Death Valley last fall, and his ratings were lousy.”

  “Yes, but Jennings only spent a day there. You’ll have weeks. Jennings doesn’t know Guibedo, but you do. And Jennings had a full camera crew.”

  “I don’t even get a camera crew?”

  “When you’re ready for it, we can have the L.A. crew there in two hours flat. But at first you’re better off without it.”

  “At first? Just how long do you expect me to spend in the boonies?”

  “Whatever it takes, Patty. You’ll have an open expense account and all the time you’ll need.”

  “And come back to what? With Mary running it, my ratings will be a shambles! I might not even have a show.”

  “Mary can handle it, and it will still be your show. Officially, you’ll just be on vacation.”

  “What happens if Guibedo’s not in Death Valley?”

  “Then go where he is. Open expense account, remember? Patty, I want you to do this. Enough said?”

  Patty took a deep breath. “Okay. But don’t be surprised if I go looking for him in London, Paris, and the Riviera.”

  “Whatever you feel is best.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “I trust you, Patty. Just be on a plane this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon! But my show—”

  “Mary can handle it. Now get moving. I have work to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Patty, keep in touch!”

  When Cambridge had left his office, Boswell unlocked his lower desk drawer, removed a dusty bottle of Glen Livet, and poured himself a very stiff drink.

  The next morning, he received a telegram canceling his call-up orders.

  Patricia drove her rented Lincoln along I-15, heading northeast across the Mohave Desert. Going full blast, the air conditioner was barely able to cope with the desert heat. She took the cutoff north toward Death Valley and within an hour was driving past sand dunes and baked desert flats.

  Topping a rise, she found herself driving through an immense parking lot. There were cars, trucks, and vans of every description scattered over the plain. There were thousands of them, maybe hundreds of thousands. Some were covered with canvas tarps, others with tailored dust jackets, but most were just sitting there with the wind and sand scouring paint and glass. There were no traffic lanes or painted lines. Each vehi
cle was simply left in some random spot that its owner thought was good enough. Many were obviously abandoned, with tires missing and doors ajar.

  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-de
veloped adolescent, from the waist down she was more goat than human. And her ears were pointed.

  “Uh, I’m Patricia Cambridge. Does Dr. Guibedo live here?”

  “Yes, my lady. My Lord Guibedo has mentioned you. He is in his workshop. I shall tell him that you’re here. Please come in.”

  Success!

  The living room of the tree house was fabulous; comfort and beauty had been Guibedo’s only considerations when he designed it. Seated with a gourd of champagne by a waterfall, Patricia waited for an hour, reading old trade journals. It was cool in the cavernous room, and Patricia, dressed in businesslike microshorts and a transparent top, became chilly waiting for Dr. Guibedo.

  Finally Guibedo bubbled in—talking rapidly, waving his thick arms. “Ach, Patty! Sorry to keep you waiting, but when you got a DNA loop stretched out, you don’t go away until you’re finished with it, by golly! Hey! It’s gonna be so pretty, Patty! This little seed is gonna be the theater and exercise room for the ballet society here. If those little girls had any idea what a time I had with that big mirror, hooh!” He smiled at the faun.

  “Liebchen! I am so happy you take such nice care of our guest. I get more proud of you every day, by golly!” The faun glowed with happiness, wiggled her hoofs on the carpet, and waggled her tail vigorously.

  “But anyway, Patty! What are you doing here and why didn’t you get here before? I haven’t seen you for three years! You don’t like me or what?” What a pretty girl this Patty is! Guibedo thought.

  “Uh, why didn’t I… Dr. Guibedo, don’t you realize that every man in the FBI is looking for you? That every government in the world is screaming for your blood? I’m amazed that I found you so quickly, when none of those government men could. It’s the biggest manhunt since Patty Hearst.”

  “Well, a lot of them did find me; then they looked the town over and decided that maybe staying here was nicer than playing cops and robbers. What do you think of my town? Pretty snazzy, huh?”