The 65-Storey Treehouse Page 2

  ‘Cool,’ says Terry. ‘I love getting letters.’

  We sit down and read the letter. This is what it says:

  INSPECTOR BUBBLEWRAP

  SAFETY CENTRAL HEADQUARTERS

  BUILDING PERMIT DEPARTMENT

  Dear Andy and Terry,

  This is to inform you that I will be visiting your treehouse in one minute to check that you have a current and valid building permit.

  Regards,

  Inspector Bubblewrap

  ‘What a nice letter,’ says Terry.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ I say. ‘He’s a building inspector and he’s coming to check if our treehouse building permit is current—the very building permit we don’t have!’

  ‘Yikes!’ says Terry. ‘When is he coming?’

  ‘In one minute,’ I say.

  ‘One minute?!’ says Terry. ‘Double yikes!’

  CHAPTER 4

  INSPECTOR BUBBLEWRAP

  The doorbell rings and we go to answer it.

  ‘Hello,’ says the man at the door. ‘My name is Inspector Bubblewrap. I trust you received my letter.’

  ‘Well, yes, we did,’ I say, ‘but—’

  ‘Excellent,’ says the inspector. ‘May I please see your building permit for this treehouse?’

  ‘Well … yes …’ I say, ‘although when I say yes, I mean no. We don’t actually have one … thanks to Terry.’

  ‘No permit?’ says the inspector. ‘In that case I’ll have to do an inspection to see if your treehouse conforms to all the current building regulations and safety codes.’

  ‘Building regulations?’ I say.

  ‘Safety codes?’ says Terry.

  ‘It’s a mere formality,’ says the inspector. ‘Now if you’ll just be kind enough to let me in, I’ll get started on my rhyme.’

  ‘Your rhyme?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says the inspector.

  ‘I always do

  My reports in rhyme.

  It’s fun for me

  And helps pass the time.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Terry.

  ‘That’s fine by me.

  Please feel free

  To see our tree.’

  ‘Well thank you very much,

  Young man.

  I’ll do my inspection

  As fast as I can.

  If I may

  I’ll start right here.

  Uh-oh—oh my—

  Oh no—oh dear.

  This staircase of yours

  Should have a railing.

  And no wheelchair ramp?

  That’s a serious failing!

  And where are your fire escapes,

  Your hose reels and sprinklers,

  Your safety blankets and fire extinguishers?

  And I’d very much like to see (if I can)

  Your in-case-of-emergency exit plan.

  These man-eating sharks

  Should be swimming free.

  Not kept as pets

  In a tank in a tree.

  And your bowling alley

  Doesn’t have any walls,

  Which puts penguins at risk

  From falling balls.

  Or a ball could fall

  On a person’s head

  And that poor person

  Could end up dead.

  Racing rocking horses

  Around a track

  Could result in injury

  To the neck or back.

  This X-ray room

  Is in direct violation

  Of the current health and safety

  Radiation regulations.

  And what sort of stupid, lame-brained twit

  Would build themselves a quicksand pit

  And not even have the sense or wit

  To put a warning sign on it?

  This swimming pool

  Should have a fence.

  (It really is just

  Common sense!)

  And chainsaw juggling

  Is seriously dumb.

  You could easily lose

  A finger or thumb …

  Or an ear or a knee

  Or an elbow or nose

  Or an arm or a leg

  Or a foot or some toes!

  Your trampoline

  Has no net, I see,

  And it’s up really high

  Near the top of the tree!’

  ‘But, apart from those few things,’ I say. ‘is everything else in our treehouse okay?’

  Inspector Bubblewrap sighs and shakes his head.

  ‘All things considered,

  I’m sorry to say

  There’s no way I can issue

  A permit today.

  This treehouse of yours

  Is an unsafe construction

  And I must insist

  On its total destruction.

  A crew of wreckers

  Is now on their way,

  So you’d better get going;

  There’s no way you can stay.

  By twelve noon today

  This place will be rubble.

  If you stay any longer

  You’ll be in big trouble.

  It will all be knocked down—

  Level by level—

  Get out while you can.

  You remain at your peril!’

  ‘Yikes,’ says Bill the postman. ‘I’m out of here.’

  ‘Should we go, too?’ says Terry.

  ‘No way!’ I say. ‘This is our home!’

  ‘But it’s going to be demolished!’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ I say.

  ‘But how?’ says Terry.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘Why don’t we go and ask the three wise owls?’ says Terry.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘They’re so wise they’ll know exactly what to do.’

  We jet-chair up to the owl house on our jet-propelled office chairs and hover in front of the owls.

  ‘O, wise owls,’ says Terry, ‘what should we do to avoid the total demolition of our treehouse?’

  ‘TICK!’ says the first wise owl.

  ‘TOCK!’ says the second wise owl.

  ‘HOO!’ says the third wise owl.

  ‘Tick? Tock? Hoo?’ I say. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Terry, frowning and repeating their words. ‘Tick-Tock-Hoo … Tick-Tock-Hoo …’

  ‘Do you think Tick-Tock means something to do with time?’ I say.

  ‘Yes!’ says Terry. ‘And Hoo must mean Doctor Who. He’s a time traveller, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but how does that help us?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ says Terry. ‘The wise owls are telling us we should travel back in time and get a permit for the treehouse.’

  ‘That would be a great idea,’ I say, ‘if we had a time machine.’

  ‘We do!’ says Terry. ‘I’ve built one on the level the Once-upon-a-time machine used to be on.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

  We climb up to the time-machine level.

  ‘So we go in here?’ I say, heading for the door.

  ‘That’s not the time machine,’ says Terry. ‘That’s an eggtimer I built. I hate it when my eggs get over-boiled. The time machine is over here.’

  ‘You put it in the bin?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says Terry. ‘It is the bin.’

  ‘But why?’ I say.

  ‘Well, I was reading The Time Machine by H.G. Wells,’ says Terry, ‘and I thought that time travel sounded like fun.’

  ‘Yes, but why a wheelie bin?’ I say.

  ‘Because it’s all I had,’ says Terry. ‘It’s not quite finished but it should be fine to just go back a few years to get our building permit.’

  ‘You go first, Andy,’ says Terry.

  I climb in and Terry climbs in after me and closes the lid.

  ‘It’s really cramped in here,’ I say. ‘I thought time machines were supposed to be small on the outside and big on the inside.’

  ‘Well, yeah,’
says Terry, ‘they are, but it was only designed for one person.’

  ‘You were going to go time travelling without me?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says Terry. ‘Well … when I say no … I mean yes … but no … well, only a little bit …’

  ‘How do you drive this thing, anyway?’ I say.

  ‘Easy,’ says Terry. ‘Set the chronometer for how many years back—or forward—you’d like to travel and then push the blast-off button.’

  ‘All right,’ I say.

  I set the dial for six and a half years back. (That’s just before we started building our treehouse.)

  But at that moment the lid opens.

  It’s Inspector Bubblewrap!

  ‘It’s no use hiding, you know,’ he says.

  ‘The wrecking crew are on their way.

  They’ll be here at exactly noon.

  Get out and pack your belongings …

  Or prepare to meet your doom.’

  ‘No way,’ I say. ‘We’re staying right here.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not!’ says the inspector.

  He leans in and tries to grab us.

  We crouch down as low as we can.

  The inspector leans in further, slips and falls in on top of us.

  ‘OUCH!’

  ‘UGH!’

  ‘OOF!’

  There’s a weird whooshing sound.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ I say.

  ‘I think the time machine has started,’ says Terry. ‘The inspector must have bumped the blast-off button as he fell in.’

  ‘Time machine?’ says the inspector.

  ‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘Hold on, we’re going back in tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime …’

  CHAPTER 5

  PREHISTORIC POND SCUM

  We swirl for a long, long time.

  Just when I think I can’t stand it any longer, the swirling stops.

  ‘We’re coming in for a landing,’ says Terry.

  WHAM!

  The bin lands and we all fall out onto the ground.

  ‘Have we gone back six and half years?’ I say.

  Terry looks into the bin and checks the chronometer. ‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘We’ve travelled 650 million years back in time!’

  ‘But I only set it for six and a half years back,’ I say.

  ‘The inspector must have knocked it when he fell in,’ says Terry.

  ‘It’s not my fault!’ says the inspector. ‘That chronometer should have a safety guard on it. And a time machine blast-off button without an emergency override directly contravenes Regulation 3, Subsection 4.5, paragraph 6, line 22 of the Time Travel Blast-off Button Act.’

  ‘I didn’t even know there was a Blast-off Button Act,’ says Terry.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says the inspector. ‘It’s right here in this book, Rules and Regulations of the World: Past, Present and Future. I never go anywhere without it.’

  ‘Hey, Andy,’ says Terry, ‘look at this puddle. It’s full of pond scum, and one of the pond scum looks just like you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘And that one looks just like you!’

  ‘Who are you calling pond scum, pal?’ says Pond Scum Andy. ‘You’re not exactly an oil painting yourself.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ says Pond Scum Terry.

  ‘Wow,’ says Terry. ‘Talking pond scum!’

  ‘That’s no ordinary pond scum,’ says the inspector. ‘These are the world’s earliest simple life forms. We’re witnessing the beginnings of life on Earth!’

  ‘You got that right, pal,’ says Pond Scum Andy. ‘But it could be the end for us any time soon.’

  ‘How come?’ says Terry.

  ‘Because the only thing keeping our puddle from drying up is that overhanging rock ledge.’

  I look up at the rock ledge Terry is standing on. I see what Pond Scum Andy means; it is the only shade around here, and the sun is really hot!

  ‘That’s too bad,’ I say.

  ‘It’s even worse for you,’ says Pond Scum Andy, ‘because if we don’t make it, you’ll never exist at all. At least we’ve had a life, even if we have spent it just floating around in a puddle. I mean, it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean we won’t exist?’ says Terry.

  ‘If life forms like us get burned up,’ says Pond Scum Terry, ‘then complicated life forms like you will never get the chance to evolve.’

  ‘Oh no!’ says Terry, looking really worried.

  ‘Relax,’ I say, ‘they’ll probably make it. They’ve got shade.’

  ‘But not for long,’ says Terry. ‘This rock ledge is cracking. I think it’s about to break!’

  ‘You idiot, Terry!’ scream the pond scum as a large piece of rock breaks off and crashes down into the puddle.

  ‘That puddle should have a sun shelter over it,’ says Inspector Bubblewrap. ‘It contravenes Regulation 456, Section B, Part 2 of the Prehistoric Sun Shelter Act. I therefore declare this puddle illegal!’

  ‘What if we built a sun shelter?’ I say.

  ‘You’d need a permit for that,’ says the inspector.

  ‘Can you give us one?’ says Terry.

  ‘Well, under the circumstances and given that the future of life on Earth depends on it,’ says the inspector, ‘I think I could rush the paperwork through.’

  ‘Great!’ I say. ‘Let’s get started.’

  Pretty soon we’ve built the most amazing 65-storey prehistoric pond scum puddle sun shelter you’ve ever seen.

  ‘There you go,’ says Terry. ‘That should keep you all sun safe for the next 300 million years or so!’

  ‘Thanks, Terry,’ says Pond Scum Terry. ‘You’re the best.’

  ‘No, Andy is the best,’ says Pond Scum Andy.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ says Pond Scum Terry. ‘Because Terry is the best!’

  ‘You’re the one who’s wrong,’ says Pond Scum Andy. ‘Because you don’t know what you’re talking about. Andy is the best. No contest!’

  The pond scum continue shouting at each other.

  ‘TERRY!’

  ‘ANDY!’

  ‘TERRY!’

  ‘ANDY!’

  Then things really get out of control.

  ‘Let’s leave them to it,’ I say. ‘We’d better be getting back to the future before this wheelie bin melts in the heat. It’s pretty soft already.’

  ‘I hope our prehistoric pond scum ancestors make it,’ says Terry.

  ‘So do I,’ I say. ‘But if they don’t and we end up not existing it’ll be all your fault.’

  ‘But we do exist,’ says the inspector. ‘So they must have made it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks to me and my great idea about building a pond-scum sun shelter.’

  ‘And thanks to me for helping build it,’ says Terry.

  ‘And thanks to me for issuing the permit,’ says the inspector.

  ‘Speaking of permits,’ I say, ‘we’d better be getting to that permit office to apply for our building permit so the treehouse doesn’t have to be demolished.’

  ‘Sure thing, Andy,’ says Terry. ‘I’ve set the chronometer for six and a half years before we left.

  Hold on, everybodyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy …’

  CHAPTER 6

  DANCING WITH DINOSAURS

  There’s a loud splash and we look out to find ourselves floating in the middle of a vast grey ocean.

  ‘Well, that’s just great,’ I say. ‘Right time, wrong place.’

  ‘Actually, I think you’ll find it’s the wrong time as well,’ says Terry. ‘We’ve travelled to 65 million years ago.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says the inspector. ‘Sixty-five mill
ion years ago? That’s when a giant asteroid smashed into Earth and killed off the dinosaurs. We are in one of the unsafest times ever in the Earth’s history!’

  ‘Maybe the asteroid has already hit,’ says Terry. ‘I can’t see any dinosaurs, can you?’

  ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘But I’d really like to! Let’s paddle to shore and see if we can find any there.’

  We paddle as fast as we can, but when we get to shore all we can see is a bunch of little monkey-like animals playing in a group.

  ‘Ah,’ says the inspector. ‘They look like Plesiadapis tricuspidens.’