The 65-Storey Treehouse Page 5

  ‘I’m bored of setting myself on fire without getting burned,’ says the inspector.

  ‘THE 100 PERCENT DANGER-PROOF FUTURE IS 100 PERCENT BORING!’ we shout.

  ‘Why don’t we watch TV?’ says Terry. ‘Look, there’s one on that tree over there.’

  ‘Great idea!’ I say. ‘TV in the future must be amazing!’

  ‘Yes, let’s have a look,’ says the inspector. ‘Too much TV can ruin the eyes and rot the brain, but a little bit can’t hurt … particularly not now that we are so bored.’

  ‘Hooray!’ says Terry, scrolling through the menu. ‘It’s time for The Barky the Barking Dog Show!’

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I think you’ll find it’s The Barky the Non-barking Robo-dog Show.’

  ‘In the future, even Barky is boring!’ says Terry.

  ‘He’s always been boring,’ I say, ‘but now they’ve de-barked him he’s even more boring!’

  ‘Psst!’ whispers a person from the future who looks just like me. ‘Did you just say “boring”?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Are you our future selves?’

  ‘Affirmative,’ he says. ‘My name is Android G and this is my friend Terrybot D.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Terry. ‘Are you guys robots?’

  ‘Well, we do have bionic bits and pieces,’ explains Terrybot D, ‘but we’re still human enough that we want to have fun.’

  ‘But we can’t have any fun,’ says Android G. ‘Because Safety Central Headquarters controls everything!’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ says Inspector Bubblewrap. ‘I work for Safety Central Headquarters, but I never dreamed they would become so powerful that they stop people from having any fun at all.’

  ‘I know a way we can all have some fun,’ says Terry. ‘Let’s go to Safety Central Headquarters and destroy it.’

  ‘Not so fast, Past Terry,’ says Terrybot D. ‘We have to figure out a way to get in there first. It’s rhyming-password protected.’

  ‘I think I can help you there,’ says Inspector Bubblewrap. ‘I wrote that rhyming password. It may have been 65 thousand years ago but I remember it as if it were only yesterday.’

  We hop in Android G’s flying fried-egg car and fly to Safety Central Headquarters.

  Inspector Bubblewrap puts his face up to the panel and says:

  We all hold our breath … and wait.

  With a quiet whoosh, the door opens.

  ‘Yay,’ whispers Terry.

  Quickly we follow the inspector down a long shiny corridor and into a vast control room.

  There are millions of automated buttons, levers, dials and switches controlling every aspect of safety in the future.

  ‘Where do we start?’ I say. ‘It looks so complicated!’

  ‘It’s not that complicated,’ says the inspector. ‘There’s a master control panel right here.’

  ‘I can restore Earth to its default settings,’ says the inspector, ‘by flicking each of the switches from ON to OFF, like so.’

  ‘What about the giant-crab eliminator switch?’ says Terry.

  ‘No,’ says the inspector, ‘I’m going to leave that one on so the Earth never gets overrun with giant crabs. But I am going to push the self-destruct button so nobody can make the world 100 percent danger-proof ever again. There. All done.’

  ‘You mean this whole place is going to blow up?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says the inspector.

  ‘Cool!’ I say. ‘When?’

  ‘In about ten seconds,’ says the inspector. ‘Run!’

  We run …

  and make it out just in time …

  ‘I think our work here is done,’ says Terry, as we climb into our bin.

  ‘Yes,’ says the inspector. ‘I see now that too much safety is not necessarily a good thing.’

  ‘I sure hope we make it to the building permit office this time,’ I say, as the swirling starts again.

  ‘Me too,’ says the inspector. ‘Well … sort of … I mean … time travel is kind of cooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool …’

  CHAPTER 11

  THE FUTURE’S FUTURE

  We swirl and swirl and swirl some more until we finally stop swirling.

  ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news,’ says Terry, looking out of the bin. ‘The bad news is we’re 650 million years in the future. The good news is we’re at the beach.’

  I look around. It’s a weird beach. The sea is black. The sky is red. Oh yeah, and we’re surrounded by giant crabs.

  ‘I can’t understand why there are giant crabs everywhere,’ says the inspector. ‘I’m sure I left the giant-crab eliminator button on back at Safety Central Headquarters.’

  ‘Um,’ says Terry, ‘I think I might have turned it off again when you weren’t looking. I couldn’t help it. I just really wanted to see a giant crab.’

  ‘You idiot, Terry!’ I say. ‘Thanks to you the future Earth is now overrun with giant crabs.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ says Terry, ‘and I’m sorry. But look on the bright side: giant crabs are pretty cool.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I say, ‘they are extremely cool … and very, very dangerous!’

  ‘It’s interesting, though,’ says Terry, ‘because this is just like what happens at the end of The Time Machine by H.G. Wells. The time traveller goes into the future as far as he can—almost to the end of time—and lands on a beach and there are giant crabs all over the place!’

  ‘I thought that book was fiction,’ I say.

  ‘So did I!’ says Terry. ‘But it was obviously based on actual fact. H.G. Wells must have time-travelled here himself … otherwise, how could he have described it all so exactly?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says the inspector. ‘Look over there. One of the giant crabs has got hold of an old-fashioned man and is waving him around in its giant crab claw!’

  ‘That’s no ordinary old-fashioned man,’ says Terry. ‘That’s H.G. Wells. I recognise him from his author photo on the back cover of the book.’

  ‘That’s him, all right,’ I say. ‘I’d know that moustache anywhere. We’d better go and help him otherwise he won’t be able to get back to 1895 to write The Time Machine and inspire you to build a time-travelling wheelie bin so that we can go back in time and get our building permit and save the treehouse from being demolished!’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ says the inspector, leaping out of the bin. ‘I’ll save him!’

  ‘Wait for us!’ I say. ‘You can’t fight a crab that big all by yourself!’

  But the inspector is already too far ahead—and too excited—to hear me.

  ‘He’s really getting into this risk-taking thing, isn’t he?’ says Terry.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Maybe a little too much. We’d better go and make sure he’s okay.’

  We jump out of the bin and run after him.

  ‘Help me, Man-from-the-future!’ calls H.G. Wells as the inspector runs towards him. ‘I’m caught in a giant crab’s claw!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Wells,’ says the inspector. ‘I’ll save you!’

  ‘How do you know my name?’ says H.G. Wells.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ says the inspector. ‘First we need to teach this crab some good old-fashioned manners.’

  Holding his pen and clipboard like a sword and shield, Inspector Bubblewrap rushes towards the crab.

  But the crab snatches the inspector up in its other claw and waves him around in the air beside H.G. Wells.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Terry. ‘That didn’t work very well at all. Maybe I should try my balloon.’

  He gets it out of his pocket.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Snake-charming is one thing, but I’ve never heard of crab-charming … especially not giant-crab-charming.’

  ‘I’m not going to charm it,’ says Terry. ‘Crabs hate the sound of screeching balloons. Everybody knows that!’

  ‘I didn’
t even know crabs had ears,’ I say.

  ‘Well, technically, they don’t,’ explains Terry, ‘but they can feel sound and they don’t like the feel of screeching balloons.’

  Terry blows the balloon up, pinches the neck and releases the air in a high-pitched screech—directly at the crab.

  The crab’s antennas start whipping around wildly. It shudders, shakes and sways from side to side.

  Terry keeps up the screeching until the crab flings H.G. Wells and the inspector to the ground and scuttles away.

  ‘Phew, that was a close shave,’ says H.G. Wells, standing up and brushing sand off his tweed suit.

  ‘Closer for some than others,’ says Terry. ‘Look at the inspector! He’s been cut clean in half by the giant crab’s claw!’

  ‘Oh no!’ I say. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Bubble wrap,’ says Terry.

  ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Popping bubble wrap always calms me down.’

  ‘Not for you, Andy,’ says Terry. ‘For the inspector. We can use it to join him back up again. Quick! Get his legs and hold them in place.’

  Terry pulls on the inspector’s roll of bubble wrap and wraps …

  and wraps …

  and wraps.

  Finally the inspector is as good as new.

  He leaps to his feet and yells: ‘THAT! WAS! AWESOME! DID YOU SEE ME? I FOUGHT A GIANT CRAB AND I WASN’T EVEN SCARED! LOOK AT THIS SELFIE I TOOK IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME!’

  ‘It was indeed very brave,’ says H.G. Wells, ‘if not, perhaps, just a mite foolhardy. I am, however, forever in your debt, Man-from-the-future, and you two with the magical transparent wrap. Do you live here with the crustaceans?’

  ‘Oh no, we’re from the past, too,’ says Terry, ‘only not quite as far back as you.’

  ‘You’re time travellers?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘That’s our time machine over there. It used to be a wheelie bin. I was inspired to convert it into a time machine after reading your book.’

  ‘Which book are you talking about?’ says H.G. Wells.

  ‘The Time Machine, of course,’ says Terry.

  ‘The Time Machine?’ repeats H.G. Wells slowly. ‘But I have not written any such book.’

  ‘Not yet,’ I say, ‘but you will.’

  ‘Yes, I believe I will,’ he says. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea. I’ll write about my time-travelling adventures.’

  ‘That’s what we do,’ says Terry. ‘We mostly write about stuff that actually happens to us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Why make stuff up when real life is so interesting?’

  ‘You’re writers too?’ says H.G. Wells.

  ‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘I’m Terry and this is Andy. He does the words and I do the pictures.’

  ‘And I inspect buildings,’ says the inspector. ‘Inspector Bubblewrap at your service. It’s an honour to meet you.’

  ‘Well, I’m honoured to meet you all as well,’ says H.G. Wells. ‘How can I ever repay you for saving me from that monstrous crab-like creature?’

  ‘Could you help us repair our time machine?’ says Terry.

  ‘Possibly,’ says H.G. Wells. ‘What exactly seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Our chronometer is stuck on the numbers six and five,’ says Terry. ‘Only the zeros are moving.’

  H.G. Wells smiles and nods. ‘Ah, yes, that’s happened to me many times. Chronometers can be very temperamental … Let me have a look at it.’

  ‘Here’s the problem,’ says H.G. Wells. ‘This bit of popcorn was stuck in the perambulic-merimbulator. I’ve reset the chronometer but it’s a little damaged. I’m afraid it will only get you back to the time from which you started your journey.’

  ‘Thanks, H.G.,’ says Terry.

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ I say. ‘We can’t get our building permit, but at least we can get back to our time.’

  ‘I understand,’ says H.G. Wells. ‘I am as eager to return to my time as you are to yours. As you know, I have a novel to write and, as usual, the deadline is looming. And with your permission I’d like to include you in my story and describe your heroic acts.’

  ‘That might be a problem,’ I say. ‘Our contract with our publisher, Mr Big Nose, doesn’t allow us to appear in anyone else’s books.’

  ‘I see publishers are no more reasonable in your time than they are in mine,’ says H.G., nodding. ‘I guess some things never change. Rest assured, I won’t mention you in my narrative.’

  ‘Does your publisher also have a big nose?’ says Terry.

  ‘As a matter of fact, it is rather large,’ says H.G. ‘I have a picture of him here. See?’

  ‘Yikes!’ says Terry.

  ‘Well, all’s well that ends well,’ says H.G. ‘It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen. Goodbye and good time-travelling.’

  We wave goodbye as H.G. Wells’s time machine disappears into the past.

  ‘I wish we could take one of the giant crabs back with us,’ says Terry.

  ‘Nice idea,’ I say. ‘But they are quite dangerous and, besides, there’s no way we could fit one in the bin.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ says Terry. ‘I’d love to see who would win out of a fight between a giant crab and The Trunkinator.’

  ‘Yeah, me too!’ says the inspector. ‘That would really be something to see.’

  We climb into our time machine.

  ‘Hold on tight,’ says Terry. ‘Here we go, back to the presenttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt …’

  CHAPTER 12

  BACK TO THE PRESENT

  As we swirl our way backwards through time, I have my fingers crossed we’ll arrive safely back at the treehouse. It feels like we’ve been away for ages.

  ‘Hey, I can smell marshmallows!’ says Terry.

  ‘And lemonade!’ says the inspector.

  ‘And chocolate, pizza, ice-cream, lollipops, dodgem cars, popcorn and ants!’ I say. ‘We must be getting close to the treehouse!’

  I open the lid of the bin and see that, sure enough, we are hurtling straight towards our tree.

  Our treehouse.

  Our ant farm.

  Our ant farm?

  OUR ANT FARM!!!

  The ant farm that Jill made us promise never to disturb again!!!

  ‘Terry, can you steer us away from the ant farm?’ I say. ‘Into the chocolate fountain instead, maybe? Or the swimming pool?’

  ‘I can’t control it,’ says Terry. ‘I forgot to ask H.G. Wells to fix the steering. Brace yourselves!’

  We all fall out of the bin onto the level where the ant farm used to be.

  There are ants everywhere. Angry ants. Angry ants even angrier than they were before. It doesn’t take them long to regroup … into a massive angry ant-fist!

  The ant-fist rises above us. We shut our eyes and prepare to be ant-fist-punched into oblivion …

  I wait.

  But nothing happens.

  I open my eyes.

  The ant-fist is still poised above us but it’s not coming down.

  The inspector seems slightly disappointed.

  I look across at Terry. There’s a large, weird-looking ant sitting on his head. It’s wiggling its antennas towards the ants in the ant-fist.

  ‘Is there something on my head?’ says Terry.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A big ant. I think it’s talking to our ants.’

  ‘It must be the prehistoric ant I saved from the exploding Bignoseasaur!’ says Terry. ‘It’s been in my pocket the whole time! I forgot all about it!’

  ‘That’s not the only thing you forgot about!’ says a tiny voice below us.

  We look down and see a tiny person with a micro-mini-megaphone.

  ‘Jill?’ I say. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Of course it’s me!’ she says. ‘Whe
re have you been? You went off and left me here all small. I was nearly eaten by a spider, you know. Do you have any idea how scary spiders are when you’re the size of an ant?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jill!’ I say. ‘We had to go travelling back in time to get a building permit for the treehouse to stop it being demolished, but Terry couldn’t control the time machine and we went all over history and into the future and we … well … sort of forgot all about you.’