The two of you pick you way stealthily through
the dense jungle.  You figure you've gone about 
seven or eight miles when Ffloyd raises his hand.
   "All right," he says, "here we are.  Follow me."
He leaps, catches a low branch of a huge, towering
tree, and pulls himself up.  You do the same.  Then
he points to a series of notches carved into the
trunk of the tree.  The notches are, in fact, Ffloyd's
ladder.  And they are so cleverly carved that you
would never have known they were there unless
he had pointed them out to you.  You climb up
after him.  More than one hundred and fifty feet
above the ground, hidden in the tree's vast leafy
canopy, Ffloyd has built a tree house.  Not just a
single room cottage, but a mansion of several
rooms, each on its own branch and each con-
nected to the others by ladders or walkways.
   "This is really nice," you say, when he leads you
inside his living room.
   "Yes, isn't it?" Ffloyd says.  "And it is completely
hidden from both above and below.... The
Omicron Masters would, of course, love to find
me.  And oh, my, how hard they have tried!!"
   You look around.  There are fluffy, comfortable
pillows, a few books, and even a cassette deck
with Kenny Rogers and Waylon Jennings cassettes
cattered next to it.

Continue...