The foundation for another quality ridge is even now being laid to the west, nearer to Philadelphia.
There will be those who will want to live in the Crestfills year-round, but for most these will be vacation homes, hideaways for busy executives who want to lay aside the world’s cares and communicate with nature. And here in the Crestfill Mountains, nature is at its best. Your clients will hear birds singing winter and summer. They are drawn to the Crestfills not only by the pleasant pine scent, renewed monthly, but by the fact that the mountainsides are warmed several degrees by the gentle internal action of Eden Earth as it ages, making the Crestfills a unique and precious winter wildlife sanctuary.
These pine-covered slopes, with their cunningly spaced “rocky” outcrops—there’s one right now—were created by a team of environmental designers who spared no expense, even dropping fill from container-copters to create those hard-to-reach spots that give wilderness areas their special appeal. Free-range deer and even an occasional bear roam the rugged slopes. There’s a deer now. Put it on “pause,” Miss Crumb, and let’s have another look. How many here are old enough to remember the original Bambi? How many took their children to see it? Their grandchildren?
Me too.
But suppose your clients and prospective buyers dream of a home by the sea? What if Fire Island, Cape Cod, Nantucket are the kind of names that fire their souls and loosen their checkbooks?
How does Bayfill Island sound to you?
If we may, Miss Crumb, let’s cut away to our second video, and another type of paradise—a rocky, fogbound New England-style island of the kind featured in so many romantic movies. How many of you have dreamed of the opportunity to buy and sell summer homes on one of these exclusive sites? Well, hang on—your dreams are about to come true.
Bayfill Island lies at the opening of Long Island Sound, between Montauk and one of the older glacial debris islands, Block Island. It is by comparing Bayfill with the rather rundown—geologically speaking—islands in the area, that we can best understand why we say Eden Earth puts standard earth to shame. Large areas of Nantucket Island are carved away by the ocean waves every winter—valuable real estate becoming silt and sand in the ocean deeps. Not so on Bayfill Island. Since Eden Earth is both salt- and water-resistant, it stands firm against the weather. Large areas of Martha’s Vineyard are swamps and marshes, filled with vicious insects. In contrast, there are no wastelands on Bayfill Island, where all the land is dry land and rain runs off as clear and clean as when it fell. Large areas of Block Island are out of sight and sound of the ocean, drastically lowering property values. On ingeniously S-shaped Bayfill Island, every property is ocean-front property; there are no “cheap seats” in the house.
But enough poetry. It’s time to go and see for ourselves. Miss Crumb has just signaled me that Eden-Prudential’s chartered airbus has arrived to take us on our tour of the two sites. We only have to walk a block to board. As you leave the office here, we’ll be crossing the East Thirty-fourth Street Extension. Watch your step; the ground is still a little springy.
Are there any questions?
TWO GUYS FROM THE FUTURE
TWO GUYS FROM THE FUTURE
“We are two guys from the future.”
“Yeah, right. Now get the hell out of here!”
“Don’t shoot! Is that a gun?”
That gave me pause; it was a flashlight. There were two of them. They both wore shimmery suits. The short one was kind of cute. The tall one did all the talking.
“Lady, we are serious guys from the future,” he said. “This is not a hard-on.”
“You mean a put-on,” I said. “Now kindly get the hell out of here.”
“We are here on a missionary position to all mankind,” he said. “No shit is fixing to hang loose any someday now.”
“Break loose,” I said. “Hey, are you guys talking about nuclear war?”
“We are not allowed to say,” the cute one said.
“The bottom line is, we have come to salvage the artworks of your posteriors,” the tall one said.
“Save the art and let the world go. Not a bad idea,” I said. “But, mira, it’s midnight and the gallery’s closed. Come back en la manana.”
“Que bueno! No hay mas necesididad que hablaren ingles,” the tall one said. “Nothing worse than trying to communicate in a dead language,” he went on in Spanish. “But how did you know?”
“Just a guess,” I said, also in Spanish; and we spoke in the mother tongue from then on. “If you really are two guys from the future, you can come back in the future, like tomorrow after we open, right?”
“Too much danger of Timeslip,” he said. “We have to come and go between midnight and four A.M., when we won’t interfere with your world. Plus we’re from far in the future, not just tomorrow. We are here to save artworks that will otherwise be lost in the coming holocaust by sending them through a Chronoslot to our century in what is, to you, the distant future.”
“I got that picture,” I said. “But you’re talking to the wrong girl. I don’t own this art gallery. I’m just an artist.”
“Artists wear uniforms in your century?”
“Okay, so I’m moonlighting as a security guard.”
“Then it’s your boss we need to talk to. Get him here tomorrow at midnight, okay?”