Truckers (Bromeliad Trilogy, Book 1)
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'Outside! What's it like?' Masklin looked blank. 'Well,' he said. 'It's sort of big-'
To the thousands of the tiny nomes who live under the floorboards of a large department store, there is no Outside. Things like Day and Night, Sun and Rain are just daft old legends. Then a devastating piece of news shatters their existence: the Store - their whole world - is to be demolished. And it's up to Maskin, one of the last nomes to come into the Store, to mastermind an unbelievable escape plan that will take all the nomes into the dangers of the great Outside ...The first title in the magnificent trilogy, The Bromeliad.
task of taking all nomes home. VII. All the way Home. From The Book of Nome, Mezzanine v. I–VII IT WAS EASY to get lost under the floor. It took no effort at all. It was a maze of walls and cables, with drifts of dust away from the paths. In fact, as Torrit said, they weren’t exactly lost, more mislaid; there were paths all over the place, between the joists and walls, but no indication of where they led to. Sometimes a nome would hurry past on an errand of its own and pay them no attention.
Gosh, I’m doing it without thinking. Gurder hesitated. “It’s an intriguing thought,” he said. “I want to find out everything about trucks, and electric, and food,” said Masklin. “And then I want you to find a book about, about . . .” “Well?” Masklin looked desperate. “Is there a book that tells you how nomes can drive a truck built for humans?” he said. “Don’t you know?” “Not . . . exactly. I was sort of hoping we could work it out as we went along.” “But you said all we needed to do was
great circle of the steering wheel. “You have any ideas about that?” he said. “I thought ropes,” said Masklin. “How d’you mean?” “It’s got those spokes in it, so if we tie ropes to them and have teams of nomes on the ropes, they could pull it one way or the other, and that’ll make the truck go the way we want,” said Masklin. Dorcas squinted at the wheel. He paced the floor. He looked up. He looked down. His lips moved as he worked things out. “They won’t see where they’re going,” he said
which.” “What?” The last light went off. “Thing?” The lights stayed off. The little black box contrived to look extremely dead and silent. “But I relied on you to help us sort out the driving and everything! You’re just going to leave me like this?” If anything, the box got darker. Masklin stared at it. Then he thought: It’s all very well for it. Everyone’s relying on me. I’ve got no one to rely on. I wonder if the old Abbot felt like this. I wonder how he stood it for so long. It’s always
signaler. “Can’t see any golden horses,” said Masklin. “You know, I’m not entirely certain—” “And there should be cheerful music,” said Gurder, pleased to be making a contribution. “Can’t hear any cheer—” Masklin began. There was the long-drawn-out blast of a car horn. The road stopped and was replaced by a mound covered in bushes. The truck roared up it, all wheels leaving the ground for a moment, then thumped down on the other side of the roundabout and continued a little way, rocking from