The Absolute (Animorphs #51) by K. A. Applegate

Author:K. A. Applegate [Applegate, K. A.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2017-09-25T16:00:00+00:00

I swung around. Snagged the wire with a second leg. And a third. Pulled my remaining legs in and around.

Ax hung on below me. Tobias scrambled over Ax’s back and grasped onto the wire between us.

We clung to it as we shot down the highway at sixty-five miles an hour. Rocks pelted us. Mud puddles drenched us.

Thud-thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

The limo thundered through potholes and bumped over metal plates and asphalt patches. We swung from the rubber wire like suicidal trapeze artists.

Thunk.

Banged against the limo above us.

Crunch.

And bounced against the axle below.

<If we get out of here alive,> I said, <I’m writing a letter to the highway department. These roads are terrible.> No one laughed. I guess it wasn’t the time for a joke.

The limo slowed again. Turned. Thudded over a speed bump and rolled to a stop.

WHAM!

<Car door,> I said. <We must be wherever we’re going. Let’s move.>

I dropped to the asphalt. Motored to the edge of the shadow.

<AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!>

And was nearly speared by a lady’s high heel.

Another high heel extended from the limo and thumped to the pavement beside the first. The governor’s wife? I darted toward the pair of heels before she could get away. Scrambled up. Clung to the soft leather as the high heels stepped away from the car.

Suddenly, a man’s leg shot from the limo. The governor? Two cockroaches scrambled across the asphalt, over the man’s wing tip dress shoe, and up the ankle. Then dove into the cuff of the pant leg.

The other leg emerged, and the Wing Tip escorted the High Heel across the pavement and through a glistening glass door.

They strode across a wide room. A hotel lobby? I hung on, my back end dipping down between thick rug fibers, then flying through the cool air every time High Heel took a step.

<Wherever we are,> I said, <it’s someplace nice. The carpet is cushy. And everything gleams. Brass, probably. Marble. Some kind of dark, polished wood.>

A cockroach poked his head up from the cuff of Wing Tip’s pant leg. Ax. <And everything smells lemony fresh.>

Wing Tip and High Heel entered another room. Crowded. Noisy. Bright. I’d been in enough of them to guess it was a ballroom, the dance floor in the center, surrounded by tables.

They wound their way through the crowd of people and stopped at a table at the front of the room. Wing Tip pulled out a chair for High Heel, then sat down next to her. A thick white tablecloth draped itself around their legs.

We sat there for a very long time. Human voices murmured and laughed. Dishes and silverware clanked. High Heel crossed and uncrossed her legs several hundred times. Wing Tip dropped his spoon once. He leaned down to get it, and three cockroaches dove for cover.

<Ax, how long have we been in morph?> I said.

<Approximately ninety-seven minutes.>

<Man. We’re running out of time, and all these two want to do is eat dinner. Think we can demorph and remorph under the table without anybody noticing?>

The clanks and murmurs quieted.

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