“Sing like that, mate, an’ we’ll never starve, but we won’t find wot we’re looking for either.”

The surface of the sea was silver with schools of the tiny fish. “Suar works all right,” Mudge continued,” but don’t seem to ’ave the power of a regular duar. You sing for a big boat, you get this floatin’ mattress. You sing for porpoises, you get sardines. Proportional magic, I expect.”

“What’s proportional magic?” a new voice squawked quite unexpectedly, nearly causing Jon-Tom to jump out of the zodiac. The slick grinning head had emerged right behind him. It was joined by a second, then a third, like so many toofs lining up at the feeding trough.

“It did work,” Jon-Tom said triumphantly to Mudge, who nodded grudging assent.

“What worked?” one of the porpoises inquired.

“My spellsinging. My music. I used it to call you up, and here you are.”

“Call us up?” They looked at one another, then back at Jon-Tom. “You didn’t call us up, man. We came for the fish. Never have seen so many in this part of the world.” Two of them dropped back beneath the surface.

“Well, it worked, anyway,” Jon-Tom mumbled. “I called up sardines instead of porpoises, but the porpoises came after the fish.”

“You don’t need to draw pictures for me, lad.” The otter was slipping back into his shorts. “Main thing is they’re ’ere an’ we’ve made contact of a sorts.”

“Contact,” squeaked the remaining porpoise. “Speaking of contact, have you heard the one about…?”

Jon-Tom put an arm around their visitor and patted it affectionately on top of its head. It was rather like slapping a bulging hot water bottle. The sound was sharp and hollow, the porpoise’s skin smooth and solid as an off-road tire.

Thus greeted, the porpoise glanced over at Mudge. “Tell me, citizen of both worlds, is the man always like this?”

“’E’s just a friendly soul, ’e is.”

“My turn first,” Jon-Tom said, having decided on his line of attack earlier. “This story concerns the shipmaster and the eel.”

“Wait, whoa!” The porpoise let out several short high-pitched squeals that sounded like miniature train whistles. In seconds the zodiac was surrounded by bobbing heads wearing attentive expressions.

“Better make it funny, mate,” Mudge whispered warningly.

“Don’t worry.”

He spent the next half hour repeating every old Richard Pryor and Woody Allen joke he could remember, adding cetaceanic gags whenever possible. His audience roared at every one.

There was only one drawback. Every time he told a joke he was compelled to listen to one from his audience. These were invariably as bad as they were filthy and risque. Whether they understood them or not, Jon-Tom and Mudge laughed uproariously at all of them.

The steady supply of fresh food and jokes combined to put the notoriously mercurial porpoises in a convivial mood. Finally convinced he’d gained their confidence sufficiently to talk as well as joke with them, Jon-Tom made the request. It was batted around from one cetacean to the next and a reply was not long in forthcoming.

“Yeah, I’ve seen the landwiller craft you describe.” The speaker was a small bottlenose leaning over the starboard side of the boat. “What about it?”

“Could you tell us which way they went?”

“Easy. Follow me and I’ll see you set on the right track.” He then proceeded to taildance a compass heading, repeating it several times until Jon-Tom was positive he had it down pat.

“You’re not leaving?” asked another, a big yellowside. “You haven’t heard all our new jokes yet.”

“We’re in a desperate rush. Besides, we don’t want to hear them all at once. Let’s save some for next time.”

“Why the hurry?” It was the bottlenose who’d provided the heading. “Ordinarily none of us would give a damn, but for a landwiller you’ve been awfully accommodating.” A chorus of agreement came from his companions.

While Mudge railed silently at the loss of precious time, Jon-Tom told their seagong friends the story of the pirate attack and kidnapping. This last produced a chorus of outrage among the members of the school, for porpoises are quite family oriented.

“Nothing for us to do, though,” said the bottlenose, sounding regretful. “We never involve ourselves in the affairs of landwillers or the details of their shallow, meaningless lives. But we will convoy you for a while to make sure you keep to the proper course.”

“We appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” sounded the high-pitched, squeaky choir.

Jon-Tom pointed at the engine. “Don’t let this frighten you. It’s only a bit of otherworldly magic. It’s going to make a lot of noise. There are blades attached to the bottom that will cut if you get too close, so I suggest you back off a ways.” The porpoises complied.

A couple of stabs on the ignition brought the engine to vibrant life. It coughed several times—and died. Jon-Tom’s fears were confirmed by the position of the needle in the little gauge atop the engine.

“Magic’s gone out of it, eh, mate?”

“The gasoline has. Same thing.”

“Then we’ll just have to raise sail and hope we don’t fall too far behind ’em.”

As they struggled to set the jury-rigged mast in place, the bottlenose swam over and plopped his head on the side of the zodiac. “It didn’t frighten us, man. When does it get loud?”

“I’m afraid it’s dead,” Jon-Tom told the porpoise. “The spell’s run out.”

“Too bad.” He hesitated, bobbing lightly in the water, and then dropped clear. Jon-Tom could hear him whistling to his companions. The call was taken up by others. Soon squeaks and querulous squirps and squeals filled the air around the boat. The bottlenose reappeared.

“Landwillers often carry interesting toys they call ‘rope’ with them. Do you have any ropes?”

Jon-Tom looked puzzled, then began hunting through their overstock of supplies. There were several strong coils of hemp in addition to the rigging Mudge was unpacking. As it turned out, they found a much better use for the rigging. The sail became superfluous.

The bottlenose shouted to the two landwillers when all preparations had been completed. “Ready?”

“Ready,” said Jon-Tom, bracing himself.

“Then hold on, man!”

They began to move through the water. Slowly at first, then more rapidly as the porpoises gained confidence in the makeshift harness. In a couple of minutes the zodiac was rocketing across the swells twenty miles an hour faster than the engine could have driven it. In fact, the empty engine was acting as a drag. With the wind blowing his long hair back into his face, Jon-Tom unbolted the outboard and dumped it over the stern. Then he leaned back against the padded hull of the zodiac and watched the four dozen porpoises rising and falling in unison as they pulled the little craft through the water. Other members of the school paralleled those pulling, shouting encouragement while awaiting their turns.

Not only would they not fall behind the pirate ketch, they might overtake it by morning. Sometimes a good joke was the best magic.

VI

AS MORNING DAWNED the fleeing ketch still had not put in an appearance. The porpoises pulled tirelessly, laughing and giggling among themselves, competing to see who could pull the hardest or make the grossest joke. Once Jon-Tom was nearly thrown overboard as the porpoises on the right gave an especially hard surge. Mudge caught him just in time, and a good thing, too. So self-centered were their voluntary steeds they might have continued swimming eastward, arguing about punch lines and forgetting their lost passenger until it was too late.

Morning gave way to midday and still no sign of their quarry. The shore of the eastern continent dominated the horizon, a fringe of bright sand backed by tall greenery. The zodiac slowed to a stop and the porpoises began slipping out of their harness. A familiar bottlenosed face peered apologetically over the gunwale.

“We have to leave you here. The water is growing shallow and there is a lot of fresh mixing with the salt. Fresh water makes us itch. If not for that we would take you onto the beach.”

“That’s all right.” Jon-Tom was helping Mudge raise the sail. “You’ve done more than enough already. I just wish we could’ve located the ketch.”