The Time Of The Transferance Read online

  “See? A bunch of pillows wouldn’t support my weight like this.” The mob was crowding toward the water’s edge, muttering loudly. “And this is a magic oar.” He primed the engine, praying it would start when he hit the ignition.

  The mole peered through his black glasses at the outboard. “Looks like a bunch of junk to me.”

  “No, I’ll prove it, see? All you have to do is press this button.” He did so. The engine rumbled, making the crowd retreat slightly. It coughed, spat and died.

  “Hornets,” shouted the lynx, “he’s got hornets in there!”

  “I don’t see any,” said the rat. “It’s a trick. He’s trying to scare us with tricks!”

  The mob surged forward. Praying as hard as he ever had in his brief life, Jon-Tom stabbed the ignition button again and held it down. Come on baby, he said silently, turn over, turn over!

  The engine threw black smoke in the face of the advancing lynx, kicked in, and sent the zodiac shooting out across the calm water of me bay, snarling like a lost motocross bike. It was followed by a number of sharp-edged pointed objects which fell far short of their goal. A few choice, equally pointed insults did reach him but did no damage.

  But what now? His outraged audience did not appear pacified by this incontrovertible proof that the object he had conjured up was indeed a boat. Probably still looking for the promised crew, he mused. They continued to jump up and down on the shore, screaming unheard imprecations and gesticulating obscenely in his direction. He would have to wait and circle back up the river after nightfall, find some secluded anchorage, and try to make his inglorious way back to Lynchbany under cover of darkness.

  First he had to wend his way through the harbor traffic. Bearing down on him already was a huge ocean-going catamaran. The double hull contained the lower class passenger compartments, the upper deck the rooms for those traveling first class, while the cargo was slung in nets between the hulls. This enabled the catamaran to run smartly up over a low dock without having to remove cargo from inside the ship.

  He turned to port and the catamaran appeared to swerve to bear down on him. Each hull boasted a pair of masts, one square-rigged for speed, the other fore-rigged for maneuverability. It wasn’t maneuvering to his liking now. Had someone on shore somehow communicated with a relative or friend in charge of the ship? The zodiac could run circles around anything in Yarrowl harbor, but it was distressing to think the entire city might be roused against him so quickly.

  As the starboard hull of the big ship slid past him something tumbled over the side. Instinctively he winced, but it was only a rope. He recognized the face leaning over the railing.

  “Don’t just squat there like a bug on a rock, mate,” Mudge shouted. “Grab hold and tie on!”

  In disbelief Jon-Tom gaped at the otter. Then he swung the zodiac around and accelerated to catch up with the catamaran. Catching hold of the trailing line, he secured it to the hole in the zodiac’s bow and shut off the engine as sailors pulled him close to the hull. A sea ladder was extended to him. Making his way carefully hand over hand, he soon found himself standing on the deck looking back at curious sailors and well-dressed passengers. A grinning Mudge saluted briskly and then stepped clear. Jon-Tom brushed his hair out of his eyes and started for the otter.

  “Hold off a minim, mate. I know wot you’re thinkin’.”

  “No you don’t. If you did, you’d already have jumped overboard.”

  Mudge continued to retreat, well aware he could dodge Jon-Tom’s lunges with ease. “Think it through, lad. You really didn’t think you were goin’ to conjure up a proper craft with that shadow o’ a duar, did you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you couldn’t do it when you ‘ad your duar, that’s why.”

  Jon-Tom halted. Three times he’d sung his song, and the best he’d been able to do was the little zodiac. A fine craft for exploring a lake or cruising up a river, but not the sort of thing one would choose to cross an ocean in, especially after the couple of gallons of fuel the engine contained ran out.

  “Soon as I saw ‘ow things weren’t goin’ with your spellsingin’,” the otter went on, “I sort of took the first opportunity to make a discreet exit and locate emergency transportation. A fine ship an’ a cooperative captain ‘ave agreed to carry us as far as the island kingdom o’ Orangel. That’s where this vessel’s bound. Orangel’s more than ‘alf the way to Chejiji. From there we won’t ‘ave no trouble ‘inn* transportation to the southern shores, or so says our Captain. A substantial payment insured a slight change o’ course to pluck you from the water. Money we now ‘ave in plenty, thanks to your performance.”

  “Mudge, you guaranteed those spectators magic. You of all people should know that spellsinging isn’t an infallible discipline, much less when I’m trying to make it work with a back-up instrument. Suppose I hadn’t been able to conjure up my small inflatable craft and get away? What then?”

  “Now don’t let’s go gettin’ ourselves all upset over might-’ave-beens. The facts o’ the matter are that you did produce this charmin’ little boat an’ that it did spirit you safely away from that pustulant seep o’ ignorant gawkers. O’ course, ‘ad it not done so and ‘ad you not been able to outswim your critics then I expect I would’ve returned ‘ome sadder an’ richer to convey me regrets to your beloved, thence to continue on life’s merry way after sheddin’ a sorry tear or two for me lost friend. All o’ which is so much snakesnot, since you’re standin’ ‘ere safe, sound and much better off than when you started singin’.”

  “That’s a pretty cold assessment of what could have happened, Mudge.”

  ‘ Tis a cold world, mate, as I’ve ‘ad occasion to mention before. T’wasn’t so bad, now were it? I took the time to make sure there were none among your avid audience likely to outswim you. No otters.”

  As the novelty of the fleeing human and his inflatable boat began to pale, the sailors and well-dressed promenaders on the upper deck started to disperse.

  “Let’s ‘ave no more talk o’ despair an’ disasters that weren’t.” Mudge encompassed sea and sky with a sweeping gesture. “See wot a luvely day it is. We’re off to this Stubborn Kit Mail place an’ we’re goin’ in style. Wait ‘til you sees the cabin I’ve reserved for you. Ain’t this wot you wanted?”

  Jon-Tom’s voice had fallen to whisper as he made the grudging confession. “I guess so.”

  “Right! said the otter cheerfully. “An’ when we get to Orangel we can sell that inflatable doohickey you conjured up for a pretty piece, wot?”

  Jon-Tom leaned close. “It would take several dozen individuals with steel lungs to inflate it properly.”

  “Or one wizard,” the otter countered. “But why trouble yourself with details like that? Such things are for the buyer to contemplate. If your conscience is beginnin’ to bother you already, just let ol’ Mudge ‘andle the sellin’.”

  “What, and have us run out of another town?” The otter was shaking his head sadly. “You may make a great spellsinger some day, mate, but you’ll never know ‘ow to sing the proper tune to carry a business. Come on, the Captain wants to meet you. ‘E’s never met a real life spellsinger before and I told ‘im you were the best who ever picked up a duar. ‘E’s invited us to dine at his table tonight.” Mudge winked lecherously. “I’ve taken the liberty o’ invitin’ a couple o’ ladies o’ compatible species to join us.”

  “Those days are past, Mudge. I’m a married man now.” The otter spat disgustedly over the railing. “A fine trip this is goin’ to turn out to be.”

  V

  Contrary to this prediction Mudge did not perish of terminal boredom as the voyage proceeded. After trying and failing repeatedly to interest his tall companion in a little shipboard rousting and jousting with members of the opposite sex, Mudge finally took to spending much of his time below decks among the second-class passengers. There he could gamble and drink unhindered by Jon-Tom’s admonitions to keep it clean because there was no place
out in the middle of the ocean to run if he was caught cheating at cards or dice.

  Actually Jon-Tom was enjoying himself. The sea was calm, the winds gentle but steady, the sun warm and relaxing as the graceful ship sailed steadily southward. The cuisine was new and intriguing, much spicier than he was used to. Every few days professional dancers and musicians entertained on the vast rear deck of the catamaran.

  Jon-Tom guessed the number of paying passengers at forty, so there was plenty of room to move about on what was essentially a cargo vessel. The crew was helpful and unobtrusive. Only Talea’s absence prevented him from relaxing completely. As he was the only human on the ship, he missed her more than ever.

  They were three-quarters of the way to Orangel when Mudge came trudging up to him. Jon-Tom was sprawled across two deck chairs, soaking up the sun, but he sat up fast when he got a look at his friend.

  “Something wrong, Mudge?”

  The otter responded with a gargling noise that sounded vaguely like “Yeh.”

  “You don’t look so good.” He sat up and put a hand on the otter’s shoulder, gripping it hard. Mudge blinked, seeming to see him for the first time.

  “Oh, ‘tis you, mate. That’s good. Wot did you say? Oh, I’m fine, I am. That is, I think I am. Come to think of it, I guess I ain’t sure.”

  “Something you ate?”

  This set off a fit of coughing, followed by a smile, then a look of dazed amusement. “Come with me, lad, I’ve somethin’ to show you.”

  Jon-Tom allowed himself to be led to the inner railing of the portside hull on which they were standing. Safety nets had been strung between the twin hulls and a number of passengers were cavorting in the shark-free pool thus created. As the catamaran skimmed the waves the current would push the swimmers into the back net, whereupon they would clamber out of the water and walk along a narrow catwalk until they could dive back into the upper end of the net pool, thus repeating the process.

  “Don’t you see her?”

  “Where?” Jon-Tom leaned over the rail. There were a dozen passengers in the nets. Then he saw one who was a blur in the water. As he watched she concluded her swim and climbed the stairs leading to the main deck. There she shook herself out, dried herself further with a towel, and snuggled down into an empty deck chair to allow the sun to finish the job. She wore some flimsy swimming costume which was more decoration than concealment.

  Mudge had his elbows propped on the rail and his muzzle cupped in his paws. “Now I ask you straight, mate,” he said with a sigh, “did you ever see anything o’ flesh an’ blood on this world or in any other that were ‘alf so beautiful as that?” As he spoke the object of his desire twisted in her chair, plucked a lace handkerchief from a small bag and used it to dry her whiskers one at a time.

  Jon-Tom regarded the lady otter a moment longer before his attention was caught by Mudge’s expression. The bemusement he had noted before remained, now butfered by a peculiar intensity. It was not the standard gaze of unalloyed lechery he was familiar with. This was something different.

  ‘ ‘Er name’s Weegee.” Mudge’s voice was distant, unfocused. “She’s a typical forest products buyer on ‘er way ‘ome from a shoppin’ trip up the Tailaroam. I believe the Earth, rotates around ‘er.”

  The otter’s tone, his choice of words and his posture combined to make a statement Jon-Tom was not long in assessing. Only a natural disbelief caused him to hesitate before noting the obvious. It was as if a basic law of nature had been contravened, as though one of the great pyramids at Giza had crumbled to dust in a single day.

  “Mudge, you’re in love.”

  “So good o’ you to notice.” Not once did he take his eyes from the vision of sleek brown-furred loveliness sprawled on the deck chair not far away.

  “No, I mean really in love, Mudge. As opposed to in lust. I can hear it in your voice and see it in your face.”

  “Then I expect ‘tis so, spellsinger. I’ve never felt like this before, I ‘aven’t. Why, me insides ‘ave turned all to crikleberry jelly.”

  “You know her name, so obviously you’ve met. Why don’t you introduce me?”

  “Wot, now?”

  “Why not now?”

  “Well, I don’t know—yes I do. Come on, mate.”

  Jon-Tom allowed the otter to lead him onto the central deck. The lady was lying half asleep and Jon-Tom had to prod his companion to say something, as it seemed Miidge would have been quite content simply to stand there and stare until they docked in Orangel.

  “Amber face, are you awake, luv?”

  She opened her eyes and quickly took in the both of them. “Hello, Mudge.”

  A sweet, seductive voice, Jon-Tom thought, one that curled around each vowel as slickly as an otter would curl around a fish; toying with it, playing with it before finally devouring it. He was conscious of bottomless black eyes studying him intently. “This must be the friend you spoke of.” She half twisted, half jumped out of the deck chair, gave one leg a final shake. Water droplets sparkled in the air.

  “Come now, tall man, bend down and give us a kiss.” Jon-Tom glanced uncertainly at his companion, only to find Mudge grinning back at him. So he bent over and tried to bestow a quick peck on one furry cheek. Much too fast for him, she turned and treated him to a full otterish buss on the lips, which consisted of a rapid-fire series of wet bewhis-kered smacks smelling vaguely of mackerel. Contact with a cold black nose completed the extraordinary sensation, not unlike having one’s mouth attacked by a fishy jackhammer.

  She pulled back and cocked her head sideways at him. “He’s shy. You didn’t say he was shy.”

  “ ‘E’s married an’ a spellsinger an’ ‘e’s from another world. Wot did you expect, luv? Normalcy?”

  “Not from a spellsinger.”

  Straightforward as an arrow, Jon-Tom thought, shifting uncomfortably under that uncompromising stare. Otters were not a subtle race. He watched as she reached over to muss the fur on Mudge’s forehead just below the brim of his green cap. Diaphanous material swirled around her lithesome form and her fur gleamed like brass in the midday sun.

  “So you’re his best friend?” Jon-Tom glanced at Mudge in surprise. The otter shrugged.

  “Well, for want o’ a better choice. Anyway, you’re ‘ere.”

  “That sounds more like it,” he said.

  “What am I to make of your companion, Jon-Tom? He’s been trying to get me into bed with him from the moment we met. Do you think I should?”

  “Ah, hey now, friends, I—that is...” He stopped stammering when he saw they were both grinning at him. Mudge put an arm around her and she didn’t resist or pull away.

  “She’s just teasin’ you, mate. You ought to know otters that well by now. We took care o’ that little detail right away.”

  “Yes, and we have a lot of work to do to get it right,” she added pleasantly.

  “Uh huh. Swell meeting you, Weegee. Now if the two of you will excuse me, I have an appointment to make a fool of myself somewhere else.”

  “Don’t do it here,” she chided him. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. Mudge said you were easily embarrassed and I wanted to find out for myself. Now come and sit down.” She grabbed his arm and practically yanked him into the empty deck chair next to hers, sat down and crossed her short legs over her lower torso, the latter a spine-destroying trick that only someone with the backbone of an otter could manage.

  “Now then: tell me all about yourself.”

  Jon-Tom flicked his gaze sideways. “Hasn’t Mudge done that already.”

  “Yes, but I’ve known Fastfingers long enough to realize that in addition to his many talents he is also an incorrigible liar. So tell me about yourself, and about him, and about anything else you think I might be interested in. I’m all ears.” She wiggled the short brown ones atop her head. “Mudge says that you’re as trustworthy, honest and open as you are naive and ignorant.”

  “I see.” He looked up at his companion, who had suddenl
y found something of interest to study in the water below. “I’d be glad to. When I first found Mudge and dragged him from the gutter in Lynchbany where he was lying in a drunken stupor....”

  The otter’s outraged bark echoed throughout the ship.

  As the days passed Jon-Tom rarely saw Mudge far from Weegee’s side. The more they talked, the better he liked her. She was one of those rare otters whose sense of playfulness and joie de vivre did not prevent her from functioning effectively in an urban context. Most otters didn’t have the patience to make a go of it in the world of commerce.

  She found the stories of their travels and adventures fascinating. Who wouldn’t, considering what he and Mudge had been through this past year? And when the otter’s embroidery grew too elaborate, Jon-Tom was always there to inject a dose of reality into his companion’s narcissistic fantasies.

  He was delighted to see that Mudge’s feelings for her were being reciprocated and that what he initially viewed as a typical shipboard romance was ripening into something deeper and more substantial. He was quite prepared to lose a traveling companion to true love. Mudge had never been thrilled about galavanting around with the spellsinger anyway.

  For his part, in spite of all the trouble Mudge had caused him in the past, Jon-Tom was quite fond of the irrepressible otter. Weegee might be strong enough and stable enough to settle him. Mudge needed that kind of influence if he was to see middle age. Nor did Jon-Tom have to build the otter up in Weegee’s eyes. Mudge did quite a good job of that all by himself, and Weegee was sensible and perceptive enough to discard ninety-five percent of everything her paramour said. The remaining five percent was remarkable enough, if only Mudge would realize it.

  It was a pleasure to watch their relationship grow, to witness the change in Mudge from indifferent seducer to protective companion. To see him finally mature a little from drunken carouser into a thoughtful, attentive being. Until one day hopes new and old were shattered at a single stroke.