“I know that,” said his Porpoise, turning his black face eagerly toward them. “The stupidest people can’t help knowing something. The Under Folk get in and open the books—at least, they send the Bookworms in to open them. And, of course, they only open the pages where the enemies are quartered.”
“Then—” said Bernard, looking at the golden gate, which swung open, its lock hanging broken and useless.
“Yes,” said Mavis, “we could, couldn’t we? Open the other books, we mean!” She appealed to her Porpoise.
“Yes,” it said, “perhaps you could. Human children can open books, I believe. Porpoises can’t. And Mer-people can’t open the books in the Cave of Learning, though they can unlock them. If they want to open them they have to get them from the Public Mer Libraries. I can’t help knowing that,” it added. The Porpoises seemed really ashamed of not being thoroughly stupid.
“Come on,” said Francis, “we’ll raise an army to fight these Book People. Here’s something we can do that isn’t mischief.”
“You shut up,” said Bernard, and thumping Cathay on the back told her to never mind.
They went toward the golden gate.
“I suppose all the nasty people are out of the books by now?” Mavis asked her Porpoise, who followed her with the close fidelity of an affectionate little dog.
“I don’t know,” it said, with some pride. “I’m stupid, I am. But I can’t help knowing that no one can come out of books unless they’re called. You’ve just got to tap on the back of the book and call the name and then you open it, and the person comes out. At least, that’s what the Bookworms do, and I don’t see why you should be different.”
What was different, it soon appeared, was the water in the stream in the Cave of Learning, which was quite plainly still water in some other sense than that in which what they were in was water. That is, they could not walk in it; they had to swim. The cave seemed dark, but enough light came from the golden gate to enable them to read the titles of the books when they had pulled away the seaweed which covered many of them. They had to hold on to the rocks—which were books—with one hand, and clear away the seaweed with the other.