TaleSpin: 
                      Halloween Island
    
                       By Jim Kellogg

                          Chapter I
    
    WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA.
    {The flying boat bounced through rough waves in Cape Suzette 
harbor.  Wind gusts rocked the plane from side to side, threatening 
to snag the wingtip floats in the water.  Under these conditions the 
crew was taking no chances--not at night with a full load.  The 
navigator held the throttles wide open so vibration would not make 
them creep back.}  
    WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA.
    {The props sang at maximum revolutions.  Though the twin engines 
were as alike as any factory could make them, each had its own 
mechanical personality--at full power they ran at slightly different 
RPMs.  Their combined vibrations alternately reinforced and 
interfered with each other, like two piano strings not quite in tune.  
A shudder and a Noise ran through the airframe, rising and falling 
once every second.}  
    WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA.
    {As the ship gained speed its control surfaces bit into the air.  
The buffeting of the waves diminished as the hull came up on its 
step--now they were hydro-planing across the water's surface instead 
of plowing through it.  The Noise of the beating propellers seemed 
louder.}
    WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA.
    {To Kit Cloudkicker, the Noise was a voice calling in the night--
part of a story he had heard when he was little.  There was Something 
outside that wanted to come in--a Something that was mysterious, even 
frightening, but that Kit knew was also warm, and friendly, and fun.  
What the story was or who had told it to him, he couldn't remember.  
Most people said the Noise sounded like a washing machine.  Either 
way, Kit loved it.  It was the sound of takeoff.}
    WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA.
    {With a last bump, the seaplane broke free of the water's grip and 
rose into the darkness.  Kit felt the pilot's hand cover his own on 
the throttles, and pause there.  In that moment, Kit felt that he had 
all he would ever need--the plane, the Noise, the dark sky--they were 
all his friends, but none more so than the pilot in the left seat.}  
    WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA.
    "I'm tellin' ya, Lil' Britches, the last thing I ever wanted ta 
be was a *milkman*!"
    Kit snapped out of his daydream, if it could be called that at 
1:08 AM.  He felt Baloo's hand adjust the throttles and propeller 
controls, synchronizing the props to the same speed.
    WORRAWORRRRAWORRRRRRRAWORRRRRRRRRRAWORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
    "Well, Papa Bear, I guess the only one who gets up earlier than 
the milkman is the guy that *delivers* the milk to the milkman."
    "Gives me those loose-yer-snooze blues!"  Baloo's chuckle turned 
into a yawn. 
    The cabin door swung open, flooding the cockpit with light.  
Baloo and Kit winced in the sudden brightness.  "That was *some* kind 
of takeoff, Baloo!" said Rebecca Cunningham.  She had been riding in 
the cargo bay, keeping an eye on things.  "It's lucky the cargo 
didn't break loose."  Rebecca switched off the interior lights and 
slipped into an extra seat mounted behind Baloo's.
    Baloo blinked and gave Rebecca an insincere smile.  "You'da had a 
milk-bath if it did, Becky.  I bet those high society ladies you like 
so much would pay plenty ta get that kinda beauty treatment."
    Rebecca started to return verbal fire, but her comeback turned 
into a yawn.  
    "I'll check the outside cargo," said Kit, distracting Baloo and 
Rebecca and averting a flare-up between the owner of Higher for Hire 
and her staff pilot.  
    Kit shined a flashlight out his cockpit side window.  Three metal 
drums, formerly thirty-five gallon oil cans, were slung under the 
right wing, outboard of the engine.  It was the same under the left 
wing.  "Everything looks okay out there," he said.
    "Thanks, Kit," said Rebecca, smiling at him.  "All right, Baloo, 
start climbing until--"
    "Whoa, Beckers, we ain't even outta the harbor yet," said Baloo.  
"An' I'm sure not gonna let those trigger-happy cliff-gunners use the  
Sea Duck fer target practice!"
    Baloo picked up the HF radio mic and identified himself to Cape 
Suzette Air Control.  In response, a series of lights appeared in the 
darkness ahead, marking the only gap in the high cliffs that 
surrounded Cape Suzette.  Attacks by air pirates had been increasing 
over the last few months; it was now government policy to open fire 
on any aircraft that flew *over* the cliffs instead of through the 
gap.  By forcing all traffic to pass through this bottleneck, the 
city's anti-aircraft gunners and searchlight crews could inspect 
every plane going in or out--and shoot down anything suspicious.  No 
one in Cape Suzette had forgotten that Don Karnage had vowed to 
plunder their city.
    Rebecca took a white-knuckle grip on the armrests of her seat as 
the Sea Duck threaded the gap in the cliffs.  Peering ahead, she 
wondered which part of the darkness was air and which was solid rock.  
The marker lights flashing past only increased her disorientation.  
When the lights disappeared and the darkness expanded to a starlit 
horizon, Rebecca knew they had reached the open sea beyond the 
cliffs.  
    Kit checked his watch and the chart on his navigation plotting 
board.  "Okay, Papa Bear, our course is one-one-six degrees."
    "And start climbing," added Rebecca.
    With a cross between a grumble and a yawn, Baloo brought the Sea 
Duck around on its new course and retrimmed for best rate-of-climb.  
"Better break out the oxygen gear an' winter flight suits, Kit."
    As the Sea Duck rarely flew at high altitude, the plane's oxygen 
system didn't see much use.  Wildcat, Higher for Hire's ace mechanic, 
had checked it thoroughly before the flight.  The equipment was 
working perfectly, but there was only one modern-style oxygen mask on 
the plane--still in its original, unopened box.  The mask covered the 
nose and mouth of the wearer, and was held on by straps that fastened 
to a leather flight helmet.  It even had built-in radio headphones 
and a microphone.
    There was only one problem with the mask--it wouldn't fit over 
Baloo's nose.  Rebecca's nose was smaller, but it turned up at the 
thought of wearing an odd contraption of rubber and leather.  So it 
had been decided that Kit would wear the new oxygen mask.  The others 
would make do with the Sea Duck's older-style oxygen dispenser: a 
hose attached to a pipe stem that was held between the user's teeth.  
Baloo swore by this system, though he'd never actually tried any 
other.
    Rebecca fussed about the baggy fit of her fleece-lined flight 
suit, but as the Sea Duck climbed the increasing cold convinced her 
to forget about fashion.  Baloo watched the outside air temperature 
gauge.  When it read zero degrees Fahrenheit, he leveled-off and 
checked the altimeter: nineteen-thousand four-hundred feet.  He set 
the cabin heating to keep the plane's interior at a chilly thirty-
eight degrees.
    "Cold enough for ya, Becky?" asked Baloo, his teeth clenched on 
the pipe stem of his oxygen tube.
    "Fine."  Rebecca shivered.  "All right, Kit, let's try those 
mixers you and Wildcat dreamed up."
    Kit yanked a short piece of wooden broomstick that was hanging 
above his head on a thin cable.  Again he shined his flashlight out 
the side window.  A miniature windmill was now spinning under each 
wing, driving a web of belts and pulleys.  This, in turn, rotated a 
shaft inside each container; wooden paddles sloshed through a 
freezing mixture of dairy cream, sugar, and assorted flavorings.  
When Kit had read about this scheme in a book called "True Stories of 
the Great War in the Air," he had laughed.  Now he smiled, and felt a 
distant kinship to the hardy aviators who had flown in the days of 
open cockpits, castor-oil spitting engines, and no parachutes.
    The Sea Duck headed across empty ocean, with fourteen hundred 
gallons of cold, fresh milk in its cargo bay and over two hundred 
gallons of ice cream churning under its wings.
    
    It had begun a week before, when Rebecca had attended yet another 
business management seminar.  As usual, most of the people attending 
weren't really interested in the lectures; like Rebecca, they were 
there to make new business contacts.  And, as usual, the old-boy 
network was closing ranks to keep upstart operations like Higher for 
Hire out in the cold.  
    It was lunchtime, and Rebecca stood alone on one side of the 
conference center cafeteria, trying to catch the eye of some 
potential new clients.  The usual cliques had formed, and she could 
tell she wasn't going to receive a smiling invitation to join any of 
the small groups that were already seated.  She was gathering her 
nerve to barge right into the midst of one of them, armed only with 
the chicken-salad combo plate and a cheery 'Is this seat taken?,' 
when she noticed someone that looked even more out-of-place than she 
felt.  There was something odd about the way he was dressed, and he 
was staring at the cafeteria serving line as though it were an 
ancient temple of gold.  Her curiosity peaked, Rebecca walked over to 
the stranger.
    "There certainly are a lot of choices," she said.  "Maybe I could 
recommend something--I've eaten here before."
    The stranger smiled shyly at Rebecca, then turned back to the 
serving line.  "How d'ye do it?" he asked.  "How do it work?"
    "Weeeell, you just take a tray from that stack over there, and 
when you see something you want, you put it on the tray."  Rebecca 
noticed that he was wearing a seminar name tag.  "Lunch is included 
in the seminar, so it's already paid for."
    She watched him scrutinize every item being served.  He was an 
unusual feline mix--small, slim, and quite handsome.  His dark blue 
suit was of the latest style, and Rebecca didn't need the help of the 
price tag that still hung from its jacket cuff to tell her that it 
had been extremely expensive.  His green silk shirt was of the same 
quality, but it clashed with the suit.  Perhaps strangest of all was 
his tie.  It was wrapped around his neck rather than under his shirt 
collar--that area was still taken up by new-shirt cardboard 
packaging.  And, though it was tied in a neat, flowing bow, it was 
not a bowtie.  His name tag read 'Chris Fletcher.'
    Fletcher made a few hesitant food selections, then froze in his 
tracks next to the beverages.  He looked up at Rebecca uncertainly.  
"Be that truly...milk?" he asked.
    "Why, yes.  You can have as much at you like."
    With an expression like a kid turned loose in a candy store, 
Fletcher filled his tray with as many milk bottles as it would hold.  
He grinned at Rebecca, then swaggered over to an empty table and sat 
down.  She decided to join him.
    During the course of his first three bottles of milk, Rebecca 
learned that Fletcher was from Part-hairn Island.  Though fairly 
large, Part-hairn was so remote and isolated that its community had 
had almost no contact with the outside world.  Their only visitors 
had been the world's most dedicated and adventurous birdwatchers.  As 
the only land in a quarter-million square miles of ocean, Part-
hairn's cliffs and caves were the nesting sites of countless 
seabirds.  
    Some two hundred years (and two more bottles of milk) ago, a 
mutinous ship's crew and their Purrynesian wives had gone into hiding 
on Part-hairn.  Until recently their descendants had led a simple 
island life, in which the most complicated business deal might be 
deciding how many coconuts to trade for a fish.  Then a casual remark 
from a visiting birdwatcher had turned their world upside down.  He 
had mentioned that bird guano was exceptionally good for gardens.  He 
joked that, with millions of years' accumulation of the stuff, Part-
hairn was overflowing with wealth.  Now cargo ships were a regular 
sight at Part-hairn.  They filled their holds with the island's 
pungent bounty, and paid out money by the suitcase-full.  Money, 
however, isn't of much use if you have nowhere to spend it, and don't 
really understand how it works.  That was why Fletcher had been sent 
to the business seminar--to learn some of the fundamentals of 
capitalism and find out what it could do for the islanders.  
    The guano merchants, fearing that the temptations of an idyllic 
island life would be too great, had forbidden their ship's crews from 
fraternizing with the islanders; ship owners have long memories where 
mutiny is concerned.  Even so, some contact was inevitable, and the 
sailors found that they could trade an old book or magazine for a 
basket of luscious tropical fruit.  Images from the outside world 
brought a new hunger to the islanders.  They were developing an 
appetite for things their island couldn't provide, but they weren't 
sure where to get them, how to bring them to Part-hairn, or even 
exactly what they wanted.  As he finished his seventh straight bottle 
of milk, Fletcher confessed that he was feeling overwhelmed.  He 
opened an eighth bottle and, for the first time, started to explore 
some of the other items on his tray.  
    Rebecca listened attentively, interrupting only to straighten out 
Fletcher's tie.  She suggested that her air cargo company just 
*might* be able to help.  
    Fletcher picked up his plate and silverware.  "Can I be takin' 
these wit' me?" he asked.
    "No," Rebecca smiled.  "But we can have desert.  Have you ever 
tried ice cream?"
    
    "Mutiny...lost islands...secret midnight takeoffs!  Big business 
an' bird--" Rebecca cut Baloo off with a look.  He stared straight 
ahead and grumbled, "Only thing this story's missin' is air pirates."
    "And we're going to *keep* it that way," said Rebecca, standing 
behind the two front seats.  "I don't want you talking about our 
cargo or our destination to *anybody*--do you read me, Baloo?"
    "Loud an' clear as mud.  Just what's so secret about *milk*?!  
Okay, so they like it, an' they cain't get it on Part-hairn, but it 
ain't like it was *gold*!  An' I wouldn' worry too much about Don 
Karnage," Baloo grinned.  "Last thing he'd want people to hear is 
that he hijacked a flyin' *milk wagon*!"
    "You just haven't a clue as to how brilliant this scheme is."
    Baloo turned to Kit.  "She got *that* right."
    Rebecca bit down on her oxygen tube.  "*Buy low and sell high*!  
Part-hairn is making a fortune on bird guano because they've got tons 
of it and people are paying record prices for it.  And it happens 
that the price of milk in Cape Suzette is at an all-time *low*!"
    Baloo looked up, surprised.  "It is?"
    "Yes--too many cows, too much milk production--and you can't just 
turn-off a cow, you know.  When I auction off our cargo, I expect to 
make a *huge* profit.  Of course...we're not going to mention that on 
Part-hairn."
    "But, Ms. Cunningham, couldn't we make just as much money if we 
sold the milk at *noon*?"  Kit's voice was muffled by the oxygen 
mask.  "Why do we have to get there before dawn?"
    Rebecca leaned against the back of Kit's seat.  "Well, Kit, it 
seems what the islanders *really* want, more than milk or anything 
else, is to be like the rest of the world.  They've read about the 
milkman making deliveries first thing in the morning, and that's the 
way they want it.  I guess they're afraid outsiders will think 
they're backward if they don't do things like everybody else."
    "Waidaminit, Ree-becca--the milkman delivers *every day*."
    "Right, Baloo, and we'll get used to a routine of flying nights 
and sleeping days in a week or two."
    "*What*?!"
    "If this run makes as much money as I think it's going to, it'll 
be a gold mine!  They haven't got any ice or refrigeration on the 
island, so they need fresh milk every day."
    "You mean we'll be flyin' *every night*?!"
    Kit sighed as Baloo and Rebecca's argument became louder and more 
personal.  {Why do they have to fight all the time?} he wondered.  He 
rigged his aircraft sextant and took star shots, trying to keep busy.  
A gibbous moon shimmered on the ocean.  Kit tried to let the drone of 
the engines screen out the sounds he didn't want to hear, the doubts 
he didn't want to have, but raised voices kept breaking through.
    "An' why are *you* here, anyway?!"
    "Because I *own* this cargo--*I* bought it and *I'm* going to 
sell it!  So, remember, Baloo, I'm not only the president of Higher 
for Hire, I'm also a client!"
    Kit took out his plotting board and switched on the map light.  
There was virtually nothing but blue on the chart.  Their course from 
Cape Suzette to the green patch that was Part-hairn took them over 
empty ocean, except for a tiny dot at about the half-way point.  That 
was their one landmark in the trackless sea; if he couldn't find it, 
Kit knew they had little hope of reaching their destination.  Though 
he had been studying this same chart for the past four days, he 
squinted and read the name again: Halloween Island.
    "If you're such a great pilot, why wouldn't you carry as much 
cargo as I wanted?  We could have loaded another two hundred gallons 
of milk at least!"
    "An' leave behind another two-hunnerd fifty gallons o' gas!  
Look, Ree-becca, long-distance flyin' over water *at night* ain't 
like takin' a quick hop ta Louie's, ya know!  We may really *need* 
that extra gas!"
    Kit's mouth felt dry.  {Must be the oxygen,} he thought.  
Glancing around the darkened cockpit, he looked for anything that 
might distract him from Baloo and Becky's running battle.  Set in the 
instrument panel in front of him was the Sea Duck's old low-frequency 
radio.  Kit knew that LF wasn't used much anymore--HF and VHF carried 
most of the traffic now.  But he also knew that, at night and under 
the right atmospheric conditions, LF radio could be heard over 
phenomenal distances--sometimes even half-way around the world.  Kit 
plugged his flight helmet's headphones into the radio panel and 
flipped a switch.  A small electric winch unreeled the trailing 
aerial to its full length.  He switched on the set.
    Nothing--not even static.  {Guess it's not warmed up yet.}  Kit 
turned up the volume and slowly adjusted the tuner dial--still 
nothing.  {Is this thing working?} he wondered.
    "An' what about Kit?!  Ya gonna make him navigate every night?!"
    "Oh, I'm sure you'll have learned the route after a few days."
    "'*Learned the route*?!'  Look down there, lady!  Ya see any road 
signs?!  Think ya could recognize the same *waves* tomorrow night?!  
The only reason I went along with this trip in the first place is 
'cause Kit's an A-number-one navigator!"  
    Kit pressed the headphones tight against his ears and turned 
away.  {I don't want to listen to this!}  He hunched his shoulders 
and strained to shut out his friends' argument.  A distant warbling 
noise crept into his hearing.  Surprised, he relaxed and concentrated 
on the new sound, faint and far away.  Kit inched the radio dial 
around; the warble dropped in pitch and grew louder.  Loud, cracking 
bursts of static followed.  {Somebody's getting a thunder storm,} he 
thought.  
    "It's bad enough doin' this at night.  We gotta use that creepy 
place fer a checkpoint!"  
    "You mean Halloween Island?  What's so creepy about it?  You said 
you've never even been there!"
    "I never been on a date with Colonel Spigot's mother either, but 
that don't mean I wanna try it.  I heard there used ta be people 
livin' on that island.  What happened to 'em?  Where'd they go?  
Nobody knows."  
    "Oh, you fly-boys are always trying to impress each other with 
stories about the 'Mysterious Places' you've been."
    "Listen, Becky, I don't know *any* pilot who wants to go near 
Halloween Island!  Wiley Pole tried to find it once--got so lost an' 
low on gas he had ta ditch--spent two weeks in a rubber raft before 
he got picked up.  An' Wiley's *good*!"
    "So one pilot has a bad day--big deal!"
    "Wiley ain't the only one--lotsa pilots I know've gotten lost out 
here."
    Kit knew it was his job to keep the Sea Duck on course.  He 
double checked every bit of navigational information he had, and 
tried to decide which numbers he trusted most.  
    "Summer vacation's just started.  Kit can navigate until he goes 
back to school in the fall."
    "An' what happens then?!"
    "Well, if we have to, we'll find a replacement navigator."
    Rebecca's words smashed over Kit like a breaking wave; he 
couldn't listen anymore.  "Unnh, Baloo?"
    Though he couldn't see their faces in the darkened cockpit, Kit 
knew that he had startled Baloo and Rebecca.  They had forgotten he 
was there.  "Course correction--one degree right."  He had to speak 
up to be heard through the oxygen mask.
    "Oh, ah...sure thing, Lil' Britches."
    Despite the rumble of the engines, there was an awkward silence 
in the Sea Duck's cockpit.  Kit tried to stay busy at his navigation, 
but he couldn't concentrate.  A new sound drifted into his 
headphones--an unintelligible squawking and hissing.  It seemed to 
Kit to follow the same pattern as speech.  {Sounds like that duck in 
the movies,} he thought.  He noticed that Baloo and Rebecca had 
renewed their conversation, whispering this time.
    Kit shut his eyes.  He felt alone, with a pain in his stomach 
that went beyond lack of sleep.  {Replacement navigator?  Could they 
really mean that?}  He wanted to talk about it, but he knew that he 
could never broach the subject with Baloo or Rebecca.  Embarrassment, 
anger, and shame made him sweat under his oxygen mask.  {No!  They 
can't!}  Then he thought of the radio.
    Baloo didn't go in much for radio chatter; flying was too 
personal for him to want to bring the world-in-general into his 
cockpit--and it was always possible for air pirates to home-in on 
your transmission.  Rebecca didn't want this flight discussed with 
anyone--*certainly* not on the radio.  For a moment, anger got the 
upper hand in Kit's mind.  He shoved his microphone plug into the LF 
radio panel and keyed it to transmit.
    "Is there anyone on the air?"
    Silence...then more duck squawking.
    "This is Sea Duck on two-three-oh kilocycles.  Come in, please."
    Louder and more insistent duck squawking.
    "Say again, please.  This is Sea Duck calling."
    Static...then a voice that sounded so close it made Kit jump: 
#"Roger, Sea Duck.  This is November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie.  Go 
ahead."#
    "Unnh...stand by."  {Well, you got somebody--now what do you 
say?}  Kit glanced over at Baloo and Rebecca--they hadn't heard him.  
It occurred to Kit that, with his oxygen mask on, they probably 
*couldn't* hear him.  Sitting in the dark, noisy cockpit, he could 
carry on a conversation with someone who was hundreds or thousands of 
miles away, and the people right next to him would never know it.
    "November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie, this is Sea Duck.  How's the 
weather at your end?  Over."
    #"Sea Duck, it's pretty cloudy over here--about eight-tenths.  
Visibility, two miles.  How 'bout you?"#
    "Very clear--ceiling and visibility unlimited.  Smooth, too."  
{At least outside the cockpit,} thought Kit.
    #"Sounds like a fine night to be flying."#
    "Unnh...roger.  Makes navigation a lot easier."
    #"You a navigator?  You sound a little young."#  The voice in 
Kit's headphones sounded friendly, but skeptical.
    "Well, I am.  Unnh, a navigator, I mean--with plenty of 
experience."
    #"Well, you don't get to be a navigator with plenty of experience 
unless the rest of the crew has confidence in you.  So you must be 
pretty good."#
    "Thanks.  Are you a pilot?"
    #"Oh, pilot, mechanic, radioman, windshield-washer--whatever 
needs doing.  We're a survey and mapping outfit--my wife and me.  
Seems we're always going somewhere, but never staying."#
    Kit thought about flying the world--when your troubles built up 
in one place, you go on to another.  "Sounds like fun," he said.
    #"Sometimes.  But there are things you miss, people you don't get 
to see or spend time with.  If I could draw my maps the way I really 
want them, they'd all have a shortcut home.  But geography won't 
cooperate.  Anyway, what's your line?  Passenger flights?"#
    "Cargo."
    Kit chatted with the stranger for a while, on every subject from 
airplanes to fishing poles.  They did not, however, discuss their 
current positions or flight plans; the skies were full of radio 
aerials, and you never knew who was listening.  The masculine voice 
Kit heard sounded educated, but not stuffy; sympathetic, but not 
overly familiar; droll, but not sarcastic.  Baloo and Rebecca were 
quiet now.  Kit felt better.  He decided that he liked November-
Bravo-four-two-Charlie.  
    "Well, I gotta check my wind drift," Kit transmitted.  "Been nice 
talking to you, over."
    #"Roger, Sea Duck.  We fly most nights.  Give a call on this 
frequency again, if you want."#
    "Thanks, four-two-Charlie, I'll do that.  Out."
    
    Half-an-hour later Kit's stomach was tied in knots again, but for 
a different reason.  "I don't get it!  All my plots say we should be 
right on top of it!"
    "I believe ya, Lil' Britches," said Baloo, scanning the water 
below through night binoculars.  "But, like I was sayin', *some* 
places just don't like ta be found!"  He shot a glance at Rebecca.
    "Maybe we just can't see it in the dark," she said.  Rebecca was 
beginning to have grave doubts about her project.
    "Naw, any island would stand out in this much moonlight.  Any 
*normal* island, that is."  Baloo took a deep breath on his oxygen 
tube.  "Whadehya say, Kit?"
    "I guess we better start a box search," said Kit uncertainly.  
"Steer one-eight-oh degrees."
    "You got it, kid.  It's lucky *somebody* thought ta bring along 
some extra gas."
    The Sea Duck flew due south for ten minutes, then turned west.  
Below it was nothing but moonlit sparkles on wave tops.  Kit kept 
checking his dead reckoning and celestial navigation, and kept coming 
up with the same answer.  He checked his watch against Baloo's and 
against the chronometer in the instrument panel.  He checked the 
magnetic compass against the North Star.  Every instrument he had was 
telling him the same thing.  When they turned north onto the next 
search leg, Kit quietly keyed on his mic again.
    "November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie, this is Sea Duck--come in 
please, over."
    There was a long pause, and Kit was about to call again, when his 
headphones crackled.  #"Roger, receiving you.  What's up, Sea 
Duck?"#
    "Ah...just wondering, in your survey work, do you ever run across 
places that are...well...hard to find?"
    #"Oh, sure.  Some places always seem to have fog banks hanging 
over them.  And just try to pronounce some of those town names in 
south-central Thembria!"#
    "Any particular places that are really tough?"
    #"Well, there's the Sargasso Shoals, Point Barrel, and, 
ah...Dilbert's Reef.  Oh, and Halloween Island."#
    Kit held his breath for a few seconds.  "Halloween Island?"
    A chuckle came into his headphones.  #"Yeah, that one seems to 
spook a lot of pilots.  Maybe it's the name, huh?"#
    "What's the problem there?"
    #"Oh, simplest thing in the world--most pilots use the War 
Department Survey Bureau charts from the Great War, right?"#
    Kit noticed the War Department seal at the bottom of his chart.  
"Unnh...roger."
    #"But they don't realize that the Bureau chart for that area is 
based on a hundred year old survey.  And they got it wrong!"#
    "Wrong?"
    #"Yup.  The island's really 'bout seventy nautical miles east-
southeast of where the chart says."#
    "No kidding?  Hey, I bet that *would* spook a lot of pilots!"
    #"Matter of fact, we're scheduled to survey that area sometime 
fairly soon.  Make sure you get the new charts when they come out."#
    "Roger, I'll be looking for 'em.  Thanks, four-two-Charlie!"
    #"Anytime, Sea Duck.  Out."#
    When the Sea Duck turned again and completed the box search, Kit 
had Baloo continue on their easterly course.  He leaned forward to 
shield his eyes from the faint glow of the instrument lights, and 
scanned the ocean ahead with Baloo's night binoculars.  After about 
fifteen minutes, Kit noticed something strange--faint yellow-green 
bands of light waving slowly in the water.  The bands curved around a 
patch of darkness below--a patch that was blacker than the darkness 
around it.  Kit stared at the apparition for a few seconds before he 
realized what it was.
    "There it is--one o'clock!  About five miles out!"
    "Great goin' Kit!" Baloo shouted.  He took the night glasses and 
looked ahead.  "Yeah, that's gotta be it!  That glow'll come in 
handy, too.  Good job, navigator!"
    "What glow?"  Rebecca took her turn with the binoculars.  "What 
in the world is *that*?!"
    "It's some kind of tiny plankton, Ms. Cunningham.  They glow when 
you shake 'em, kinda like fireflies.  The surf around an island stirs 
'em up."
    "I'll take your word for it, Kit."  Rebecca felt her confidence 
returning.  "All right, Baloo, there's your road sign, or checkpoint, 
or whatever you want to call it!  It even glows in the dark!  Maybe 
some day we'll have time to stop and look up the bogeyman all you 
pilots say lives there.  But for now, how about getting on to Part-
hairn?"
    
    Half-an-hour before dawn the Sea Duck buzzed Part-hairn Lagoon, 
lighting up the water with its powerful landing lights.  Baloo didn't 
like landing in unfamiliar water at night; he wanted to make sure 
there were no buoys or boats moored in the way.  The lagoon was 
empty.  Baloo set the plane down, then lowered the landing gear.  He 
picked a stretch of white sand beach, taxied out of the water, and 
shut down the engines.  Before the propellers stopped turning the Sea 
Duck was surrounded; everyone on the island had come out to meet the 
visitors.  Rebecca waved to Chris Fletcher from a cockpit window.
    With no shortage of volunteers to help, the Sea Duck was quickly 
unloaded and the ice cream mixers removed from the wings.  While 
Rebecca taught the islanders how an auction works, Baloo and Kit set 
about refueling the plane.  They had been assured that gasoline would 
be available on Part-hairn--it was needed to run some of the guano 
mining equipment.  But Baloo discovered that the refueling facilities 
consisted of a stack of gasoline drums and a hand pump.  He and Kit 
sweated, rolling drums over to the plane and working the pump.
    The sun had risen by the time they finished.  Baloo stretched out 
on the cool sand and pulled his cap over his face.  He was just 
beginning to get comfortable when a familiar voice hailed him.
    "Baloo, we're all set!  Let's get going!" Rebecca called.  
    "Aww, when the tough get goin', the goin' gets tough on the rest 
of us," Baloo muttered.
    Rebecca didn't hear him.  "Oh, Kit, you ought to try some of that 
ice cream of yours--it's delicious!"
    "Okay, Ms. Cunningham."
    Kit walked down the beach to where a party was going full swing.  
He had never seen people enjoy milk so much.  The islanders who had 
actually bought milk from Rebecca were the 'Milkmen,' proudly handing 
out bottles to their friends and neighbors.  The ice cream was going 
to anyone that had a clam or coconut shell to dip into the mixing 
cans.  
    Kit was surprised to find that the islanders shied away from him-
-even the adults.  He had never pictured himself as an intimidating 
twelve-year old.  At last a girl about Kit's age, her face smeared 
with chocolate ice cream, offered him her clam shell.  Kit smiled and 
took a finger-full of ice cream.  Fingers seemed to be the standard 
island eating utensil--there wasn't a spoon in sight.
    "Thanks," he said, feeling a bit awkward at accepting the gift.  
"Oh, wait, I have something for you."  Kit took a pen knife out of 
his pocket and handed it to the girl.  It had only a single, two inch 
blade, but it caught the attention of everyone in the crowd, 
including the girl's father.  
    "Ah, that be a handsome blade," he said.  "We'll be buyin' that, 
we will."  He held out a fifty dollar bill.
    "No, no--it's all right.  I just wanted to give it to her," 
stammered Kit.
    "Nay, lad, we be no fools here.  We know as how 'tis done!"
    "But...that's too much money!  Fifty's too much for this little 
knife."
    A quick search revealed that the smallest bill on hand was a 
five.  Kit had no money to make change, but the islanders insisted 
that he must be paid.  Not wanting to cause a fuss, Kit agreed.  He 
felt guilty--in Cape Suzette, he knew, the knife would go for about 
fifty cents.  Everyone else seemed pleased with the transaction.
    Rebecca, too, was pleased.  "I did even better than I expected, 
Baloo!  We have *got* to make these trips every day!"  
    A snort of disgust came from under Baloo's cap.
    "Ah...I know you don't like the idea of flying all night--it 
means changing all our schedules around.  So, I thought you might 
like some bonus flight pay for each run!"  
    Baloo pushed back his cap to find a roll of bills before his 
eyes--two hundred dollars.  "Wha'?  Whoa, thanks Becky!  But--we're 
not gonna be able ta fly *every* night.  The weather--"
    "Oh, sure we will!" Rebecca laughed.  "After all, isn't this what 
you pilots call an easy mission?  A 'milk run'?"
    
                          Chapter II
    
    For almost three weeks the weather held clear, and the Sea Duck 
flew every night.  Then a savage tropical storm hit Cape Suzette; 
ships remained at anchor in the harbor rather than chance their luck 
in the open sea.  At Higher for Hire Rebecca waited until 4:00 AM, 
hoping that the storm would lift--it didn't.  Reluctantly, she 
canceled that day's flight, and set about finding a charity that 
would accept a donation of sixteen hundred gallons of milk.  Baloo 
and Kit went to bed.
    The next afternoon Baloo was awake, during daylight, with free 
time on his hands.  There was only one thought on his mind: "Hey, 
Kit, howzabout we head over ta Louie's?"
    "Unnh, I'd really like to go with you, Papa Bear, but there's 
something I've gotta do."
    Baloo was surprised.  "But...we ain't had a chance ta hit Louie's 
in weeks!"
    "I know, but I've got to get to the hardware store.  Say hi to 
Louie for me!"  Kit hurried out.
    Baloo watched him go, scratching his chin.  "Th' hardware store?"
    
    Three o'clock in the afternoon was usually a slow time at Louie's 
Place ('A Red-Hot Refrigerator for Overheated Aviators') and today 
was even slower than normal.  The few tables that were occupied had 
already been served.  Behind the counter, an orangutan in a colorful 
shirt was trying to decide if he should sneak off to his office for a 
snooze or go to sleep where he was standing.  His nap was forgotten 
when an oversized bear plodded through the front door.  
    "*Ba-ah-ahhh-LOO*, you ol' cloudbuster!"  Louie leaped over the 
counter to greet his buddy.  "Hey, where ya been, man?!  Things been 
gettin' so dull 'roun' here, I almos' hadda read a book!"
    "Mornin', Louie," Baloo droned.
    Louie stopped short and gave his friend a quizzical look; it was 
unlike Baloo to pass up such an obvious straight line.  "'*Mornin*'?'  
Hey, cuz, you ferget ta wind yer *brain* when ya got up?  The lunch 
crowd's come an' gone already!"
    "Oh...yeah...I forgot."
    Louie led Baloo over to the ice cream bar.  "Hey, man, I wuz jus' 
thinkin' 'bout some hammock swingin'.  C'mon--looks like you could 
use forty or fifty winks, yerseff."
    "Wha'?  Oh, no thanks.  I jus' woke up."
    "'*Jus' woke up*!?'  Here I am waistin' perfecly good sympathy on 
ya, an' you jus' woke up?!  Wha's that slave-drivin', no-jivin', eye-
poppin' boss o' yers gotcha doin' *now*?"
    "Aww, we been flyin' day an' night fer weeks, now!  Becky's got-"  
Baloo stopped, closed his eyes, and sighed.  "Unnh...sorry, Louie.  
Cain't tell nobody about it."
    "Aww, c'mon, man--yer too fuzzy ta make like a clam."  Louie 
poked Baloo in the ribs.  "Lemme guess--she's gotcha deliverin' sun 
lamps ta the O'hara Desert again!"
    "I tollya Louie--I cain't talk about it!"  Baloo felt angry, 
mostly at himself for giving Rebecca's instructions more 
consideration than his oldest and closest friend.
    "Whoa!"  Louie pushed his straw hat back on his head.  "Whadever 
*this* one is, it mus' be *real* embarassin'!  Well, okay, if tha's 
the way ya wanna play it.  Wha'kineye do ya for, cuz?"
    Baloo *was* embarrassed, but only at taking his frustrations out 
on Louie.  He shuffled his feet.  "Seems like I don't get much time 
jus' ta hang aroun' anymore.  So I thought I'd pay off mah tab."
    Louie's mouth hung open for a few seconds before he doubled over 
laughing.  "Oh, man, you really had me goin', Baloo!  '*Gonna pay my 
tab*!'  Yeah, right, an' I'm gonna get elected queen o' the 
Businessman's Ball, an' do the Lindy Hop wit' Shere...Kahn........."  
His voice trailed off as he watched Baloo stack twenty dollar bills 
on the counter.  
    "Hello, vo-dee-oh-DOUGH!" said Louie.  He jumped onto the 
counter, waving his hat with one hand and picking up the money with 
one foot.  "Hey, everybody!" he shouted.  "Ol' Baloo's jus' paid off 
the bill o' the century--his own!"
    Laughter, catcalls, and a few half-hearted cheers sounded through 
the place.
    "Oh, thanks a lot, Louie!" sneered Baloo.
    "Hey, man, whader friends for?"
    "Show me one an' I'll tell ya!"
    "Bahloo, my, my, congrahtulations!"  Surprised, Baloo and Louie 
turned to face the newcomer.
    "Oh--thanks.  Howya doin', Gnawlington?" said Baloo, with little 
enthusiasm.
    "Splendid, splendid," Gnawlington beamed.  "Well, so you paid off 
the old taberoo, eh?  Guess I won't be stahnding *you* to any 
Krahkatoa Specials today, haw-haw!"
    "Nope," said Baloo, with a trace of a smile.  He didn't like 
Gnawlington, though he couldn't tell exactly why.  It wasn't as if 
the guy was unfriendly--just the opposite, in fact.  He was always 
ready to buy you a fizzy when your cash was low.  Since this was a 
common problem for Baloo, Gnawlington had financed refreshments on 
several occasions.  He never asked for anything in return, but he 
never let you forget it, either.
    Mainly, Baloo resented Gnawlington's slick, stuck-up college-boy 
manner, from his cheerfully condescending swagger to the Princevard 
crest he wore on his maroon blazer, complemented by a jaunty silk 
ascot.  Gnawlington always had money, but he never had to sweat for 
it.  He flew his plane for fun, and hung out with the aircrews at 
Louie's so he could fancy himself 'one of the fly-boys.'
    "Wherever *did* you come up with such a windfall, Baloo?" asked 
Gnawlington.  "Dig up some buried treasure, perhahps?"
    That was another thing Baloo didn't like about Gnawlington--he 
was nosy.  "Naw, jus' the hard work o' hardly workin', tha's all."
    Gnawlington chuckled.  "Mahvelous, simply mahvelous!  Well, I 
must be on my way.  Good show, Baloo!  Cheers!"  He sauntered out the 
door.
    Louie plunked a pineapple-guava-coconut frosty down on the 
counter.  "Here ya go, cuz.  This outta take that lilac-scented 
snake-oil taste outta yer mouth."
    Outside, Gnawlington was still smiling as he climbed into a 
sleek, twin-float cabin biplane.  His smile was very different from 
the one he had worn inside, though.  He took a quick look back at 
Louie's Place, then taxied out and took off.
    J. Halbert Gnawlington was a rat--both by nature and profession, 
though he preferred to think of himself as an 'information broker.'  
His hearing was sharp, and he had an uncanny ability to eavesdrop on 
several conversations at once, keeping track of all of them.  He was 
also a shrewd judge of character and situation; it was his estimate 
that something *big* was going on at Higher for Hire.  He switched on 
his radio and tuned it to a new frequency.  "Pharaoh cahlling Little 
Red Riding Hood--Pharoh cahlling Little Red Riding Hood.  Hey, there, 
Little Red Riding Hood, over."
    Gnawlington had to repeat his call several times before an answer 
crackled back.  #"Yeah, yeah, whachya want, Gnawlington?" #whined a 
raspy, nasal voice.  
    "I'm afraid your trahnsmission was a bit garbled, there.  This is 
*Pharaoh*, cahlling for Little Red Riding Hood."
    #"Whaaat?  What are you talking about?  Little Red Whaaaaat?!"#  
Muffled noises came into Gnawlington's headphones.  #"Oh, *that* 
Riding Hood!  Just a minute."#  More muffled noises, followed by a 
loud thump.  #"Owwwww!  Sorry!"#  Then a much grander voice came on 
the air.
    #"Jeeesss, thees ees Leettle Red's Riding Hoood, speaking to jou, 
wit' my voice.  Do jou have any gooodies for me?!"#
    
    Gnawlington spent much of the next week sitting atop the cliffs 
of Cape Suzette with a notebook, a compass and a pair of binoculars.  
He tracked the comings and goings of the Sea Duck, looking for any 
unusual pattern.  And he found one: the Sea Duck was flying out of 
Cape Suzette late every night.  When it returned in the morning, it 
was always coming in from the east-southeast.  Gnawlington put in 
another call to Little Red Riding Hood.
    
    The weather at twenty-one thousand feet was lousy; clouds 
obscured the moon and the horizon.  Baloo kept his eyes on the 
instruments, with occasional glances outside to check the wings for 
icing.  Kit sat quietly in the right seat.  {He's been real quiet on 
jus' about all these night hops,} thought Baloo.  {Come ta think of 
it, we ain't hadda good laugh or anything, lately.  Ain't done much 
at ALL, 'cept fly an' sleep!}  Baloo smiled to himself.  {Funny--
those used ta be two o' my favorite things.}  
    The cockpit was cold and dark; the rumble of the engines numbed 
the body and made quiet conversation impossible.  Baloo looked at 
Kit.  {Prob'ly hard ta talk anyway, wrapped up in that oxygen mask.}  
Baloo sighed--he wasn't in a chatty mood anyway.
    Rebecca, however, was bubbling with things to say.  "I can't 
believe how well things are going!  We're making tons of money, I'm 
*finally* showing up those Cape Suzette Boy's Club types--not that 
they know it, because we can't tell them about it--and I'm getting to 
spend more time with Molly every day when we get back!"  
    "That's only 'cause you get ta sleep on the way back from Part-
hairn!" snorted Baloo.  "*Some* of us still have ta work!  I dunno 
why you keep comin' along on these trips, anyway.  I *tollya* I could 
handle it!"
    Rebecca shook her head.  A week before she *had* let Baloo and 
Kit make a trip without her, with Baloo assigned to auction off the 
cargo on Part-hairn.  He hadn't seen why he should go to a lot of 
trouble just to increase Rebecca's profit, and had sold the milk and 
ice cream for a fraction of what she had been getting.  Rebecca had 
thrown a fit, and had firmly decided that from then on Baloo would do 
the flying and she would do the selling.  
    As Rebecca had predicted, a routine had developed over the weeks: 
takeoff after midnight, deliver the cargo, return to Cape Suzette 
late-morning.  By noon, Baloo and Kit would be asleep, and Rebecca 
would go home to spend the afternoon with Molly.  In the evening, 
Baloo and Kit made a few of Higher for Hire's normal delivery runs.  
Rebecca put her daughter to bed, then headed back to her office.  
Rebecca's cousin had moved in to be with Molly during the night.  
    Everything was working to satisfaction--*Rebecca's* satisfaction.  
Baloo was bored, tired, and terrifically frustrated at not having 
time to spend his extra flight pay.  More than anything, however, he 
was worried about Kit.  {The kid jus' seem ta be slippin' away from 
me,} he thought.
    
    Kit was farther away than Baloo realized.  At that moment he was 
talking with November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie by LF radio.  "--so I 
really want to be a pilot--I'm just not sure what *kind* of a pilot.  
How do you like survey flying?"
    #"Oh, the mapping and photography work is fascinating.  And talk 
about seeing the world!  We get to go to places just because they 
*are* remote and uncharted, and play explorers!  The trouble now is, 
most of our projects last for weeks.  We really miss the chance to 
be...well...home.  So we're kinda looking for something new--short 
haul, closer to home base.  But you know how it is trying to make a 
living in aviation--the biggest danger is the chance that you might 
starve to death!"#
    "How 'bout instruction?  You could start a flight school."
    #"Yeah, that's possible.  Hey, Sea Duck, wanna be our first 
student?"#
    Kit hesitated.  "I...already have somebody who's going to teach 
me."
    #"Friend of yours?"#
    "Ummm...yeah."
    
    Baloo tried not to be distracted by Rebecca's chatter; he 
concentrated on the instruments.  {Needle, ball, airspeed,} he told 
himself, watching the indicators that would tell him if the Sea Duck 
were turning or side-slipping, climbing or diving.  
    "--and after the operating expenses are covered, I make sure that 
Higher for Hire gets a nice, tidy profit.  But most of the money I'm 
putting into...well--a couple of special projects," said Rebecca.  
"I've set up a college fund for Molly.  I want her to be able to get 
a good education, no matter what happens to Higher for Hire."
    Baloo cast a quick, but suspicious glance at his boss.  "An' 
whaddabout Kit?  I don't see *him* gettin' extra flight pay, like my 
two hunnerd shaboozies!"
    Rebecca felt resentful that Baloo could think she would neglect 
Kit.  "Actually, Baloo, Kit's getting more than you are.  I just 
haven't told him about it."
    "You haven' tol--?!  Whacha gonna do--let the *tax collectors* 
tell him?!"
    Rebecca gave him a cold look.  "Kit has a college fund, just like 
Molly.  He'll get it when he's eighteen."
    Suddenly Baloo felt the world was spinning slowly around him.  
{You're rolling!  Get the right wing up!}  Automatically he started 
to correct the plane's attitude, but years of experience brought his 
eyes to the turn-and-bank indicator first.  He was astonished to find 
that the Sea Duck was flying straight and level--at least according 
to the instruments.  Baloo shook his head and blinked; his sense of 
balance regained its composure.  
    "What's he need that for?!  He's gonna be a pilot!"
    "Oh, nowadays you can't get anywhere without college," said 
Rebecca.  "It's the first thing employers look for."
    "But that kinda stuff's not fer Kit!  He wants ta *fly*, not 
count beans!"  Baloo's voice was raised higher than it needed to be 
just to be heard over the engines.
    "No matter *what* he wants to do, he'll do better at it with a 
diploma!  Kit's very bright, and a hard worker--who knows--he might 
even get into Princevard!"
    "But they'll *ruin* him!  They'll make a high falutin' nose-in-
the-air college boy outta him!"  Again, Baloo's inner ear betrayed 
him.  {You're flippin' on yer back!  Level out!}  The instruments 
said otherwise.  Despite the cold, Baloo was sweating.
    "Since when have *you* been so interested in Kit's education?!" 
asked Rebecca.  "When was the last time you went to a conference with 
his teacher?  Do you know what his favorite subjects are?  What ones 
he has trouble with?!"
    "I know he wants ta be a pilot!  Flyin's his favorite subject, 
an' I'm the teacher for that!"  {The gauges are busted!  They gotta 
be!} thought Baloo.  He nudged the controls slightly while watching 
the instruments; they responded exactly as they were supposed to.  
Baloo took a deep breath on his oxygen tube.  {Oh, man, not vertigo--
not now!}
    
    #"--and my wife says to stay away from the Air Mail--she used to 
work for 'em--says they carry more paperwork than mail."#
    "Okay.  Maybe test flying--I'm not sure."
    #"Well, it's not like joining one of those book clubs--you can 
always change your mind later.  Try out different things--that's the 
only way to find out what you really like."#
    Kit looked over at Baloo and Rebecca.  They had arguments all too 
often on these night flights, and tonight's was worse than usual.  
{Why can't they get along?  If they'd stop yelling at each other for 
a while, they'd figure out that they both want pretty much the same 
things out of life.  Then we could be more like a--}  A fresh 
outburst from Baloo interrupted Kit's thoughts.  {Oh, no, they're 
fighting about me again!}  Kit wanted desperately to be somewhere 
else, miles away.  He keyed his mic.
    "Unnh, Charlie?"
    #"Go ahead, Sea Duck."#
    "We were talking about Halloween Island a while ago.  I've been 
hearing some pretty creepy stories about that place.  You know 
anything about it?"
    #"A little--we always check up on a place before we survey it."#
    "Well, somebody told me there used to be people there, but they 
disappeared.  You know what happened?"
    #"Yeah, there was a family that lived there, off and on--oh, 
'bout sixty years ago.  They had to leave."#
    "Why?"
    #"Goats."#
    "Ghosts?!"
    #"No, no--goats."#
    "Say again, please?"
    #"Goats!  You know--billy goats and nanny goats."#
    "You mean...*goats*?!"
    #"Roger."#
    Kit was mystified.  "I don't get it."
    #"Well, seems that Halloween used to be overgrown with jungle.  
Then somebody had a bright idea to make some easy money--he brought 
in Angora goats and turned 'em loose.  There were no predators, so 
the goats could manage by themselves.  All he had to do was come back 
every so often and shear the flock.  It worked, too--for about a 
hundred years."#
    "What happened then?"
    #"After a while the goats ate everything in sight, right down to 
the roots!  As the plants disappeared, the soil washed into the 
ocean, leaving rock and coral.  That got good and hot in the sun-- 
created a permanent updraft over the island.  Moist air from the 
ocean can't get near the place now, so there's hardly any rainfall.  
No rain--no fresh water.  Now it's a desert island."#
    "Wow!"  Kit thought for a moment.  "Hey, how do you know all 
this?"
    #"Ever hear of a library?"#
    "Oh.  Sounds like it's not very creepy after all.  But...how'd it 
get named 'Halloween Island'?"
    Laughter filled Kit's headphones.  #"Because it was discovered on 
October thirty first!"#
    
    "Listen, Ree-becca!" shouted Baloo.  "You're not gonna take Kit 
an' turn him inta a junior execative!  All he wants is ta be a 
pilot!"
    "When I was Kit's age, all I wanted to be was a ballerina!  
People change their minds, Baloo, especially when they're growing up!  
A college education will open doors to whatever Kit wants, 
*including* aviation.  After all, you don't HAVE to be ignorant to be 
a pilot!"
    "I'm not gonna let you turn Kit inta one o' them snobs that 
thinks they're better 'n everybody else!  Thinks they're better 'n 
me!"  {Right wing's droppin'!  Yer gonna spin!}  Baloo looked out 
into the darkness and tried to fly by instinct.
    "This is *exactly* why I didn't tell you or--Whoa!" called 
Rebecca as the Sea Duck rolled and wallowed.  "What are you 
*doing*?!"  
    Baloo forced himself to look at the instruments--forced himself 
to believe them.  "Needle, ball, airspeed!" he grunted.
    
    That morning on Part-hairn, Baloo didn't feel like talking to 
anyone.  He was looking for a quiet place to stretch out, well away 
from Rebecca's milk auction, when he came upon Kit with a group of 
islanders.  Kit held a small canvas bag.
    "Hey, Lil' Britches--whacha doin'?"
    Kit looked guilty as he walked over to Baloo.  "Unnh, trading, I 
guess.  These people hardly have anything, except money.  I've been 
bringing in a few tools, fishing tackle, rope, nails, some books--
stuff like that."
    "You *givin'* this stuff away?" asked Baloo.
    "No, they won't let me.  They say they want to *buy* it--I made 
three hundred dollars this morning!"
    Kit showed Baloo the money.  Baloo whistled, and smiled for the 
first time that day.  "Well, now, looks like we could have a pretty 
good thing goin' here--as long as ol' Becky don't find out."
    "Find out what, Baloo?" said Rebecca, walking up behind him.  
    Baloo shut his eyes and shook his head.
    "Kit, Mr. Fletcher just showed me his new Bogie knife," said 
Rebecca.  "He says *you* sold it to him.  What's going on?"
    Kit, with a sheepish look toward Baloo, explained how he had 
stumbled into the retail trade.  "--so I hope you won't be mad.  I 
wasn't *trying* to cut in on your business--I was just trying to 
help."
    Rebecca folded her arms.  "Kit...I'm proud of you!  What 
initiative!  You found a demand and provided a supply--that's what it 
takes to be a really sharp businessman!"  She put a hand on Kit's 
shoulder.  "Here's what I'm going to do.  I'm going to allot you one 
hundred pounds of cargo on the Sea Duck for each flight.  You handle 
the buying and selling, and *you keep the profits*!  This could be 
your first step on the road to success!"
    Baloo groaned, and covered his face with his hands.
    "And you can bring Baloo in on it, if you want to," said Rebecca.
    
    After a night of fighting vertigo and Rebecca, Baloo looked and 
felt exhausted.  Rebecca offered to fly the return leg to Cape 
Suzette.  She had become a fairly good pilot, with Baloo's help, and 
while she wasn't yet up to instrument flying or long range 
navigation, it was now daylight and Kit was navigating.  Usually, 
Baloo was nervous whenever Rebecca was at the Sea Duck's controls, 
but this morning he was too tired to care.  One hundred miles out of 
Cape Suzette, he was sound asleep in one of the plane's bunks, 
leaving Rebecca and Kit in the cockpit.
    "Maybe some bolts of fabric," said Rebecca.  "You know--some of 
those really colorful island prints.  Of course, you'll have to sell 
sewing supplies too."
    "Maybe.  I never really thought about that, Miz Cunningham."
    "I know where you can find one of those treadle-powered sewing 
machines!"  Rebecca sighed.  "I just can't get over how you built a 
whole business on the profits from selling one little pen-knife."  
She looked out the pilot's side window.  "Oh, look, we have a 
traveling companion.  Hello, there!"  She waved out the window.
    Kit craned his neck to peer around Rebecca.  He saw a dark gray 
speck in the sky that split into two as he watched.  There were three 
more specks behind the first ones--all of them growing rapidly 
larger.  "Air pirates, Miz Cunningham!"
    "WHAT?!  How did they know about us?!  Kit, get Baloo!"
    Kit unstrapped and ran back to the cargo bay while Rebecca took 
what she hoped was evasive action--she turned directly away from the 
incoming fighters.  It was the wrong thing to do.  The pirates came 
in on the Sea Duck's tail.  Tracers streamed past the cockpit 
windows.
    Baloo was jarred awake when a burst of machine gun fire 
penetrated the fuselage directly above his head.  "Eeyoww!" he 
hollered, rolling out of the bunk.  He scrambled to his feet, only to 
be knocked sprawling when the Sea Duck lurched to the right.  He rose 
and staggered to the cockpit door, where he collided with Kit; both 
of them tumbled back into the cargo bay.  
    "BAALOO, WILL YOU GET UP HERE PLEASE!!" shouted Rebecca.  Dead 
ahead, a fighter was diving on the Sea Duck, white flashes blinking 
on either side.
    Crawling on their hands and knees, Baloo and Kit headed back to 
the cockpit.  Rebecca pushed the yoke forward to avoid the oncoming 
pirate, and Baloo and Kit found themselves floating in midair, arms 
and legs flailing.  They managed to reach the cockpit at last, just 
as Rebecca pulled into a climbing turn.  Baloo fell heavily to the 
deck, with Kit on top of him.  A machine gun burst slashed through 
the cockpit roof and out the right side window.  The HF radio 
loudspeaker above the windshield crackled:
    #"Friends, veectim persons, adoring fans!  Eet ees I, dee Dread 
Pirate, *Donnn Karrrnage*--dee most Dreadfullest Pirate een dee Seven 
Skies!"#
    "Baloo, will you *pleeease* take the controls!" pleaded Rebecca.  
She couldn't let go of the yoke to release her seat straps.  Baloo 
pulled himself upright on the back of the pilot's seat.  Another 
pirate came at the Sea Duck head on, playing chicken.  Rebecca pulled 
up hard to avoid it just as Baloo made a grab for the yoke.  
    "Eeee--YEEK!!" shrieked Rebecca.
    "Sorry, Becky."
    #"Sooo, Bahloo, jou are dee fly-boy caught een dee spider's 
ointment!  Jou weell now land and prepare for plundering!"#
    Above and behind the Sea Duck, Don Karnage grinned in the open 
cockpit of his personal fighter plane.  The roar of the wind in his 
ears added to his heady feeling of victory as he watched his pirates 
close in on their prey.  They would soon have the Sea Duck boxed in.  
It had been so easy--Baloo was usually a tougher opponent in the air.  
Don Karnage couldn't resist gloating; he picked up his mic.  "Jou 
know, Bahloo, jou are getting too old to keep jour swash buckled, 
while *I* am steell dee Springing Cheecken, jes-no?"
    There was no answer from the Sea Duck.  Instead, Don Karnage 
watched in amazement as his victim performed a half-roll and then 
continued to fly straight and level--upside down.  Intrigued, he 
maneuvered his fighter alongside the amphibian's cockpit--there was 
Baloo, right-side up in an upside down airplane.  He was kneeling on 
the cockpit ceiling, holding the control yoke.  Rebecca was hanging 
upside down, belted into the pilot's seat.  Neither of them seemed 
pleased with their relative positions.  "*Whaat* are jou *dooing*?!  
Jou cannot make dee upside-down flake out of me!"
    Baloo brushed Rebecca's hair out of his eyes and shoved the yoke 
forward.  The Sea Duck arched upward in an outside loop, catching the 
pirates off guard.  After looping through one hundred and eighty 
degrees the Sea Duck again rolled inverted and leveled out, heading 
in the opposite direction.  Reversing course, Don Karnage caught a 
last glimpse of his quarry disappearing into a cloud bank--still 
upside down.
    Hidden in the clouds, Baloo rolled the Sea Duck right-side up and 
dropped to the deck from his perch on the ceiling.  Rebecca gladly 
surrendered the pilot's seat.  As they caught their breath, the 
Higher for Hire crew heard a last transmission from Don Karnage: 
    #"Find dem--find dem, jou eembeecycles!  Or I weell hang jou by 
jour peenkies!"#
    "I'm sorry, Baloo," stammered Rebecca.  "I guess I didn't do too 
well back there."
    "Aww...you did okay, Becky," said Baloo.  "You know what they 
say: 'Any pirate ambush you can fly away from...'"
    "Thanks.  But I still don't understand how they found us--there's 
hardly any air traffic on this side of Cape Suzette."  Rebecca gave 
her employees a hard look.  "Have either of you been talking to 
someone about these flights?!"
    
                          Chapter III
    
    As a result of the air pirate's attack, a few changes were made 
to Higher for Hire's flight plan.  The return flights from Part-hairn 
followed different routes to avoid approaching Cape Suzette from the 
same direction every time.  Wildcat reinstalled the copilot's control 
column in front of Kit's seat, so it would be much easier to transfer 
control of the aircraft.  And, though the Sea Duck was unlikely to be 
intercepted at night, an emergency release was rigged for the 
underwing ice-cream mixers; Baloo didn't want the extra drag slowing 
the plane down if they had pirates on their tail.
    For five days the milk runs were uneventful.  Then the propeller 
governor on number one engine failed shortly before takeoff.  Rebecca 
had to cancel the flight and awaken Wildcat to repair the plane.  
Baloo went to bed, dreaming of tomorrow's trip to Louie's.  The next 
day he found that Kit had other plans.
    "The library?  Yer goin' ta the *library*?!"
    "I'm sorry, Baloo.  There are some things I really want to check 
up on."
    "What *things*?!  'How ta be a Big-Shot in Ten Easy Lessons'?!  
'*Ignore Yer Friends fer Fun an' Profit*'?!"  Baloo choked back his 
anger.  "Look, kid, there's a whole summer o' fun we been missin' out 
on!  We need a break--I know *I* do...otherwise I wouldn' be yellin' 
at mah navigator."
    "Baloo, I promise I'll go with you next chance we get!  But...I 
really gotta check on something."
    Baloo sighed.  "Okay, Lil' Britches."
    
    "Man, oh, man, you are one sorry lookin' bear!  How 'bout a 
Krackatoa Special?  Ah...on th' house."
    Baloo looked up from the splotch on Louie's counter that he had 
been studying for the last five minutes.  {I mus' *really* be a sight 
if Louie's offerin' a Krackatoa on the house when he *knows* I got 
money,} thought Baloo.  "Unnh, thanks, Louie."
    "Don' mention it, cuz.  Ya know, it may be none o' my biddness, 
but it shore looks like somthin's got you playin' lower 'n a double 
bass in a submarine.  Anythin' ya kin talk about ta ol' Louie?"
    Baloo decided his personal troubles didn't come under Rebecca's 
communications blackout.  "It's Kit--I...I'm *loosin'* him, Louie!  
We're flyin' all the time, but we don't talk--I couldn't get him ta 
come out here with me.  I dunno *how* fer sure, but...we jus' ain't 
on the same wavelength anymore!"
    Serious moods struck Louie even less frequently than they did 
Baloo, but he knew what Kit's friendship meant to his buddy.  
"Anythin' *new* goin' on in the kid's life?  Anythin' different?"
    Hunched over the counter top, Baloo leaned on his elbows.  "Yeah-
-one thing!  Ree-becka's tryin' ta make a twelve-year-old tycoon 
outta him--gonna give him lookin'-down-his-nose money grubbin' 
lessons!  An' he's goin' along with it!"
    Louie raised an eyebrow.  "With what happened *las'* time you was 
in here, seems you *been* grubbin' a few bucks, yerseff!"
    "Oh, yeah, I made two thousan' shaboozies th' other day--but that 
ain't the point!"
    "*Two gees*?!"  Louie gaped.  "Man, tha's gotta be *some* kinda 
point!  You make it the hard way?"
    "Naw, it's all Becky's late-night, island-hoppin' scheme.  
She's...she's *buyin'* Kit away from me!"
    "Listen, fuzzy, are you sure it's Becky's doin'?  That jus' don' 
sound like Kit ta me."
    Baloo thought for a moment.  "No.  No, I'm not sure.  Yer right, 
Louie, it don't sound like Kit.  But, what else could it be?!  I 
*know* what Becky's tryin' ta do, an it looks like it's workin'!"
    There was silence for a moment.  "Well, cuz," asked Louie, 
"Whacha gonna do?"
    Baloo set his jaw.  "Quit," he said.  "I gotta get Kit away from 
Becky."
    "But yer plane, man!  Rebecca still owns it!  You gonna leave it 
behind?!"
    "That's all I *can* do.  You know what the Sea Duck means ta me--
but I gotta save Kit from becomin' a...a--"  Baloo couldn't think of 
another synonym for arrogant, conceited, patronizing twerp; he looked 
at Louie and jerked his head to one side.  Louie followed the 
direction of the gesture and beheld J. Halbert Gnawlington, seated 
alone at a table.
    "Whoa, whoa, whoa, less think a minute, cuz.  Now, the bedazzlin' 
but blue-blooded Beckers wants fifty grand fer th' Duck, am I right?  
An' you're makin' two gees in one day?  Man, at that rate, you could 
buy back yer plane inside a month!"
    "Hey...yeah, that's right!"  Baloo could do arithmetic rapidly 
when it involved money.  "Kit an' me could fly out free an' clear!  
Louie, yer a *genius*!"
    Louie didn't feel like a genius; he felt like a heel.  "Baloo, 
you *sure* this is the right thing fer Kit?  Or...fer you?"
    Baloo wasn't sure at all, but at least he had a course to follow.
    And, sitting across the room at his table, J. Halbert Gnawlington 
was smiling.
    
    That night Cape Suzette was smothered by a layer of hot, hazy 
air.  Despite the heat, Baloo felt better than he had in a month.  He 
cheerfully reminded Rebecca and Kit that they would be cooler at 
altitude, but as the Sea Duck climbed, Baloo was surprised to find 
the air temperature *rising*.
    "It must be a temperature inversion," said Kit.  "We'll have to 
get above it."
    "Looks like yer right, Lil' Britches," said Baloo.  "Everybody 
check yer oxygen gear, we're goin' up!"  He switched the Sea Duck's 
superchargers to high speed.  When they finally reached air cold 
enough to freeze the ice cream, the altimeter had topped twenty-nine 
thousand feet.  
    The moon was nearly full; its light brought a pale shimmer to 
layer upon layer of scattered clouds.  Shafts of light fell through 
expanses of clear air, and danced on the waves five and a half miles 
below.  Shadows of cloud on cloud made a patchwork of blue-black and 
soft silver.  Rebecca stood at the left cockpit windows, her face 
bathed in the flickering blue glow of the engine's exhaust flame.
    Kit had the LF radio on, headphones and microphone plugged in, 
but he was not transmitting.  He had not transmitted since the air 
pirate's attack.  {Who is this 'November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie'?} he 
wondered.  {Could he really be part of a pirate trap?}  Kit had spent 
a year with Don Karnage and his air pirates before he met Baloo.  He 
knew their methods and their personalities; Charlie was nothing like 
any pirate Kit could imagine.  {Somebody new?  Somebody working with 
Karnage?  Why would anybody as smart as Charlie hang around with 
those losers?}  It still didn't make sense.  {If he's faking it, he 
could make more money as an *actor* than he *ever* could as a 
pirate!}  Still, Kit knew that the pirates could track a plane by 
homing in on its radio transmissions.  The thought that someone he 
liked as much as Charlie could be coldly luring the Sea Duck into an 
ambush gave Kit chills.  Kit sighed.  {At least Baloo and Rebecca 
aren't fighting tonight.}
    Baloo, in fact, was feeling very pleased with himself.  {After I 
get mah fifty thousan' shaboozies ta buy back the Duck, I might jus' 
make a few more runs fer Becky ta pick up some extra spendin' money.  
Or--} a gleam came into Baloo's eyes  {--maybe Kit an' me'll make 
cargo runs ta Part-hairn on our own!  We'll beat Becky at her own 
game!  Man, will she ever be screamin' mad!}  Strangely, the latter 
thought didn't bring Baloo any satisfaction.
    Rebecca was neither consumed with doubts nor planning bold 
ventures; she was simply admiring the view.  "It's breathtaking!" she 
said.  "Oh, Baloo, this is why I got into aviation!  To see things 
nobody else in the world can see!  To fly off to exotic places--to 
stand out from the crowd by getting *away* from the crowd, then fly 
home to--  Oh, look down there!"  Rebecca pointed with her oxygen 
tube to ten o'clock low.  "It's like a waterfall of moonlight through 
the clouds!" she giggled.
    "Pretty," said Baloo.  "Funny--" he waved his oxygen pipe at her 
and grinned.  "*I* thought you jus' wanted ta make *money*.  We didn' 
put in a weight allowance fer adventure an' romance!" he chuckled.
    "Well, of course!" said Rebecca  "Got to make money!  We've got 
to have a home--a place where Molly will be safe.  *She's* not gonna 
have to scratch along, just tryin' to make ends meet!  Sesh--...se--
seshcurity--that's what *she's* gonna have!"
    "Security?  Thought ya wanted...ta go places."
    "That'ss right!  Lemme tell you someshing about fly--flying, 
B'loo."  Rebecca shook her oxygen pipe in Baloo's face.  "You know 
aaaaaaall about airplansh, but you don't know about flying."  She had 
a good laugh at that thought.  "*I'll* tell you about flying, Mister 
Ace Pilot Guy!  The thing about flying isss...you go out, an' then 
you come back!"  Rebecca folded her arms and nodded agreement with 
herself.
    "Unnh...yeah?"
    "Yesssssir, that'sss what happenss.  Out an' back!  You go an' 
getsher advvvensher an'--an' romance, an' then you...you bring it 
home in a box sso it can't bite you when you're not lookin'!  An' you 
go home an' make sssure Molly's okay, 'cause you're not gonna let 
*her* get bit.  No--nooosirrrr!"  Rebecca shook her head.
    Baloo pointed his oxygen mouthpiece at Rebecca.  "Nawww, tha's 
not...flyin'.  Out an' *keep goin's* flyin'!  Come back?  Ta all them 
people got...better ideas 'n you?  Always got th' clock tickin' 
atcha?  Naw, gotta keep...goin'.  Gotta."
    Rebecca took a breath of oxygen.  "Reshponsibility--tha's what 
comes first!  You *always* have to come back for that.  People that 
depend on you...for a hug, or a paycheck, or to fix their paper 
dolls.  Responsibility--I'm surprised you haven't learned that, 
Baloo, with Kit around."  She tapped him on the shoulder with her 
oxygen tube.  "I *know* he can take care of himself, and all, but 
he's sstill a kid.  A little kid."
    "Hey, me an' Kit'll be...jus'...fine.  Me an' Kit.  Out an' 
keeeeep...goin'.  Gone!"
    "Oh, no--notchou an' Kit.  Not runnin' out on me.  Not Kit, 
*nodeven* you--you dunno what'sss goodferyou!  Ha!  An' not Kit.  
Kit'ss not like...that."
    "Kit's tough!  Don' need no...Mommy."
    "Maybe he doessn't."  Rebecca paused, then smiled.  "But he 
*wantsss* one!"
    "Nawww!"
    "Yessss!  Kit'ss a good kid--home an' family--so bright, too, an' 
ssso kind.  I toldya, he'ssss not like...*That*!"
    "Like...what?"  Baloo scratched his ear with his mouthpiece.
    "*That*!" Rebecca pouted.  "Wouldn' leave...wouldn' jus' go.  Kit 
really lovesss you, B'loo!  *He* wouldn' desert you when you were 
ssseven monthss pregnant, now wouldhe?!"
    Baloo blinked for a few seconds.  "Nope.  Don' think so."
    "'Course not!  Kit'ssss a good kid.  An' sso are you.  You 
jussss' need a *liiiittle* more help, an'...you...  I--"
    Kit had his binoculars trained ahead, scanning the horizon for 
Halloween Island, when he felt the Sea Duck nose upward.  "Baloo?"  
He turned to see Rebecca slide down the cockpit wall and collapse on 
the deck.  "*Miz Cunningham*?!"
    Baloo was looking at Rebecca over his left shoulder.  
"Whatchamean...help?  Help...wit' wha--"  As she hit the floor, he 
leaned back to continue their conversation, pulling the control yoke 
into his lap.
    "Baloo!" shouted Kit.  "What're you doing?!"  Baloo didn't 
answer; he was slumped back in his seat, unmoving.  The yoke was 
still in his lap.  "Baloo!  BALOO!!"  The Sea Duck tried to point its 
nose straight up, spoiling the wing's lift.  Kit felt the plane 
shudder, then stall.
    The left wing dropped, whipping the plane into a spin.  Kit saw 
Rebecca's body roll across the deck and fetch up against the right 
bulkhead.  "Baloo, we're spinning!  BALOO!!"  Kit started to pull off 
his oxygen mask to shout unhindered.  Suddenly he realized the 
problem.  {Oxygen!  They've passed out from lack of oxygen!}  
    Kit's throat tightened.  {I've gotta pull us out!  I've gotta 
fly!}  In theory, Kit knew how to get out of a spin.  Baloo had let 
him fly many times--straight and level, turns, climbing and 
descending--these he had done.  {In daylight,} Kit reminded himself.  
Now he had to regain control of a wildly spinning airplane on his 
own; his friends wouldn't have time to recover before they hit the 
water.
    Kit took hold of the yoke in front of him.  {Okay, engines to 
idle, stick forward,}--he had to wrest the controls from Baloo's 
unconscious grasp  {--and opposite rudder.}  Kit slid down in his 
seat to reach the right rudder pedal.  Centrifugal force yanked him 
against the straps.  {There--got it!}
    It took all of Kit's strength to hold himself against the pull.  
Stars and clouds whizzed from left to right across the windshield; 
they weren't slowing down.  {Come on--come on!}  The Sea Duck kept 
spinning; the altimeter wound closer and closer to zero.  A sharp 
pain stabbed Kit's ears.  Wind shrieked and howled around the wings 
and tail.  Something Baloo had once told him flashed through his 
mind: "One thing about the Duck--" Baloo had said "--once she starts 
spinnin', it's real hard ta change her mind."  Kit trembled.  {If I 
unstrap and try to wake Baloo, I'll get stuck to the wall like 
flypaper!}  Getting Rebecca and Baloo into parachutes would be hard 
even if they weren't spinning.  It was just a matter of time--very 
little time.  {I can't save them,} he thought.  
    "Mayday!  Mayday!  Help, *pleeese*, Mayday!"
    There was a buzz in Kit's headphones.  #"Sea Duck?  That you?  
Over."#
    "Charlie?!  Charlie, we're in trouble!  We're in a left-hand 
spin--I can't pull her out!  Everybody else is passed out--oxygen 
problem!"
    #"Okay, stay calm.  What've you tried?"#
    "Stick full forward, cut the throttles, and I'm standing on the 
right rudder pedal!  She won't stop spinning!"
    #"All right, try this--*slowly* advance the left throttle--*just* 
the *left* one!"#
    Kit grasped the idea immediately.  The sound of number one 
revving-up was beautiful.  The whirling stars began to slow.  "It's 
working!  We're coming out of it!"
    #"Watch it!  Get ready to chop the throttle again when she stops 
turning!"#
    The Sea Duck abruptly stopped spinning; Kit closed the throttle.  
"Got it!  Now I--whoa!"  The plane lurched and spun to the right.  
{What?!  How did we--THE RUDDER!}  Kit took his foot off the right 
pedal and stomped on the left.  {How could I be so stupid?!}  
    #"Sea Duck, you okay?!  Come in, Sea Duck!"#
    The plane was now in a right hand spin.  Rebecca slid across the 
deck and bumped into the left wall.  Kit pushed the right throttle 
forward until the plane straightened out, then eased off on both 
rudder and throttle.  "We're straight!  I'm pulling out!"  He started 
to pull back on the yoke.
    #"Wait for it!  Watch your airspeed!"#
    The Sea Duck reached flying speed quickly--it was headed almost 
straight down--but it seemed an awfully long time to Kit.  As he 
pulled up, G-forces squashed him down in his seat, tried to pull his 
hands off the yoke.  At last Kit saw the moonlit horizon ahead--they 
were level.  Adding power, he brought the plane into an easy climb 
before glancing at the altimeter--four hundred feet.  He heard Baloo 
moan.
    When Baloo could see and think clearly again he made sure that 
the Sea Duck was flying safely, then helped Rebecca back to the cargo 
bay and put her into a bunk.  Kit held the plane steady.  "Charlie?  
November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie, come in please."
    #"Hello, Sea Duck.  Everybody okay over there?"#
    "They will be.  I was--I...we wouldn't have made it without you.  
Thanks."
    #"No problem.  One thing they taught me in flight school--you 
always gotta be there for your wingman."#
    "Thanks, Charlie.  Well, I--I gotta get us back on course."
    #"Roger, Sea Duck.  Good tailwinds.  Out."#
    Baloo reentered the cockpit and flopped into the pilot's seat.  
"Becky's asleep.  We won't go no higher than ten thousan' feet, so 
she won't need oxygen."  He rubbed his shoulder where the seat straps 
had dug into him.  "Kit?  After I went out, were we...spinnin'?"
    Kit was reluctant to tell Baloo how close they had come to 
disaster.  "Well, unnh...yeah."
    "An' you pulled us out?"  Baloo whistled.  "Only way ta do it is 
ta goose one o' the engines.  How'd you know about that?"
    "Well, I was...I've been...unnh...You told me about it once."
    "I did?  Oh.  Well, one thing's fer sure--"  Baloo gave Kit a 
tired smile.  "You're gonna make one swell pilot!"
    
    "Becky?  You awake?  We're there."  
    The Sea Duck was parked on the beach at Part-hairn.  Kit was 
helping the islanders discover a new treat--soft ice cream.  Baloo 
leaned over the Sea Duck's bunk.  "I'd let ya sleep, only we gotta 
haul out the cargo."
    Rebecca opened one eye, and shut it again immediately.  
"Ohhhhh...what happened, Baloo?"
    "Guess we were doin' too much talkin' an' not enough breathin'.  
At thirty thousan' feet ya get woozy real fast if yer not gettin' 
enough oxygen.  Sorry, Becky--I shoulda been more careful."
    Rebecca sat up slowly and tried to straighten her hair.  "Baloo?" 
she asked hesitantly, "Last night, did I talk about anything that 
was...ah...personal?"
    "Don't you remember?"
    "Oh, well, yes--most of it...I think."  Rebecca bit her lip.  
"I...just hope I didn't...prattle on with some old stories."
    Baloo met her eyes.  "No, Becky," he lied.
    
                          Chapter IV
    
    Rebecca insisted that Higher for Hire would take no more chances 
with hypoxia; everyone had to have a modern oxygen mask.  Baloo 
searched most of the aviation shops in Cape Suzette before he found 
one big enough to fit over his nose.  He bought a mask for Rebecca as 
well.
    There was little conversation in the cockpit at twenty-three 
thousand feet--partly because it was difficult to be heard with the 
masks on.  The air of tension between pilot, owner, and navigator was 
another reason.  Kit was the only one who was talking, though not to 
Baloo or Rebecca.
    "--and I really like both of them, I really do!  And they've 
*always* had arguments, for as long as I've known 'em.  But 
lately...they've been having some real fights.  Unnh...mostly about 
me."
    #"And, ah...you're blamin' *yourself* for this, Sea Duck?"#
    "Sure seems like they'd be better off if I wasn't around."
    #"Hmmm.  Well, I'll tell ya, tryin' to be responsible for 
somebody else can make people do some pretty weird things.  After 
all, you only fight for the things you care about.  Sounds to me like 
both your friends really care about you."#
    Kit glanced at Baloo and Rebecca, across from him in the darkened 
cockpit.  "I guess so," he said.  "I hope so."
    #"If they didn't, they wouldn't be knockin' themselves out."#  
Kit's headphones were silent for a moment.  #"Ah...I'm gonna have to 
get back to you, Sea Duck.  I don't like the look of my fuel pressure 
gauge right now."#
    "Oh--roger, four-two-Charlie.  Hope it's not a problem."
    #"We'll see.  Out."#
    Kit checked his navigation.  The glowing crescents that marked 
Halloween Island passed below, right on schedule.  He wanted to talk 
to Baloo and Rebecca--wanted to find out what was wrong.  But asking 
other people how they felt about him was something Kit Cloudkicker 
hadn't learned to do.  He had learned to be independent.  Kit wished 
Baloo and Rebecca would talk to him.
    "Charlie?  November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie, come in please."
    The voice in Kit's headphones sounded strained.  #"Good to hear 
from you Sea Duck.  Looks like we've got a bit of a mess here.  I was 
about to put out a distress call."#
    "Distress?  What's wrong?"
    #"Dang fuel transfer pump's died on us.  There's an emergency 
hand pump, but that's not working either.  We've got tanks full of 
gas, but we can't get it to the engines!  All we've got left is 
what's in the feed tanks."#
    "How long have you got?"
    #"Less than an hour.  Right now there's nothing under us but 
water, but I think we can make a landfall."#
    Kit hesitated.  They had never talked about their positions.  
"Ah...where?"
    In response, Kit heard an exhaled breath that might have been a 
laugh.  #"Well, I told you we were gonna survey it--Halloween 
Island.  Not exactly my first choice for an emergency landing site--
bit too far off the beaten track.  But it's either that or the water.  
Could you do us a favor, Sea Duck?  Could you send somebody to pick 
us up?"#
    "Soon as I can."
    #"Thanks.  Looks like I'm gonna be busy for a while--but, stick 
around, will you?  It's good to know you're there."#
    "Roger, four-two-Charlie.  Sea Duck--standing by."
    
    #"Mayday.  Mayday.  Mayday.  This is November-Bravo-four-two-
Charlie, declaring an emergency.  Position is directly over Halloween 
Island.  Mayday.  Mayday."#
    Startled, Kit sat bolt upright.  For the past forty five minutes 
he had been trying to decide what to do.  Should he ask Baloo to land 
at Halloween?  Did he trust Charlie enough to risk giving away their 
location?  What were Rebecca and Baloo going to say when they learned 
he'd been talking to a stranger on the radio?  He was about to find 
out.
    "Kit?  Are you okay?" asked Rebecca.
    Kit struggled to find words.  "Unnh, yeah.  I...just picked up a 
distress call from another plane.  They're headed for an emergency 
landing at Halloween Island."
    Baloo peered at his navigator in the dim light of the 
instruments.  "You been on the radio?  The *LF* radio?"
    "I've been...just listening...mostly.  And I picked up a mayday."
    Baloo scratched his chin.  "I didn't even know that ol' thing was 
workin'."
    "Well, I--wait a minute!  They're calling again."  Kit keyed his 
mic.  "Four-two-Charlie, this is Sea Duck.  What's happened?  Over."
    #"Sea Duck?  We learned our first lesson about Halloween.  
There's a big, sheltered cove that looks like a great place to set 
down--only it's got a nasty reef!  Big coral heads sitting just under 
the surface.  Ripped one of our floats clean off--don't know how I 
got her back in the air again.  We're gonna have to belly-in on the 
beach."#
    "Roger, Charlie.  Stand by."
    Kit explained Charlie's situation to Baloo and Rebecca.  "--so, I 
think we should go back and help."
    Baloo looked stern.  "I dunno, Kit.  Sounds like it might be a 
pirate trick ta me.  We'd better let Coast Guard Rescue handle it."
    "But that could take days!  They could be hurt!"
    "Kit, we've already been attacked once," said Rebecca.  "I know 
you want to help, but we don't know who these people are.  They 
really might be pirates."
    "No!  I--I *know* them!  They're a survey plane!"
    Baloo and Rebecca looked at each other.  "The Coast Guard can 
handle it--either way," said Baloo.
    Rebecca put a hand on Kit's shoulder.  "Kit?  Are you *sure* 
about this?"
    He nodded.
    "All right, Baloo," said Rebecca.  "Take us back to Halloween 
Island."
    
    "--and we happened to be in the area," Kit transmitted.  "What's 
your landing site look like, Charlie?"
    #"The beach looks good--wide and flat.  But you watch out for 
those reefs!  Better set down well off shore."#
    "Roger.  Think you'll have any trouble getting down?"
    #"Well, I'll tell you--I don't like the way the controls are 
acting.  I think that float must have hit the tail when it got 
knocked off.  I'm gonna have to reel in the aerial now--fuel's 
gettin' low.  By the way, we've got something back in our strongbox I 
think you might like to have.  It'll be good to see you."#
    "Yeah, it will.  Be careful.  And...good luck.  We're about an 
hour away."
    #"Roger, Sea Duck--thanks.  We'll be waiting for you."#  
    
    Two hours before dawn the Sea Duck flew over Halloween Island at 
one hundred feet; its landing lights sent shadows chasing across a 
rocky, barren landscape.  
    "Well, I don't see any pirates.  Don't see much of anything!" 
said Baloo.  He went to full flaps, throttled back, and landed about 
a half-mile off shore from a large cove.  
    Kit tossed out an anchor and secured it to the plane's nose.  The 
air was warm and the sea was active--all were glad to get out of 
their heavy flight suits.  Baloo inflated the Sea Duck's six-
passenger life raft and Kit loaded flashlights and a gasoline 
lantern.  Rebecca brought the first-aid kit.  With Rebecca in the 
stern, Baloo rowing, and Kit in the bow holding the lantern, they 
headed for shore.
    The waves diminished as the raft passed over a submerged reef.  
The water was clear; beneath them Rebecca saw fish of every color 
catch the beam from her flashlight.  "We might pick up your friends, 
Kit, and still be able to make our delivery."
    "Some big rocks ahead, Baloo," called Kit.  "Turn twenty degrees 
right."
    "Unnh, is that your right or my--WHOA!!"  Baloo yelped and looked 
over the side.  One of the paddles had disappeared--pulled out of his 
hand.  He took the other paddle out of its oarlock.  "What was 
*that*?!"
    Rebecca swept her flashlight over the surface.  "I didn't see--
AAAHH!!  Shark!"  A black triangular fin cut the water alongside.
    "Kill those lights!" ordered Baloo.
    They sat quietly in the darkness, letting the raft drift.  After 
ten minutes, Baloo used the remaining paddle to take them slowly and 
quietly to shore.  Before the raft touched bottom, Kit hopped out and 
ran up the beach.  "Charlie?!  Charlie, hello!?" he called.  He stood 
at the crest of the beach and panned a flashlight in every direction.
    Baloo beached the raft and relit the lantern.  White coral sand 
reflected its light all around, reminding Rebecca of new-fallen snow.  
The beach curved away on both sides to form the cove.  Dark patches 
around its edge marked rock outcrops.  The only sounds were the lap 
of the water on the beach and the distant rush of surf off shore.
    "Okay," said Baloo.  "Spread out a bit an' we'll search across 
the beach."  
    Inland from the cove was a low, wide stretch of flat sand with 
odd bits of driftwood strewn over it, and dotted by occasional 
scraggly shrubs.  Fifteen minute's walking took them to the opposite 
shore where the sand ended in a jagged coral cliff, dropping down to 
the sea.  The surf beat heavily here; plumes of spray geysered into 
the air through blow holes.  Finding nothing, they turned right and 
walked down a point of land that gradually narrowed and curved, like 
a hook.  A rocky spine ran along the point to become the outer horn 
of the cove where they had come ashore.  The only manmade thing to be 
found was a piece of old fishnet.
    They returned to their starting point, having covered most of the 
beach.  The only section that remained was along the opposite side of 
the cove, where the white sand was studded with dark stone ridges.  
Beyond this, the sand ended and the rest of the island loomed in 
darkness.  
    Kit led the way down the beach.  "They should have seen our 
lights by now!  It's been an hour since we buzzed the island." he 
said.
    "We'll find them, Kit," said Rebecca.  "Don't worry."
    "Maybe they got stuck in the wreckage.  Maybe there's--OWWW!!"  
Baloo hopped up and down on one foot, holding the other.  He had 
stepped on something sharp--an aircraft's steel propeller blade, bent 
and twisted.  
    "That's it!  C'mon!" shouted Kit.  He hurried on, threading his 
way between rock outcrops--some of them taller than Baloo.  As he 
came around each one, Kit shined his flashlight ahead, down the 
beach.  At last the beam caught something metallic.  
    Kit ran forward and the others followed.  "There it is!"
    At the water's edge, the wreck of an airplane was jammed between 
sand and rock.  It lay facing them; the left wing was gone, the right 
extended over the water.  The fuselage was resting with its bottom 
and most of its left side buried in the sand.  
    Kit ran toward the copilot's window.  "Charlie?!  Charlie!"
    Something caught Kit by the arm just as he reached the wreck; he 
wheeled to find Baloo.  "Hold it, Little Britches!  Better let me 
have a look first."
    Kit watched, open mouthed and shaking, while Baloo knelt down and 
shined a flashlight into the cockpit.  It seemed to take a long time-
-Baloo was shining his light all over the interior.  At last he rose 
and turned to Kit.  
    "There's nobody there," he said.  "It's empty."
    "Empty?!"  Kit tried to open the right cockpit window.  "It's 
jammed!  Gimme a hand, Baloo!"  The two of them forced the sliding 
window open.  Kit stuck his head inside--the two seats were empty, 
seatbelts unfastened.  The rest of the cockpit looked bare.
    Rebecca was circling the plane.  "The whole back half is 
missing," she called.  "It broke off behind the wing."  
    Kit and Baloo came around to see.  The wreck was a high-winged 
tri-motor, made of corrugated aluminum.  Kit examined a forest of 
broken metal struts under the right wing and engine.  "It's an old 
Tin Frog," he said.
    "A *what*?" asked Rebecca.
    "That's a Tin Swan on floats," explained Baloo.
    "Oh," said Rebecca.  She pointed to the buried left side of the 
fuselage.  "Hey, this is strange--come take a look."
    "What?"  Baloo walked around the center engine, carrying the 
lantern.
    "Look at how it's sitting in the sand.  The sand runs right up to 
it, nice and smooth."
    "We're not lookin' fer *neatness* here, Becky.  We're lookin' fer 
the crew!"
    "No, no--look!"  She pointed again.  "This plane didn't *dig* 
itself into the ground!  It looks like the sand...washed up against 
it."
    Baloo knelt by the fuselage.  "Hey, yer right, Becky.  An' look 
how the paint's all faded."  He walked to the nose.  "Whoa, check the 
rust on this engine!  How could it'a been runnin' just a--"  Baloo's 
shoulders drooped as the realization struck him.  "Oh, man, this 
thing's been here fer years!  We found the *wrong plane*!"
    "But it can't be!" said Kit.  "It all fits!  This has gotta be 
it!"
    "Kit, take a look at this thing!" said Baloo.  "Even if it was 
all together, it couldn'a been flyin' an hour ago!  Look at the 
windshield--sandblasted by the wind.  Ya can hardly see through it!"
    Kit looked at the condition of the wreck--Baloo was right.  {I 
was so sure!} he thought.  "Okay...so it's the wrong plane.  We've 
*still* gotta find the right one!"  Kit scanned the dark, rocky part 
of the island, silhouetted against the sky.  He pointed.  "There's a 
hill.  We should be able to see the whole place from up there, as 
soon as it's light."
    The hill was small, but difficult to climb in the dark.  Leaving 
the beach, they found themselves in a field of boulders that 
increased in size as they climbed--some were as big as houses.  Many 
times they found their path blocked and had to double back, feeling 
their way through a maze of stone.
    The sun was coming over the horizon when they reached the 
hilltop, which was broad and flat.  In the growing light, they found 
the remains of a small hut; a low rectangle of piled stones was all 
that remained.  {Goat keepers,} thought Kit.  Standing on the ancient 
foundation, they gazed across the island.  In the direction they had 
come they could see the cove and the Sea Duck lying at anchor outside 
it.  Kit spotted the old wreck.  On the other side of the hill the 
boulder field continued, sloping down to the sea.  A few palm trees 
were visible, but there was no other beach of any size and no other 
aircraft in sight--neither on land or in the water off shore.  The 
wind whispered among the surrounding rocks.
    "Maybe they didn't know what island they were over," said 
Rebecca.  "I've heard of flights getting confused like that."
    "Yeah, 'cept there's no other islands aroun' here," said Baloo.  
"Part-hairn's the closest, but it's still awful far.  That'd be one 
heckova navigation error, but it could happen, I guess.  Maybe 
they're there," he sighed.  "Well, now that it's light, we can go 
back ta the Duck an' have a look from the air.  We still might--"  
Baloo cocked his head.  "What's that?"
    A distant buzz swelled into snarling thunder as five float-
fighter planes passed thirty feet over their heads.  They pulled up 
and banked together in a neat vee formation.  The lead plane bore a 
white '1' on its tail--Don Karnage.
    Stunned, Kit, Baloo, and Rebecca watched the pirates make their 
landing approach, still in formation.  Baloo's horror turned to glee-
-they were headed for the cove.  "Hey, they're gonna crack up on 
those reefs!"
    The floatplanes touched down five abreast--even Baloo had to 
admire their flying.  He waited for the crash--it didn't come.  The 
pirates were taxiing toward the beach.  
    "Aww, nuts!  The tide mus' be comin' in!"  Even as Baloo spoke 
one plane spun sharply and capsized.  Its unfortunate pilot swam to 
another plane and pulled himself up on its float.  The remaining four 
planes crept carefully to shore and ran onto the beach.  "They've cut 
us off from the Duck!"
    "Maybe we can hide in these rocks until they go away."
    "Yeah, Becky, an' take the Sea Duck with 'em.  Karny's gonna be 
*reeeal* mad when he finds out all we're carryin' is milk an' ice 
cream--plus a hunnerd pounds o' pots an' pans.  We'll hafta sneak 
down there an' try ta get close enough ta make a break for it. 
Whadehya say, Kit?"
    Kit said nothing.  He stood frozen, staring down at the cove.  
Tears ran down his face.  {It was a lie.  All a lie, cooked up by 
some slick pirate.  And I fell for it!  Just like the kid in that 
story by Louis Robert Steervenson!}
    
    Don Karnage was furious--his dramatic entrance had been spoiled.  
He turned on Hal, the unfortunate pirate who was sitting in the sand, 
dripping wet.  "Jou clumsy bumpykins!  Dat's four planes dis month!  
DO jou THEENK we STEAL DEM from *TREES*?!"  He yanked the yellow 
feline to his feet.  "Take *dat*--" he pointed to Higher for Hire's 
life raft, "--and go and get dee Sea Duck!  And *no more rock 
collecting*!"  Don Karnage emphasized the order with a well applied 
boot.
    Gibber, the pirate lieutenant, slipped up behind his captain and 
whispered in his ear.  
    "Oh, *jeeeess*!" hissed Don Karnage.  "*Now* we know why Bahloo 
left dee Sea Duck out dair!  Anytheeng else jou forget to tell me, 
Meester-Great-Naveegator-Who-Toook-Two-Days-To-Find-Dees-Steenking-
Island?!"
    The remaining pirates paid no attention to their comrades' 
plight.  They were watching the last of Hal's fighter disappear 
beneath the water.  Mad Dog's weasel nose twitched nervously; he 
hefted his carbine, the light, compact rifle preferred by the air 
pirates.  "I heard there's a sea monster aroun' this island that 
*eats planes*," he whined.
    "Harrr, dot's silly," said Dumptruck.  The hulking pirate waved a 
dismissive hand at his companion.  "Sea monstoors don't eat planes!  
Day eat ships."
    "Well, maybe he's on a diet!"
    Don Karnage was winding up his tirade against Gibber: "--weeth a 
*tennis racket* and a *flashlight*!!  *Jou* stay here and guard dee 
planes!" 
    A wolfish grin lit the pirate captain's face as he remembered the 
goal of the day's expedition.  He turned to Mad Dog and Dumptruck, 
and drew his cutlass.  "Now, my Brave Buccaneers, let us go and ask 
dee bear where he ees getting so much beauteeful money!"
    
    Finding a path through the boulder field was only slightly easier 
in daylight--rarely could one see farther than ten yards.  Rebecca 
was certain that pirates waited behind each rock and around every 
bend.  She followed closely behind Baloo, darting nervous glances 
around her.  As the sun rose higher, the sand and rock grew warm 
beneath her feet.  Rebecca began to feel smothered under a blanket of 
stale air and fear.
    Weighed down by his despair, Kit trailed farther and farther 
behind his friends.  His Guilt waged a smear campaign against his 
Reason.  "What made you think you could trust him?  What made you 
think you could trust anybody?!"  
    {He saved our lives!}  
    "Oh, *sure* he did--after all, it's not easy to rob a patch of 
debris floating in the ocean."  
    {But, he was my friend.  I'm *sure* he was my friend!}
    "Who'd wanna be friends with a chump like you?"
    Kit's thoughts were interrupted by the snick-click of rifle bolts 
above him.  He froze and looked up; a flat-topped boulder rose 
fifteen feet over his head.  He couldn't see who was standing atop 
it, but there was no mistaking the voice that called down:
    "Sooo, Bahloo, once again I keeck my sly boots eento jour 
smarting pants!  Do not move, or my fierce minions shall unleash a 
fuselage of boollets een jour general direction!"
    Kit edged around the boulder and saw Baloo and Rebecca staring 
upward, their mouths hanging open.  In a sudden burst of rage he 
didn't care how many pirates he might be facing.  Kit bent down and 
grabbed two handfuls of oyster shells--all he could find to throw.  
He darted into the open and took aim at Don Karnage.  
    "Mad Dog, jump down and keep dem covered while--OWWW!!"  An 
oyster shell caught Don Karnage behind the ear.  
    "*You're a sneaking coward, Karnage*!" yelled Kit.  He threw a 
second batch of shells, but his target dodged.  "*You give SCUM a bad 
name*!"
    "*Get dat boy*!" howled the Scourge of the Skies, taking shelter 
behind Dumptruck.
    Kit saw Dumptruck's carbine swing toward him, despite the oyster 
shells that were bouncing off the pirate.  He sprang forward to press 
himself against the face of the boulder.  Something twanged into the 
rock behind him, and Kit felt stone splinters sting his legs.  
    Baloo saw his chance.  "C'mon, Becky--*run*!"  He grabbed 
Rebecca's hand and pulled her behind a rock.  Once under cover, they 
doubled back, circling back to Kit--and ran into a dead end.  They 
tried another path, but it took an unexpected turn.  Baloo looked 
about him; his mind raced--which way back to Kit?  Where were the 
pirates?  They ran on through the maze.  Loose sand on rock made 
slippery footing; several times they caught each other from falling. 
    Kit moved sideways, hugging the rock face where the pirates 
couldn't get a shot at him.  Above him, Don Karnage snarled at his 
men.  "Don't just stand dair like dee lumps on a frog!  *Get after 
dem*!!"
    "Whoa-aah-OOOOOOOOH-oooww!!" wailed Mad Dog as he, with 
assistance from his captain, jumped from the boulder top.  He fell in 
deep, soft sand, and was just beginning to realize that he was unhurt 
when Dumptruck landed on top of him.  The two pirates staggered to 
their feet, only to find themselves breaking Don Karnage's fall.  
Before they could retrieve their weapons, Kit ran.
    "Dey are getting away!  Ooooo, I *hate* dat!"  Don Karnage 
snatched up his cutlass.  "*Get dat bear*!" he ordered, and ran after 
Kit.
    Dumptruck stood up and emptied the sand from his hat.  "Unnh, 
vich bear do yoo tink he means, Mad Dog?"
    "How should I know?!" rasped Mad Dog.  "'Get *him*!'  'Plunder 
*that*!'  'Jump off *this* cliff!'  Like we couldn't decide for 
*ourselves* once in a while!"
    "Vell, vich bear should vee go after?"
    "I dunno--I can't decide."
    
    In the cove, Hal was in the life raft trying to reach the Sea 
Duck.  He was rowing briskly because he figured that, with only one 
oar, he would only go half as fast.  The raft spun in tight circles 
on the water.  When Hal stopped rowing to check his progress, he 
found that he was no nearer to his goal.  Redoubling his efforts, he 
resumed rowing in mad pinwheels.  The wind gradually bore the raft 
away from the beach.
    
    Baloo and Rebecca leaned against a boulder, hiding in its shadow 
to catch their breath.  Baloo's heart was pounding, his lungs ached--
and he didn't know where to find Kit.  Rebecca looked in need of a 
rest.  Baloo edged deeper into the shadows, beckoning her to follow.  
    It wasn't really a cave, just a crevice between two boulders, but 
it was out of the sun.  They flopped down in the cool sand.  
"What...about...Kit?" Rebecca managed to get out in a gasping 
whisper.
    "He musta...led Karnage...off some other way," whispered Baloo.  
"Sure hope he got away."
    "Not that it matters.  They've got us...trapped on this island."
    "I tollya we shoulda called th' Coast Guard!  No...wait--I told 
*Kit*.  *He's* the one that got us down here."
    Rebecca spread her hands.  "What's gotten into Kit lately?  He's 
been so distant.  Are you two...up to something?"
    "Are WE up ta somethin'?!  *Yer* the one's been feedin' him all 
that 'Successful Businessman' guava!  Tryin' ta make him all 'high 
class'!"  Baloo turned away.  "Tryin' ta take him away from me."
    "Trying to *what*?!"  Rebecca shook her head in disbelief.  
"*Why* would I want to take Kit way from you--even if I *could*?!  
He's--he's *your* navigator."
    "Yer ding-dong tootin' he's mine!  Me an' Kit are--"  Baloo 
stopped and lowered his eyes.  "Naw...no, he's not.  It's not like I 
own him.  I jus' hoped we could stick together, like we--like...aww, 
ferget it."
    Rebecca gave her pilot a quizzical look.  "Kit's been drifting 
away from you, too, hasn't he?  I thought it was just me."
    "I know *somethin's* botherin' him, but he don't talk about it.  
An' what's he doin' fallin' fer an ol' pirate trick like th' phony 
mayday?  Kit's got more savvy than *that*!" 
    "But he really *believed* it--like it was somebody he knew."
    "I dunno, Becky.  You don't think he's...gone back ta the 
pirates, do ya?"
    "Oh, Baloo, how can you say that?  I don't know what's been on 
Kit's mind, but I *do* know him pretty well.  He'd *never* go back to 
Don Karnage!"
    "Yeah, I guess yer right."
    They sat quietly for a while, listening for pirate footsteps 
outside.  As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, Rebecca 
noticed something buried in the sand beside her.  Curiosity was 
preferable to fear--she dug it out.
    "Baloo...what's this?" whispered Rebecca.
    "It's a tin can, Becky.  What's it look like?"
    "No--I mean, what's it doing *here*?  We've hardly seen *any* 
signs of people on this island."  She pointed.  "There's another 
one."
    A quick search turned up more cans.  All of them had their tops 
removed, and a few still bore labels--corned beef, potatoes, beans.  
There were also some charred lumps of wood--the remains of a camp 
fire.  In the deepest part of the crevice, Baloo found a ragged 
canvas tarpaulin.  He glanced up at the rock face above it, then down 
to the rusty tin can in his hand.
    "Looks like somebody was tryin' ta catch rain water," he said  "I 
wonder how long this's been here?"
    "Nine or ten years," said Rebecca.  She held up a can with a 
faded label.  "I remember when Eenie Meenie Chili Beanie had this 
promotion--'Survive One, Get One Free.'"
    Baloo rubbed his chin.  "Well...that'd fit with the wrecked plane 
down by the beach."
    Rebecca felt suddenly cold.  She moved next to Baloo.  "Do you 
suppose...the crew...?"
    Baloo met her gaze for a moment.  Then he bent down and slowly 
pulled back the tarpaulin.
    
    After some debate, Mad Dog and Dumptruck decided to follow Baloo-
-the bear they had set out to find in the first place.  He and 
Rebecca were hard to follow; the sand was too dry to retain 
footprints, and in many places the ground was bare rock.  The pirates 
soon lost the trail, and themselves.  They wandered randomly through 
the boulders.  The sand grew hot enough to scorch their feet.
    "Eee-yeeew, I *hate* this place," whined Mad Dog.  "It smells 
like rotten sea weed."
    "I taught sour kraut kelp vas vun oof yoor favorites," said 
Dumptruck.
    "Yeah, but only the way Mama used ta make it.  This island gives 
me the creeps."
    "Creeps?  Oh, yaa, I like creeps.  Wit' fish heads an' peanut 
budder."  Dumptruck licked his chops.
    "Oh, is *food* all you can think about?!  I heard there's a 
Hobgremlin on this island that *chews* yer *hair* off."
    "Yoo alreddy hadda haircut, Mad Dog."
    "No!  Not meee--"  
    A woman's shriek of terror echoed through the boulder field.  
    "The Hobgremlin!" wailed Mad Dog.  "It's *got* 'em!"
    "Heh, heh, yaa.  Let's go see."
    
    Rebecca was still screaming.  Under the tarpaulin was a nest of 
land crabs--nocturnal creatures who didn't like having their daytime 
rest disturbed.  The crabs swarmed over and around Rebecca's feet, 
waving angry, oversize claws.  Baloo dropped the tarp and led her out 
of the crevice, grumbling about giving themselves away.  Again they 
ran, keeping an eye out for their pursuers.
    
    Kit was lost, which, at the moment, was preferable to facing 
Baloo or Rebecca.  Downcast, he trudged over sand and rock, wondering 
what would happen to his friends and to their friendship for him.  
His Guilt gave him no respite.  "Karnage is gonna blow a head gasket 
when he finds out all he's got is a load of moo juice.  And guess who 
he's gonna take it out on."
    {I made 'em land.  We should have called the Coast Guard, like 
Baloo said.  I was so sure...}
    "The guy said they were a survey and mapping outfit.  Yeah, 
right--whoever heard of doing *mapping* at *night*?!  That's such an 
obvious phony, it's--"
    Kit stopped and looked up.  {It *is* obvious!} he thought.  {Why 
didn't I see this before?!  You can't do aerial surveys in the dark!  
Even *Karnage* could make up a better story than *that*--like an 
express delivery, or the night mail, or the last plane to 
Clarksville--something!}  Kit tried to shut out the noise of his 
guilt and shame, and think clearly.  {And those reefs in the cove--
Charlie warned us about 'em, but Karnage and his planes landed right 
on top of 'em.  They didn't know they were there!}
    Kit looked around him--there were questions to answer and pirates 
to evade, but he wasn't going to do either by wandering aimlessly.  
He took his bearings from the mid-morning sun and set course for the 
cove.
    
    Hal was very pleased with himself--he had taken his single oar 
out of its oarlock and was using is as a paddle.  He lay over the bow 
of the raft, paddling over and around the coral heads.  The Sea Duck 
lay dead ahead, rolling in the waves off shore.  Hal felt a sudden 
jerk--the oar was gone from his hands.  He sat up and looked around, 
but there was no sign of the paddle.  Leaning over the side, he stuck 
his head in the water to look under the raft--nothing.  With a shrug 
he resumed paddling, using his cap.  
    After a few strokes, Hal saw a gray blur in the water, then a 
flash of white.  His cap vanished--swallowed by a six foot shark.  He 
snatched his carbine from the bottom of the raft and let loose a hail 
of bullets and a string of curses.  Neither was effective.  The raft 
continued to drift out to sea, escorted by the shark.
    
    Mad Dog didn't care about finding Baloo anymore--he was worried 
about finding himself.  "Where *are* we?!  All these stupid rocks 
look the same."
    "Eef day're all duh same, denn it don't matter vair vee are," 
said Dumptruck.
    "I heard there's a Phantomime on this island that *disappears* 
people into *Nothings*!"
    "Vat's a Nothink?"
    "A *Something* that's not *there* anymore!"  Mad Dog swung his 
carbine around nervously.
    "Harrr, Mad Dog, I tink yoor *scared*."
    "Am not!"
    "Yoo'll be seeing Vooosles an' Hooofalumps next!"
    "Or maybe--" sneered Mad Dog "--the Cap'n's *Grandmother*!"
    "Ho, no!"  Dumptruck paled.  "Not *her*!  Not dat!!"
    
    In daylight the derelict plane looked old and decrepit.  Kit had 
seen many crashed and smashed aircraft--this one appeared to be 
smashed.  Judging by the position of the plane, the rocks around it, 
and the nature of the damage, Kit decided that it must have come down 
somewhere else and then been *washed* to its present location, 
probably by a storm.  The left wing and rear fuselage has been 
knocked off in the process.  
    Kit slipped through the right side window, into the cabin.  There 
wasn't much left of it--the fuselage under the wing was crushed and 
blocked with sand.  The cockpit was intact, though badly corroded.  
Kit searched, but there were no logbooks, charts, or other records to 
give a clue to the plane's origin.  He climbed into the copilot's 
seat and closed his eyes, trying to figure out what had happened in 
the past few hours.  
    {What am I doing here?} he thought.  {This old wreck can't have 
anything to do with the pirates, *or* with Charlie.  Why did I want 
to see it?}  Kit opened his eyes and took hold of the control yoke--
he never could resist an airplane.  It moved reluctantly, with a 
creak of rust and sand in the works, but the handgrips had once been 
fine, custom leather.  He scanned the instrument panel; there were 
some sophisticated navigational instruments installed that weren't 
standard for this model.  {It was a good airplane...somebody loved 
it.}  
    Kit looked at the empty pilot's seat.  He tried to picture the 
flyer that had once sat there, but something else drifted into his 
mind.  {What was it that Charlie said...'*back* in our *strongbox*'?}  
Kit noticed some electrical wires on the floor by the pilot's rudder 
pedals.  Old cotton insulation sloughed off in his hands as he pulled 
up a rusty pair of headphones and a hand microphone.  The other ends 
of the wires were plugged into part of the instrument panel.  {An LF 
radio,} Kit saw.
    Kit pressed the key on the old-fashioned mic.  He felt his throat 
sink into his stomach, the way it did when Baloo pulled up hard in 
the Sea Duck.  {An LF radio.}  He bent down to check the frequency 
set on the tuner.  
    "NOW who ees dee cow-herd who ees dooing dee hiding and 
sneaking?!"  Rough hands grabbed Kit by the collar and dragged him 
out through the cockpit window.  Half choked, Kit was pulled off the 
ground and up into the snarling face of Don Karnage.  "Jou weel give 
me dee answers to my questions, or I weel make jou in dee worser 
shape dan dees old hulk of *tin*!"  He slammed Kit against the side 
of the plane, and threw him to the ground by the water's edge.  
    Face down, Kit gasped for breath.  He heard the metallic ring of 
a sword being drawn behind him.  As he lifted himself on his hands, 
Kit saw that he was on top of a rock ledge above ten feet of clear, 
sparkling water.  There, upside down on the bottom of the cove, was 
the rear fuselage of the wrecked plane.  Its forward end was twisted 
and broken, but the rest looked intact.  Kit stared at it while Don 
Karnage became impatient.
    "Well--well--I am waiting an' jou are not talking!  I want 
answers!"
    "You haven't *asked* me anything yet, Karnage."
    "*Donnn* Karrrnage, if jou please!  An' eef jou don't, jou won't 
be!  Now, *where* are jou getting so much money out here een dee 
meeddle of noplaces?!"  The pirate swung his cutlass.  "Speak now, or 
forever be een pieces!"
    "Aww, mind yer own business!"
    "Plundering *is* my busy-ness!  And I am very, very goood at 
eet."
    Kit had questions of his own; he saw an opening--the pirate 
captain's ego.  "How'd you find out about us?  We kept everything Top 
Secret."
    Don Karnage swelled with self importance.  "Dee *breelliant* 
Donnn Karrrnage--wheech ees dee dashing figment jou see before jou--
ees a greater dee-deucer dan *any* of dose Famous Defective-type Gum-
chews een dee movies!  I put clue and clue togedder, and make four."
    "But what gave you the clues?"
    The pirate smiled knowingly.  "I spy wit' my flashing eyes, and 
hear with my buccan-ears!  Especially when certain overstuffed bears 
are putting too much money where dair beeg mouth ees."
    {Baloo!} thought Kit.  {Then Charlie wasn't--}
    "Enough of dees!  Eef jou weel not tell me where are dee gooses 
dat lay dee golden doubloons, den perhaps one of jour *friends* can 
be--" Don Karnage flashed his most malevolent grin, "--*persuaded*?!"
    Kit's mind was racing.  {I've gotta find out what's in that plane 
down there!}  An idea started to come together.  Kit looked up at Don 
Karnage.  {If I'm gonna fool him, I've gotta be convincing.}
    The pirate could be convincing as well.  "Bahloo weel try to be 
dee Meester-Tough-Guy.  But--" again came the wolfish grin, "--dee 
*lady*..."  
    "No!  You leave them alone!"
    "Den jou tell me what jou know I want to know, jes-no?!"
    "All right!  If you *promise* not to hurt them!"
    Don Karnage rolled his eyes; he found loyalty boring, especially 
when there was no profit in it.  "Such devotions!" he said with mock 
sincerity.  
    "Promise!"
    "Oh, very well!  I give jou my Word of Honor as a Noble 
Gentlemans of Fortune!"  The pirate captain bowed with a flourish.  
Then he drew a pistol from his belt and fired four shots into the 
air, slowly and evenly.  Holstering the pistol, he glared at Kit.  
"Now talk!"
    
    Mad Dog and Dumptruck sat back to back, carbines at the ready.  
"See anything?" whispered Mad Dog.
    "Nope.  Don't see nothink."
    "I toldya, ya *can't* see Nothings!  They've been *disappeared*!"
    "Vell, how'm I gonna shooot 'em eef I can't see 'em?"
    "Ya don't shoot the Nothings!  Ya shoot the Phantomime!"
    "I still don't see nothink."
    Mad Dog shivered.  "Maybe...*we've* been disappeared!"
    "Eef Granny Karnarge ees aroun', dot sounds goood to me!"
    The distant sound of gun shots drifted overhead.
    "Dot's *her*!" moaned Dumptruck.  "I'd know duh sound oof doze 
high-heels anyvair!"
    "No!" said Mad Dog.  "Four shots--it's the Cap'n's recall 
signal!"
    Rarely had the two pirates obeyed an order so readily.
    
    "This old wreck--" began Kit, "--was a treasure plane.  Stolen 
gold from the--ah...Muddy River Bank heist.  We've been sifting gold 
coins out of the sand for weeks."
    "Ooooo," squealed Don Karnage.  "I *love* playing een dee golden 
sand!  Jou weel deeg and show me, jes-no?"
    "Ah...no.  We found the last buried coins a week ago."
    "WHAT!!  Jou dare play games wit' dee Prince of Pirates!"  Don 
Karnage's sword-point touched Kit's throat.
    "No-no!  There's still one more chest we haven't recovered--the 
biggest one!"
    The pirate was unconvinced.  "Oh, jes?  Jou tink I weel buy dee 
poke from a peeg?  Where ees dees chest?"
    "Down there."  Kit pointed to the fuselage section in the water.
    "Down...*dair*?  Een such a *leettle* puddles of water?  Jou 
have, perhaps, forgotten how to *sweem*?  Jou are afraid to get jour 
*feets wet*?!  *Why have jou not gotten dees chest already*?!  DO jou 
TAKE me for a FOOOL?!!
    Kit diplomatically avoided the last question.  "That's why," he 
said.  He pointed across the cove, to where a pair of dark gray fins 
cut the water.
    "Aaaaah," said Don Karnage.  "My fellow predators!  Dey are 
especially viscous een dees waters."  He thought for a moment.  "A 
most eenteresting challenge!"
    
    Hal was inspired.  He had been sitting morosely in the life raft-
-no paddles, surrounded by sharks, drifting out to sea--when he heard 
the shots of Don Karnage's signal.  Suddenly he remembered a cartoon 
he had seen, in which a duck hunter had propelled his boat across a 
lake by using the recoil of his gun.  Hal fed a fresh clip into his 
carbine, noted the direction of the Sea Duck, trained his gun in the 
opposite direction, and blazed away.  It didn't occur to him that 
Gibber and the beached fighter planes were in his line of fire.
    
    "Ah, Mad Dog, Dumptruck, dair jou are!"  Don Karnage greeted his 
pirates with smiles.  "Normally I do not play dee hoooky during 
pirating hours, but dees loooks like dee very, very goood spot!  
Dumptruck!  Bring dee feeshing tackles from my plane."
    "Hooo, yaa!  Vee gonna catch duh leettle feeshies!"  Dumptruck 
ran off toward the planes.  "I hope vee got some peanut budder!"
    Mad Dog was perplexed, but for once kept his doubts to himself.
    Don Karnage turned to Kit.  "We weel take care of dee pointy-
teethed predators--and den *jou* weel go down and find dee box!"
    Kit gulped.  He didn't see how *any* fisherman could catch all 
the sharks in the cove.  {What am I *doing*!  There *can't* be 
anything down there--not Charlie's strongbox, certainly not a chest 
full of gold!}  Kit looked down into the water; a door on the side of 
the sunken fuselage hung open, beckoning him.  {I've *got* to find 
out,} he thought.
    A few minutes later, Dumptruck returned with a small wooden 
crate.  "Yoo vant me to bait der hoook, Cap'm?"
    "Jes, jes--dee feesh are waiting!"  Don Karnage led Kit over to 
the water's edge.  "Feeshing, my boy, ees an Art!  Dee expert angler 
must know all dee angles, jou know?  Eet warms dee coccyx of my heart 
to be passing on my leettle secrets to dee bright young eyes of dee 
eegnorant know-nothings cheeldren."  Kit heard something sizzling 
behind him, as if the fish were already in the frying pan.  
    "Dee first secret--" Don Karnage continued, "--ees dat dee *bait* 
ees not so eemportant as *dee hook*!"  He took a stick of dynamite 
from Dumptruck--its waterproof fuse already lit.  "And *den*, of 
course, dair ees dee *timing*!"  The pirate gave a high-pitched laugh 
as he watched the fuse grow shorter.  After waiting for--it seemed to 
Kit--*much* too long, Don Karnage flung the explosive over the cove.  
It splashed into the water and, a second later, detonated, sending a 
column of white froth into the air.  "Ah-ha-HAAA!" Don Karnage 
cackled.  "Dee *perfect* cast!"
    Fish of many different kinds floated in the cove; one dead shark 
was fifteen feet long, and there were many smaller ones.  Dumptruck 
ran along the shore, scooping up the choicer specimens.  Don 
Karnage's laughter grew more and more hysterical with each explosion.  
The whole scene sickened Kit.
    After expending a good deal more dynamite than necessary, Don 
Karnage turned to Kit.  "Now *dat*, my boy, ees *feeshing*!  Jou weel 
now go down and find dee box!  And--" the pirate captain hefted 
another stick of dynamite, "--do not be trying anything *feeshy*."
    "Mad Dog!" he called, pointing to the wrecked plane's overhanging 
wing.  "Climb up dair and keep a loooks-out for more sharky feeshes!" 
    The water was warmer than any Kit had ever been in, outside of a 
bathtub.  Reaching the plane was easy--it took only a surface dive 
and three quick strokes.  Vision, however, was a problem.  It was 
dark inside the cabin; the only light came in through the open door 
and a few small windows.  Without goggles, Kit's sight was blurred by 
the water.  He made four descents to look over the plane from the 
outside.  The fifth time he gathered his nerve, took a deep breath, 
and swam straight for the door.
    Kit looked down at the ceiling of the upside down fuselage.  If 
there *were* a box, he expected it would have fallen there.  Swimming 
toward the tail, he ran into a tangle of control wires.  He pulled at 
them blindly, almost panicking.  {Don't fight 'em!  You'll get 
snarled!}  Kit forced himself to move slowly and deliberately; he 
slipped his arms out of the jumbled wires and made his way back out 
the door.  
    After a few more dives, Kit found a path through the debris and 
reached the airplane's tail.  There was no sign of a box; he would 
have to search the cabin forward of the door.  {The mess in the back 
was bad enough,} he thought.  {What's it gonna be like up front where 
it's smashed?}  Resting on the surface briefly, Kit saw Don Karnage 
frowning at him from the shore.  He knew he had no choice.
    Things were not as bad up front as Kit had feared--there were no 
hanging wires.  On his second dive into the forward section he went 
all the way to the end.  He turned slowly in the water, searching 
everywhere beneath him.  Suddenly Kit realized he wasn't sure which 
direction would take him back to the door--he had lost his 
orientation.  Panic began to set in again as he swam through the 
cabin, looking for the exit.  He ran into something--soft and oozing, 
flesh and bone.  Terrified, Kit clawed the thing away from his face.  
    The thing rolled over in the water as Kit pushed it away; he 
recognized it--the back half of a dynamited fish.  Looking up, Kit 
saw something else above him, but there was no time to stop.  He swam 
toward the brightest light he could see, and found the door.  Kit 
shoved himself through and shot to the surface.
    A few deep breaths later he was back in the sunken plane.  An 
aluminum container, about eighteen inches square, was on the plane's 
floor above.  Kit had seen something like it before--it was a crash 
box, designed to survive even a severe airplane crash.  They were 
used to hold valuable items, so they could be recovered.  Kit though 
it must be fastened to the plane's floor, but when he pushed it, it 
moved.  {It's floating!  The seal must still be good--it's got air 
inside it!}  He bumped and jostled the box toward the door.  
    The box was awkward to move; it took many more dives to get it to 
the door.  Kit braced himself against the floor above and pushed the 
box downward.  At last it rolled under the door's threshold and out 
of the plane.  Kit ducked through after it and watched the crash box 
bob slowly to the surface.  In the sunlit water over his head, he saw 
the top of the box roll into view.  There was an identification mark 
stenciled on the lid: 'NB42C.'  Kit stared at it in disbelief, until 
the burning in his lungs drove him to the surface.
    He dragged himself out of the water and lay gasping in the sand.  
The pirates didn't bother with him; their only concern was the chest.  
Kit could easily have slipped away into the boulder field, but the 
though didn't occur to him.  He crawled into the shade of the wrecked 
plane's wing and watched the pirates try to open the crash box.  It 
was slippery with marine growth and secured with a formidable 
padlock.
    In such matters, Don Karnage believed in the direct approach; the 
three pirates drew their pistols and emptied them into the padlock 
casing at point blank range.  In ten seconds they had smashed the 
lock into an unyielding lump of metal, that nothing could open.  A 
ricochet whizzed past Don Karnage's ear and he gave the order to 
cease fire.
    "*Ai, Cucamonga*!" he exclaimed, examining the padlock.  "Does 
not dees lock *know* dat eet shoold be *falling off* when we are 
*shoooting eet*?!"  
    "Yoo want to use der feesh hoooks, Cap'm?" asked Dumptruck, 
holding up a fistful of dynamite.
    Don Karnage's eyes rolled upward.  "Jou mean like dee time jou 
locked jourself out of dee bathroom?  No!  I do not want to be ka-
boooming my treasure all over dees steenking island!  We weel use dee 
blow torch!"
    "But Cap'n--where we gonna get one?" whined Mad Dog.
    "Dair!" said Don Karnage, with a sweeping gesture toward the 
skies.
    Something was visible in the sky to the northwest--dark, massive, 
and sinister.  Though it was miles away, Kit recognized it 
immediately.  It was the catamaran-hulled dirigible that served as a 
flying aircraft carrier for the pirates--the Iron Vulture.  
    
    Hal had given himself up for dead.  He was out of ammunition, but 
still hadn't reached his goal.  Lying on his back in the raft, he 
watched an albatross circle overhead.  Gibber was jumping up and down 
on the beach, shaking his fists at him.  The wind was carrying the 
life raft out to sea.  Hal closed his eyes and tried to think 
peaceful thoughts.  Something smacked him hard on top of the head.  
    Hal sat up, ready to give his attacker a taste of rifle butt.  He 
turned--and fell back into the raft in surprise--he had bumped into 
the Sea Duck.  Pulling the raft to the plane's cargo hatch, Hal 
scrambled aboard and raced for the cockpit.  He tripped over a stack 
of milk cans.  After quenching his thirst with warm milk, he went 
forward and flopped into the pilot's seat.
    
    Kit watched Dumptruck and Mad Dog load the crash box into Don 
Karnage's plane.  {If they take it back to the Iron Vulture I'll 
never know what it was!} he thought.  Kit had no clever plans left--
only foolhardy ones.  He snatched a stick of dynamite from the 
"fishing tackle" crate and crawled under the pirate captain's 
fighter.  Pulling a match box from his pocket, Kit tried desperately 
to strike one.  The matches were soaked--they wouldn't light.
    "*What are jou dooing*?!"  Don Karnage struck at Kit with his 
cutlass.  Kit rolled toward the opposite side of the plane and ran--
straight into Dumptruck.  The big pirate twisted Kit's arm; he 
dropped the dynamite.
    "Jou have played dee games wit' me for dee last time!" shouted 
Don Karnage.  He advanced on Kit, sword in hand.  "Now I shall--"  
The sound of engines revving-up made both pirates and captive turn 
toward the cove.  The Sea Duck was taxiing toward the beach.  
    Don Karnage saw a chance to get in a last bit of gloating.  "Ah, 
my second prize of dee day!  True, eet ees not much, but sometimes 
dee *taking* ees better dan dee *having*."
    "You promised you wouldn't hurt Baloo or Miz Cunningham!" shouted 
Kit.
    "Of course!  And dee *magneefeecent* Donnn Karrrnage ees always a 
man of hees word!  I do not *hurt* dem.  I merely macaroon dem here!  
Eet ees a very piratey teeng to do, jes-no?"  Don Karnage's eyes 
narrowed.  "But *jou*, on my odder hand--"
    Another distraction from the cove--something splashed loudly 
nearby.  Dozens of triangular fins darted through the water.  Drawn 
by the scent of blood, a new group of sharks had arrived.  They were 
devouring the victims of the dynamite fishing in a savage feeding 
frenzy.
    Don Karnage's wolfish grin returned.  "For *jou* I have somteeng 
even more piratey!"  He waved his cutlass toward the derelict 
airplane.  "Gibber!  Mad Dog!  Dumptruck!  Take dees annoying small-
fry bear up on dat plane's weeng and make heem *walk dee plank*!"
    "*Karnage, you're a*--"  Dumptruck clamped a hand over Kit's 
mouth.
    Don Karnage climbed into the cockpit of his fighter.  "I would 
like to stay for dee festeeveeties, but--" he patted the door of the 
cargo compartment behind his seat, "--*somebody* has to count dee 
plunder!"  The propeller swung into jerky motion as the starter 
engaged.  "*Farewell, Keet Cloudkeecker*!  I hope jou like seafood."  
Kit could still hear Don Karnage laughing over the growl of the 
engine.
    The cove now stood at high tide.  Don Karnage had no difficulty 
taking off, despite Kit's fervent wish that he hit a reef.  The other 
pirates marched Kit toward the wrecked plane.
    
    "Karnage is leavin', but they've still got Kit."  Baloo and 
Rebecca crouched behind a stone ridge, across the wide beach from the 
cove.  "They're climbin' up on that ol' plane Kit found," said Baloo.  
"Cain't tell much else from here."
    "They're beaching the Sea Duck," said Rebecca.  
    They watched Hal run the Sea Duck into the sand, wheels up.  He 
shut down the engines and ran to join whatever amusement his fellow 
pirates were enjoying.  Baloo took Rebecca's hand.  "Okay," he said.  
"We're gonna run fer the Duck, pick up Kit, an' get outta here!  Can 
you make it?"
    Rebecca looked determined.  "Let's go," she said.
    
    The aluminum surface of the wreck's wing was hot, the sun's glare 
painful to the eyes.  Shreds of rotting fabric hung from the exposed 
ribs of the aileron, like decay on old bones.  In the water, frenzied 
sharks slashed at everything in their paths, living or dead.  The 
pirates had never held a plank walking before; there was some debate 
about procedure.
    "Just shove him in!" insisted Mad Dog.
    That didn't seem proper to Dumptruck.  "No, vee gotta say sumtink 
piratey first."
    "Well, say it an' shove him in!"
    "But vot shoold vee say?"
    "I don't know!  Just say anything!"
    "Vee can't yoost say anytink!  It's gotta bee duh right piratey 
sort oof tink!"
    Gibber whispered in Dumptruck's ear.
    "Harrr, dot sounds goood!" said Dumptruck.  He pushed Kit out 
toward the wingtip.  "Aaaah...Von fer duh money, Two fer duh show, 
Tree ta get reddy--"
    "That's not piratey!" sneered Mad Dog.
    Dumptruck caught Mad Dog by the collar.  "Yoo got sumtink *more* 
piratey ta say?!"
    "Oh...it must be...*air* piratey!" choked Mad Dog.
    "Yaa, dot's right!" Dumptruck smiled.  
    Hal, out of breath, climbed up and joined his comrades.  
Dumptruck turned back to Kit.  "Now--vere vas I?"
    
    Baloo and Rebecca sprinted across the open sand.  It was a long 
run to the Sea Duck; Rebecca was afraid the pirates would spot them.  
Finally they reached the plane, and Baloo boosted her through the 
cockpit door.
    "You get th' tow rope ready while I get us movin'!" called Baloo.  
He had the starters cranking before he even climbed into the pilot's 
seat.
    
    "Von fer duh money," repeated Dumptruck.  "Two fer duh show, Tree 
ta get reddy, An'--"
    "Hey!  They're taking the plane!"  Mad Dog pointed across the 
cove.  The Sea Duck was revving-up to full throttle, propellers in 
reverse pitch, trying to push itself off the beach.  Gibber led the 
way as the pirates grabbed their weapons and clambered down from the 
wing.  
    Dumptruck was about to about to follow when he remembered 
something.  He turned back and ran at Kit, still on the wingtip.  
"*An' four--yoor feeshfood*!" he roared, knocking Kit over the edge.  
    
    As he cleared the beach, Baloo went to forward pitch on number 
two engine.  The Sea Duck spun in place, just in time for him to see 
Kit hit the water.  "*Get ready, Becky*!" shouted Baloo.  He headed 
across the cove at takeoff power.  The pirates opened fire from the 
shore.
    The water around Kit seemed alive--froth and fins were 
everywhere.  The safety of the shore was close, but Kit struck out 
for the approaching seaplane.  A four foot shark leapt out of the 
water ahead of him; he kept going.  The Sea Duck was almost on top of 
him.
    Baloo jockeyed the throttles, bringing the plane around in a hard 
turn.  The right propeller buzzed over Kit's head.  As the plane came 
around, Rebecca threw him the tow rope.  He caught it in the air.  
    Rebecca hit the intercom button.  "He's got it!  Go!"  
    Shots struck the Sea Duck's tail; Baloo again went to takeoff 
power.  Kit held the tow rope handle in the crook of his elbow as he 
was dragged through the water.  He reached inside his sweater and 
grabbed his airfoil.  Flicking it open, he held it beneath his 
stomach and skimmed over the surface.  Two shark fins converged on 
him from the front.  Kit tucked his legs beneath him and stood on the 
airfoil.  He pressed his heel down on its trailing edge and bounced 
into the air.  As the Sea Duck lifted off, Rebecca winched in the tow 
rope, drawing Kit in through the cargo hatch.  He fell into her arms.
    
    Gibber and Mad Dog ceased firing as Dumptruck ran up to join them 
on the beach.  "They're outta range!" whined Mad Dog.
    "I'm outta ammo." added Hal.
    "I'm outta breath!" panted Dumptruck.
    Gibber whispered in Dumptruck's ear.
    "Yaa, an' duh Cap'm's gonna take eet outta *us*!" said Dumptruck.  
"*To dah planes*!"
    
    "Kit!"  
    "Baloo!  We've gotta go after Karnage!"
    Baloo stared at his navigator--this was not the reunion he had 
been expecting.  "Karnage?!  His pirates are comin' after *us*!"
    "But--"
    "But, nothin'!  Right now, you an' Becky jus' stand by ta drop 
those cans!"  Baloo pulled into an Immelmann turn and headed back for 
the cove.  "We'll talk about this in a minute--*if* we're lucky!"
    Kit and Rebecca took hold of the emergency release cables for the 
underwing ice cream mixers, one on either side of the cockpit.
    
    Mad Dog and Gibber were first to get their fighters off the 
beach, followed closely by Dumptruck.  They started their takeoff 
runs across the cove.  Gibber spotted the Sea Duck coming at them 
head-on, ten feet above the water.  He squeezed himself down in his 
seat and gritted his teeth.
    
    "Now!" shouted Baloo.  Kit and Rebecca pulled the release cables.
    
    The Sea Duck was almost on top of him when Gibber saw three 
objects fall from under its wing.  One of them went wide to the 
right; the other two whizzed over his head and splashed behind his 
plane.  The Sea Duck roared past and Gibber breathed a sigh of 
relief.  Then something slammed into his plane from the side.
    The propeller of Mad Dog's plane ground to a stop, embedded eight 
inches behind Gibber's seat.  The first can had smashed into one of 
the Mad Dog's floats, throwing him into a turn.  The two fighters 
were jammed together.  Gibber cut his switches and put his head in 
his hands.
    "Eee-yeeew, sorry," said Mad Dog.
    
    The Sea Duck was so low that Dumptruck could have brought it down 
with a casually tossed brick, but he didn't have one.  As Baloo's 
plane passed overhead, Dumptruck saw two splashes in the water in 
front of him.  Then the world disappeared in a pink fog.  The fighter 
began to shake like Louie's Place on a Saturday night.  Wiping his 
eyes, Dumptruck saw that something had hit his plane squarely on the 
nose.  One propeller blade was bent back and the engine was tearing 
itself loose from its mountings.  From prop boss to rudder, 
everything was coated by a thick, sticky liquid.
    "Peppermeent," grumbled Dumptruck.  "I *hate* peppermeent."
    
    Baloo felt the tension in his shoulders relax as the Sea Duck 
climbed away from Halloween Cove.  "Okay," he sighed.  "Time ta go 
home."
    "Baloo, we can't!"  Kit's face spoke desperation.  "I found 
something, and Karnage took it!  I--I've *got* to get it back!"
    "*What'd* he take?!" insisted Baloo.  "Kit, what is goin' on 
here?!  Ya gotta tell me!"
    Kit looked up into the faces of Baloo and Rebecca--stern, 
worried, and questioning.  Plausible stories flashed through his 
mind--a treasure chest, a secret weapon--anything that might entice 
them to head for the Iron Vulture.  As much as he wanted to go back, 
though, Kit found that he couldn't lie to his friends any longer.  
"I...I don't know what it is--I don't understand it.  I don't even 
know if it's *real*.  All I know is...I *have* to find out!  Please!"
    Baloo had never seen Kit like this--confused, pleading, 
desperate.  He was pretty sure that his navigator could talk almost 
anybody into almost anything, but this was not the self-assured, 
persuasive Kit he knew.  Something had ripped away the confident, 
world-wise bravado, and left behind a lost and lonely child.
    "Okay, Lil' Britches.  We'll see what we can do."
    
    The smell of scorched algae filled the hanger deck of the Iron 
Vulture.  "*What* ees dat *horreeble stenching steenk*?!"  demanded 
Don Karnage.  He glared at the assembled pirates, who were waiting to 
see what sort of treasure was in the crash box.  "Have jou been 
letting *Dumptruck* do dee *coooking again*?!"  He waved a hand in 
front of his nose, trying to clear the air.
    Ratchet, the pirate mechanic, pushed back his welding goggles and 
shut off the cutting torch he had been using on the smashed padlock.  
"I think it's all the underwater gunk that was growin' on this thing, 
Cap'n."
    Don Karnage stopped waving and started slapping.  "*Eediot*!  Jou 
are making my most *handsome* nose run away from me!  Take dat 
*steenking-pot* to dee main hatchway!"
    The Iron Vulture's beak-like forward hatchway was not a place for 
the faint hearted.  When open, it was large enough for an airplane to 
pass through--which was, in fact, its purpose.  Its lower platform 
was fully exposed to the elements, suspended over empty air.  There 
were no railings of any kind.  Don Karnage stood discreetly up wind 
while Ratchet finished cutting the padlock off the crash box.
    Ratchet tossed the remains of the lock off the platform and 
unlatched the box.  He started to raise the lid, but a booted foot 
slammed it down again.  "*Ee-yow*!" he howled, nursing a pinched 
finger.
    "Ah-ah-AAAH!" chided Don Karnage.  "Rank has eets preevileges--
and *I* am dee *rankest* of dem *all*!"
    
    "Baloo, are you *really* going to *land* on the Iron Vulture?"  
Rebecca crouched at Baloo's left, speaking softly.  Kit was in the 
right seat, binoculars trained on the pirate airship.
    "I dunno, Becky," sighed Baloo.  "I'm makin' it up as I go along.  
If Karny thinks we're his own men bringin' in the Sea Duck, it oughta 
be easy enough ta get aboard.  Gettin' *out's* the tricky part!"
    "There's something happening at the forward hatch," Kit reported.  
"Head for the beak, Baloo!"
    
    "At last!  Dee moment I have *all* been waiting for!  To run my 
felonious feengers through *beauteeful, golden*--" Don Karnage threw 
back the lid of the crash box, "--...papers?  There ees nothing but 
*papers* een here!"  He shuffled through the contents of the box: 
charts, hand-written notes, tables, navigational calculations...  
Handfuls of documents were thrown to the wind as he searched.
    
    Kit saw papers scattering from the Iron Vulture's nose.  "He--
...he's throwing it overboard!  Get us down there, Baloo!"
    
    Don Karnage's rage was mounting, seeking a victim to be vented 
upon.  Something buzzed behind him, growing louder.  He turned and 
saw the Sea Duck headed straight at him.  The pirates hit the deck as 
the plane flashed by, but Don Karnage caught a glimpse of the 
cockpit.  "EET EES BAHLOOOOO!!" he shouted.  "And dat *meeserable* 
boy!"
    Brandishing his cutlass, Don Karnage roared at the Sea Duck.  
"*Jou want jour steenking box*?!  *Take eet*!!"  He kicked the crash 
box off the platform.
    
    "NOOOO!!"  Kit saw the box go over the edge; a cloud of paper 
swirled and expanded in all directions.  Baloo brought the Sea Duck 
around and headed back for the Iron Vulture.  Papers flashed past; 
some went through the propellers and were chopped to confetti.  Kit 
saw a white splash in the ocean a thousand feet below.  
    
    There was a moment of confusion on the Iron Vulture.  Pirates ran 
about--mostly away from the open hatch.  
    "GET---DAT---BEAR!!" ranted Don Karnage, bristling in utter 
frustration.  "I get so *tired* of saying dat!"
    
    Kit was transfixed by the sight of the floating papers; he barely 
noticed the first stream of tracers as the Iron Vulture's 
antiaircraft guns opened fire.  Baloo noticed them, and rolled the 
Sea Duck into an evasive turn.  
    Something smacked into the Plexiglas in front of Kit.  He jumped, 
thinking that they'd taken a hit, but whatever it was remained on the 
outside.  Kit looked at it closely; it was about eight inches square, 
and was vibrating in the airflow that kept it pressed against the 
windshield.  It was a photograph.  {Two people?} he thought.  The 
image was blurred by its motion on the windshield.
    Rebecca screamed as she saw Kit climb out his side window.  
Baloo's evasive action rocked the plane from side to side, and Kit's 
legs were about to slip out of the window frame.  Rebecca grabbed his 
knees and pulled.  "*Kit!  Don't*!"
    Kit inched himself around the corner of the windshield, half-
blinded by the wind blast.  The snarl of the propeller sounded close.  
He reached ahead and slapped a hand onto the windshield--nothing.  
Kit grabbed the metal frame and pulled himself forward.  At last he 
got his face in front of the windshield and opened his eyes.  {There 
it is!}  Kit reached for the photo, but his hand fell a few inches 
short.
    More antiaircraft guns opened fire from the airship.  Baloo 
jinked left, and Rebecca was thrown to the right.  Kit felt her hold 
relax slightly; he planted his foot against the window frame, pushing 
himself forward.  Again he reached across the outside of the 
windshield.  His hand slapped down on smooth Plexiglas.  Kit raised 
his eyes into the wind, but all he saw was Baloo's face looking out 
at him in shock.  The photograph was gone.
    Kit's body sagged; he slipped down against the outside of the 
fuselage.  Rebecca had renewed her grip; she dragged him back through 
the window.  As he was pulled inside, Kit's last view was straight 
down--down to the windswept sea.
    Kit had few clear memories of the flight back to Cape Suzette.  
He had vague impressions of Baloo going for altitude as the pirates 
launched their fighters; the smell of sour milk as Rebecca dumped the 
cargo; heavy caliber flak bursting nearby, like giant, black popcorn.  
Only two things stood out in his mind: the deep blue of the ocean, 
stretching to the horizon; and a pair of vapor-trails, swirling out 
behind the engines.  They painted a white path across the cloudless 
sky, leading all the way back to Halloween Island.
    
    A letter was waiting on Rebecca's desk at Higher for Hire.  Chris 
Fletcher had written to tell her that Part-hairn Island had bought 
Cape Suzette's surplus dairy cattle; they were going into the dairy 
business on their own.  Trading ships would be stopping regularly at 
Part-hairn, so the services of Higher for Hire were no longer 
required.  The arrangements had all been made through the kindness of 
Shere Kahn Enterprises.  She didn't show it, but Rebecca was 
immensely relieved.
    "Tell them not to bring in any goats," was all that Kit had to 
say.  He had scarcely said a word on the return flight, and Baloo and 
Rebecca had not pressed him.  He went slowly upstairs to bed.
    
    Weeks of sleeping days and working nights are not easily 
reversed; at 2:30 in the morning Rebecca was at her desk, working at 
putting Higher for Hire back on a daytime schedule.  Baloo sat 
morosely in an armchair; he had resigned himself to staying on at 
Higher for Hire.  They hadn't spoken to each other about Kit.
    A box kite fluttered over Cape Suzette harbor, tethered to the 
Sea Duck by a thin steel cable.  Kit sat in the cockpit, headphones 
and mic plugged into the LF radio panel.  "This is Sea Duck on two-
three-oh kilocycles, calling November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie.  Come 
in, please."  
    Kit waited.  He didn't really expect a reply.  "This is Sea Duck 
calling November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie.  Come in, please.  Over."  
There was no sound in his headphones at all--no static, nothing.  
{Silent as the grave,} he thought.  He kept trying.
    At last Kit hurried down the dock to Wildcat's houseboat, and 
shook the mechanic out of a sound sleep.  "Wildcat, you've gotta help 
me!  I must have rigged the aerial wrong--I'm not getting anything at 
all."
    Back in the cockpit, Wildcat flopped into the pilot's seat, 
yawned, and began to tinker with Baloo's HF radio.  
    "No, Wildcat, *this* one," said Kit.  "The *LF* radio."  He 
pointed to the right side of the instrument panel.
    "Oh," said Wildcat, looking groggily between the two radios.  
"Unnh, ya think ya got the aerial rigged wrong?"
    "I'm not sure.  I've got the trailing end up in the air on a 
kite."
    "Wow!" said Wildcat.  "Jus' like Benjamin--...unnh, Benjamin..."
    "Franklion?" prompted Kit.
    "No, Schwartz," said Wildcat.  "Where'd you plug-in the other 
end?"
    "By the antenna winch, like always."
    "Oh, well, that's yer problem!  If ya wannit ta work, you've 
gotta plug it inta my workbench."
    "Your workbench?"  Kit blinked at the mechanic.  "Ah, no, 
Wildcat."  Kit pointed.  "*This* radio--here in the panel."
    "Sure!  It's on my workbench.  I pulled the chassis ta try an' 
fix it--but I can't get the parts anymore."
    "You pulled...?  When'd you do that?  This afternoon?"
    "Oh, no--'bout six months ago."
    
    In the office, Baloo and Rebecca jumped at the sound of Kit's 
raised voice.  "*Six months*?!  No--*no*, Wildcat!  The *LF* radio--
see?!  Right *here*!  Here in the plane!"
    Rebecca got up and headed for the door.  
    "Hold on a minute, Becky," said Baloo.  "Maybe this is somethin' 
we need ta...let Kit work out on his own."
    "On his own?  Baloo, that boy needs help--and we're the only help 
he's got!  Something's eating him up inside!"
    "I know, but...he don't wanna *talk* about it!  Maybe later..."
    "Baloo, Kit needs a friend *right now*!  Whether he talks about 
it or not--even if he says nothing at all!  He needs to know that 
we're there.  Are you coming?"  She started out the door.
    Baloo followed quickly.  "Rebecca, wait," he called.  "Ah, how 
come *yer* so worried about Kit?"
    Rebecca turned back, blinking in surprise at the question.  
"Because I love him, Baloo.  Like he was my own son."  She gave him a 
weak smile.  "Just like you do."
    
    "Gee, I was pretty sure I pulled it--an' then screwed the panel 
back in," said Wildcat.  "Lemme take a look."  He took a screwdriver 
out of his pajama pocket and unfastened the LF-radio front-panel.  
The bottom of the panel was hinged; it opened outward.  Behind it was 
an empty cavity.  
    Kit stared into the dark, rectangular hole.  {Empty,} he thought.  
He put his hand into the opening.  {Still empty.}  There hadn't been 
an LF radio in the Sea Duck for six months.
    "Maybe it's hiding," said Wildcat.  "*They do that*," he 
whispered.
    "Ah...umm--yeah.  Thanks, Wildcat.  G'night."
    "G'night, Kit," said Wildcat cheerily.
    
    Kit sat alone in the cockpit, looking down into the hole where 
the LF radio chassis had once been.  He felt the metal rails that 
would have supported it.  He looked at the backside of the microphone 
and headphone jacks, screwed into the panel.  He ran his fingers over 
the neatly clipped ends of the wires that were soldered to them.  
    It was an awfully deep hole--Kit wouldn't have believed that 
there was that much room behind the instrument panel.  He peered into 
it closely, and something shiny caught his eye.  Reaching in, he felt 
his way through a tangle of wires and tubes, upward--toward the 
windshield frame.  His fingers touched something smooth and flat and 
flexible; he drew it out.
    It was the photograph--the one that had blown against the 
windshield.  Somehow it had worked its way through the window 
framing, down behind the instrument panel.  It was a family photo--a 
young couple and a small boy.  A tall, dark bear in a trench coat 
held the boy in his arms and smiled gently at the camera.  The boy, 
perhaps two or three years old, was looking up bright-eyed at his 
mother, an elegant lioness.  She was smiling back at him, as if they 
were sharing a secret.  Hardly breathing, Kit gazed at the scene--for 
how long, he couldn't tell.
    "Nice picture."
    Kit looked up, startled; Baloo and Rebecca were behind him.  His 
hand darted below the seat, hiding the photo.  He looked up at the 
others guiltily.
    Baloo leaned back against the pilot's seat.  "Kit," he said.  
"Anything you wanna...keep to yerself--that's fine.  But...if there 
was somethin' ya thought ya could...share with us, I...unnh--*we'd* 
sure like ta help."
    Reluctantly, Kit brought out the photograph and handed it to 
Baloo.  He turned away while Baloo and Rebecca looked it over.
    "Kit, is that--?" began Baloo.  "That's *you*, isn't it?"
    "I...think so."
    "With your parents?" asked Rebecca.
    Kit nodded and looked away.
    "Kit, that's not anything you have to be...ashamed of," said 
Rebecca.  
    "That's right, Little Britches," said Baloo.  "More like 
somethin'...ta be proud of.  An' to remember."
    
    Baloo, Kit, and Rebecca looked at the photo together for a long 
time.  Then the family walked back up the dock, toward home.  The 
sound of an airplane, high overhead, filtered down through the dark 
sky.
    *Worraworraworraworraworra*.
    
    
    
Copyright 1997, by Jim Kellogg

November-Bravo-four-two-Charlie, Chris Fletcher, and J. Halbert 
Gnawlington Copyright 1997, by Jim Kellogg

All other characters Copyright Disney Enterprises

This story first appeared in the December 1996 and February 1997 
issues of "Where The Fun Begins" (W.T.F.B.), an Amateur Press 
Association (APA).

Jim
kellogg@suzie.nrl.navy.mil