TaleSpin: Belle, Book, And Swindle By Jim Kellogg Part 1 of 3 By the time she heard the Sea Duck's engines overhead, Rebecca Cunningham had already run through her entire range of emotional reactions to an all-too familiar situation. When the plane was only half-an-hour overdue she had nervously tried to make small-talk with her waiting clients, hoping they wouldn't notice the time. As the delay reached an hour she grew tight- lipped with anger, and paced up and down the seaplane dock at Higher for Hire. At two hours she became anxious, fearing disaster for plane, cargo, and Baloo and Kit, her flight crew. With the plane three hours late Rebecca fell into despair; she told herself that, no matter what had happened, she was to blame. At four hours she was in a rage. She stood with clenched fists, well away from her clients, muttering curses at Baloo under her breath. If the Sea Duck had arrived during any one of these phases, Rebecca would have been at a disadvantage. Baloo was an expert at reading her moods; he could apply just the right amount of innocence, charm, or repentance to get around his boss. But this evening, with the Sea Duck five hours late, Rebecca had nothing left but cold determination. She was going to throw the book at him. The Sea Duck's propellers snarled into reverse pitch as it came alongside the dock. Rebecca's clients walked to the flying boat's aft cargo hatch and began unloading crates of fresh fish, packed in largely melted ice. That night, in many of Cape Suzette's best restaurants, the Catch of the Day would only be enjoyed by the crowd that dined late. The fish merchants worked quickly, but stiffly, and without a word or a glance at Rebecca. She had seen this body language before; they would not be calling on Higher for Hire again. The Sea Duck's cockpit door opened and Baloo tumbled out. "Typhoon! Hurricane! Cyclone!" he wailed. "Two hundred mile-an-hour winds! We fought 'em for hours! Thunderheads like mountains! Oh, Becky--we just barely made it back alive!" Stone faced, Rebecca ignored her pilot's tirade. She noticed a number of fresh stains on Baloo's flight shirt and pointed them out calmly. "Cream gravy, guacamole, Tabasco sauce, and-- ah...bacon grease." Baloo was taken off-guard. "Huh? Uh, yeah! The tornado blew this diner off the ground and up into the air. We flew right through it! Right, Kit?" Kit Cloudkicker stepped down from the cockpit, embarrassed, but ready to back-up his Papa Bear. "Oh--right, Baloo! Lucky we missed that cloud of boiling hot coffee!" Again Rebecca paid no attention. She thought out loud, to no one in particular: "Bacon grease...hmmm, today's Wednesday...dinnertime...Tabasco...*Ah ha!* Louie's Chicken- Fried Taco Special!" Baloo's jaw dropped. He'd been caught red-shirted. "Oops." "Just help unload the cargo," said Rebecca. "Then come to my office." She stalked up the dock. Kit came over to Baloo. "Boy, Papa Bear, she can read you like a book." The pilot looked down at his shirt front. "More like a menu," he said. It had been an uneventful day at the Cape Suzette Museum of Art, just as the public and the museum management preferred. This made things rather dull for the uniformed guard force, just as they preferred. Stanley, a guard dog, was decidedly bored as he trooped through the building. "Closing time," he announced to an empty gallery. There was only one person in the next gallery: a tall and, it seemed to Stanley, very attractive vixen. She was studying a display case against the far wall, her back turned. As Stanley crossed the room he noticed that she held a large handbag, and was wearing a frilly broad-brimmed hat, a floor length skirt, and white gloves. He also noticed that he was no longer bored. "Pardon me, Miss, but the museum's closing. Say, what's that lovely perfume you're wearing?" She wheeled, and Stanley got a brief impression of flowered hat and green eyes before he was sprayed full in the face with a perfume atomizer. "Whoa! Chloroform Number Five!" he choked. "My wife's favorite." A nearby statue suddenly seemed to be doing the hula. Stanley's knees buckled; he slumped forward against the statue, which might have been able to support him had it not lost its arms some 1600 years ago. Bonnie Ann Clyde had chosen her moment carefully. She knew that, apart from the unfortunate Stanley, she was now alone in this wing of the museum. In less than two minutes she pried and cut her way into the display case that she had been examining earlier. The heavy leather-bound volume inside slipped neatly into her handbag, along with her tools. Then she stepped behind a hanging tapestry. There were some things a lady didn't do in the presence of a man--even an unconscious one. Reaching behind her, Bonnie undid a fastener at the back of her skirt. She removed her flowing, artificial fox-tail and draped it across her shoulders as a stole. The vulpine ears that had protruded from the crown of her hat went into her handbag. No one noticed the fashionably dressed bear who left the museum by a side door. Rebecca sat at her desk in the office of Higher for Hire and looked around at rough boards, exposed plumbing, and dust. The furniture looked as if it had fallen, one piece at a time, off delivery trucks that were bound for furniture galleries with utterly dissimilar styles. If only, she thought, she could find the right formula--the right gimmick--the right combination of management, salesmanship, and innovation, she knew she could turn her small air service into a roaring success. As she had often before, she mentally began to redecorate the room to reflect her future affluence: paneled and plastered walls with floral wallpaper (pastels, nothing too flashy), coordinating curtains, recessed lighting, chrome and glass trim... The sight of Wildcat, hunched over a table made from a packing crate, brought Rebecca back to reality. The mechanic was surrounded by tools, vacuum tubes, and various obscure widgets, and he held the handle of a soldering iron in his mouth. Molly sat next to him, watching with the awe and fascination that only a six-year old can muster. "Is my radio fixed yet?" asked Rebecca. "Almost, Mommy. We've been working real hard." Rebecca smiled at her daughter. "I'll bet you have, sweetie." She turned back to the large Morocco-bound book on her desk. Under the heading: 'Chapter Three: Motivating Your Employees' she read a passage for the fourth time: Aviators are free-spirits, accustomed to roaming where their hearts and their flying instincts take them. No amount of clock- watching and bean-counting is going to change that. Fliers need inspiration; offering an incentive bonus, such as a vacation, will bring much better results than whatever satisfaction they might derive from the knowledge that they have met *your* schedule. Rebecca snapped the book shut decisively. "I've got your number this time, Baloo," she said. "It was number eleven today, Mommy." Rebecca looked up and blinked at Molly. "What was?" "Oh, we got Baloo's excuses numbered so we can keep track of 'em," said Wildcat, shoveling loose parts into the back of a wooden radio cabinet. "Number one's air pirates, number eight's sea monsters, number four's--" "Thank you, Wildcat. I've heard them." Wildcat picked up the radio, switched it on, and began walking slowly. Static buzzed and warbled as he shifted it. "Then you'll yell at him--maybe lecture three today--" "You've been numbering me, too?!" "Uh, oh, maybe even number six." Wildcat and the radio now seemed to be dancing a polka, with the radio leading. Its electrical cord trailed over his shoulder. Garbled fragments of programming broke through the static. "Ya know, he's got more excuses than you got lectures." "Well, maybe I can come up with some new ones for you." Wildcat pirouetted, wobbling a bit, holding the radio aloft on the palm of one hand. He froze as a clear voice cut through the static. "--Museum of Art. Police are seeking an unknown woman who stole the inestimably rare and valuable Da Ginci Folio earlier this evening. A generous reward has been--" Wildcat switched the set off, still holding it over his head. "Radio works fine up here, Miz Cunningham." "I want it to work on the table, not up there." "Really? This is the way mine works." Rebecca's sigh was interrupted as Baloo, Kit, and the odor of fish came through the door. "Uh, Becky--" began Baloo. Rebecca cut him off. "Baloo, every time you're late it costs Higher for Hire money." She rose and circled around her desk to face him. "I'm tired of your excuses, I'm tired of losing money, and I'm tired of yelling at you about it. So I'm going to try something different." She let that sink in for a moment, then continued. "I've got an ace up my sleeve--something that's going to solve your little problem of being late--" Rebecca reached behind her for the book, and held it up proudly. "--'How to Run a Successful Air Service.'" Baloo's expression flashed from apprehension to amusement. "Another book?" he scoffed. "The Sea Duck flew upside down for a week while you read 'Instrument Flying Made Easy.' Aw, Becky, these know-it-all books are written by desk jockeys, not pilots." Rebecca was at that moment leaning back against the desk that she personally jockeyed, but she let the slight pass. "This one is by Freddie Stickelbacker," she said. Baloo's expression changed again--this time to awe. "Ace- high of the aces?" "The fastest thing on wings?" put in Kit. Baloo snatched the book from Rebecca's hands and began flipping through it. "Does it tell about the time he won the Tompkins Trophy with his empennage on fire?" "It tells how to manage an air service efficiently and profitably," said Rebecca, retrieving her book. "And its already given me a great idea." Baloo looked pained, as he often did after hearing his boss say the words 'great idea'. "If you can make all of your deliveries on time for the next three months, I'll give you a two week vacation--with pay." "You mean it?" Rebecca nodded, and Baloo's face lit up. He took a step forward, and Rebecca thought for an instant that he was going to hug her. Instead, he grabbed the book and hugged it. "Man-oh- man! Freddie Stickelbacker, you are one hot-shot pilot!" "I told you I had an 'ace' up my sleeve," said Rebecca. Baloo's groan was the most satisfying part of her day. The Barracuda, a sleek 40-foot cabin cruiser, lay at anchor in a quiet corner of Cape Suzette Harbor. Its brass fittings and spotless paintwork gleamed in the morning sun--shining proof of its first owner's love for his boat. He had also loved playing the horses, and had chosen the wrong bookie. Now the Barracuda's only purpose was to carry its new owner from point A to point B. A stack of fuel drums was scratching the teakwood of the after- deck, as the next point B was several hundred miles away. A speedboat carrying two formidable-looking Goons roared alongside the cruiser. They both jumped aboard at the same time, causing the Barracuda to roll heavily and almost throw them into the water. Ape Goon tied the speedboat's bow-line to the cruiser's rail while his companion, Rhino, carried a crudely wrapped package down the ladder to the main cabin. Ape followed. In the cabin, a small reptilian figure sat behind a massive desk. "We got it, Boss! We got da rare book." "An' dair's not many of dem, neither." "'Cos dey're rare." "Hard ta find, too." Trader Moe looked up from a stack of papers; he was skeptical about his Goons's claim. He often wondered if he might do better with Henchmen instead of mere Goons. But Goons came cheaper, and Henchmen were sometimes know to get Ideas. "So, youse found da lady dat swiped it, huh? How much'd she want fer da book?" "Gee, Boss, we didn't see no lady." "Was no lady in da phone booth." "Just some guy on da phone." "Phone booth? What phone booth?" Trader Moe yanked the package from Rhino's grip. He unwrapped a few layers of newspaper to find a dog-eared Cape Suzette telephone directory. Its metal binding, which trailed a length of light chain, showed that it had indeed been pulled out of a phone booth. "A phone book? I tell youse ta find me dee inestimably rare an' valuable Da Ginci Folio, an' youse bring me a phone book?!" "Dey're awful rare," said Ape. "We checked every booth in town before we found one dat still had da book." "What?!" Trader Moe bellowed. "I think somebody steals dem." Trader Moe was stunned. "I don't believe dis! Where did youse Goons learn ta be so stoopid?!" "Gee, back in Goon School, I guess." "Yeah, yeah; GS-84." "We was on da brass knuckles team." The Goons lumbered into cheer-leading routine, chanting tunelessly: Fight for Alma Mater Goon. Raise our colors, Black an' Blue. Twist dair arms an'-- "Will you shaddap wit' da cheer-leadin', already?!" A two- Goon pyramid collapsed in the earthquake of Trader Moe's wrath. "Now try an' take da *stoopid* outta yer ears an' listen--I can get big money fer dat book. Find da dame dat's got it, an' bring 'er here! An' make *nice* to her--wit' her stealin' an' me sellin', I could make a fortune!" "Sure, Boss; find da lady wit' da book." "Da book--right. Be nice to da book." "Da lady." "Da lady wit' da nice book." Trader Moe picked up the phone book and slammed it down on Ape's head. "Now get goin'!" The Goons had started up the ladder when Trader Moe called them back. "Wait a minute." He waved at the phone book lying on the deck. "Lemme see dat." Rhino hurriedly picked up the book and handed it to his Boss. Trader Moe promptly slammed it down on Rhino's head. "Now go find da lady wit' da book!" There was only one thing that Kit Cloudkicker really disliked about his life at Higher for Hire: he occasionally found himself forced into the role of Baloo's conscience. It made him feel terribly petty when he had to remind his beloved Papa Bear of neglected responsibilities, especially when it might seem like a criticism of Baloo's flying. As he looked out of the Sea Duck's right cockpit window, Kit knew it was going to be one of those times. He wasn't sure if the lump in his throat came at the thought of nagging his friend, or at the sight of the white- capped ocean rushing by only twenty feet below. Baloo's spirits were running much higher than the plane. "Oh, baby, two weeks vacation! Maybe we'll borrow Louie's floating barbecue grill, and go inner-tubeing down the Jackeloupe River." "Baloo, aren't we--" "Or water-skiing in Tropicannistan!" "Baloo!" "Or Torporia! Oh, yeah, two weeks in Torporia!" Kit was distracted from his worries for a moment. "What's there to do in Torporia?" Baloo grinned. "Nothin'! My favorite sport!" Kit hoped the edge in his voice would be masked by the growl of the engines. "You've gotta be on time for three months to get that vacation, *including* today. Aren't we flying awfully low?" "Yeah, I love that fresh salt air. Besides," Baloo's smile grew fainter "this is as high as we can get." "What?! We can't be *that* overloaded--can we?" Baloo said nothing; Kit unstrapped and ran aft to check the cargo. He had been busy getting the latest weather information just prior to take-off, and had left the final loading to Baloo. A quick glance at the day's freight manifest and the crates in the cargo bay told Kit the story. He returned to the cockpit. "Baloo, we're hauling *two* full cargo loads!" "Hey, they're both goin' to the same place--why make two trips? This way we'll have time to hit the malt shop when we get to Vanilla Bay." "Eight-hundred tuned anvils for the Symphonic Anvil Chorus, plus three-thousand bowling balls for the Super Bowl-a-Thon? That puts a big strain on the Sea Duck!" "Aw, relax, kid. The Duck an' me'll lift any load you can close the doors behind--and a few that you can't!" A formation of flying fish leaped out of the ocean ahead of the plane. Their out-spread fins glistened as they glided over the Sea Duck and splashed back into water astern. Kit shook his head. "Baloo, there's fish flying higher than we are." Despite his misgivings, Kit had to admire the way Baloo handled the plane. The Sea Duck was riding on a slight cushion of air between the underside of its wings and the water's surface: what the aerodynamics eggheads call "ground effect." To do this, Baloo had to maintain an altitude that was less than the plane's wingspan--a very tricky piece of flying. There was little margin for error, and the gusty wind and rolling ocean swell didn't help. Still, they made the run to Vanilla Bay intact, without ever getting above forty feet. In the crowded waters of Vanilla Bay, Baloo had to dodge around a rusty tramp steamer and a gleaming white cruise ship-- the plane was too low to fly over them. With a clear stretch of water ahead, Baloo eased back on the throttles, preparing to set down in the harbor. "Better hang on, kid. The water looks a bit rough today." The Sea Duck dropped suddenly into the water and hit a wave head-on. Kit was shoved down into his seat, then thrown against his straps so hard that it almost knocked the wind out of him. Salt water crashed into the spinning propellers and was flung hard against the sides of the fuselage. Both engines quit as water smothered the carburetors. Then came a burst of sharp cracks, sounding to Kit like machine gun fire. Tiny metallic projectiles whizzed and ricocheted through the cabin. "Air pirates!" Baloo shouted. "We're under attack!" Foamy water streamed over the cockpit windows as Kit desperately searched for their attackers. He knew they were helpless, wallowing in an overloaded plane in the choppy waves. But how could pirates attack them in a crowded harbor, during broad daylight? The Sea Duck lurched in the swell, and another burst slashed the cockpit. "Eeyow! I'm hit!" Kit turned to face his friend, his eyes wide with sudden terror. Baloo was wincing in pain; he had slapped a hand onto the back of his head. Their eyes met, and for a moment they sat frozen. Then Baloo slowly brought his hand down. In his palm was...a broken aircraft rivet. "Aw, nuts!" snorted Baloo. "We popped some rivets in the bottom!" The Sea Duck's cockpit looked like a fountain. Thin streams of water were squirting in from rows of small holes along the sides. Baloo turned on the bilge pumps, but the plane was settling lower and lower. Kit unstrapped and splashed around the cockpit; he didn't know where to begin. "There's leaks all over! What do we do?" "Hand me that bunch of pencils down there!" "Baloo, we don't have time to *write* to the Coast Guard!" Kit grabbed a large bundle of pencils from a pocket in the corner. He had known it was there--there was also a hand-cranked pencil sharpener on the aft bulkhead. But Kit had never seen Baloo use them, nor could he think why he wanted them now. Baloo took a pencil, knelt down, and jammed the point into one of the rivet holes--one leak stopped. He broke off the pencil just above the point and kept going; plug--snap, plug-- snap. "I knew these would come in handy some day." Kit took a handful of pencils and jammed them into other leaks. Then he took the broken stubs and began sharpening furiously. As he worked, Kit noticed that most of the pencils were marked "Balou's Air Service" in gold letters. He smiled inwardly at the thought of Papa Bear hanging onto these pencils-- even with his name spelled wrong. They came from a time when Baloo and the Sea Duck had been as free as air, wanting only a song with a beat, some good food, and the next fill-up of 100 octane avgas. The rivet holes in the cockpit were soon plugged, but the Sea Duck was still sinking. "We gotta check the bilge!" Baloo rushed to open the small access hatch in the deck while Kit grabbed a flashlight. The water level was about a foot below the deck, and rising. "I'll plug--you sharpen!" Kit was through the hatch before Baloo could answer, pencils and flashlight in hand. He crawled toward the nose, feeling more than seeing the leaks, jamming in the makeshift plugs. Baloo peered forward through the hatch, into the cramped space below the cockpit deck; the leaks were still gaining. "Don't you get trapped in there!" he called. "I'm okay, Papa Bear." Kit's voice echoed out the hatch. "I'm gonna need more pencils." Baloo sharpened pencils like mad. The sharpener became hard to turn--he almost ripped it off the bulkhead. Its cover had clogged; Baloo pulled it off, and pencil shavings flew everywhere. The Sea Duck took a wave broadsides, wallowing in the swell. "Kit, come outta there *now!*" Baloo yelled. Part 2 of 3 The Sea Duck took a wave broadsides, wallowing in the swell. "Kit, come outta there *now!*" Baloo yelled. "Wait--I think I found something!" Kit was up next to the nose gear well, running his hands along the plane's bottom. A panel had been dished in; all the rivets along one side of it were gone, seawater was running in through the gap. Kit ducked under the water and pressed down on the bent panel--it didn't move. He tried again--nothing. When he surfaced, Kit found that there was barely enough room to keep his head above water. He put his feet on the upturned piece of aluminum skin, wedged his shoulders against the deck above, and shoved with all his strength. After a few seconds--*thunk*, and Kit went sprawling in the water. Recovering his flashlight, he crawled back to the nose gear well. The panel had snapped back down, closing off the seam. Kit jammed pencils into the empty rivet holes, then sloshed aft to the hatch. "Man, am I glad to see you!" Baloo lifted his dripping navigator onto the deck. "I was afraid I'd loose you *and* the Duck." "I just hope we stopped enough of those leaks," said Kit. In minutes it was clear that the bilge pumps were at last winning the battle. After several tries, Baloo got the engines restarted, running the pumps on the generator instead of the batteries. The Sea Duck's engines complained noisily as Baloo taxied over to the seaplane terminal. "Vanilla Bay Symphonic Anvil Chorus? Sign here, please." The shipping clerk was used to the colorful ways of cargo pilots. He scarcely noticed that the aviator with the clipboard was soaking wet and covered in pencil shavings--some wild party, no doubt. But he was surprised when he was offered an inch-long soggy pencil-stub with which to sign. "I'm proud of you, Baloo," said Rebecca. "Despite the damage, you delivered your cargo on time." It was sunset, and the Sea Duck was parked on its wheels at a seaplane ramp near Higher for Hire. Rebecca, Baloo, and Wildcat were inspecting the plane. "Uh, Becky, about those popped rivets...Ya know, I--uh, sorta..." Baloo's voice trailed off, and Wildcat interrupted. "Hey, Baloo, the Sea Duck needs a shave!" Wildcat pointed under the plane, where pencil points stuck out like stubble. "Whadeeya think she'd like--electric or safety razor? I use a hose-clamp myself." Rebecca put in quickly "Wildcat, how long to fix the plane?" "'Bout half-a-day for the sheet metal work, then a half-day to overhaul the engines...How long is that?" Rebecca was surprised. "The engines? What's wrong with the engines?" "Got some burned valves, or maybe indigestion, sounds like. Prob'ly the strain of carryin' all that water, huh, Baloo?" Baloo hadn't been listening closely. "Oh--uh, prob'ly." "But we've got a very important delivery at noon tomorrow!" said Rebecca. "The Sea Duck's got to be ready!" Wildcat scratched his head. "Well, I guess I could do the rivets tonight, an' the engines in the morning." "Good. You do that," ordered Rebecca. Wildcat picked up a toolbox and climbed into the plane. Rebecca walked around the plane's nose, looking over the damage, and Baloo followed sheepishly. She crouched down and made her way under the fuselage to get a closer look. In the Sea Duck's bilge, Wildcat crawled through water four inches deep; pencil stubs floated everywhere. He pulled a large mallet out of the toolbox to jar loose the plugs... "I'm really worried about the Sea Duck, Baloo," began Rebecca. "It almost--" There was a metallic *thud*, and oily water showered down on her. "Eeeyew--yuck!" One advantage of being a Goon is that the feeling of being humiliated is beyond your understanding. After the reference librarian at the Cape Suzette Public Library had had them tossed out in the street for insisting, much too loudly, that "Da Boss wants ta see ya!" the Goons continued their search for "Da lady wit' da book" without the slightest bit of self-consciousness. They were considering their next candidate, a notebook-carrying meter maid on the far side of the street, when they were approached by an elegantly dressed young lioness wearing a broad- brimmed hat and carrying a large handbag. "Well, hello there!" said the stranger in a magnolia-scented voice. "Aren't y'all the big, strong Goons who work for Trader Moe? It would be just so *precious* if y'all could take me to see him. I have a little something that he might like to--" "Beat it, Sister," interrupted Rhino. "We don't give no autographs." "No, no, we don't. We can't write." The Goons hurried across the street; Bonnie stared after them. "Well, I declare. Goons can be so *tacky!*" Rebecca was at her desk early the next morning. She was studying a chapter in "How to Run a Successful Air Service" called 'Your Aging Air-Fleet: Repair or Replace?' when Baloo came down from the room he shared with Kit on the top floor. Kit had gone out earlier to help Wildcat. "Morning, Becky," yawned Baloo. Rebecca seemed to be bubbling over with cheerfulness. "Good morning, Baloo! I brought some donuts to share." She held out a paper bag. "Hey, thanks, Beckers!" Baloo scooped out three donuts and pulled up a chair. Rebecca took one for herself and nibbled at it. "Oh, you're welcome! Ah...Baloo, what do you know about the Frankieford Sea Cruiser?" "The Sea Cruiser? Hoo-wee, baby!" Talking airplanes with his mouth full of donuts was Baloo's idea of how a day should start. "That ship's as slick as they come!" He took a few more donuts. Rebecca showed him an open magazine. "Really? I found this ad in Fly Boy Magazine--new Sea Cruisers for ninety-thousand dollars." Baloo eagerly looked over the ad--Frankieford believed the spirit of their aircraft was best illustrated by female models in small bathing suits. "Whoa, that's an incredible price, but its still more than *we* can afford," he said, reaching again for the bag of donuts. "Oh, I don't know; with the right collateral we can get a loan. And with a bigger, faster plane we'll do more business and--" Rebecca reached into the empty bag and her tone sharpened suddenly. "Hey! I thought we were going to share!" "We did," chuckled Baloo. "You just didn't share fast enough." Baloo leaned back, put his feet on the desk, and continued. "Anyway, Becky, what do we need another plane for? I may be a great pilot, but I can still only fly one plane at a time." He paused, and took his feet off the desk. "Uh, say, what did you mean about 'the right collateral'?" "Well...Freddie Stickelbacker says that when a plane becomes unreliable...its most efficient to...ah... replace it with a new one." "What?!" Baloo was on his feet so fast his chair tumbled across the room. "Now hold on, Ree-becka! You can't replace the Sea Duck! Not my baby!" "Your 'baby' almost fell apart from old age yesterday!" "But that was--" Rebecca waited for her pilot to finish. He didn't. "What?" "Uh...just bad luck--landing in rough water!" "Baloo, we can't afford luck like that." Rebecca started toward the front door. "You and I are going to test fly the Sea Cruiser this morning. Let's go." "But--but I...It wasn't--" Baloo found himself stammering to an empty room. He hurried after Rebecca. Outside, it was Wildcat who got to Rebecca first. "We finished with the new rivets, Miz Cunningham." "Good. Now you can start on the engines." Rebecca took Baloo by the elbow and hurried off. "Sure thing, Miz Cunningham," said Wildcat. The Sea Cruiser was huge: four engines, twin tails, and the nose section opened up as a cargo door big enough to drive a truck through. It dwarfed the other planes on the tarmac at Cape Suzette Field. Rebecca was impressed: "Isn't it beautiful, Baloo?" "I can't do it, Becky! Its like betraying my best friend!" Rebecca grabbed her pilot by the collar and looked him straight in the eyes. "Listen, Baloo, we're taking this test flight," she growled. "If that plane leaves the ground, and you're not on it, you'll regret it. *Maybe* not today, and *maybe* not tomorrow, but *soon*--and for the *rest* of your *life!*" She turned and stomped into the plane. "Of all the split-flap, flush-rivet, ground-poundin' lousy deals--" Baloo kicked one of the planes tires as hard as he could. "Eeee-yesss, may I help you?" A hippo salesman with a bristly mustache appeared from nowhere. "Oooo, I see you've noticed our white-wall landing gear. Ready for your test flight?" Baloo was hustled onto the plane before he knew what was happening. A short while later the Sea Cruiser was slipping through broken clouds 8000 feet above Cape Suzette. In the Art Deco style cockpit, Baloo, silent and sullen, flew from the left seat, while Rebecca shuffled through a stack of colorful brochures in the co-pilot's seat. The salesman stood behind and between them. "Oh, I just love that new-plane scent," sighed Rebecca. "Is this plane really only ninety-thousand dollars?" "That's our special price for the standard model. Of course, options, tax, registration and dealer-prep are additional." The salesman handed Rebecca another flashy brochure. "Here's a listing of our option packages--like this modern-design cockpit interior." "Plush velvet seats, optional," read Rebecca. Baloo muttered something about 'Rich Corinthian Leather.' The salesman pressed a small button on the instrument panel, and a cupholder popped out between the seats. "This is one of our most popular features," he said. "Holds coffee cups, soda bottles, or oxygen tanks." "Well, I guess that *might* come in handy," admitted Baloo. Rebecca noticed something in the back of one of the brochures. "Hey, this says that the propellers are optional." "Ground-adjustable, two-position, constant-speed, full- feathering, or reversible-pitch!" pattered the salesman. "But look down here! Stain resistant floor mats--standard!" Baloo leaned over and squinted at the fine print on Rebecca's brochure. "The engines are optional too!" "Radial, in-line, normally aspirated, supercharged, turbocharged, or overcharged! Ah, did you notice the high-gloss metallic paint-job?" asked the salesman nervously. Rebecca found another surprise. "Optional *wings?!*" "We want your aircraft to be custom-tailored to your individual taste!" Baloo put the plane into a hard bank, so that the salesman had to hang onto the back of the pilot's seat. "Look, you Sea Cruisin' shark, how much for a plane that can *fly?!* One with props, engines, *and* wings?!" "Well, I believe our lowest *flyaway* price is...ah...two- hundred thirty-five thousand. But this week only you get a five- hundred dollar rebate!" Rebecca gaped. "*Two-hundred thirty five!*" She shook with rage for a few seconds, then crumpled the brochure and stuffed it into the cupholder. "Take us back to the field, Baloo. Only pigeons fly in this plane." On the way back from the airfield Baloo used every boss- persuading trick he had ever learned to convince Rebecca that the Sea Duck didn't need to be replaced. He had just about succeeded as they walked up to Higher for Hire. "So now do you see that popping those rivets was just a fluke? Ole Freddie Stickelbacker missed the boat on this one!" "Oh, I guess you're right," said Rebecca. "Still, I'm lucky to have that book. Its very rare, you know." "How much did it cost you, anyway?" asked Baloo. "It was a steal!" Baloo headed off to check on Wildcat's progress while Rebecca went back to her office. Just outside the front door, the Goons emerged from behind a large stack of crates. "You hear dat?" asked Rhino. "We found da lady wit' da book!" "Yeah, yeah. Now we take her to da Boss." Rebecca was startled by the unexpected entrance of the Goons. They crossed the room to her desk in their best tough-guy manner. "May I help you?" asked Rebecca. "Are you da lady wit' da rare book?" "My book? Why its--" Rhino interrupted with his carefully prepared speech. "Da Boss wants ta see ya." "And da book," added Ape. "Wants it real bad." Rebecca began to feel very small behind her desk. "Who are you?" The Goons were mystified by this question; it had never come up before. "Unnnh...we works for da Boss." "Right! We do what da Boss says. 'Cause he's da Boss." "An' da Boss wants to see ya." "Well, who is your boss?" asked Rebecca. Once again, the Goons were stumped. "Oh, he's...unnnh...he's da guy we work for?" "Yeah, da Boss! Sometimes he pays us." The Goon's uncertainty gave Rebecca back her confidence. "Oh, I get it! Some other air company wants to get hold of my book! Well, I'm not selling it! Tell your boss its no deal!" "Da Boss won't like us ta tell him dat." "He gets mad." "Soes if ya don't come see da Boss, maybe we'll have ta bust up dis joint!" Rhino picked up a chair. "Yeah, bust it! What you think of dat?" Ape picked up a table. "I--I don't think that would be very nice," stammered Rebecca. Rhino froze in mid-swing with the chair. "Not nice?" "Oooo! The Boss says we got to be nice!" Ape caught the table before it hit the floor. "Can we bust up a joint nice?" "Never tried it like dat." "Okay, lady, we tell da Boss its no deal." "No deal. An' we don't bust up da joint." "We don't get no fun at all." "But we're nice." The Goons put down the furniture and walked out, leaving Rebecca to ponder the mystery of Goon logic. Kit and Baloo were walking back from the seaplane ramp, and spotted the Goons leaving Higher for Hire. "Baloo, look! Aren't those Trader Moe's Goons?" "Hey, you're right, Little Britches!" Baloo lengthened his stride to intercept the Goons. "Wonder what they're doin' around here? Well, we better get rid of 'em, before they do it!" Baloo was all smiles as he approached the Goons. "Hey, great surprise, Goon-Guys! Rhino's memory was chancy at best, but sometimes it worked. "Ain't you dat pilot-guy an' da kid?" "That's right, Baloo's the name!" "And me--Kit Cloudkicker!" The Goons had a quick conference. "Hey, dey got names!" "Yeah!" said Ape; he pointed at Kit. "An' he's got *two* of dem!" "All ta himself!" "Don't you Goons have names?" asked Baloo. "Nah, dey don't give no names in Goon School." "Just learned how ta bust up a joint." "An' how ta say 'Da Boss wants ta see ya.'" Kit gave them a sympathetic look. "You shouldn't have stopped at Goon School. You should have gotten your Henchman's Degrees." "Henchman?" Baloo took Kit's lead. "Right, Kit, at the Henchman Academy! They give swell names...like Mugsy or Spike." Ape's eyes glittered with anticipation. "Or--or Ponsonby Britt?" "Sure, classy names!" said Kit. "You can enroll now! Its *waaay* over on the other side of town." "Yeah! We're gonna be Henchmen!" "Wow! Better dan Goon!" The Goons started off at a run. Baloo called after them: "Don't forget--that's the Henchman Academy! Spelled P-o-l-i-c- e!" He struggled not to laugh out loud. "Great call, Kit! That oughta keep 'em busy for a while!" A pair of full-size Goons lumbering at top speed up a narrow sidewalk is enough to make most people stand aside--a fact that the average Goon takes for granted. So when a beautifully coiffured French poodle with a large handbag stands her ground in front of two onrushing mountains of barely guided muscle, it tends to upset most Goons's normal routine. And when Goon- routine is upset, their first reaction is to trip over each other. "Good morning," said Bonnie, looking down at the two-Goon pile-up. "Please direct me to your employer. I have some very important business to bring to his attention." Unfortunately for Bonnie, Trader Moe's Goons dealt with a break in routine by ignoring it. They staggered to their feet and ran on. "Oh! I just cannot abide rude Goons!" said Bonnie. The Sea Duck, inbound for Cape Suzette with a load of sweet potatoes, was running at maximum power. Rebecca had called this a "very important delivery," and by her standards that was true-- it was for a client who always paid promptly, and in cash. But Kit had other things on his mind; once again he felt a tightening in his stomach and a lump in his throat. He was going to have to chide Baloo again about cutting corners. As usual, Baloo didn't show a care in the world. "Man, the Duck's really purring--Wildcat's sure got the touch!" "But he spent all night fixing the damage we did," said Kit. "Oh, come on, kid, he loves workin' on planes--keeps him happy. We're gonna make this run on time, so Becky'll be happy. An' I'm gonna get my vacation, which makes me *real* happy! So what's your problem?" "The flight manual says you're not supposed to run the engines flat-out for more than ten minutes. We've had the throttles past the stops for an hour!" Baloo looked indignant. "Hey, its not *my* fault the World Series of Baseball Roller-Polo went into extra innings! We gotta make up a little time," he grumbled. "An' I still say Louie made up that 'Infield Horse-Fly' rule." Kit decided not to point out that they had intended only to refuel at Louie's--not to pinch hit. Instead he pointed to the cylinder-head temperature gauges. "Baloo, the engines are hotter than Louie's Hundred-Octane Chili!" "Listen, Little Britches, I know this plane inside and out; its no problem!" A sharp crack penetrated the drone of the engines. Baloo and Kit forgot their squabble and began searching for the problem. Kit saw it immediately; black smoke was streaming out of the right engine cowling. "Number two's on fire!" "Feather it, Kit!" Kit shut off the ignition and fuel on engine number two, then hit the feathering switch. The propeller came to a stop, its blade edges feathered straight ahead. Baloo cranked the rudder trim full left. "Hit the extinguisher!" Carbon dioxide flooded the engine cowling--the fire extinguisher's one shot. The smoke changed to gray-white for a few seconds, then back to oily black. Orange flames followed the smoke, spreading from the cowling back over the wing. "No good on the extinguisher! The fire'll reach the fuel tanks in a minute!" Kit thought of the parachutes stored in a locker behind the cockpit. Baloo didn't seem to be listening; he was scanning the ocean ahead. "There's what we need!" he called. He rolled the plane onto its back and pulled into a sharp dive, before Kit could see what he had spotted. When the Sea Duck had completed its roll and was right-side up again, Kit picked out Baloo's intended target: Jagger Rocks rose out of the sea a few miles off Cape Suzette. The were constantly swept by the ocean surf--not even useful to nesting seabirds. As Kit watched, a huge breaker crashed over the rocks, sending spray high into the air. "Gotta time this just right," said Baloo. Kit felt the plane swing from side to side as Baloo kicked the rudder left and right, jinking to slow their decent. At about 2000 feet Baloo began to pull out. Another breaker hit the rocks, just at the Sea Duck skimmed over them. Baloo banked hard right, lowering the right wing toward the leaping wave crest. He stomped full left rudder just before the right engine ran into a plume of spray. While full left rudder prevented the Sea Duck from being knocked into a spin, the impact of the plume on the right wing almost brought the plane to a stop in midair. Baloo shoved the control yoke forward, trying to gain as much airspeed as he could before the plane hit the water. Just above the surface he started pulling back--the yoke shook in his hands as they teetered on the edge of a stall. The fuselage bottom glanced off the water, bouncing them into the air again with barely enough speed to stay there. It was only when the Sea Duck began climbing slowly on its remaining engine that Kit realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled and breathed heavily. "That was close," he gasped. Baloo didn't answer right away--he was catching his breath as well. "At least we put the fire out." "Well, its lucky that we're almost home," said Kit. "Now number one's not sounding too good!" By the time they reached the cliffs of Cape Suzette, engine number one sounded like somebody tuning-up a car with a jack- hammer. Rebecca, Wildcat, and Baloo were going over the Sea Duck's engines at the Higher for Hire dock, though Baloo looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. He leaned against a piling and fidgeted with his cap. Wildcat had the cowling open on engine number one; he climbed down the propeller blades and made a bumpy landing on the dock beside Rebecca. "Okay, so number two's deep-fried." Wildcat picked himself up from the dock, and turned around to see if he had damaged his landing gear. "An' number one threw a rod to second base, tried for the double play, and the reduction gearing caught it. He's out." Rebecca closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to stay calm. "How long to fix it this time?" "Oh, shouldn't take long at all," said Wildcat cheerily. He climbed back onto the plane and began unfastening number two's cowling. "Harry's House of Horsepower has these engines in stock. An' they deliver!" Rebecca gave up on staying calm. "*New* engines?! *Both* of them?! But you just overhauled the engines! What happened?!" "They broke," said Wildcat. He flipped the cowling open, and a gallon of seawater spilled out onto Rebecca. The engine changes were indeed quick--the Sea Duck was ready in time for a cargo run late that afternoon. Baloo and Kit were preparing to start engines when Rebecca leaned in through Baloo's cockpit window. "Are you *sure* you've checked everything?" she said. "Those new engines cost more than--" "Quit worryin' Ree-becka." Baloo's confidence had returned with the Sea Duck's flying ability. "Wildcat checked her over good. We'll see you tonight--clear the prop!" He hit the starter. "Wait!" called Rebecca, stepping back. "I wanted *you* to check it, not--" Her voice was lost in the engine noise. The Sea Duck taxied out and took off, and Rebecca walked slowly up the dock toward her office. She paused at Wildcat's makeshift houseboat. Rebecca had never taken much notice of it, even though it had been tied up at Higher for Hire since she first arrived. It struck her that the houseboat was rather like its owner--thrown together from odd bits and pieces that most people would never think of trying to use together. And though there were several parts that didn't make sense to Rebecca, it all worked somehow. She frowned; like his houseboat, Rebecca had never taken much notice of Wildcat, either. She continued up the dock to her office. Molly was energetically stapling together all the papers on her mother's desk. Normally this would have been a grievous offense, but Rebecca simply waved her daughter off to the other side of the room. With a feeling of grim foreboding, Rebecca opened Freddie Stickelbacker's book to the chapter on aircraft maintenance. Maintenance and repair of aircraft are critical; you cannot afford and must not tolerate anything but one hundred percent effectiveness. A mechanic who becomes lax or loses his skill is not only inefficient, but a deadly danger to your flight crews, your equipment, and your business. He must be replaced. Rebecca closed the book and sat quietly for some time. Then she looked up at her daughter. "Molly, would you go play upstairs for a while?" "Sure, Mommy." Molly ran happily up the stairs, wondering what neat stuff she might find in Baloo and Kit's room *this* time, and Rebecca went back outside. Wildcat was just coming out of his houseboat. "Wildcat?" called Rebecca. "Ah...could I talk to you in my office, please?" Part 3 of 3 Trader Moe was furious, which was not surprising given his temperament and the limitations of his hired Goons. They stood rigidly in front of his desk on board the Barracuda. "And just where have youse two been?!" he demanded. "Gee, Boss, we was searchin' fer our own identities." "Identicals, yeah!" "We was tryin' ta find ourselves." "Right, yeah! We got lost." Trader Moe leaped onto the desk, but he still didn't reach the Goon's eye-level. "Lost?! An' I suppose youse lost dee inestimably rare an' valuable Da Ginci Folio, too!" "Oh, no, Boss. We found da lady wit da book." "Ya did?!" Trader Moe was astounded. "Where is she?" "She wouldn't come. Said it was no deal." "But we was real nice about it." "Didn't bust up da joint or nothin'." "Wiped our feet, too." "YOU BULKHEADS!!" screamed Trader Moe. "I GOTTA HAVE DAT BOOK!!" The Goons were bent over backwards by Trader Moe's blast. He took advantage of this by jumping onto their chests and stomping up to their shoulders. At last able to look down on his Goons, he yelled into their faces. "Get back dair *now*, an' don't take no fer an answer! Is dat simple enough fer youse dum dum slugs ta get through yer bullet heads?!" "Oh, yeah. Sure, Boss." The Goons dashed out of the cabin, and Trader Moe crashed to the deck behind them. It was two hours past sunset when the Sea Duck returned to Cape Suzette. Kit left Baloo to tie up the plane, and hurried up the dock. Something seemed different at Higher for Hire, but he couldn't quite decide what it was. Then he saw Molly sitting alone at the edge of the dock. She was hunched over, hugging her knees, and had evidently been crying. Suddenly Kit realized what was different; Wildcat's houseboat should have been moored next to the dock where Molly was sitting, but it was gone. "Molly? What's the matter?" Kit walked over to her. "Where's Wildcat's house?" "Oh, Kit!" Molly threw her arms around him and began to cry again. "How could you do it?! How could you fire Wildcat?!" Rebecca looked up from her desk--her eyes were as red as Molly's had been. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, Kit, but I had to do something! One more disaster and we'll be broke! I phoned in an ad to the evening paper for a new mechanic." Kit held up his hands in disbelief. "But we're like a family! You can't fire your family!" "But we're not a family, Kit, we're a business! Don't you see, if Higher for Hire goes broke, I'll lose everything!" Fresh tears ran down Rebecca's cheeks. "Not just Wildcat, but you and Baloo! And if the Sea Duck crashed..." She couldn't finish. "But it wasn't Wildcat's fault! It was--" The name caught in Kit's throat, but the focus of his anger shifted suddenly. "I mean...I...I'll be right back!" Kit ran out, leaving Rebecca sobbing behind him. He had only been gone a few seconds when the Higher for Hire front door was smashed down. The Goons stalked in, and Rhino advanced on Rebecca. "Da Boss wants ta see ya!" "Yeah, an' we don't take no fer an answer!" Molly chose that moment to come in through the dock-side door. "Mommy, I--" "Oooo! A witness!" "We don't want no witnesses!" Rhino grabbed Rebecca by the arm. "Run, Molly! Get help!" shouted Rebecca. Ape scooped Molly up in one hand. Like the Goons, Kit was not taking no for an answer. He dragged Baloo by the arm toward the office. "Come on, Baloo! You're going to tell her the truth!" "Okay, okay! What's the rush? She's not goin' anywhere." Baloo was about to open the dock-side door when it fell on him. The Goons rushed out, carrying Rebecca, Molly, and the printed wisdom of Freddie Stickelbacker. Large Goon hands were clamped over their mouths. Baloo crawled out from under the door, dazed. "What's goin' on?" "Its the Goons!" shouted Kit. He pointed after the retreating Goons. They were heading for a speedboat tied up a short distance along the harbor seawall. Baloo was not exactly built for speed, but the hundred-yard dash was hardly the Goon's event either. He caught them at the edge of the Higher for Hire lot. "Alright, you Goons--" Ape, with Molly in one hand, picked up a trash can in the other and slammed it over Baloo's head. Then he lumbered off after Rhino. With some effort, Kit managed to pry the trash can off his friend. "Whew! Last week's chicken!" Baloo's head cleared just in time to see the speedboat roar away from the seawall. "The Goons took Molly and Rebecca!" "I know, Kit! We'll find 'em from the air!" They ran back toward the Sea Duck. "You get on the radio and call the Harbor Police!" Out in the harbor, Wildcat was sitting on the deck of his houseboat, reading the evening paper. "Wanted:" he read, "Aircraft Mechanic; must be competent, experienced, and in...induss...indestructible? Industrious! Apply to--" A speedboat came zooming by; its wake soaked him. "Whoa! Surf's up!" Wildcat recognized someone in the boat. "Miz Cunningham! Wait! Come back!" The speedboat roared on. Wildcat ran to an outboard motor mounted at one end of the houseboat and pulled the starting rope. He shoved the throttle open and headed after the speedboat. On the deck of the Barracuda, Trader Moe stood at the rail with a charming lady jackal who had just arrived by water-taxi. She wore a maroon silk pants-suit and a broad-brimmed hat, and carried a large handbag. "I'm afraid I just couldn't make your Goons understand me, so I decided to find you myself." "I'm certainly glad youse did, Miss Clyde. An' I'm sure I can get yas da best price fer yer merchandise." Trader Moe heard distant engine noises. Looking out over the moonlit water, he saw a boat heading for his cabin cruiser, followed by a large seaplane. "Looks like somebody's following ya," he said. "I think we'd better get outta here." Trader Moe climbed up to the bridge and tried to remember how to start the cruiser's engines. "There they are, Baloo! Two o'clock!" Kit had gotten a radio call through to the Harbor Police while the Sea Duck had been circling, looking for the Goons. The Moon and the lights from Cape Suzette put enough light on the water for their speedboat to be visible from about a quarter mile away. Baloo altered course, and the Sea Duck rapidly overtook the fleeing boat. "We gotta stall 'em 'til the cops get here." Baloo half- rolled the plane to the left and dove, keeping the speedboat in sight out his side window. He leveled out ten feet above the water and buzzed the Goons, then made a climbing turn to the right and circled back to do it again. In the speedboat, Rhino was at the wheel while Ape kept a tight grip on Molly and Rebecca. The Goons almost fell off their seats in surprise when the Sea Duck flashed over their heads. The plane had appeared from nowhere and then was gone, so they quickly shrugged it off and got back on course for the Barracuda. Then the snarling propellers buzzed by again--below Goon-head height. This time it got their attention. "Get rid of dat guy!" "Oooo--fun time!" squealed Ape. He dropped the captives into the bottom of the boat and pulled a sub-machine gun from under the seat. Baloo banked around for a third pass, this time directly over the speedboat's stern. As the plane closed in, yellow-white flashes lit up the water below, and shards of Plexiglas fell on Baloo and Kit. "Whoa!" called the pilot, pulling up hard. They had taken four slugs through the windshield. Ape tracked the plane as it passed overhead, and fired again. The boat rocked under his shifting weight, upsetting his aim. Once a Goon has started firing, it can be difficult for him to stop. Ape sprayed random bursts after the plane as it disappeared into the darkness ahead of the speedboat. Rebecca pulled Molly underneath her and lay as flat as she could in the bottom of the boat, screaming at the gunfire. While Trader Moe was surprised to be suddenly buzzed by an airplane, he was utterly shocked a second later when his hat was shredded by a machine gun burst. His hat was not the only casualty: several of the fuel drums on the cruiser's after-deck were holed. Diesel oil ran down the deck and splashed over the side, spreading out over the surface of the water. "If dat's dose stoopid Goons, I'm gonna crack dair knuckle-heads!" He renewed his effort to get the Barracuda under weigh. Baloo brought the Sea Duck in for a head-on pass, this time as low as he dared. Ape fired a short burst, then ducked as the plane roared overhead. He fell heavily on Rhino, and both Goons flopped against the gunwale. The speedboat spun sharply and almost turned over, but Ape had landed on the throttle and knocked it closed. With the boat temporally stopped, Rebecca saw a chance for escape. She scooped up Molly and plunged over the side; the Goons were too busy untangling themselves to notice. They gunned the engine and roared on toward the Barracuda, now only a short distance away. Once again the Sea Duck buzzed the speedboat and cruiser. Both Goons fell over backwards, but the boat kept going. It struck the Barracuda amidships, crashed through one side and out the other. The cruiser broke in half, directly under the bridge. Trader Moe howled as the deck vanished beneath him. He dropped into darkness, sure that this was the end, then saw that he was somehow moving rapidly away from the sinking cruiser and out into the harbor. Looking down, he found that he was sitting on his Goons, in what was left of the speedboat. "Oh, hi-ya, Boss." "We got da book fer you." Ape held up the remains of Freddie Stickelbacker's book, and smiled. "Why, youse stoopid, grease-brained, glaarbleblub!" A wave washed over Trader Moe, cutting him off in mid-rant. Most of the speedboat's bottom was gone; waves ran over the bow. "Now where'd we put dose life jackets?" wondered Rhino. Rebecca had always been a good swimmer; she had won two trophies on her high-school swim team. The water was warm and fairly calm, and both mother and daughter had kept their heads. Floating on her back, Rebecca was confident that she could tow Molly to shore. But from her vantage point just above the surface, she wasn't sure which direction would take them to land soonest. A loud pop echoing across the water startled her; she looked around and saw sparks jumping through the sinking wreckage of the cabin cruiser--a battery was shorting out in the seawater. Then Rebecca noticed the smell of diesel fuel in the air. Baloo and Kit saw the fire break out on the cruiser's stern. It spread to the fuel floating on the water, and fanned out from the wreckage in several directions. Baloo throttled back and circled the area. "Where's Molly and Becky?!" "I don't see them!" From water-level, the flames seemed to cover half the horizon. Rebecca was pulling Molly away as fast as she could swim. "Help! Somebody help us!" Rebecca thought she heard the putt-putt of a motor boat over the hissing of the fire, but she couldn't tell where it was coming from or how far off it might be. She chose not to waste time looking for it, and went on swimming away from the fire. A voice nearby called: "How's the water, Miz Cunningham?" From the water, all Rebecca could see was a low wooden deck moving alongside her. She reached out and grabbed its edge, pulling herself toward it. "Take Molly!" she called, and boosted her daughter toward the deck. Molly was pulled aboard, then Rebecca felt a hand under her arm, lifting her onto the deck. She flopped onto it face-down, and immediately looked up for her daughter. There was Molly, standing with her arms around Wildcat. Molly sat down and hugged her mother, while Wildcat went back to the outboard motor and swung the houseboat away from the flames. "You...you saved our lives, Wildcat...Thank you," stammered Rebecca. "Oh, no problem." Wildcat was jovial, as usual. "I saw your ad in the paper, an' I want to apply for the job as mechanic." "Unnh...but I was looking for a *new*--" "Help! *Heeelp!*" A woman's voice cut through the noise of the outboard. Looking back toward the fire, Rebecca made out a figure in the water, silhouetted against the flames. Wildcat swung the houseboat around and headed back. Rebecca opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. "They need a lifeguard out here," said Wildcat. Wildcat and Rebecca could feel the heat of the burning diesel fuel on their faces when they dragged Bonnie onto the houseboat's deck; the flames were only a few yards away. Rebecca didn't know what to make of their new guest; she had been floating in a life ring, holding a large, leather bound book over her head. She seemed unhurt, but wouldn't respond to questions; she just lay on the deck, moaning. Her heavy makeup had run or washed off in the water; a wig, and some other kind of hair-piece Rebecca couldn't identify, clung to her. She was quite a sight--a thoroughly wet dog. Her book had remained dry, though. It lay on the deck beside her. Wildcat steered the houseboat away from the fire once again. Molly tugged at her mother's sleeve, and Rebecca turned away from Bonnie to her daughter. "Mommy, you should give Wildcat the job. We need him." "Honey, I don't think...I..." Rebecca looked at Molly, then at Wildcat. They both had the same expression--not pleading, not demanding, just wide-eyed, hopeful innocence. "I...don't think we could do better. You're hired, Wildcat." "Thanks, Miz Cunningham." "Now, do you think you can get us out of here?" Rebecca saw that the fire had drifted around both sides of the houseboat." "Oh, sure!" said Wildcat. "Unnh...which way is that?" A shoal of burning diesel oil floated directly in their path. Rebecca gasped. There was a whine of propellers in low pitch, and the Sea Duck passed overhead, engines throttled back. It touched down in the water on the other side of the burning fuel. An instant later Kit dropped out of the dark sky, cloud-surfing on the end of the plane's tow-rope. He made a quick landing on the houseboat, and secured the tow-rope to a cleat. Then he ran to the outboard motor and shoved it hard over in a left turn. "We spotted a path through the fire from the air!" he called. "Wildcat, give three tugs on the tow-rope!" Wildcat did as instructed, and the Sea Duck's engines revved, pulling the houseboat forward. Kit steered left, then right, around two patches of burning fuel. When the last of the fire was behind them, Baloo cut the Sea Duck's engines. The houseboat was approaching the plane's open cargo hatch when a bright searchlight swept across it. A police launch came alongside, its siren blaring. "Stop your engine!" commanded a voice. "Alright, now, what's goin' on here?" demanded Officer O'Swinessy as he jumped across to the houseboat. He hadn't known what to expect after hearing a radio call about a kidnapping, a report of a cabin cruiser wrecked and on fire, and seeing a seaplane towing a piece of airplane fuselage on a raft, but he certainly did not expect to trip over a book. He rose and picked it up. "Mother O'Leary's Cowslips!" he said. "The inestimably rare and valuable Da Ginci Folio!" He cast a sharp look at Wildcat. "And where'd you be getting this, now?" Wildcat pointed to the prostrate form of Bonnie. "She had it." Bonnie looked up, moaned, and lay back on the deck again. "Well, if it isn't Bonnie Ann Clyde, the notorious art thief!" O'Swinessy slapped Wildcat on the shoulder. "You'll be gettin' a big reward fer this, lad!" "But it was Miz Cunningham that found her." Wildcat indicated Rebecca. "Then its you who'll be gettin' that reward, ma'am." O'Swinessy turned to Bonnie. "Alright, you, was there anybody else on that boat?" In another corner of the harbor, Trader Moe was sitting on the least-sunken part of the wrecked speedboat. "You Goonatics! What did I ever do ta deserve dis?!" "Well, dair was dat orphanage caper." "Oooo! Talk about taking candy from a baby." Trader Moe chewed through the remains of his hat. "I gotta get me some new Goons!" Rebecca was watching Bonnie being led into the cabin of the Police launch, when someone draped a blanket over her shoulders. She turned to see Wildcat, and noticed that Molly was thoroughly wrapped in another blanket. Rebecca sat down and hugged her daughter. She felt good about something, but she wasn't sure what. Certainly not her appearance--soaking wet, with her hair hanging in her eyes. Rebecca remembered that, back in her office a little while ago, she had been feeling horrible. But none of that mattered now. Baloo dragged the houseboat over to the Sea Duck by pulling in on the charred tow-rope. He jumped aboard and hurried to Rebecca. "You sure you're okay?" "Never better, Baloo." "Good, 'cause there's something I gotta tell you." Baloo pulled his cap off and twisted it. "You can't fire Wildcat. All the damage that happened to the Sea Duck was my fault. I been goofin' off, then cuttin' corners to make up time! Just so I could get a vacation." Rebecca blinked. "Vacation? Oh, the vacation! Thanks for reminding me, Baloo." "You mean you're still gonna give me my vacation?" asked Baloo. "No, I'm going to give Wildcat a vacation." "Wow!" blurted Wildcat. "I can go to the big camshaft exhibition!" "But what about me?!" said Baloo. "You?" Rebecca paused, and leaned over to Molly and Wildcat. "Number six, right?" They nodded. "You, buster, had better watch your step while Wildcat's away! If the Sea Duck gets so much as a scratch in the paint, its coming out of your pay!" Rebecca's voice carried well out over the water. "And another thing: how could you treat the Sea Duck--'your baby'--like a junk yard reject?! Sorry?! Don't give me 'sorry' mister! 'Sorry' doesn't feed the bulldog..." The lecture lasted well over an hour, and everyone later agreed that it was one of Becky's best. Copyright 1995, by Jim Kellogg. Bonnie Ann Clyde and Stanley Copyright 1995, by Jim Kellogg. This story first appeared in the APA-zine "W.T.F.B." in December 1995 (issue #15). Jim kellogg@suzie.nrl.navy.mil