Tail Winds

Episode #1 of Tale Spin: High Flight

written by Constance "Eilonwy" Cochran
with contributions from the High Flight crew

Send comments to eilonwy@earthlink.net

Illustrations by Lar DeSouza, available at
http://www.geocities.com/~highflight/series/tshf.html
          
Tale Spin and its characters are the property of Buena Vista
Television/Disney, and is borrowed with the utmost affection and respect.
Any new characters are the property of the fan fiction series "Tale Spin: 
High Flight" and the author and may not be used without permission.

This story originally released on the DAFT Hatchlings mailing list in a
slightly different form.
 ----------------------------------------------------------------
               PART I

He has made his choices, both right and wrong
All from this single source
Vagabond and corsair he has been before
Each he might be again....

His long journey is just started
Final port is not in sight
But he continues his journey without ever a doubt
That his dream will one day be reality.

--from "To Dare To Dream"
copyright 1992 by Steve Martindale
used with the author's permission
____________________________________________


The weather report they had gotten on the wireless at Louie's had warned of
the storm fast approaching from the North-west; but Baloo, already in hot
water with Becky, had estimated that they could beat it back to sheltered
Cape Suzette.

"Man!" Baloo exclaimed. His forehead beaded with sweat, he had his paws
clenched tightly around the hand-holds of the stick.

The near-ancient Conwing L-16 propeller plane The Sea Duck bucked in a gust
of wind, and Kit lurched in the copilot's seat. With a sputter, the
right-hand engine coughed, faded, then roared to life again.

Rain streaked down the front and side windows of the cockpit. Jamming his
cap tighter over his ears, Kit cranked open the co-pilot's window and put
his head out.

Huge drops spattered his face, and the wind and the speed of the plane
sucked his breath away. In the distance piled dark grey clouds, silvered
for a moment by lightning. Everything was a murky, blackish grey, below,
above, and ahead of them. Turning his head, his paws clinging to the window
frame, Kit caught a lighter, faint pink line on the western horizon, where
the storm had already passed, revealing the glow of sunset. Kit pulled his
head in and shut the window, then unfolded the map lying on the dashboard.

"Baloo, if we turn around now and head back north-north west we can reach
the tail-end of the storm and refuel in...East Lambada."

Thunder crackled across the sky like the distant thud of the Cape Suzette
cliff guns.

"Guess we'll have to," Baloo muttered. "I don't like the sound of that
starboard engine. At least this time I'll have a real excuse to give
Becky."

"Gee, you think she'll yell a lot?" Kit asked, peering out at the rain.

"Naw," Baloo said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "She'll just give us a
lecture on punctuality, efficiency and commerce." Then he added in a
mutter, "That gal needs appropriately stirring background music for her
speeches. Like a drum to drown them out."

Baloo eased the old yellow sea plane into a turn. There was a sliding sound
and a thud from the cargo hold behind the cockpit, as the crates holding
hundreds of milkshake tumblers bound for the Happy Cow Ice Cream Company
slid across the floor.

The port engine hiccuped like a pilot on lay-over who had one too many at
Louie's, and the plane titled way too far to starboard.

"I don't get it!" Baloo bellowed, yanking hard on the stick as he glared
down at the fuel gage. "We just refueled at Louie's! Well, as long as the
starboard engine holds, we're not in too much trouble."

Kit felt the double-decker-Krakatoa-bacon-burger special he'd eaten at
Louie's lurch in his stomach. He fastened the safety belt and gripped the
arms of the co-pilot's seat with both paws. He was not afraid -- Kit had
never been really afraid in an airplane, and certainly never in The Sea
Duck. But it didn't hurt to be prepared.

Then the starboard engine wheezed. The tone of its hum lowered several
decibels and the propellers stopped.

Kit and Baloo looked at each other.

"Okay, now we're in trouble."

Baloo tightened his grip on the stick. "Okay," he said through clenched
teeth. "We can just glide down for a nice, easy landing..."

The plane heaved and started to plummet much too fast. "Microburst!" Baloo
yelled. "Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy landing!" He
struggled to keep the nose up as the clouds wisped around them and seem to
fall upward. Below, the murk cleared a fraction, and Kit saw, as if through
a fog, the white-capped, angry surface of the ocean. Good. The Sea Duck was
built to land on the water -- better a crash on sea than on land.

"Hang on to your hat, Little Britches," Baloo said in the rumble that Kit
always felt oddly comforting during a crisis. He began pushing the toggle
starter switch repeatedly. There was a sparking sound, but not much else.
"Come on, baby, come on..."

As the plan rushed closer and closer to the water, the wind howling around
them, a thin line of land became visible off to the left. Rising from a
rocky cliff was a narrow, white tower, sending a strong beam of light out
into the gusting rain, glancing off the foam on the water.

They had crashed on the water -- and land -- countless times before. But
nothing could ever dull the tingle of shock every time Kit saw the surface
of the earth rushing suddenly at terrifying speed towards the windshield of
the cockpit. The water enveloped the hood of the plane and sloshed up over
the side windows with a *phwoom!* After a final, bone-rattling lurch, The
Sea Duck popped back up and rocked on the surface of the water, supported
by the massive pontoons.

Except for the roar of the ocean and the pattering of rain on the plane's
roof, a quiet settled over the cockpit. The breathless feeling dissipated
as Baloo let out a long sigh and slumped in his seat.

"You okay, Little Britches?" Baloo glanced over at him, checking to make
sure he was in one piece.

Kit adjusted the brim of his cap, which had skewed somewhere over his ear.
"Sure, Papa Bear. But what do we do now? How do we get The Sea Duck to the
shore?"

Lightning flashed outside, making the drops on the windshield glass
glitter. Baloo and Kit unbuckled their safety belts, and Baloo rose from
his seat to go check the cargo.

Alone in the cockpit, Kit uncranked the pilot-side window and looked
towards the distant shore. Hazily, beyond the murky rain, Kit saw the
undulating dark line of hills. On its headland the lighthouse light
continued to sweep across the ocean. It touched the downed plane, lighting
Kit's face for a moment.

Startled, Kit squinted into the darkness and the rain. Just for a second,
he saw what looked like a dark silhouette approaching over the heaving
ocean. Kit leaned further out of the window and looked again with the salt
spray tickling his face.

A wave rocked the plane and Kit overbalanced, nearly falling right out the
window into the ocean. Automatically, his paws closed tightly over the
frame, but then he felt a big, strong hand pluck at the scruff of his
sweater, pulling him inside.

Baloo set Kit on his feet and chuckled good-naturedly. "Take it easy,
kiddo. This is no night for a swim."

Rain blew in through the open window. Now Baloo's shirt was damp along with
Kit's cap and sweater.

"But Baloo," Kit protested. "I thought I saw..."

"Ahoy Conwing L-16!"

The voice, baritone rather than bass, rich and clear, carried over the roar
of the waves and the wind. Through the open window, Kit saw a shadowy shape
draw closer, and heard the putter of an outboard engine. A tall figure sat
at the tiller of a good-sized dory that had a lantern burning in the bow.

"Ahoy!" Baloo called back, in his own far-carrying, deep voice. "Come on,
Kit."

Kit scrambled after Baloo into the cargo hold, where the walls were like
the hollow belly of some great fish. The ocean banged hollowly against the
outside of the plane as Baloo wrenched open the hull door, letting in a
spray of salt water and rain. Water sloshed into the cargo hold, soaking
the bottom of the crates. Ms. Cunningham's not going to be happy...Kit
thought, before squeezing in next to Baloo in the door frame and turning
his attention to their rescuer. It was strange, how he had identified the
plane by make and series number. Not many folks could identify The Sea
Duck's ancestry.

The dory stopped a few yards from the plane, the light in the bow casting a
bobbing circle of light on the rough water. Its pilot was a
broad-shouldered, bushy-tailed red squirrel wearing a pea-coat but no hat.
His fur was silvered, matted from the rain, making him look skinnier than
he was. But his eyes were large, dark, and alert, gleaming in the light,
and the arm holding the tiller was wiry and muscular.

"You folks need a lift?" The squirrel called through the rain.

"Can't leave the plane," Baloo called back. "I need to tow her to shore."

"Friend of mine's right behind me with a trawler. He'll tow 'er in." Kit
saw the squirrel's eyes travel the length of the plane. "Beautiful piece of
aircraft you got there, mister. I haven't seen one of those for fifteen
years!"

A proud grin tugged at Baloo's mouth, and Kit knew the stranger had just
made a friend for life.

The rumble of the second boat sounded, and a small fishing boat with a
powerful engine came into view at the front of the plane. Its engine cut,
and its pilot, a mournful-looking hound dog, threw out a length of rope. It
slapped onto the surface of the water, and Baloo reached down and caught
it.

"We have to tie it to the mooring hook on the nose," Baloo said to Kit,
gathering the rope into a loop.

As the big bear reached up to pull himself onto the roof of the plane, Kit
stopped him.

"Let me do it, Baloo. I'm small, I can move more easily."

"Okay, ace." Baloo handed Kit the rope. "But take it easy up there."

As Kit pulled himself onto the roof of The Sea Duck, he heard the stranger
comment, "Are you sure the lad's safe doing that?"

"You just watch," Baloo returned confidently.

With the rope, heavy with damp, coiled over his shoulder, Kit crawled along
the tilting plane roof, the metal cold and slick under his paws. He slid
down the windshield and carefully made his way out to the nose, then looped
the rope around the mooring hook. He raised his hand, signalling to the
fishing boat. The boat's motor rumbled back into life, and the rope went
taut. Kit made his way back the way he came, and as he lowered himself over
the door, Baloo reached up and lifted him down into the safety of the cargo
hold.

"Piece of cake," Kit said, folding his arms. A trickle of cold water ran
down inside the back collar of his sweater, and he twitched.

The red squirrel's dark eyes were fixed on Kit, an impressed light glinting
in their depths. "That's some kid you got there, too, mister." He eased the
dory closer to the open door. "Okay, in you go."

Kit made the jump with some effort, but landed in the dory on his feet. As
Baloo followed, the little boat rocked wildly.

"All right, Max, haul 'er in!"

And the downed Sea Duck, trooper that she was, slowly cut through the sea
in the wake of the little fishing boat, heading towards the distant
lighthouse.
      ----------------------------------------------------------------

The room was round, and warm, aglow with electric light. A fire burned in
the small fireplace, the firelight playing over the crammed bookshelves
that curved along one wall. Four large, round windows with white panes
looked out at the continuing storm, two facing the sea, one facing up the
coast, and the other down. Baloo sat in a large, squishy armchair, a
blanket around his shoulders, able to relax at last now that his plane was
tied securely to the nearby dock. His pilot's hat rested on an arm table.
Kit, seated in the other armchair with a mug of hot cocoa, studied the
framed photographs on the walls curiously.

They seemed to cover a lifetime. With some surprise, Kit recognized the now
very nautical-looking red squirrel when he was much younger standing next
to or sitting in the cockpit of at least six different models of airplanes,
all legendary creations. There was one photograph of their rescuer seated
at the navigator's station of the cockpit of what must have been a big,
four-engine plane at least, compass poised over a chart. Kit took another
sip of hot cocoa, feeling the warmth spread into his chest, as his eyes
fell on a small photograph hung over the fireplace. It showed the red
squirrel standing between a male and a female bear. All three were dressed
in leather flight jackets. The male bear had a strangely familiar,
short-snouted, handsome face, and the female had thick, dark brown hair,
pinned up haphazardly. She had a wry, half grin on her face, and her eyes
seemed to be laughing at some secret joke. There was the hull of a plane in
the background. Kit stood up from his chair and looked closer at the
sepia-tinted photograph. In the lower right hand corner someone had
pencilled in "Katie, Jack, Yours Truly."

The door opened, and Kit jumped, feeling guilty at being caught ogling
these momentos of the past. The red squirrel came into the room wearing a
dark sweater, tan-colored breeches, and boots. He had two large, wool,
hand-knit fisherman's sweaters draped over his shoulder. He tossed one at
Baloo and one at Kit, who caught his with his free hand.

"Here, put these on. They'll keep the chill out. By the way, I forgot to
introduce myself. The name's Harry, Harry Flynn." His eyes went to Kit,
then to the photograph. "Interested in aircraft, are you boy?"

"Were you a pilot?" Kit asked, setting his mug down on a small round wooden
table so he could manage the sweater.

"Navigator. Folks used to call me Starfinder."

Baloo finished pulling the sweater on over his head. "Sure," he said,
genuinely impressed. "I remember hearing stories about you. They used to
say you could find your way from Anchorpoint to Cape Suzette in zero
visibility without a compass. Greatest navigator that ever was, Kit."

"Aw, shucks. Maybe once. But not now. I'm retired." Starfinder grinned, his
red and silver fur bright in the firelight. "Go on, son, put on that
sweater before you catch cold."

Kit's own sweater was still damp, the wool smelling faintly of mildew. It
would be better if he took it off and wore the fisherman's sweater over his
undershirt. Kit reached under his sweater and pulled out his air board,
propping it up against the leg of the chair.

He had his own sweater halfway off over his head, his face buried in the
damp wool, when he heard Flynn let out an exclamation of surprise. Kit
tugged the sweater off and stood in his white shirt, warm from the fire,
looking at Flynn curiously. The retired navigator had picked up Kit's board
and was turning it over in his hands. Kit pulled on the dry sweater. It was
too big for him, engulfing his arms and falling almost to his knees.

With an expert flick of his wrist, as if he had done it hundreds of times
before, Flynn opened the air board with a click. He had a stunned,
disbelieving expression on his face.

"Where'd you get this, son?"

Kit glanced at Baloo for reassurance, feeling unseasy. Baloo sat up
straighter in his chair.

"I -- I made it. I had another one, but it was..." Kit shrugged.

Starfinder flicked the board shut and set it back against the chair. He
busied himself with pouring himself a cup of tea out of a tarnished silver
pot. "Couldn't be," he muttered to himself. Flynn turned back to his guests
suddenly, eyes sharp. "I'm afraid you two haven't introduced yourselves."

Baloo looked quizzical, but seemed to decide their host wasn't mad. "Name's
Baloo."

"Ah, yes," Flynn said, nodding his head in recognition as well as tribute.
"The inventor of the Baloo Corkscrew? And this is your...son?" Flynn added,
a bit quizzically.

"Navigator," Baloo corrected.

"Kit. Kit Cloudkicker." Kit added the last name, as always, with a touch of
bravado; he was fond of the name, and loved the sound of it. It had just
popped into his head the first time he had flown in The Sea Duck, when
Baloo had asked "what do they call you?" Kit didn't actually know his real
name, although Cloudkicker had sounded right.

The saucer Starfinder was holding slid to the floor with a tinkling crash,
and a pool of tea spread across the floorboards, surrounding the chards of
china. Starfinder cursed, and reached for a napkin. He made a few
half-hearted swabs at the mess and then gave up. Leaving the napkin to soak
up the puddle of hot tea, he straightened, and looked right into Kit's
eyes.

"After all these years..."

Baloo had gone stiff-shouldered in his chair, his eyes going from
Starfinder to Kit.

"I didn't notice it before, out in the storm...but here in the light..."

"What in the blazes are you talking about?" Baloo demanded.

Kit felt cornered, and more than a bit confused. It was scary, how
intensely the old navigator was staring at him...

He was very small, and someone's hands, warm and familiar, held him. They
were inside something hollow and rounded, with big, bright windows...an
airplane. There was someone else in there too, someone tall and slender,
with reddish fur and the bush of a tail curling up over his shoulder...he
was holding something out in his hand, something that gleamed in the light.
It was small and round -- a compass with a gold casing. 'Oh, it's
beautiful,' said a female voice, the one holding him. 'Jack will treasure
it. Thank you, Flynn.' 'There's an inscription,' the deeper voice said,
turning the shining object over, and he read...

"To find your way, you must see with more than just your eyes," Kit
recited, his voice sudden and loud against the quiet of the room, still
except for the rumble of the storm outside and the crackle of the fire.

Baloo stood up suddenly, his brow creasing. "Kit, what..."

"I know you, don't I?" Kit said softly to Starfinder. "You gave a gold
compass to someone named Jack..."

The squirrel had gone pale under his red fur. "By the West Wind," Flynn
whispered, sitting down heavily into a nearby chair. "You are Cloudkicker's
son."

"Now just a prop spinnin' minute!" Baloo stood menacingly over the shaken
Starfinder. "What are you babbling about?"

Flynn pushed past Baloo and went over to the fireplace. He took down the
photograph on the mantlepiece and handed it to Kit.

"Jack and Katie Windward." He pointed. "Cloudkicker, that's what we used to
call Jack. They both loved to fly, but Jack...he didn't seem to breath
right unless he was in the air." Flynn gestured at Kit's air board. "He
invented the board so he could surf the clouds, trailing behind the plane
on a rope while Katie worked the stick...few years after they were married,
they had a boy, Christopher."

"Yeah, and?" Baloo demanded, with a worried look at Kit.

"And...that boy of yours, he's Christopher. Kit Windward."

Kit was standing very still, but swaying slightly on his feet.

"Aw, sit down before you fall down," Baloo said gruffly, pushing Kit into a
chair. He turned back furiously to Flynn. "What are you trying to do, give
the kid a heart atack? You still aren't making any sense."

"Perhaps I should start from the beginning." Flynn faced Kit, who was
holding the photograph in both paws, his eyes wide.

"Jack and Katie were both pilots, owned a small air service in San
Flamingo. But Jack, he was the inventor. He would design new planes and
test fly them, which made Katie nervous, but she would never try to ground
him. She was quite a pilot herself, and was bookkeeper and mechanic. She
could fix anything, one time climbed out onto the wing to fix a dead engine
in mid-flight. After Christopher was born, they were a bit more careful,
though, flying easier runs. I was their navigator most of the time,
although Katie was a genius with a compass -- those kids were my best
friends. Only family I ever had, really. Christopher -- Kit -- was about
three when it happened. Ironic, after flying by the seat of their pants all
those years..." Flynn swallowed. "I wasn't around -- off on an eight-month
assignment ferrying equipment for the Casabara Bridge project. Jack and
Katie were flying a shipment of silver, and a few nautical miles out of San
Flamingo bay, they were attacked by air pirates. The blackguards must have
aimed wrong, because the plane went up like a Roman Candle...the pirates
didn't get the silver...but shore patrol didn't get the pirates." Flynn
reached down and closed his paw angrily around Baloo's pilot's hat, where
it rested on a table. The retired navigator looked down at the crushed hat
and hastily released it.

Baloo didn't seem concerned about his hat. "Air pirates," he said, his
voice low with disgust. "They're poisonin' the sky."

There was a silence in the small, fire-lit room, broken only by the banging
of the storm outside. Kit was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes dark.

"What was the name of the pirate?" Kit asked, in a strange, cold voice that
made Baloo start.

"What?" Flynn asked, surprised.

"WHAT WAS THE NAME OF THE PIRATE THAT SHOT THEM DOWN?!!"

"Kit, take it easy..." Baloo began helplessly.

"What does it matter now, son?" Starfinder said gently. "What's past is
past."

"Tell me."

Starfinder glanced at Baloo, who was holding his breath. "Greyclaw," said
Starfinder. "During his heyday, folks called him The Silver Wolf -- but he
hasn't been sighted near San Flamingo for over ten years."

In his chair, Baloo slumped, letting out a long sigh of relief.

"Oh," Kit said, sounding almost disappointed.

"When I got back and heard what happened," Flynn continued, with a curious,
quick glance from Baloo to Kit, "Christopher was already in an orphanage. I
visited him as much as I could...but my work took me all over the world. If
he was older, maybe...but a cargo plane's no place for a toddler. So I
figured, I'd leave with with folks who knew how to look after a kid...then
I'd come back for him." Flynn turned to Kit. "I sent him postcards from
everywhere from New Island to Spango Pango...when he was about ten, I came
back for him, only to be told that he had run away from the orphanage."

Baloo looked sharply at Kit. "You never told me any of this."

Kit squirmed uneasily in his chair, hearing the slight note of hurt in
Baloo's voice. He sighed; it was not a time he liked to think about. "I
wanted to learn how to fly more than anything. So I struck out on my own,
hung around in the pilot hangouts in San Flamingo..." Kit trailed off and
looked away to the dark, rain-streaked, windows. Then he turned abruptly
back to Starfinder. "I never got any postcards," he said accusingly.

The red squirrel reached up and tugged at one of his ears, puzzled. "But I
did send them. You must remember...there was one with a picture of The
Eagle Cliffs, in Neufadora, right at sunset when you could see the
eagle-shaped shadow cast through the rocks onto the cliff wall...that was
the first one I sent you."

Kit caught his breath. "It looked...it looked like it was in flight, didn't
it? The shadow? And on top of the cliff, there's some kind of a ruin..."

"Yes, that's it," Starfinder said, his face lighting. "But I must have sent
you close to fifty, sixty postcards over the years. How come you don't have
them?"

"Now, hold your rudder a second, Flynn. Kit's seen pictures of The Eagle
Cliff at Neufadora a dozen times. They're famous." Baloo folded his arms,
on eyebrow squinting suspiciously. "How can you be so sure this is the same
Kit?"

"Cloudkicker? Baloo, you can't tell me you think a kid would just make up a
name like that and it would be sheer coincidence..."

"It's happened," Baloo said stubbornly.

"And the board...how else could he have known how to make the board? His
age is right, and he looks a lot like Jack, except his eyes, they look like
Katie...and he knew about the inscription on the compass. That, at least,
you can't dispute."

Baloo got up and moodily went over to study a brass barometer hanging on
the wall. The glass reflected his scowling face. "Yeah, I suppose." He
turned back to Starfinder and Kit. "Look, Flynn, I'm the very first person
in the world who wants to see Kit happy. But you have to understand, we've
run into some pretty shady types."

"Baloo!" Kit said indignantly.

"Well, I'm sorry, kid," Baloo answered furiously, his voice growing
rougher. "Can I help it if I don't want to see you get hurt?"

Kit looked down at the sepia-tinted photograph he held in his paws. "These
were my parents, Baloo," he said quietly. He raised his eyes to Baloo's
face. "And I've been waiting a long time to find them."

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

By morning, the storm had abated. The Sea Duck awaited at the dock located
several hundred yards down the beach from Starfinder's lighthouse.

"Thanks for everything, Flynn," said Baloo, shaking the red squirrel's paw.
"Uh....not just the plane, but...."

Kit, Baloo, and Flynn stood on the dock next to the plane. In the wake of
the storm the sunlight glinted off the water and the wet surface of the
plane and the dock. Seagulls cried and circled several yards off-shore.

"You will...." Flynn hesitated, looking down at Kit. "You will come back
and visit old Starfinder, won't you son?"

"Absolutely," Kit said.

"I uh...." Flynn hesitated, then reached up and tugged at his ear. "I was
going to ask you, kid, if you wanted to....well, stay on here with me." His
glance went to Baloo. "But I can see that you're needed elsewhere. Well,"
he added, more heartily, "The sun's growing higher, and I'm getting grayer.
You two flyers better take off." The pilot climbed into the cockpit of The
Sea Duck, then helped up his navigator.

"Don't be a stranger," Starfinder yelled over the hum of the engines. His
fur blew backwards with the gust of wind from the propellers. The squirrel
stepped back as The Sea Duck began to pull away from the dock.

The yellow sea plane turned, its nose pushing against the incoming tide. As
the engines rose in pitch, the seagulls scattered in panic. The plane
picked up speed, its nose left the water, and then it slowly took to the
air like some great golden fishing bird.

Flynn remained on the dock watching the plane grow smaller and smaller
against the clean white clouds etched against the deep blue sky.

"Don't be a stranger, Christopher," he said again, but softly, almost a
whisper.
      ----------------------------------------------------------------

The San Flamingo orphanage was a narrow, five story grey building that had
once been a private home but was now sagging slightly with years and
neglect. But the railing leading up the front steps was freshly painted, as
were the shutters. It was on a quiet side street across from a park,
sandwiched between a nautical-themed antique store called "The Captain's
Log" and a small grocery store. On a spar jutting out over the front door,
a sign swung in the breeze. "San Flamingo Home For Orphans" it read. The
ivy growing up the sides of the building rustled as Kit and Baloo went up
the stone steps.

The sound of children's voices echoes from somewhere inside the house. Then
the door opened, revealing a dour-looking grey otter wearing a pince-nez
and a flowered dress. She regarded the pair on her doorstep over the top of
her glasses, reminding Kit of his teacher at school.

"Yes, may I help you?" She asked her voice prim but soft.

Baloo pulled off his hat, and nudged Kit to do the same. "Good morning,
Ma'am. We uh...the kid here once lived in your fine establishment and would
like to take a look around. For old time's sake."

The otter opened the door wider, revealing a clean, dim hallway with a wood
floor so varnished it gleamed. "Are you the boy's adopted father?"

Baloo felt a clutch of panic. The last thing he needed was an adoption
agency discovering he had never legally adopted Kit. And he had no
illusions of the dim view they would take of his lifestyle being compatible
with raising a son. Like Starfinder said...

"You might say that," Baloo answered briefly. "Name's Baloo Bear. And this
is Kit Cloudkicker."

The otter stepped aside to let them enter. "Kit?" She closed the door and
peered at Kit in the dim light, adjusting her glasses. "We had a Kit here
once, several years ago. He ran away, and just before a nice squirrel
showed up, wanting to adopt him."

Kit sighed. "That was me."

Baloo watched as Kit let his eyes travel around the entryway. On one wall
hung the home's operating license. On the other were a few old photographs,
children squeezed into dress-up clothes but looking very happy nevertheless
as they stood with their new adoptive parents. This place didn't seem so
bad. He wondered why Kit had run away. But he should know the answer to
that question. The place was just too confining and stolid for Kit.

"My name is Miss Pruduffle. I run the Home. What was it you wanted to see,
Kit?"

Kit didn't take the hand Miss Pruduffle offered to him. "The person who
wanted to adopt me...Flynn. He said knew my parents. He said he wrote me
tons of postcards. How come I never got any of them?"

Miss Pruduffle sighed delicately. "Perhaps you'd better come into my
office, both of you."

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Kit rummaged through the shoe box, turning over image after image.
Postcards from Hi Brasile, the Shelter Islands, Kiwi, even New Zumbria. On
the back, Starfinder had written quickly scrawled but detailed messages,
telling of his adventures. And every so often, he would add a P.S. "Don't
forget, Kit. I'll be along to collect you one of these days."

But he had come too late. And it had been Baloo, not Starfinder, who had
been there in his moment of greatest need.

It wasn't Starfinder's fault, though. As Miss Pruduffle had explained, at
the time, she had felt that a roving navigator/adventurer was the wrong
sort to be a parent. To make the break easier for Kit, she had hidden the
postcards. She had intended to tell Kit who his parents were eventually, of
course, but before she had felt he was old enough, he had run away.

In the other room, he heard Baloo telling Miss Pruduffle, "Oh, yes Ma'am.
The life of a cargo pilot is very dull. Just haul crates from point a to
point b, steady work. Air pirates? Nah, never actually run into any of em
myself."

Way to go, Papa Bear, Kit thought, and turned his attention back to the
postcards.

The hallway off of Miss Pruduffle's office was sunfilled, looking out over
a back garden where there was a swingset, a sandbox, and a basketball
court. The basketball court was a new addition. Other than that, everything
seemed the same. It smelled the same, that rich, varnished, school-like
wood smell. And the sounds, a recited litany drifting up from the classroom
below, kids laughing and calling outside.

There was a bit of paper peeking out from under the postcards. Curiously,
Kit tugged at it and pulled out a newspaper clipping dated ten years
earlier.

"Pilots Lost In Pirate Attack," the headline read.

There was a footfall behind him. Kit swallowed hastily and turned from the
window and saw a lion cub of about his age standing at the top of the
stairs. The lion had just the beginnings of a mane, and wore a red jacket
over a white t-shirt. He stopped when he spotted Kit, and then a broad grin
cut his face.

"Kit, is that you?"

"Winger?"

Winger was taller, and he hadn't had any mane at all the last time Kit had
seen him three years ago. But it was Winger all right, cocky and still
ready for excitement. He was about two years older than Kit, and Kit had
followed Winger into anything -- which usually meant trouble. Winger got
bored easily, and would create excitement if there wasn't any to be found.

"What are you doing back in this dump?" Winger's eyes narrowed. "What
happened to you, anyway? Did you get adopted?"

It was the one time Kit hadn't let Winger in on his plans. He hoped Winger
wouldn't mind. "Nah," Kit said with bravado. "I ran away." He calculated an
off-hand shrug, as if it were no big deal, and carefully tucked the
clipping back into the shoebox.

Winger's black eyes got bigger. He actually looked impressed. "No kidding!
The place was buzzing with rumors, but none of the old biddies would tell
us anything. So what, are you on your own? Free as the wind?"

"Not on my own, Winger. Not exactly."

Pushing up the sleeves of his jacket, Winger whistled. "So you did it. You
found a family. Aces, man." Winger reached out with the old salute, paw
fisted. Kit curled his own paw into a fist, lightly tapped Winger's, and
pulled his hand away. Winger's eyes flickered over to the open office door,
to Baloo. "That him?"

"Yeah."

"Looks pretty nice. What's he do?"

"He's a pilot."

But Winger was through showing anyone he could be impressed. He nodded as
if bored.

Kit hesitated. "Winger, have you..."

"Who me? Get tied down like that? Forget it."

The tone of voice was horribly familiar. Tough. Curt. Defensive. Luckily
for Kit, there had been someone to see through it. Kit felt hopeless and
sad all of a sudden, sad for Winger, who hadn't been lucky. Who was getting
older and older, and, no longer cute and young, might never find a real
home.

There was a crash and a shriek from downstairs. Miss Pruduffle darted out
into the hallway, her face set like a general called to battle. "If you'll
excuse me, Kit, I have something to attend to. Please, come back and visit
any time. Eustace." She nodded at Winger before hurrying down the stairs.

Winger winced. He hated his real name.

Baloo emerged from the office, punching his pilot's hat back into shape,
then flipping it onto his head. "All set, Kit? Oh, hi. Who's your friend?"

"Baloo, this is Winger. Winger, this is Baloo."

"Hey," Winger said, in the voice he reserved for grown-ups.

"Hey yourself," Baloo answered jovially.

For a second, Kit considered asking Baloo if Winger could come with them.

He would be handy in their run-ins with Don Karnage, that was for sure. And
Kit missed Winger.

Then the moment passed. Besides, Kit knew what Baloo's reaction to being
responsible for a second kid would be.

"Well, see ya, Kit," Winger said. With a cool flip of his paw, he sauntered
off.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Thirty miles south-south-east of Cape Suzette," Kit informed Baloo. He
folded the map and put it back in its place on the cockpit dashboard.

On the floor beside the navigator's chair was a cardboard box filled with
postcards. Baloo kept watching Kit sharply, but he seemed to be okay, if
too quiet. But maybe that trip into the past had been good for him.

"We'd better try to get through to Becky again," Baloo said. He picked up
the handset of the radio and pressed the talk button. "This is The Sea
Duck, calling Higher For Hire, come in."

Static.

"We're too far away, Baloo," said Kit.

"Oh, man, Becky's gonna chew my ears off," Baloo complained, pushing
forward on the throttle for more speed.

"It's not your fault, Baloo," said Kit. "First we crashed, and then the
phones were down in San Flamingo because of the storm--"

From the cargo hold behind the cockpit came an odd thud. Kit broke off.

They looked at each other. "What was that?" Baloo and Kit asked
simultaneously.

"I don't know."

"You go check."

"Uh-uh. I've got to fly the plane."

"I could fly the plane."

Baloo reached down, picked up the crowbar he kept by his seat, and used a
length of rope to tie the crowbar in place, holding the stick in position.
"Okay, we'll both go."

Kit opened the door to the hold, which was empty since they had made their
delivery earlier that morning. Almost empty.

"Winger!" Kit stopped in the doorway, surprised.

The lion cub was seated with his back against the port side of the hull,
looking quite calm about being caught. He got to his feet.

"Heya, Kit."

Frowning, Baloo followed Kit into the hold. "All right, kiddo, we're
turning around right now and taking you back. Miss Pruneshuffle--"

"Pruduffle," Kit and Winger corrected.

"Won't be happy when you turn up missing."

Winger shrugged. "I left a note. She won't worry. I'm a lot of trouble for
her, anyway."

"Winger, what are you doing here?" Kit asked.

"Thought about what you told me," the cub said. "About running away from
the orphanage. And I always thought I was the adventurous one. Then I
figured, hey, if Kit can do it, I can do it."

"You're -- going -- back." Baloo turned for the cockpit.

Kit grabbed his arm. "Baloo, wait, don't. At least, not yet."

"Aw, Kit, he's...."

"He's my friend," Kit pointed out solemnly. "You wouldn't turn him in,
would you?"

Baloo sighed as the two cubs, lion and bear, looked up at him with wide,
pleading eyes. Grumbling, he returned to his pilot's seat. "All right," he
called back at the cubs. "I won't turn him in. But if Becky asks, this was
your idea Kit."

-----------------------------------------------
TO BE CONTINUED...