This story is a retelling the TaleSpin television episode authored by Martin Donoff, and it is not an entirely verbatim adaptation. Having no restrictions to limit the events of the tale to twenty-two minutes of television runtime, some liberties were taken in adding new scenes and altering existing ones to paint a bigger and more colorful picture, so to speak.

Flight School Confidential

The lenses of Kit's goggles were dripping with beads of sweat; he swiped them from his brow and tossed them out of the open cockpit just to see anymore. He leaned forward close to the windshield, to save himself from the hot, dusty desert air in his eyes, squinting to see through splattered bug guts and cracks in the glass.

A quick glance behind his shoulder and there were two other planes that had just swooped down along the same cliff he had come; they were creeping up on his tail at an alarming rate. His plane-scratched and dented, riddled with bullet holes, and abused through endless hours of intense racing across the globe through perilous skies-had moments ago ignited with a wake of black smoke trailing from its belly.

Through the spinning propeller blade on his plane's nose, he scanned the horizon ahead, where the distant framework of a dusty city began to materialize. Two sets of massive bleachers rose above the white, barren sand dunes, and the crowd of cheering enthusiasts standing on them were quickly shaping into more than just a moving blur of dots with their shiny balloons and waving arms. And then, finally, between the bleachers were two pylons and a hoisted banner—the finish line. He was in first place.

The engine hacked and roared, ill and desperate to cling to life, and the flight stick was hot and shook as if it were attached to a firing machine gun. The crystal over the speedometer was opaque with cracks and difficult to read, but coming down on the final stretch of the race he had already abandoned his instruments somewhere between three hundred miles-per-hour and the engine temperature gauge exploding on the console.

He glanced back again; the other two planes were edging in ever closer, gunning for the stadium, and formed a single-file line behind him.

"Come on, just a little faster," he coaxed to his plane, pushing the throttle despite that it was already as far forward as it would go. "Just a little faster, a little faster..."

To his chagrin, the engine began to sputter, and the planes behind him were catching up too quickly. It was twenty seconds to the finish line. "I can't outrun 'em," he huffed. "But I can still out-fly 'em!"

He banked into position squarely in front of the other two, then steadily dropped down, skimming the rolling dunes by mere inches. His plane kicked up a rooster's tail of sun-scorched sand that blasted into the trailing planes like a sandstorm.

A final look back, and the planes were wobbling off course, their engines choking and burning, and their pilots shaking their fists at him with curses of the wrath.

"Ya-hoo!" he shouted, the finish line zooming beneath his sight. Balloons took to the sky by the hundreds. The roar of the crowd washed away the death rattle of his own plane, and there was the announcement over the loudspeakers: 'And the winner is... Little Britches!'

He blinked. "Lit-Little... Britches?"

"Li'l Britches? Can't ya hear me?"

"Huh? Oh…" As the familiar surroundings of the Sea Duck's cockpit settled in, Kit Cloudkicker snapped out of his daydream, somewhat disappointed a daydream was all it had been. In his lap was the latest issue of Air Adventures magazine.

Baloo called him again from the Sea Duck's cargo hold. "Ki-it?"

"Sorry, Baloo. What is it?"

"You seen the soda pop anywhere?"

"I think we're out."

"I thought I had an emergency supply put away back here...?"

"That's been gone for a week," said Kit.

"So what happened to it?"

"Miz Cunningham was getting ready for one of her inspections! I had to get rid of it."

"Had to?"

"Well, I was thirsty, too."

Clanks and clunks were heard from the rear of the plane as Baloo checked the last of his hiding spots for leftover sweets. "Aw, well. We'll be at Louie's soon enough, I guess."

To his left, Kit couldn't help but notice, with some contemp, that in pilot's stead was Baloo's "trusty" crowbar, propped up and holding the yoke straight and level. Sometimes Kit held that skinny piece of iron in a world of contempt, as he did presently, if only out of envy, because it seemed to get more flying time than he did.

Kit sat up on his knees and leaned over to look in the cargo hold. "Hey Baloo, if you're busy, can I go 'head and sit in for awhile?"

But at that moment, Baloo had come back and took his seat. "Maybe next time, kiddo. Didn't think to ask ya."

Kit regarded that remark with a bit of skepticism, considering at no time in the past had he ever jumped at an opportunity to fly the Sea Duck with less enthusiasm than Baloo had jumped at a piece of chocolate cake.

"Well, I'd be glad to, anytime, you know," said Kit.

"Sure, sure. Say, you weren't noddin' off on me out here, were ya?"

"A little," shrugged Kit, flipping through more pages of the magazine. "Check this out, though! They're making a picture in Starrywood about a big air race around the world. And look at this!" Kit reached over and showed Baloo a full-page photograph from the magazine; it was a sleek, shiny stunt-plane, with a silver luster that even as a black-and-white photo on pulp paper was easily pleasant on the eyes. "It's gonna have the new Sky Stallion model in it! Do you know how fast this bird can go?"

Baloo nodded. "I'll admit, that don't look too shabby!"

"I'll say. What I'd give to fly a plane like that." Kit gave the picture one last warm gaze before rolling the digest up and putting it in the glove compartment. "I think I'm in love."

"Heh heh, I know what that's like'," said Baloo. "But whadaya think a plane like that's got on us an' the Sea Duck, anyway?"

"What, like in horsepower? Altitude ceiling?"

"Naw, none of that technical stuff, kiddo. I'm talkin' about style, ya dig?"

Kit shook his head. "'Fraid not."

"I mean take your fancy-pants assembly-line planes like the one in yer book," said Baloo. "Any yahoo can get inside a cockpit and push a throttle, right, but so what? That ain't what flyin's all about. It's about gettin' out there, no walls to stop ya, nothin' to tie you down. And any time you just happen to feel like it, out of the blue..." Baloo adjusted his hat snugly on his crown. "Ya do one of these!"

Baloo suddenly took the plane into a tight barrel roll, prompting a startled yelp from Kit. Several dives, rolls, and spins later, they were both roaring with laughter and cheers.

"Hoo boy, now that's style!" Baloo exclaimed, patting the Sea Duck's dashboard.

"Yeah!"

"I'm tellin' ya, when you're behind the wheel of a plane like this, there's a whole, big sky out there and it's all yours. Simple, fun, and ain't nothin' better."

"Yeah," Kit replied, more softly, watching Baloo fly with a dreamy glaze in his eyes.

"Ready for the ol' Baloo Corkscrew?"

Kit took off his hat and held it ready in his hands. "Let 'er rip, Papa Bear!"

They were sucked into their chairs as Baloo pushed the throttle forward and sharply pulled the Sea Duck straight up, hundreds of feet into the sky. Just as the plane ran out of speed, Kit let go of his hat and watched it float in mid-air. Then the Sea Duck made a sudden about-face, nose-down, and instantly picked up great speed.

"Yee-haw!" whooped Baloo.

"Awright!" Kit shouted, gripping on to the arms of his chair. As the plane spiraled toward the sea, he watched the smooth and precise adjustments Baloo made with the yoke and throttle, and how he made it gracefully level out. It looked every much as Baloo described it: simple and fun.

"Can I try now?" he asked.

Baloo couldn't help but chuckle; the kid didn't exactly beat around the bush. "An' wind us up nose-down in the dirt? Aw, yer too young to fly, Kit."

"But I can fly," protested Kit.

Baloo resisted shaking his head, thinking, 'Here we go again...' By no means was it the first time this conversation was initiated between the two, and he could only hope this latest round wouldn't last as long as some of the more epic bouts they've had on the subject.

That time, however, Kit had done his homework: "Look, just ask me anything in the standard flight manual," he persisted. "Go 'head, ask me!"

"Yeah, and I'd bet you'd know. But knowin' it and doin' it are two different things."

Kit wasn't about to give up that easy. "But I've taxied, and I've been in at least two hundred planes— and once you let me sit in your lap and steer! And...!"

"And you're only twelve years old," interrupted Baloo. "Sorry, but there's no gettin' around that."

"Aw, jeepers," Kit scoffed, sinking in his seat. There was always something dreadful about hearing his age repeated by an adult, because it was rarely spoken of unless it was coupled with the phrase 'too young to.' It was like the trapdoor dropping out from under the scaffold… a quick end to many a debate about what he was allowed to do.

"Man, what a great day," remarked Baloo. He took a deep, relaxed breath and stretched his arms, appreciating the crisp, bright sky ahead and shimmering sea below, and Louie's Place peering just over the edge of the horizon. He was rather oblivious to his navigator, who was slouched over the arm of his chair with his back to the pilot's seat. "'Course any day's great when your last delivery's gone and we got the whole weekend to ourselves."

"If I'm not too young to have a weekend off," Kit muttered through his teeth.

"Hm? Say somethin'?" asked Baloo.

Kit shook his head. He didn't speak again the rest of the flight.

After landing, Baloo hummed merrily to himself as he taxied the Sea Duck to a stop at the docks of Louie's Place.

The big bear squeezed around the navigator's chair and stepped out on Kit's side. He grabbed a rope and began mooring the plane to the dock when he noticed Kit wasn't budging, but just staring at the distance sullenly.

"You okay in there, Mini-Muscles?"

"I'm fine," said Kit, flatly.

"Ya sure?"

"Yep."

"Yer comin' in, aren't ya?"

"No thanks, I'm good."

Baloo finished tying the Sea Duck up and gave the rope a tight, final tug, securing the knot. "Come on, I'll have Louie fix ya one of those mango shakes."

Kit didn't even look at him. "Naw, I'll wait here."

Baloo shrugged. "Suit yourself. Come on in if ya change yer mind."

Kit sighed as Baloo walked away. "Too young to do this, too young to do that," he muttered disdainfully. He leaned on the arm of his chair, gazing longingly at the console of the Sea Duck. Somehow all the levers and switches just seemed to sparkle, and he knew them all, their every place and function, arguably as well as Baloo.

Then he tipped a glance at the empty seat beside him. A sly smile crept back on his face, because for the moment, the cockpit was his own, all of it. He figured, after all, a little harmless taxiing in front of Louie's wouldn't hurt while Baloo was yukking it up in the restaurant. He leapt out of his chair and assumed the pilot's seat.

"Kit Cloudkicker, ace pilot, reporting for duty," he declared, giving a curt salute to an imaginary commander outside the window. "Start the engines!"

He flipped a series of switches across the console, and the Sea Duck's engines spooled to life.

Inside Louie's Place, the club was filled with Baloo's laughter, as he had not missed the opportunity to tell one of his favorite flying tales to a new face in the crowd, a young, broad-shouldered Thembrian pilot in Air Corps uniform.

"Ha ha! So these pirates stay right on my tail, and I know there's only one way to lose 'em...!"

"So you pull back on the stick, climb straight toward the sun, and do the ol' Baloo Corkscrew," said Louie, as if by recital.

Baloo scratched his head. "Were you with me?"

"Feels like I was, 'cuz," said Louie. "Heard that story forty-seven times now!"

The other pilots around them burst into hearty guffaws, knowingly.

"Heh, go 'head, laugh," said Baloo. "I know I'm a great pilot."

The Thembrian took a swig from his mug and pointed out the window. "Then... how come you can't tie your plane down right?"

Baloo thought he was joking. "Sorry, never learned any Thembrian knots. But my way still manages ta get the job done."

"A Thembrian knot would keep your plane from going out to sea," replied the blue-furred pilot. "That is your plane out there, yeah?"

Though feint, the sound of the Sea Duck's engines suddenly rang in Baloo's ears. "What?"

Baloo, Louie, and the Thembrian quickly gathered at a window and looked down at the shore. Outside, the Sea Duck was crawling away from the dock, with the mooring rope untied and dragging from the plane's nose.

Baloo wiped his eyes as if he was sure what he was seeing couldn't be real. "What'n blue blazes...? Kit!"

"Vrr-oom!" Kit's feet swung excitedly over the edge of his seat; he let the plane coast ahead of the dock before turning her sharply to the left and around toward the sandy shore of the island. "Kit Cloudkicker, ace pilot, performs another death-defying dive! He gives it more throttle!"

Stunned and speechless, Baloo's heart jumped an extra beat as in the blink of an eye the plane abruptly burst forward at breakneck speed.

From inside the cockpit, Kit was effortlessly hurled into the back of the pilot's seat, having greatly underestimated the power of a "little nudge" on the throttle. Though staring out the windshield his eyes were wide as saucers, the rest of his short-lived joyride was but a sudden blur, and the next thing Kit knew the Sea Duck had plowed nose-first into the beach, kicking up water and sand and tossing against the flight yoke. He was unscathed save for having the wind knocked out of him.

Just to the left of the plane's nose sat a large bolder and a number of other big rocks, which Kit had missed barging into only by inches. When the sand began to settle and he had realized all what he had done, there was really only one thing left for him to say about it: "Oops."

Out the restaurant came running Baloo, Louie, and the Thembrian pilot. "Kit!" shouted Baloo. "Are you all right?"

The Sea Duck's cockpit door swung open and Kit jumped down onto the beach, surefooted, with the only evidence anything had happened to him at all being the apologetic expression on his face.

"Well blow my horn," Louie exclaimed, with a smile of relief. "The kid's fine!"

Kit was still catching his breath as he met them on the shore. "Gee Baloo, I'm sorry."

Baloo was more gladdened than anyone to see that Kit was uninjured, but he certainly wasn't sharing Louie's delighted countenance. "Now what were ya doin'?"

Kit grinned at him, sheepishly. "About... five miles an hour?"

"Well ya could've got hurt," the big bear snapped, his brows furrowed into a stern scowl. He leaned down with his finger shaking at the boy, "Now this is why twelve-year-olds aren't allowed to fly!"

"They are in my country," interjected Thembrian pilot, suddenly capturing everyone's attention, especially Kit's. "The flying age has just been lowered to twelve!"

Kit's jaw dropped open, and his eyes opened bright, thoughts suddenly exploding through his mind at the utterance of that magic number: twelve. "Wow, you mean they fly real planes and everything?"

"The most advanced planes in the world," the pilot replied, his chest swelling with pride. "If you want to fly, you should enlist!" With that, the pilot saluted the group, abruptly swung around on his heel, and marched toward his plane.

Baloo and Louie looked after the pilot with incredulous regard, but Kit could hardly keep his feet from dancing and singing 'I told you so!' "Hear that, Baloo? Twelve-year-olds can be pilots!"

"H'oh boy, if that ain't surprisin'," said Baloo. "Only Thembrains would be crazy enough to let a kid like you fly!"

"I heard that, man!" chuckled Louie. "Who else you gonna find to fly a bathtub?"

"Oh no, only the most advanced bathtubs in the world, Louie!" said Baloo. "Sign up with your rubber duckie today!"

As Baloo and Louie shared a belly-laugh, Kit's chest swelled with indignation. "Oh yeah? Well—well I'll show you!" Suddenly he stormed away toward the docks. "I'm going where they let a kid like me get his wings!"

Baloo stopped laughing as if his smile had been ripped from his very lips. And he froze... he didn't know what to do.

Kit hurried after the Thembrian pilot, and met with him at the docks. There was a quick exchange of words, where after the Thembrian nodded approvingly and together they boarded his plane.

"He ain't goin' where I think he's goin'!" Louie tugged on Baloo's sleeve, trying to wake him from what trance he seemed to be caught in. "You gonna stop that kid, Fuzzy?"

Baloo took a step forward but then stopped, took a sharp breath as if to shout something out, but the words wouldn't come. Haplessly, he watched Kit board the Thembrian's plane, and it seemed all too quickly the plane was gone, fading high into the clouds.

Baloo swallowed as if he had a rock caught in his throat. "Oh man, what just happened, Louie?"

It was an awkward ride to Thembria. The pilot never introduced himself, never opened to conversation, and kept humming his national anthem over and over. There was only one seat in the cockpit, so Kit sat in the back amongst empty crates. He stayed the time daydreaming about what would be coming up next... flying!

'The most advanced planes in the world.' He mused over what that could mean. What he knew of Thembrian aircraft was that they were none too impressive, mostly dull and bulky designs, but what in the sky could be considered the most advanced? It gave him goose bumps.

Takeoffs, landings, rolls and loops, he could practically quote operating procedures from the flying manual verbatim, but now when he thought of them, they seemed much more than a daydream. Soon, he was finally going to get his chance in the cockpit, for real. His fingers tingled. Just wait until he went back home, proving to Baloo once and for all he could do it.

Stepping out of the plane and into a puddle of icy slush, Kit was quickly met with the biting chill of the Thembrian summer. The overcast sky was quiet and looked like smooth, solid silver, and there was heavy snow everywhere, from piles shoveled several feet high from the runway, to window sills and hangar roofs, and it blanketed several parked trucks and planes.

All the buildings looked practically identical, everything gray and square, built with thick walls of concrete, most of them several stories high and wide as prison walls. What they made up for in size they lacked in number, and they were spread sparsely around the airfield, looking more like lifeless monoliths dotting across a desolate arctic wilderness of snow dunes and jagged frozen mountains.

Roads in the area were bleakly defined; they were crudely dug out from the snow and went from structure to structure, bordered by telephone poles that held together a tangled mess of cables and bullhorns, and barbed-wire fences, which seemed to be the most popular feature in the area. One narrow path wound far downhill to a cluster of shacks and hobbles, and a countless array of skinny smokestacks rising from their chimneys.

The pilot pointed to a certain building and told Kit to start in there, and with another salute, he wished the boy luck and turned to go his own way. A big sign over the building's entrance, glossed over in frost and icicles, read 'CUSTOMS'.

Inside, there was an expansively large room, and starting at the door there were ropes and posts winding from wall to wall, forming a long line. The room was empty, save for Kit and the clerk sitting behind the counter at the far wall.

Kit ducked under all the ropes and approached the clerk. "Hello, sir, my name is..."

"Read sign," the clerk said. He was an elderly blue hog, slouched over the counter with his hands folded neatly. Behind the fogged lenses of his huge, saucer-sized glasses was a deadpan face drooping with large, folding wrinkles.

"Huh?"

"Line begins over there, by door," said the clerk.

"But... there's no one else here but me."

The clerk sat like a statue, stillness his reply. Kit sighed and walked all the way back to the entrance, where a 'BEGIN LINE' sign was posted, and trudged back and forth through the roped-in aisles until he finally approached the counter again.

"Halt!" the clerk barked.

Kit froze in mid-step, startled. "What?"

"Read instructions," he said, this time pointing to the sign posted next to his counter that read 'WAIT YOUR TURN.'

The clerk cleared this throat quietly and took a moment to readjust himself in his seat. "Next."

"H'oh, boy," huffed Kit, though he took his hat off respectfully as he approached the elderly hog.

"What is your business here," said the clerk. If it was a question, it didn't sound like it.

"Well, my name is Kit Cloudkicker, and..."

"Where is your paperwork."

"I, uh... paperwork?" blinked Kit. "I don't have any."

"Hm," grunted the clerk. "What is your business here."

"Well, my name is—"

"You are not a Thembrian citizen."

"No sir, I'm not."

The clerk snorted, and Kit waited a moment to see if he had anything else to ask before he was interrupted again. An awkward moment passed in silence.

"What is your business here," said the clerk.

"Well, you see, I just got here, and I was told I needed to..."

"Speak quickly!" snapped the clerk. "You are holding back the line."

Kit turned slowly, looked around the empty room, then looked back at the clerk with an eyebrow raised questioningly. "Oh-kay. Again, I'd like to sign up for the..."

"Where are you from."

"Uh, Cape Suzette."

"What is your business here."

"I'm interested in signing up for your flying—"

"Are you a spy."

"What, me? No!"

"What is your business here."

"Look, I'm trying to tell you my business here, I want to join—"

"How long do you plan to visit the Mommyland?" demanded the clerk. "Speak quickly!"

"I don't know yet!" cried Kit.

"Cape Suzette. And you are not a spy."

"No!"

"How do I know."

"For cryin' out loud! If I was, I wouldn't tell you, would I?"

Another moment passed in silence. Then:

"What is your business here."

Kit folded his arms and stared at the clerk, who never so much as blinked or budged anything but his bottom lip when he spoke. "You sure you want to know?"

"Quickly. Keep line moving."

"You like doing this, don't you?"

"Your foreign questions are not understood. And yes, I do. What is your business here."

Wearily, Kit leaned forward against the counter. "I forgot. What's this line for, again?"

"If you wish to stay in the glorious people's nation of Thembria, it is a very simple process," said the clerk at last.

"I hope so," said Kit.

"Fill out this simple form." The clerk bent down behind the counter, and came back up with a thick stack of papers, plopped them down and pushed them toward the boy. "When you are done, please take seat and wait for processing and approval."

"Are you joking? I've seen encyclopedia sets with less paper! How long is processing?"

"On a good day, it could take as little as, oh... six years."

"Six years? I can't just wait here for six years!"

"Glorious People's State restrooms are down hall, around corner. Time limit is two minutes per visit. Limit one visit per day."

"Look, can you just tell me where they're doing the Junior Air Corps?" asked Kit. "I need to talk to somebody there."

"You wish to apply to the brand-new Glorious People's Junior Air Corps?" The clerk leaned forward as to get a better look at Kit. From behind his opaque glasses, he might have been squinting. "Ah, yes! Why didn't you say so?"

Kit's eyes narrowed at him. "Sorry."

"There is no processing time for that, special orders from Colonel Ivanhog Nozzle." The agent took down Kit's name and age on a slip of paper, and beared down on it like a sledgehammer with a huge, red stamp of approval. "Take this pass, turn in down hall for uniform. Interviews are this afternoon."

"Really? That's it?"

"I have been instructed personally by Colonel Nozzle that, on behalf of the gracious Mommyland, for this week only we will welcome any of you deprived non-Thembrian boys to have a chance to attend the most illustrious flying school in the world. If you are accepted, you may stay until graduation. There is however one stipulation."

Kit received the approval slip with both hands and a big smile. This was quickly all turning out to be much easier than he imagined. "Sure, anything! What is it?"

"You stay for longer, you get shot."

Kit was issued a cadet uniform that consisted of a brown leather jacket with a thick wool collar and inner lining, a garrison cap of the same color, and a long, red scarf for his neck. The questions he was asked by the persons processing his information were few. He was told to get ready in a hurry and he did not mind one bit. As he was changing into his new attire, placing his airfoil and street clothes into an assigned box, he overheard two officers in the next room speaking about him.

"What about medical exam? Written test?" one said.

"No time for anything but to send him to the recruitment center now! High Marshal's orders, for any recruits coming in today."

"The High Marshal said that?"

"According to Nozzle, he did."

Kit trod across a field of fresh snow, following the directions he was given to the recruitment center, which was one of two very large and broad buildings that sat on top a wide hill. He came to where a group of boys was gathered around, all wearing the same cadet's uniform. Kit approached them a bit timidly at first, but some were talking excitedly about flying, chatter that was music to his ears.

Many of them were gathered around one particular cadet, who stood head-and-shoulders above the rest with an athletic stature about him. His face was bright and excited as he told a tale of how his father became a heroic Ace fighter in the Great War. Kit joined the listening crowd when a small seaplane few overhead, capturing their attention.

"I wonder if we're flying one of those?" one boy asked aloud.

"Naw, that's not Air Corps," the tall cadet replied. "That's a... a... Miniversal Skybridle, it's not ours."

"Actually, it's an Aerobluff Five," Kit said; with his hand over his brow, he squinted to spot the details of the plane. "They're almost copies of each other, except the one Miniversal built has a clunker engine and would choke in this weather. You can tell the difference because the Aerobluff model has a bigger propeller, and it's wider at the nose."

"Oh," blinked the tall cadet. "Yeah, well... Aerobluff would've been my second guess."

Kit grinned, somewhat nervously, now that the group was suddenly looking him over from head to toe. He did appear a bit strange to them; after all, there wasn't a speck of blue fur anywhere about him.

"So, your dad's a pilot, huh?" a cadet asked the other.

"Yeah, the best in the country!" said the tall cadet. "Oh, hey! I forgot to tell you guys! My father heard some things about the planes we'll be training in! Brand new interceptors! We're gonna be flying top-of-the-line!"

"Wow," Kit breathed. "How much do you know about them?"

"Well, that's it, so far," said the cadet. "It won't be long until we see for ourselves, though!"

One boy scoffed at all the airplane talk. "What difference does it make, it'll probably be some piece of junk."

Kit frowned at him. "Don't you want to fly?"

"Meh. Beats peeling turnips."

"My father's making me join," another said. "He says its my patriotic duty."

"I think it might be neat," said a third boy. "I've never been in an airplane before!"

"It's the best thing in the world," Kit said to him. "I've been in plenty of planes, I don't ever get tired of it."

"You know something about flying, huh?" asked the tall cadet.

"You bet! But no one gives me the chance to show what I can really do. I wanna get into this school so bad I can taste it!"

Loudspeakers over the building's entrance crackled to life. Colonel Spigot spoke:

"Welcome to the Thembrian Junior Air Corps Recruitment Center! Please form a thingle-file line..." His voice suddenly changed to a tone wavering with glee, "...or you will be shot!"

The recruits all ran inside, and lined up in a hallway in front of a big steel door. The hall was windowless and the concrete floor was just warmer than the ice outside. Unshaded lightbulbs tarnished with a yellow tint hung high from the ceiling by cords strewn with cobwebs.

Kit was third in line, the tall cadet was the first. With anxious composure, he patted his jacket down to smooth out all the wrinkles, and made sure his hat was properly centered and snug. His posture was sharply contrasted by the second boy in line, who was slouched, chubby, and had his uniform was unevenly donned with an unzipped coat.

The second boy turned around and shook Kit's hand. "Hello, I'm Bobbo."

"I'm Kit! I hope the requirements to join aren't too tough."

Sergeant Dunder opened the door and led the first recruit into the next room and had him stand next to a desk; it was featureless and severely oversized, typical of Thembrian military decor. It was so tall that one couldn't even see the person sitting behind it, save for his red officer's cap, which was set on top a mountain of messily stacked papers on the front edge. Clouded grey sunshine glowed dimly through two barred, glass-less windows on the far side of the room.

Dunder checked the list he was holding and began reading the boy's information: "Sir, this recruit has perfect eyesight, passed his written pilot exam, and his father was a pilot hero!"

Colonel Spigot's pointed finger shot up from the desktop clutter. "Never mind that junk!"

From the hall, Kit rubbernecked around Bobbo to see what was happening. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but the sudden look of unpleasant surprise on the recruit's face wasn't encouraging.

Spigot grabbed his hat, and, hidden from the view of everyone else, climbed down a set of stairs, coming out through a small door built in the front of the desk. "Let's th-see if he measure's up!"

The recruit stood at attention while Spigot mulled him over from head to toe with hard, scrutinizing glances. The Colonel took a tape measure out of this right pocket, whisked the tape out and let it snap back inside. Then he set one end of the tape on the floor and pulled the other end over his head, but his arms were only able to get as high as the boy's nose. Standing on his toes, Spigot strained to reach higher, but his delusions of normal-height grandeur were no match for the reality of his vertically-challenged stature.

Spigot cleared his throat, rather expectantly, and Dunder, ever-so-nonchalantly, hoisted his commander up to measure the boy. The recruit was beaming proudly, as he was no doubt the most physically fit of all the applicants.

"Five-one, too tall!" exclaimed Spigot. "Send him to turnip-peeling school! Next!"

The boy's jaw would have fallen on the floor if it hadn't been hinged to his head. He wasn't able to muster one quick 'but' in protest before two burly guards stepped from the shadows, plucked him off the ground and carried him away.

"Looks rough," said Kit to Bobbo. "Good luck!"

Bobbo adjusted his scarf and marched into the room, standing at attention just as he had seen the first boy do.

Dunder had to read the boy's information twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things. "Sir, this recruit thinks a cockpit is a hole full of chickens!"

"Who cares," huffed Spigot. He didn't need help with the measurements this time. "Three-foot-two, perfect! He goes to pilot school. Next!"

With a leap for joy and a click of his heels, Bobbo strut into the next room. Kit came up right behind him and stood before the Colonel.

Dunder checked his list again, but found no information about Kit other than his name and the most obvious detail, which he exclaimed, "Sir, this recruit's not even Thembrian!"

"Big deal. Three-foot-nine, very nice! He's in!"

Dunder shrugged, and moved on to the next cadet...

That afternoon, all the remaining recruits were sent back down near the airfield, and formed a line in front of a stage. Built out of a solid, flat block of concrete with timber planks for a floor, it was large and permanent, despite being build next to absolutely nothing else of note. There were two microphones stands up, one adjusted significantly shorter than the other. The taller microphone was commandeered by Sergeant Dunder, and just behind him, there was something covered in a white sheet, roughly the size of an automobile and conspicuously shaped of an airplane's wings and tail.

Colonel Spigot was sitting in the back seat of a plate-armored limousine: windowless iron hide like a tank on the outside and soft, pink cushions on the inside. A guard held the door open while the Colonel waited for the proper introduction.

Dunder tested his microphone with a couple of finger taps before speaking to the cadets. "Ahem. You are the best, the brightest, and the shortest. And so is the man you owe your life, liberty, and future paychecks to: our glo-orious leader, Colonel Spigot!"

Some of the cadets clapped, halfheartedly at best. Still, it didn't stop Spigot from basking in the glory as if he took the stage with a roaring ovation.

"Thank you, thank you! Perhaps you've heard of me? The Scourge of Sausage Creek?"

Not an eyelash was batted.

"You will all fly in the Great Patriotic Flounder Day air show thith Thaturday—and like it!" said Spigot. "You will be flying in the world's most advanced fighter plane! The Thunderyak!"

As Spigot unveiled the airplane with a flourish of a backward tug, the boys took a collective gasp, and admired the Thunderyak with awe-struck gazes. They hardly noticed the Colonel hopelessly tangling himself under the cover sheet.

"Awesome," Kit whispered, feasting on the airplane with his eyes; a polished gun-metal finish sparkled as sterling silver. Its closed, square-frame cockpit was definitely a traditional Thembrian style, but its forward-swept wings and tale-mounted propeller made it appear quite nimble and acrobatic, and a blast to fly. "I'm gonna fly that! In an air show!"

The finer points of the Thunderyak's aerodynamic technology were lost on Sergeant Dunder, but he did notice one peculiar aspect: "Sir, the plane looked bigger in the catalog."

Spigot stumbled himself free from the clutches of the sheet just in time to shush him. Dunder bent down to help him to his feet, but was suddenly grabbed by his ear and pulled to the other side of the stage. "Excuse me while I consult with the Sergeant!" said Spigot to the cadets.

Out of the earshot of others, Spigot began to explain: "The thtupid factory gave us the wrong size Thunderyaks! Why do you think I've spent the whole week recruiting twelve-year-olds?"

Dunder pondered the question for a moment. While he couldn't quite see any logic yet, there was that one bottom line that often frequented the Colonel's reasoning: "So the High Marshal won't shoot ya?"

"Er, well, that's one reason," said Spigot. "The other reason ith that the High Marshal won't notice that the planes are little if little pilots are getting into them!"

"Oh! Well I'm glad we're fortunate enough to have so many little pilots in Thembria."

"What pilots? Do you think I'm crazy enough to let twelve-year-olds fly? But don't worry, I have a plan!"

As the cadets began to talk amongst themselves about the Thunderyak, Kit was already imagining doing Baloo Corkscrews, and basking in the shutter of a thousand cameras and the cheering of the adoring crowd below! This was set to be the best week of his life...

It had been the most boring day of his life, thought Kit. The second day of flying school had come and gone, the cadets had eaten dinner and were told to study in their barracks until lights-out, and the Thunderyak was not even so much as mentioned since Spigot unveiled it the day before.

"We spent the whole day learning how to tie boot laces," lamented Kit. His feet were dragging as the boys filed into their bunks. "Who's wearing boots around here?"

"Still beats peeling turnips," another boy replied. "Trust me."

Once they were all inside, two guards secured the door and locked it from the outside. Class was over for the day, and evening had yet to come.

"Psst, Kit!" whispered Bobbo. From his jacket, he presented a small bundle of paper that he was about to unwrap. "I snuck in some of Mom's cookies. I was gonna save 'em, but I don't think I can wait any longer. Want one?"

"Sure, why not."

Kit thanked him and accepted a cookie. He had taken the bunk under Bobbo's and sat down with a long, pining look toward the nearest window. For the moment, overcast sky had broken up, and though thick, fluffy clouds a rare beam of late afternoon sunshine poured a brilliant aura over the snow fields. It was suddenly covered by the eclipsing shadow of the guards passing by.

He frowned and glanced at the ceiling. There were some vented grates and tin tubing stretched from wall to wall; he wondered if any of them were attached to a furnace, and if any were, wished someone would have cranked it up. Then he blinked and cocked his head to the side, because he noticed the ceiling was slanted, curious to him because coming inside he could have sworn that he saw the building's roof was flat. If anything, he wondered, was it not usually to be the other way around?

Some of the boys began to chat amongst themselves, while most dutifully read the textbook they were issued for the Junior Air Corps curriculum: The Glorious People's National History of Cement. Bobbo had his propped up by his pillow to hide his snacking. Kit's copy lay discarded under his bed.

Restlessly, he fell back on his pillow, holding his belly, which murmured from something other than hunger. Dinner consisted of a chunk of cabbage soaked in a bowl of he knew not what exactly; it bore an unsavory resemblance to green mud, and tasted none the sweeter. However exotic the menu for his tastes, Kit still managed to clean his plate... little did he know what several hours of tying shoes could do for his appetite.

Despite the trouble breaking out in his stomach, far be it for there to ever be a time when there wasn't room for a cookie. Kit popped the bite-sized treat in his mouth and nearly began choking. "Mph...! Bobbo, this cookie tastes like mackerel!"

"Nuh-uh, herring," said Bobbo. "Isn't it great?"

With watery eyes, Kit forced a swallow, although it took quite a long moment.

"You want another one?" Bobbo asked through a full mouth.

Kit mumbled something of a polite decline, wiping his tongue on his sleeve.

Bobbo sighed wistfully. "Gee, Mom's cookies. I hope I don't start getting homesick. I've never been away from home for so long."

"How long have you been gone?" asked Kit.

"Since yesterday morning," said Bobbo.

"You have a big family?"

"No, it's mostly just me and Mom. Papa's not home very often. He works in the mines. You know how that goes."

Kit did not know, but chose not to impose himself by asking.

Then, asked Bobbo, "What's your Mom like, Kit?"

"Me? I don't have one," said Kit. "Been an orphan forever."

"Oh." Bobbo felt a bit embarrassed and thought about apologizing for asking, but the way Kit answered so casually made him very curious. He rolled on his stomach and peered down at him. "How'd you get here?"

"Hitched a ride."

"By yourself?"

"Uh-huh. Why?"

Bobbo sat up again, looking somewhat bewildered as he pondered the experience of hitchhiking. It seemed so dangerous and frightening, nothing he would ever want to try.

He peered down at Kit once more. "Do you... have a place to stay?"

Kit half-chuckled at how concerned he looked. "Of course. I live in Cape Suzette, with my friend Baloo. You ever wanna hear about a great pilot—he's best in the world! I'm his navigator."

"Oh, I see," nodded Bobbo. "What's 'navigator' mean?"

Kit regarded that question with some surprise, though with patience. It was then an established fact in his mind that Bobbo truly did not know an aileron from his elbow, but then, everyone started somewhere. Kit was at least pleased, and a bit flattered, by his bunkmate's interest. It made him feel like an expert.

"It's the guy who reads the maps and figures out what direction you need to go," replied Kit.

"Hey, that's neat! No wonder you know a lot about airplanes. You get to fly all the time. "

"Well... I get to ride along all the time," said Kit.

"That's still good, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Kit said, dryly. "Nothing like logging less flying time than a crowbar."

"Huh?"

"Aw, nothing," said Kit. "You guys are lucky, though. They don't have flight school like this back home."

"Yeah, I hear it's pretty lousy to live in Cape Suzette," said Bobbo, with quite a degree of sympathy for his foreign friend.

Not that Kit had taken a particularly strong patriotic bond to the Cape, but he did just then have a proverbial feather ruffled. "Who ever told you that?"

Bobbo blinked; the answer, as read by the expression on his face, surprised that Kit was even asking, was apparently the most well known of all public Thembrian knowledge: "Well... everyone."

Though Kit rolled his eyes at the notion, it put in mind that there were indeed circumstances about his daily life in Cape Suzette that to describe them he may have used words stronger than 'lousy.' Usually these circumstances revolved around the legal age of obtaining a pilot's license.

"All I know is that I'm too young to do anything but homework," said Kit. And, speaking of which, he glanced around at the cadets reading their textbooks. "Why are we supposed to read a book about cement for a flying school?"

"'Cause that's what they say we should read," replied Bobbo.

"But it doesn't make sense," said Kit. There was then some consideration on his part given to the fact that he had just eaten a cookie made of seafood, which helped put his understanding of regional normalcy into perspective. "I just hope tomorrow we get to the flying. Maybe we're resting up for an early start on the runway."

"I wonder if there are gonna be a lot of people watching us at the air show?" mused Bobbo.

"I hope so," said Kit. "I'm ready to go up there a pelican dive and a double-Immelman, and top it all off with an a-maze-ing Baloo Corkscrew!"

To Bobbo's ears, Kit may have just as well been speaking in tongues, but it sounded like some impressive airplane stuff. "A double-eyed pelican dive...?"

"Oh, you'll see," smirked Kit. With an imaginary stick and throttle at his hands, he went through the motions of Baloo's signature dive. "I've watched Baloo do it a hundred times. It's a guaranteed crowd pleaser."

"Is your friend really the best pilot in the world?"

Kit gazed aimlessly toward the bottom of Bobbo's bunk, and grinned slyly as he thought for a moment. "For now."