Baby Baloos
Part 1

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Higher for Hire
July 1939

Rebecca von Bruinwald, a petite brown bearess, sank into her chair with a relieved sigh. She pulled herself as close to her desk as her protruding abdomen would allow. The cub she was expecting sharply kicked her in the ribs, apparently protesting about being wedged against the edge of the desk. Rebecca rubbed her stomach gingerly, murmuring, �Sorry, little one, but Mommy�s got work to do.� She then wiped a droplet of sweat from her nose, thinking ruefully, I would have to be nine months pregnant during the worst heat wave Cape Suzette�s ever had.

Feeling as if she was broiling alive, Rebecca pointed the oscillating fan directly on her face, causing the stacks of weighted-down papers to rustle. There was another fan on the floor beside the desk. She turned it on to �high�. The fans only blew the hot air around, but it was better than nothing. She took a long gulp of ice-cold lemonade and picked up her pencil.

Just as soon as Rebecca had opened her ledger, the radio on the other side of the room crackled, �Sea Duck to Higher for Hire. Come in, Higher for Hire.�

Tossing the pencil aside, Rebecca said through gritted teeth, �I can�t get any work done with that bearbothering me every two minutes!� She sighed in exasperation, hoisted herself with difficulty out of the chair, and waddled over to the radio.

As Rebecca laboriously made her way across the room, Baloo repeatedly asked, �Beckers? Are ya there, Becky? Honey?�

The bearess picked up the receiver and jabbed her thumb down on the transmit button. �What is it now, Baloo?�

�Just checkin� up on ya,� the pilot replied defensively.

�I�ve told you time and again - just like I told you ten seconds ago and ten seconds before that - that I�d radio you at the first sign of a contraction.�

�I know, honey, but I don�t like bein� so far away when the baby might decide ta pop out at any second,� Baloo said concernedly, �especially since it�s two weeks past yer due date.�

Rebecca smirked. �Gee,� she said sarcastically, �I wonder where the baby got that. No one in our family is ever late.�

�Go ahead, yuk it up, Rebecca,� Baloo mumbled, peeved.

Through her laughter, she said, �Okay, I will. Kit, can you please explain to your father that I can take care of myself, and that I have a ton of paperwork that needs to get done if we�re going to pay for this baby? Make sure you use small words and speak slowly so that he will understand.�

A smile crossed Rebecca�s face as she listened to her fourteen-year-old son solemnly repeat what she had said.

�Yeah, yeah, smarty-pants, I heard her the first time,� the pilot grumbled.

�Thanks, sweetie!�

There was scuffling and bumping as Kit stole the microphone. �No problem, Mom.�

Rebecca laughed when Baloo exclaimed, �No fair gangin� up on me! Gimmee the mike, Li�l Britches! Are ya okay, Beckers?�

�Yes, I�m fine. Goodbye, Baloo,� she said pointedly.

�All right, all right. Sea Duck out.�

Rebecca waited by the radio. She fanned herself with an invoice. It felt like she had her own personal heater strapped to her stomach. Coupled with the oppressive July heat and humidity, it was simply unbearable in the stuffy little office. She�d like to take a refreshing dip in the harbor, but she knew that she�d never be able to get out once she got in.

As she had expected, Baloo asked over the radio, �Are ya one hundred percent, abso-tutely sure yer okay, Becky?�

The bearess burst out laughing. She found her husband�s near-manic concern for her both sweet and annoying. It made her want to kiss him and strangle him at the same time. �For the last time YES!� she shouted. Still giggling, she added, �Be careful, guys.�

�Love ya, honey. Sea Duck out.�

Before Rebecca could turn around, Baloo said, �Hey, Becky, make sure ya remember yer promise.�

Picking up the receiver, Rebecca said wearily, �I remember - no Berthas.�

�An� no Dexters. I still think ya should name him Baloo, Jr,� he hinted none-too-subtly.

�I don�t think so, flyboy. One Baloo in the family is more than enough.�

�Aw...� the big bear groaned in disappointment.

�Bye, Baloo, and I mean it this time!�

�Yes, sir, boss lady. Sea Duck out.�

Rebecca headed towards her desk and the mountain of ledgers and paperwork on it. Halfway across the office, she changed her mind and instead waddled slowly outside. Even though it was only mid-morning, the hot sun beat down on her mercilessly. She made her way around to the rear of Higher for Hire where her eight-year-old daughter Molly was playing in the sandbox underneath the shady elm tree.

�Lookee, Mommy. It�s my best one yet,� the little yellow cub stated proudly, pointing to her sand castle complete with elaborate turrets, doorways, and windows. She�d worked on it for the past two days.

�Very nice, Pumpkin,� her mother said admiringly. She patted the little girl on the head. �Molly, could you play inside and answer the radio for me? Your daddy�s driving me up the wall.�

�Again?� Molly remarked with a sympathetic smile, slipping her sandy paw into her mother�s.

�Yes, again.� Rebecca sighed tiredly, putting her free hand on her aching back. �Let�s get out of this sun. Maybe I�ll radio Baloo and ask him to bring me some snow from Thembria.�

Molly looked alarmed. �Don�t do that, Mom. He�ll get arrested for stealing snow.�

�I forgot about that,� the bearess murmured, sorely disappointed. Sitting in a bathtub full of snow sounded really appealing. �The heat must be bothering me more than I thought.�

Thembria

It was a typical frigid, blustery day in Thembria�s capital city. A thick bank of grey clouds blocked out every vestige of sunlight, leaving the snow-covered, treeless country in gloomy greyness. A howling, piercingly cold wind pummeled everything in its path and whipped the powdery snow around.

Rows and rows of identical snow-roofed houses lined the narrow streets of the city. There was no business district, because there was only one government-controlled Glorious People�s General Store. In front of this store stretched an interminable line of shivering, rag-clad warthog peasants. All had waited in that line for hours just to purchase a few turnips and a bowl of gruel, hoping against hope that there wasn�t another shortage.

In the middle of the city stood a stoutly-built, five-story, snow-capped stone building that stretched as far as the eye could see. At the exact center of this imposing building was a dome, and atop the dome waved the Thembrian flag - a white semi-circle imposed on a black background. It was a fitting symbol for Thembria�s snowy bleakness. This building housed the Glorious Republic of Thembria�s official offices. It was also where the perpetual ruler of Thembria - the High Marshall - made all of his important decisions.

At that time, the High Marshall, an extremely portly grey-blue warthog clad in a purple coat with a red sash and a matching cap, was performing a very important task. He was lounging in his comfortable chair, getting his tusks polished.

When the head of the Glorious People�s Air Force walked into the room, the High Marshall impatiently pushed the official tusk polisher away. In a thick Thembrian accent, he said languidly, �You are probably wondering why I summoned you, Colonel Nozzle.�

�That�s Spigot, sir,� the very, veryshort warthog corrected timidly with a pronounced lisp on the letter �S�. He rocked on his heels nervously and tugged on the collar of his maroon coat. �But Nozzle has such a nice ring to it. I�ll change my name at once!�

The High Marshall shot him a withering stare and once again pushed the tusk polisher away. He wondered why he hadn�t had Spigot shot long ago. �Whatever, Faucet. Our intelligence officers at the TBG (Thembrian Bureau of Guises) have received word that spies from Usland are preparing to invade our country to do irreparable damage to our beloved Great Patriotic Flying Flounder statue.�

�Not the Great Patriotic Flying Flounder statue located in the People�s Glorious Square?� Spigot gasped in horror.

�Yes, that one,� the High Marshall said, highly peeved at the interruption. �Do not interrupt me again, Drainpipe, or you will be shot.�

�A thousand pardons, O Mighty Mucky Muck.�

Over the noise of the polishing machine, the High Marshall said, �In an attempt to destroy Thembria�s patriotism, these Usland spies are going to attack the statue.�

�Nothing can make Thembrians turn their backs on their glorious Mommyland! Not even capitalistic Usland swine!�

Annoyed, the High Marshall shoved the polisher to the floor. The scrawny warthog slunk across the floor to the door, his polisher still whirring. �Your mission - and you will accept it upon penalty of being shot by a firing squad and then hung - is to root out these spies before they desecrate the statue. According to the TBG, the Usland spies� code word for beginning the demolition is �labor�. That is all you need to know. Now, go away and don�t report back until you have successfully completed your task, Colonel Nozzle,� he ordered gruffly. He folded his hands and closed his eyes.

�Spigot,� the colonel corrected.

The High Marshall cracked one eye open to glare at the colonel. �Just get going.�

�Yes, sir. Right away, sir.� Colonel Spigot saluted and quickly retreated in search of his toady, Sergeant Dunder.

One story down, Sergeant Dunder sat behind a desk in a high-ceilinged room. The large, mild-mannered warthog was surrounded by mounds of papers as tall as he. He stamped each paper with a black �W�, indicating that those papers were processed on Wednesday. It was long, hard, tedious, taxing work, and he wasn�t getting paid very

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