No strain ever quite equals that of a pupil’s first landing. No matter who the pupil is, everyone within sight or hearing pauses tense until it is over. The group stared, fascinated, as young Kiwi glided down, flattened out a few inches above the surface, and settled down to a perfect three-point landing.
Kiwi had done it!
A shout went up and they pounded the Skipper on the back as he watched, almost unbelieving. Kiwi was a pilot! He had mounted into the air alone, had mastered the air, and had landed beautifully. He was now one of them—a flyer in his own right, a pilot in that quiet kingdom.
He made several more landings, and then as he taxied back to the group Armbruster said:
“The name Kiwi doesn’t fit him now, but it will probably stick to him forever.”
It was not long before Dad and Jack and Kiwi became accustomed to this carefree life and made many excursions off into the upper air in the “Dauntless.”
The moon had always had a great fascination for Kiwi, and on one flight with Armbruster and some of the others, they soared up to it and landed on its barren surface. They climbed in and out of the deep hollows of its dead volcanoes; they explored its caves and the rocky beds of its dried-up rivers.
They went on numerous excursions to other planets, where sometimes they landed and exchanged experiences with the strange inhabitants. The flyers were looked upon as strange adventurers, for on none of these other planets had the art of flying been developed. But always as they floated down like a bit of fluff to their own kingdom, they were happy to be back among their own kind.
And Kiwi began to feel that his place with them was now assured, that he was one of them—a pilot with wings—a Kiwi in name only.