Lt. Strack and the Pilot’s Boy
Moon over Berlin, Sun over Santorini: B1C2
A relentless current pulled Ian along like he was tubing down a river littered with almost-familiar flotsam. People surged around him in a circular exhibition hall, booths spaced out along curving walls on both sides of the course.
The people unnerved him.
Three young women darting off toward a booth just up ahead wore jackets that looked normal at first glance but struck his subconscious as subtly wrong. And that man swimming ponderously upstream — who had ever seen a suit quite that shade of chocolate?
Even the hair styles, subtly but uniformly different from what he expected, accented his alien-ness in this new world.
Ian didn’t know how on-edge he was. He felt happy and excited. His eyes glittered like polished jade as they darted first one way then another to soak up the sights of Grüne Woche — Green Week, West Berlin’s annual food and drink festival.
He was dizzy from the drink part. He, Mark, and Juliette had spent hours sampling beers and wines from all over Europe.
They’d started as soon as they arrived. A big-bellied German in a towering chef’s hat had all but clicked his heels bowing, presenting a tray of white asparagus and ham with glasses of snappy Pils…
