AN: we're finally headed towards the end. Chapter 37, Postludium, will be the last installment.

SECHSUNDDREIβIG

Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen

Stuttgart

By the time Hermann walked into his living room, he was practically asleep on his feet. He had dozed off more than once on the airplane, then again on the train back to Stuttgart, and at least twice in the taxi to his apartment building. His watch read fifteen minutes to nine PM, not late by any means, but the long trip—two car rides, a train, and a transcontinental flight—had more than taken its toll.

Clad in a long trench coat and a wool beret to keep the rain from soaking him to the skin, Hermann drowsily turned the key in his lock and stepped inside, hanging up his coat and hat on a peg and switching on a floor lamp. From outside, the orange-yellow glow of the street lights shone in through the windows, silhouetting the falling rain against a back wall. Hermann's apartment was exactly as he had left it: a desk covered in medical books and papers, a German grocery list on the refrigerator, a well-made bed that looked more inviting by the millisecond. The apartment's owner, on the other hand—the person to whom all the appliances, books, and furniture belonged—was hardly the same man who had stepped out the door three weeks ago en route to Kenya.

Ten minutes to nine. Hermann decided to stay up for at least a few minutes longer, just to keep the time change difficulties to a minimum. He flopped down on his bed and turned on the television, an old tube model that only received the basic channels. Technology, save for the car and the pair of rifles, had been nonexistent in the Pride Lands; Hermann couldn't say that he had missed it very much. He certainly liked computers and cellular phones and all the comforts of modern life, but where he had been staying, none of these had ever been needed, and as such, he had not given their absence a second's consideration. As Hermann caught up on the previous weeks' news, Markos called him from across town: he, too, had made it home in a taxi, and was headed to sleep as soon as he could get his things unpacked. Hermann didn't even have the energy to go that far; both he and Markos would have the day off tomorrow, and more than enough time to sort through their collective wardrobes. He, more so than Markos, would need to do the sorting sooner rather than later: a pair of tickets for the symphony—one for himself, and one for his girlfriend—were sitting neatly on top of a nightstand. Jeans and a t-shirt full of holes, many of them from lion cub claws, would be something less than acceptable attire.

I'll stay awake until ten, Hermann thought, that way I'll wake up at a normal time in the morning. Satisfied that he had caught up enough with current events for one night, he fumbled around for the television remote and switched the set to another channel.

"In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equal groups…"

Sixty or so minutes later, when the last of the credits had finished rolling and Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy, in his typical fashion, had succeeded in putting another crazed murdered behind bars for life, Hermann drew the shutters and turned out his lights. All he could hear was the metallic plinking of the raindrops against the window and on the roof; before his trip, the sound would have been annoying, perhaps even inhibitive to sleep. Now, three weeks after the fact, it was the closest thing to a lullaby as Hermann could imagine.

The next morning, the beginning of a perfect summer day, Hermann decided to take a short side trip to a store near his apartment building. The shop sold an truly odd collection of items—mostly cigars, along with some music records, walking sticks, gentlemen's hats and pocket handkerchiefs—but Hermann and his family had known the old Russian shopkeeper for years, and the former was in desperate need of a new cane. The room smelled of weathered wood, tobacco and old vinyl, a far cry from the disinfectant aroma that permeated Hermann's workplace, but it was welcoming in its own primitive, antiquated way. Much like the rain the previous night, being in the store reminded Hermann of the cave at Pride Rock.

"Good morning, Hermann," the store owner said as Hermann walked in. "So good to see you again."

"Good morning, Anatoly," Hermann replied. "How is your daughter doing these days?"

"She's very well. She just moved back to St. Petersburg to start her doctorate. What can I do for you?"

"I'm in the market for a new cane," Hermann said. "I lost my old one while I was in Africa."

"Did you now? I'd think that would be the last thing someone like you would lose. How did it happen?"

"Let's just say there's a long story involving the local wildlife."

"Interesting… very interesting. Well, you've come to the right place; I can get you one of almost anything you happen to lose, save of course for your mind." Anatoly laughed and pointed to the back of the shop. "What I have is over there, by the large cigar case. It's not the biggest selection in the country, but you might be able to find something that strikes your fancy."

Five minutes later, Hermann came back with a cane and laid it on the counter. "Really?" the shopkeeper asked. "That one? I thought you'd prefer a more traditional design…something with pewter inlay, perhaps? I have another one back there that's solid mahogany…"

"No, I think I'll take this," Hermann said. "I could stand to break with tradition a bit. What do I owe you?"

"For you, fifteen Euros; for anyone else outside the Sterlitz family, twenty; for your crazy friend from Dresden, twenty-five. Oh, and I almost forgot, I have something for you. I was finally able to track it down." He ducked under the desk for a few seconds, and popped back up with a worn legal envelope in his hand. "Here it is; the record you asked for, complete with the original case."

"Martha Argerich? The Chopin piano sonatas?"

"In mint condition. Not a scratch or a mark on it. The paper covering has seen better days, but the vinyl's as good as the day it was made."

"I can't believe you found this. I'm going to listen to it as soon as I get home! It's such a shame, most people don't even have record players anymore."

"What do you mean? I have four of them."

"Three. One that works."

"Oh, who's counting? Fifteen Euros, please."

"Aren't you forgetting the record? The cane is fifteen, plus whatever the record costs."

"That's on the house; I didn't have to pay anything for it, so there's no sense in me charging you."

"I insist."

"Very well. Fifteen Euros, two cents, please."

Hermann fished the €15.02 out of his wallet and handed it over. "So tell me about your trip," Anatoly said as he counted the cash. "What was it like? What did you see?"

"More than you'd ever believe. Apparently we weren't the first people to visit the area, though; we heard there was a team of researchers there before us."

"You didn't get to meet them?"

"No, they'd already left by the time we were there. We did, however, get to discover their tastes in drink. And they didn't disappoint, that's for sure." Anatoly looked a bit confused. "They left a Lafite Rothschild behind when they packed up camp."

"Oh my…it certainly sounds like they were living comfortably. Who knows, you might be in their shoes one day, bar tab and all," Anatoly mused. "People are always looking for researchers willing to go to those kinds of places. Much too hot for me, of course…where I grew up, if it wasn't ten below freezing at twelve noon in wintertime, everyone considered it a heat wave."

"What? What did you say?"

"I said, in my hometown, it was—

"No, before that, about the research! Exactly what kind of programs are you talking about?"

"Oh, I don't know the specifics—I'm not in the profession, after all—but my daughter's a psychologist, as you know, and she has multiple friends who've spent years at a time in foreign countries for their work. People with your sort of background especially; they're always looking for internists and diagnosticians in places like Africa, Southeast Asia, the Middle East..."

"I gotta go," Hermann said as he darted out the door. "Thanks, Tolya!"

"Hold on, just where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"Hospital!" Hermann shouted. "Taxi!"

"Hermann Sterlitz, I would not be trying to move that fast if I were you! You don't want to hurt yourself!"

"I won't! Trust me, I'm a doctor!"

Hermann clambered into a cab, which quickly peeled away with a loud tire squeal. Dear me, Anatoly thought with a half-concerned, half-amused grin. What on Earth could have gotten into that boy now?

One hour later

A veteran physician at Olga Hospital was sitting in his office, poring over paperwork and wondering what to do with his upcoming day off, when the door suddenly burst open. In rushed Hermann Wolfgang Sterlitz, MD, short of breath and sweating as if he had just finished a marathon.

"Sir I have to ask you about—

"Whoa there, kid, stop for a second and inhale! Slow down and take your time…what is you were saying?"

"Research…Kenya…"

"Did you run all the way here? Hermann, isn't it?"

"Can't run…bad leg…just fast walking. Taxi dropped me off a few blocks away."

"That's right, I remember you from your first year with Friedrich."

Of course you remember me, Hermann almost blurted out, you were standing there at the Bundestag ceremony two nights ago. Fortunately, he quickly remembered that this event had taken place purely as a figment of his own mind.

"Why don't you sit down for a moment and catch your breath."

"Thanks, Doctor Fr—

"Call me Leonard. That's an interesting cane you've got there."

"You like it?"

"Yes, the neon flames are a nice touch. I'm going to get myself a cup of coffee; I don't think I'll make it through the rest of the day without re-caffeinating. Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine as far as coffee is concerned, but by chance have you got any new right legs?"

"Sorry, I ran out of those this morning. We're having all kinds of trouble getting our illegal body part shipments in; you just wouldn't believe how difficult it is to do good business with those cannibals in the Pacific."

"A shame," Hermann laughed.

"So what's eating you?" the doctor asked as he poured a cup and returned to his seat. "What is it that's so urgently on your mind this fine morning? Hopefully not a parasite from somewhere in Kenya."

"No, I would certainly hope not. I was just wondering, what kind of opportunities are there for a guy like me to do some field research in Africa? Maybe something I could publish in a journal of medicine?"

"There's a few fellowships out there, mainly centered around infectious diseases. We send a few of our best every year on rotating shifts, and you've certainly got the credentials for it. You have a second specialization in diagnostics, correct?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, if you asked the right people, I can't see why you wouldn't at least have a shot…but do you really want to go back to Africa? You just spent three weeks there, and besides, you never struck me as the type who would want to live off the land for months on end."

"Yeah, it's funny how those perceptions can be so wrong from time to time. How do I sign up?"

"You're sure? There aren't any concert halls in the savannah, and most days it's a struggle just to get cell phone reception." Hermann knew that these facts would be utterly insignificant, but as he had his superior thinking in his favor, he didn't think it necessary to start an argument over minutia.

"Quite sure. What kind of arrangements are there? Do we get transport? Food and water?"

"You get the basic necessities and a stipend for your time, but the car stays with the person who brings the rations every week. Believe it or not, we've actually had a few people fly in."

"Why wouldn't they have flown in? I'm certainly not going to drive all the way to Kenya, not in my rust bucket car at least. I'd be lucky just to make it out of Germany."

"No, I mean the students were private pilots who literally flew to the campsite. They took the plane from Berlin along with everyone else, and then instead of getting on a bus or in a car, they walked into another plane and flew themselves the rest of the way. The aircraft rental is much cheaper in Kenya than it is here, so the hospital was able to subsidize the expense in part, but that was only for people who had their license before they left. If you're interested in becoming a research fellow, first go talk to Margaret in the finance office; you'll need a copy of your transcript, a well-written application essay…"

"Thanks! Thanks very much!"

Hermann was already running back the way he had come. In short order, he had the application form in one hand and his cell phone in the other. Even without the fellowship, there was one way for him to get back to the Pride Lands on his own time—Leonard had unknowingly mentioned it in passing—but much regarding this possibility now hinged on the result of a phone call. No longer moving at such an urgent clip, Hermann dialed a number and waited for a voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

Yes, he's home! "Hi, Dad, it's me."

"Hermann? Is that you?"

"No, it's Santa Claus."

"Well that settles it, you're definitely Hermann. What can I do for you, son? You have to speak up; I've got a shaky connection right now." Hermann felt a bit sorry for being sarcastic, but he also knew that his father was the last person who would find his sarcasm offensive in the least.

"I was wondering if you still knew that guy down at the airport, the flight instructor…I'm trying to land a spot on a research team abroad, and it's a major plus to have a pilot's license."

"This is certainly news to me. When did you ever decide on a program that requires a Cessna as study material?"

"Thirty seconds ago."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I have to ask; you haven't been—

"Hitting the sauce? No, not a drop."

"I was going to say 'bitten by a malaria-carrying mosquito in Africa', but rest assured, the booze was question next in line."

"Dad, seriously…"

"OK, yes, I still know one of the flight instructors. Is being able to fly really that much of a deal-breaker?"

"It certainly doesn't hurt."

The elder Sterlitz thought for a moment or two. "Why don't you call back later tonight and we'll talk it over amongst the three of us." he finally said. "I want to know everything about this program before you even think about signing up, down to the very last detail. But that being said, if taking this trip is so important to you, and we all decide that everything's kosher, I'll consider contributing towards your flying lessons."

"Really?"

"Really. I can't promise anything of course, but if you call around eight this evening, we can all talk then and figure things out. I know there's someone besides myself who will want to weigh in."

"Mom?"

"Duh."

Hermann knew he wouldn't be able to provide his parents with every detail, namely those regarding whom he was planning on visiting upon rearrival, but he agreed nevertheless. Flight training, even from a family friend, would be expensive, especially at an accelerated rate, and Hermann didn't have enough cash to cover all the costs without using a financing program. For a moment, he thought about abandoning the flying idea entirely, but when he remembered that there would be no car at his (or anyone else's) disposal and that the distance between his research site and Pride Rock could be days if not weeks on foot, he made up his mind for good: without a pilot's license, going back to Africa would be nothing more than a work trip. "I'll call at eight," he said. "I'll be sure to."

"Better make it quarter past eight. Out of curiousity, when was it you were hoping to get your license by?"

"Yesterday."