Free The Clowns of God by Morris West

thought that was natural enough. You’ve given them a few headaches in the past; and every new book causes a flutter in the pigeon-loft. Milk and sugar?”
    “No sugar. I’m trying to lose weight.”
    “I’ve noticed. I noticed also you were pushing a little last night, for information on Gregory XVII.”
    “Did it show that much?”
    “Only to me, I think. Was there any special reason?”
    “He was my friend. You know that. I wanted to find out what really happened to him.”
    “Didn’t he tell you himself?”
    “I hadn’t heard from him in months.” Mendelius hedged his answer.
    “I imagine he had little time for private correspondence. ” “But you’ll be seeing him while you’re here?”
    “It’s been arranged. Yes.”
    The answer was a shade too curt. Herman Frank was too tactful a man to press the matter. There was an awkward moment of silence; then he said quietly: “Something’s been puzzling me, Carl. I’d like your opinion on it.”
    “Tell me, Herman.”
    “About a month ago I was called to our embassy. The ambassador wanted to see me. He showed me a letter from Bonn: a circular instruction to all academies and institutes abroad. Many of them, as you know, have valuable material on loan from the Republic: sculptures, pictures, historic manuscripts, that sort of thing. All directors were told to arrange secret safe-deposits in the host countries where these things could be stored in the event of civil disorder or international conflict. We were all given a budget, available immediately, to buy or lease suitable storage.”
    “It sounds like a reasonable precaution,” said Mendelius mildly.
    “Especially since you can’t insure against war or civil violence.”
    “You miss the point.” Herman Frank was emphatic.
    “It was the tone of the document that worried me. There was a note of real urgency, and a threat of stringent penalties for neglect. I got the impression our people are genuinely worried that some terrible thing may happen very soon.”
    “Do you have a copy of the instruction?”
    “No. The ambassador was very firm that it must not leave the embassy. Oh, and that’s another thing. Only most senior staff were to know its contents. I thought that was rather sinister. I still do. I know I’m a worrier; but all the time I think of Hilde and what might happen to her if we were separated in some emergency. I’d like your honest opinion, Carl.”
    For a moment, Mendelius was tempted to put him off with some facile encouragement; then he decided against it. Herman Frank was a good man, too soft for a rough world. He deserved a sober and honest answer.
    “Things are bad, Herman. We’re not at panic stations yet;
    but very soon we may be. Everything points that way: public disorder the breakdown of political confidence, the huge recession and the fools in high places who think they can solve the problem by a well-timed but limited war. You’re right to be concerned. What you can do about it is another matter. Once the first missiles are launched there’s no safe hiding place anywhere. Have you talked to Hilde about it?”
    “Yes. She doesn’t want to go back to Germany, but she agrees we ought to consider moving out of Rome. We’ve got that little farmhouse in the Tuscan hills. It’s isolated; but there’s fertile ground around it. I suppose we could survive just on what we grew ourselves. But it seems an act of despair even to contemplate such a thing.”
    “Or an act of hope,” said Mendelius gently.
    “I think your Hilde’s a very wise girl and you shouldn’t worry about her as much as you do. Women are much better at survival than we are.”
    “I suppose they are. I’ve never thought about it that way.
    Don’t you wish sometimes we could find a great man to take control and lead us out of the filthy mess?”
    “Never!” said Carl Mendelius sombrely.
    “Great men are dangerous. When their dreams fail, they bury them under the rubble of cities, where simple