“Intriguing,” said the Trappist, handing back to the Elderly Sage the manuscript which purported to be a commentary on the escapades of the pentavirate since their more recent emergence from silence.

“Yes,” grumbled the Elderly Sage, taking a brief kick at a pigeon, which was strutting around the metal bench where they were seated, in the main concourse of Prague Central railway station. “And about time too. I have been sitting here for three hours waiting for your arrival. What about the others?”

“Oh, they fell asleep on the padded seat in front of the Van Dyck,” said the Trappist. “They couldn’t go back to the club, smelling of salt and vinegar. They’re probably still there, for all I know.”

“And the pentavirate?” questioned the Sage?

“Yes, carried nem con,” said the Trappist. “Though it’s getting a bit unwieldy, and this Eastern Monk chap will have to show his true colours; we’ll want to know precisely what his persona is if we are to include him in the Project. All this hanging around on street corners in disguise, pretending to be an emissary of some fictitious cardinal or other - it really has its limitations.”

“So where to now?” said the Sage.

“Well, that depends on whether you want to continue the dissimulation,” replied the Trappist. A smoke-screen of retrospective academic analysis and pseudo-theological contributions to alternative threads is a master stroke. Should give some time for things to settle down, while we get on with the real business.”

Using his stick as grappling hook on a nearby railing, the Sage heaved his bulk to the vertical, shaking off the remaining crumbs from his station sandwiches. Accompanied by the Trappist, he clattered off towards the main exit, where the pair disappeared into the anonymity of streets crowded with evening commuters hurrying purposefully to bus and tram stops for their homeward journey.