The pavement leading up to the old brick building holding the pendulum club was cracked and dissipated. They grey slab under him reminded him of the conversation he was a part of yesterday. The pavement could be used to describe what was happening to the city. It was fracturing into factions and scores of people were leaving, utter chaos was unbound.

Finally reaching the giant hunk of brick that made up the Pendulum Club, Augustus paused. It was rather imposing building of red and white. His friend and physician, Hr. Emmet E. Pumilio, invited him to join the commendable organization. He brought it up, out of the blue, at his last physical. He recounted the conversation two days before, telling him to visit him at the club on the seventh. There he was, following Hr. Pumilio's orders to a t.

He strolled up to a porter, nonchalantly, stating his business. The porter informed him that Hr. Pumilio was not in, but that he could wait and be seated in the sitting room. He was lead into a large wood panel room with several bookcases. He sat in a very comfortable seat next to the grand fireplace. A card game was going on at the table next to him, the gentlemen sounded like they were having a romping good time. Augustus was rather close to joining in on their game, but he decided to sit and wait for his friend. One game couldn't hurt, could it? He would still be in the same room, the same building; he decided against it. Though he would ask a question to the crew.

"Um . . . excuse me," He said, leaning towards the nearest player, but speaking loud enough for all the players to hear. "Have, by any chance, you seen Hr. Emmet E. Pumilio?"

Never in the history of the known and civilized world had a card game ever gone as badly for a single player as the present one was doing so for Shrikeweed. It was not just that he was loosing heavily, it was not simply that the cards had been dead against him for six hands now, it was the fact that the cards seemed to actually favor no one at all. Hand after hand the winner placed before the assembled company the sorriest, most pitifully anemic, and almost comically bad hand imaginable. This fortunate fellow was never the same from hand to hand, the only constant being that the worst of all possible card combinations was doomed to fall to Shrikeweed. He was now down seven concords, a bottle of very fine Gioran wine, and provisionally owed the house his seats at the next opera, his garnet cravat pin, and, for reasons that no one could quite fathom, a pair of ancient and miss-matched shoes.

When the gentleman with the absurdly heroic chin entered and inquired for his absent acquaintance the various gentlemen against whom Shrikeweed turned their gaze to the archivist in the ancient manner of the Pendulum. It was a tradition of long standing that, should a prospective member or guest appear in the middle of a friendly game of cards that the member to whom fortune had been most unkind would be ejected from that game and condemned to deal with this potentially bothersome person. In the practical world, this meant that over the past several years this duty had so often fallen to Shrikeweed that he wondered privately if the whole thing were not some ruse to put him into uncomfortable situations for the general amusement of the other members.

Tonight, however, Shrikeweed was glad to leave the game even if it did mean conversing with a fellow who looked like some cartoonist's idea of the romantic hero of some tale of high adventure and daring-do. I was unaware that there were real people who appear in public looking as this fellow does. It must be ghastly to have so heroic a profile. I wonder if he is often asked to rescue small animals from offending trees. I'm sure he is, the unlucky man. "Good evening sir," he said with an oddly cheerful tone, "is there something I, or any other member of the company here assembled, can assist you with this evening? Or will you be content to decorate this chair for the foreseeable future?"

There was something about the horrid player of cards. Augustus could swear he saw him somewhere recently, but he couldn't peg down the man. Whatever the case, he could sure use the man's help in learning about the club. Even though he hailed from the Anaxi capital, he had only recently heard of the club and it's presence in the city.

"Actually, sir, I think you might be able to do something for me. Do you mind showing me around this fine establishment." He smirked at the red-head. "My friend, Hr.Pumilio, has recommended me to this club and it turns out that he is not here and I do not know when he will return." Augustus rotated his head so he could get a better view of the room. It was quite large and spacious. A score of well dressed eccentrics were roaming the room looking for potential conversations.

"Most of the members here keep shockingly irregular hours, so, although I do not know this friend of yours particularly well, I can surmise he will arrive at precisely half-past whatever is most inconvenient. A bit of a tradition around here, sadly. Still," he said in a tone oddly combining abstracted melancholy and a kind of forced manic brightness, "it's not all bad here, and we do have the most comfortable of all possible chairs. As you are no doubt already aware."

Shrikeweed gestured toward several other examples of this interesting member of the furniture kingdom and, by way of driving his point home, to the somnolent forms of several members. One elderly gentleman had apparently fallen asleep while reading the largest and most unwieldy book imaginable and he now seemed in very material danger awakening with a much wider and altogether less protuberant nose than with which he had begun his day. "As you can see, several members have already surrendered to their undeniable charms.

"However," he said, again in the faintly worrying tone, "I doubt you've come here to merely be entranced by the furniture. What exactly would you care to know about our little club Mr. . . . I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your name."

"Augustus, my good man, Augustus Persiflage. It's an honour to make your acquaintance." Augustus bowed his head and extended his hand. The red-headed man seemed kind enough, though Augustus could not shirk this feeling of sarcasm being protruded from the group. These men must have been jaded in some way, then again who wasn't jaded in Vienda. Augustus glanced around the beautiful room and became increasingly envious of these men, the men that had a retreat from everyday life.

"I would love if one of you would be able to show me around this wonderful place."

Shrikeweed nodded sagely at the recitation of the name as though he already knew it, or was expecting the name. He was not, of course, but years of practice in the greeting of people had instilled in the man the ability to appear unflappable even in the presence as so outlandish a name as Augustus. The various Augustuses of his acquaintance were all quiet, shy men deeply uncomfortable with their incongruously glorious names. It was all very right and proper to be humble in the presence of so grand a name. This fellow, on the other hand, appeared quite at home with the moniker and certainly had the chin of a man, or possibly of two men, who could reasonably carry off the name.

Had Shrikeweed been more himself and not distressed by his losses at the table, nor by the unsettling events of the last few months, nor yet by the impending arrival of his natal day and the attendant loathsome festivities, he would have filed this name under 'deeply suspicious'. However, none of his customary cynical defenses were alerted, and the name passed by without comment.

"Well then, Mr. Persiflage, if you will only step this way," said Shrikeweed indicating a door in the far wall, "we can begin our survey of the establishment in the red billiard room -- do you play billiards sir? -- I left a novel of singular merit somewhere therein and I desire to retrieve it before some idle rogue snaps it up and ruins it by folding down the pages in a careless manner."

Augustus dutifully paced behind Shrikeweed. His chin of magnificence protruding from his face gained a million looks from the other members as he walked past the other seating arrangements. All men in the Snodgrass clan had been graced with a hardy chin. Each of Eugene's son sported a jawline that could take someone's eye out. It was a cherished trait, and even though he was no longer in contact with a majority of his family, Augustus was quite proud of his lower jaw structure. Besides, exaggerated traits were best for stage actors.

"Oh yes, I do play billiards." He said, finally. "I am an amateur though. The most I've ever been able to pocket is four." Augustus smirked, remembering all his mishaps on the table. When he was first being taught at the university, he accidentally sent a ball flying through a window; he knocking another student out for at least a hour. "I'm far from amazing, quite far from amazing. Though I could stand my own in a game against another amateur. How good are you, if I may I ask?"

"Me sir? Oh, I'm decently competent," said he, lying with great facility as he opened the doors to the aforesaid billiard room. Shrikeweed ushered the Chin in, and then followed after at a reasonable distance. Within the room were two men, neither of them particularly ancient. To be perfectly accurate, one would have to say that both of these two billiard room habitués were rather on the youngish side.

The taller of these two men, dressed in a pale blue waistcoat and dove colored trousers, lounged in an armchair. He was apparently engaged in a careless inspection of a novel bound in green leather when he looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Ah Shrikeweed," he said in a languid voice, "so good of you to join us. It was getting rather dull in here. And why, in the name of all that is interesting, tasteful, and clever are you reading this piece of garbage?" He shook the novel for emphasis. "Honestly, I would have thought you would have better taste. I've read seventy pages already and I have no idea at all what is going on. And there is a distressing lack of murderous bloodshed. Seventy pages and not a single corpse, it's very disconcerting. I'm beginning to come around to the opinion that . . .," the man paused in mid harangue and looked directly at Augustus. "Oh. Hello? Who's the chin Shrikeweed?"

"This," said Shrikeweed to the eccentric literary critic, "is the chin of a Mr. Augustus Persiflage. The rest of that gentleman is joined on behind in the approved manner. Mr. Persiflage," he said turning to that gentleman, "this is Mr. Cotswold-Wainwright, only no one calls him that."

"Unspeakably glad to meet you sir, and please, call me Wainscoting, everybody else does. Even my old mother. I've never quite figured that last bit out." said the critic with good humor. "I'd arise and bow to you, but my left foot is currently involved in a very delicate way with a brandy snifter that someone carelessly left there." At this, Wainscoting coldly eyed the hitherto silent other occupant of the room.

The receiver of the chilly glance was a very young man with alarmingly red hair, a generally rotund frame, and ears that were three sizes too large for his head. He was bending low over the table in an attitude of immense concentration and was, apparently, negotiating a rather tricky shot. "It was a convenient place for my drink, and besides, I'm the one loosing over here I'll have you know. I thought it might even things up."

"You would have done better to pour the contents of your snifter down his throat," returned Shrikeweed. "Wainscoting never plays well when drunk. Or rather, he plays worse that usual while in high spirits." There was a general groan at this. Puns are always greeted in this manner, no one knows why. “This, Mr. Persiflage” he said indicating the player of billiards to the newcomer, “is Mr. Boddingsly. Mr. Boddingsly, I present to you Mr. Persiflage.”

As soon as Shrikeweed had made the rotund young man and Augustus acquainted; the young man, Mr Boddingsly, took his shot. Sadly, only one ball made it into a pocket. A grimaced look formed on his face. He was seemed an experienced player, but it was obviously not his night.

Mr Boddingsly looked up from his horrid shot. His expression morphed from grimaced to suprize. This young, round man had recognized Augustus. Mr Boddingsly blinked twice, rifling through the papers in his head. "Mr Persiflage? You're mistaken Shrikeweed. This is a member of the Snodgrass family." Boddingsly turned to the unveiled Percival. "Percival Snodgrass, correct? I couldn't miss that chin if it was all the way in the Hoxian mountains." Boddingsly smirked. "I work for your father. How come I haven't seen you around the firm?"

Boddingsly, ever oblivious, had obviously not heard of the disowning. How was it possible that he never heard of the thespian Snodgrass. Percy was sure it was around the office after the giant argument that took place.

"Well . . . I guess my secret's out." Percy hung his head. "I'm the son of Eugene Snodgrass."

Shrikeweed pondered this extraordinary revelation for some little time. The intelligence lately provided by Boddingsly was, though greatly edifying as to the family from which the heretofore Mr. Persiflage hailed, almost entirely unhelpful in producing anything like an explanation for the man's conduct. He considered it in the light of all he knew of the firm of Snodgrass, Oglethorp, and Hester (the firm from which Boddingsly drew his tiny salary) and was forced to conclude that he could arrive at nothing like a satisfactory explanation for why a man endowed with the highly respectable name of Snodgrass would bother with pseudonym. Possibly, thought Shrikeweed, the man simply likes the word 'persiflage' and being thus unable to easily insert it into his everyday conversation, decided instead to claim the word as his name. It was a ridiculous thought, and he dismissed it out of hand, but no other, better thoughts were as yet forthcoming. He knew of writers using noms de plume, but in his experience such names were generally confined to the page. For all that Shrikeweed existed in a world of paper work, he could not see his way clear to thinking that the general paperyness of the world extended quite so far as to permit the use of pen names in everyday life.

The man's reaction to his revealed name was even more curious. He appeared to be ashamed of it, as though his family tree was populated entirely by the more disreputable sort of rake, or by menial laborers or, worse still owners of country property. Shrikeweed shuddered at the thought and was glad that his own ancestry contained no such unnatural parasites. It was bad enough that the countryside was suffered to exist, but to go about encouraging it by owning little pieces of it, by building houses with far too much lawn and generally carrying on as though there was nothing so fine as a country holiday, was more than he could stand.

"Snodgrass," said Shrikeweed carefully, as though he was testing a strange and possibly dangerous word, "why this pretense about the name? Are you plagued by mysterious enemies who believe that only a set number of Snodgrasses can exist at any one time and therefore seek your destruction to bring the numbers in line? I can see how that would be troublesome."

"Well, whatever your name is is a matter of supreme indifference to me," said Wainscoting cheerfully. "It is still an unspeakable pleasantry to make your acquaintance, if for no other reason than that it is a novel experience."

"That is in no way the reason his name is indifferent to you as you are well aware," returned Shrikeweed. "You meet people with curious names every day, and then, with all the regularity of a finely made clock, you proceed to forget them entirely. When we were younger, Mr. Snodgrass," he said, turning to him, "Wainscoting here insisted on calling me and all the other young fellows of his acquaintance 'Laurence'. I never did understand why."

"Nothing at all wrong with the name Laurence, it's a perfectly fine name. I had an uncle called Laurence. Many a respectable man has been named Laurence. Isn't that so Mr. Snodgrass?" With that, he produced, seemingly from nowhere, a long silver cigar case and opened it with a flourish and extended it toward the gentleman in question. "Do you partake, sir?"

Shrikeweed shot a comically malicious look at the languid Wainscoting. "I wish you would not engage in that malodorous habit in so confined a space as this. It has a distressing tendency to cause the paint to peel."

"Well, Wainscotting, if that's what you prefer. I have known not many a Laurence but if what you say is truth, I cannot wait to meet one." A brass undertone of sarcasm could be heard in Percival's voice. He was not one to take anything at face value, especially the stereotype of a name. Many different people can hold a name. Percival knew another man (his father) that posses his name, they were quite different.

Percival turned to Shrikeweed and scoffed. He leaned in closely, for he didn't want the man's friend to hear. "His this man serious about that name? Surely, he must have more sense than that. What is his career?"

To Percival, and all Snodgrass men, a man's career showed how keen and sensible he was. If he was a beggar, he was quite low in the intellect department. But if he was a politician or lawyer, he was a genius of the highest order.

"Please tell me he's at least a clerk."

"A clerk? Wainscoting a clerk? Mr. Snodgrass, I am shocked sir," said Shrikeweed in an infuriating tone of mock reasonability. "He's no more a clerk than I am linen draper or than Mr. Boddingsly there -- indecently Mr. Boddingsly, you will scratch the baize most dreadfully if you continue to wield you cue in that manner -- is secretly the supreme potentate of Gior."

Boddingsly glared at Shrikeweed but adjusted his stance and attempted a different shot, all the while muttering under his breath in a most agitated way.

"No Mr. Snodgrass, Wainscoting there is a barrister with Pocket, Pockett, and Hattersleigh. I am a little surprised that one with your connections and background could not spot a lawyer more easily. I would have thought such a skill was innate in those born, as it were, before the bar."

Shrikeweed considered this for a moment in the light of his own parentage and his complete failure to apprehend that the Mr. Snodgrass to whom he was speaking was a scion of a great legal family. "Practicing lawyers at any rate," said he by way of correction.

"And I don't think you're quite entering into the spirit of things sir," said the archivist with mild reproof, "nothing but some very minor witticisms concerning you giving a false name this evening. It is not as though your friend proposed you under that name. There would be no end of trouble if that were the case. . ."

Shrikeweed stopped. He glanced meaningfully at Snodgrass and in a voice of such worried gravity that it might have developed its own system of tiny orbiting planets he asked, "Your friend, the physician, did give your right name to Seppings did he not?"

"Pumilio? He knows nothing of Percival Snodgrass. To him, I've always been Augustus Persiflage." Percival did not see any problem, for it was just a name. Sadly, Percival should have known what powers names wield. He himself, under an assumed alias, had created a whole other life for himself away from his immediate family just by changing his name.

"Why do you ask, Mr Shrikeweed?" Percival smiled. He was trying to be ever so jovial to his newfound comrades, but they seemed so . . . eccentric. Upon thought though, he realized the club might be the perfect place for him. He would always have patrons for his shows, a group of friends, and even (in a few) stalwart companions. Mr Shrikeweed and Wainscoting seemed like great candidates for that venture.

Shrikeweed glanced in a significant way at Wainscoting, who shook his head with the greatest solemnity and, should the hearer have possessed the auditory organs of an unusually astute bat, was heard to utter the phrase "Oh dear". Shrikeweed, though possessed of excellent hearing did not exactly hear the remark, but he was somehow aware of its utterance and responded with a sub-vocalization of his own. The precise content of this remark is, sadly, lost to history, though the testimony of Mr. Boddingsly leads one to conclude it my have been something along the lines of a rueful 'indeed', though others debate the truth of that observation.

"Mr. Snodgrass," said he with renewed voice, "cognizant though we all are as to your ignorance concerning the customs and traditions of the Pendulum, it can be of no service -- indeed it may be of the greatest disservice to your good person -- for us to permit you to languish any further in the coal-cellar of ignorance. For one thing, such a place is shockingly dusty and in no way good for the lungs, secondly it is not the proper place for a member, or indeed potential member, of this society, or indeed in similar society, to languish. Thirdly and finally, for the purposes of this discussion, it is not in the interests of the Pendulum to see its traditions violated. Therefore sir, it is with the greatest goodwill that I, and I believe these gentlemen will concur," general nodding here transpired, "implore you to adjourn with all convenient speed to the office of Mr. Seppings to set things to rights."

Shrikeweed paused for a moment to consider some possibly vital information. "I don't suppose you know where Mr. Seppings office is, do you?"