The Ballroom

           ItwasthefirstofDecember.

           Dannywasintheeast-wingballroom,standingonanover-stuffed,high-backedwingchair,lookingattheclockunderglass.Itstoodinthecenteroftheballroom’shigh,ornamentalmantelpiece,flankedbytwolargeivoryelephants.Healmostexpectedtheelephantswouldbegintomoveandtrytogorehimwiththeirtusksashestoodthere,buttheyweremoveless.Theywere"safe."SincethenightoftheelevatorhebadcometodivideallthingsattheOverlookintotwocategories.Theelevator,thebasement,theplayground,Room217,andthePresidentialSuite(itwasSuite,notSweet;hehadseenthecorrectspellinginanaccountbookDaddyhadbeenreadingatsupperlastnightandhadmemorizeditcarefully)-thoseplaceswere"unsafe."Theirquarters,thelobby,andtheporchwere"safe."Apparentlytheballroomwas,too.

           (Theelephantsare,anyway.)

           Hewasnotsureaboutotherplacesandsoavoidedthemongeneralprinciple.

           Helookedattheclockinsidetheglassdome.Itwasunderglassbecauseallitswheelsandcogsandspringswereshowing.Achromeorsteeltrackranaroundtheoutsideoftheseworks,anddirectlybelowtheclockfacetherewasasmallaxisbarwithapairofmeshingcogsateitherend.ThehandsoftheclockstoodatquarterpastXI,andalthoughhedidn’tknowRomannumeralshecouldguessbytheconfigurationofthehandsatwhattimetheclockhadstopped.Theclockstoodonavelvetbase.