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In
front
of
it
,
slightly
distorted
by
the
curve
of
the
dome
,
was
a
carefully
carved
silver
key
.
He
supposed
that
the
clock
was
one
of
the
things
he
wasn
’
t
supposed
to
touch
,
like
the
decorative
fire
-
tools
in
their
brass
-
bound
cabinet
by
the
lobby
fireplace
or
the
tall
china
highboy
at
the
back
of
the
dining
room
.
A
sense
of
injustice
and
a
feeling
of
angry
rebellion
suddenly
rose
in
him
and
(
never
mind
what
t
’
m
not
supposed
to
touch
,
just
never
mind
.
touched
me
,
hasn
’
t
it
?
played
with
me
,
hasn
’
t
it
?
)
It
had
.
And
it
hadn
’
t
been
particularly
careful
not
to
break
him
,
either
.
Danny
put
his
hands
out
,
grasped
the
glass
dome
,
and
lifted
it
aside
.
He
let
one
finger
play
over
the
works
for
a
moment
,
the
pad
of
his
index
finger
denting
against
the
cogs
,
running
smoothly
over
the
wheels
.
He
picked
up
the
silver
key
.
For
an
adult
it
would
have
been
uncomfortably
small
,
but
it
fitted
his
own
fingers
perfectly
.
He
placed
it
in
the
keyhole
at
the
center
of
the
clockface
.
It
went
firmly
home
with
a
tiny
click
,
more
felt
than
heard
.
It
wound
to
the
right
,
of
course
;
clockwise
.
Danny
turned
the
key
until
it
would
turn
no
more
and
then
removed
it
.
The
clock
began
to
tick
.
Cogs
turned
.
A
large
balance
wheel
rocked
back
and
forth
in
semicircles
.
The
hands
were
moving
.
If
you
kept
your
head
perfectly
motionless
and
your
eyes
wide
open
,
you
could
see
the
minute
hand
inching
along
toward
its
meeting
some
forty
-
five
minutes
from
now
with
the
hour
hand
.
At
XII
.
(
And
the
Red
Death
held
sway
over
all
.
)
He
frowned
,
and
then
shook
the
thought
away
.
It
was
a
thought
with
no
meaning
or
reference
for
him
.
He
reached
his
index
finger
out
again
and
pushed
the
minute
band
up
to
the
hour
,
curious
about
what
might
happen
.
It
obviously
wasn
’
t
a
cuckoo
clock
,
but
that
steel
rail
bad
to
have
some
purpose
.
