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toward a far door and said, “Main elevator’s out. Better use the freight ’round back.”
    Â Â Â Â  She headed down the hallway, departing the tiled floor and entering a back hall with cement flooring and a strip of green carpeting down the center that had enough holes in it to sink the Titanic . The corridor light was dodgy at best, flickering slightly and making her worry that within moments she was going to be plunged into darkness. But the lightbulb managed to keep its diminishing life sustained for a short time longer, and she made it to the freight elevator. She’d hoped there would be an elevator operator, but it was self-service. The elevator car itself was a rickety affair that moved up the shaft with a maximum of screeching and clanking. She felt out of place, neatly pressed and dressed, wearing high-heel shoes and trapped in a huge elevator with metal walls and floor. A dying bulb lit the elevator, and she felt as if she were being carted up to her execution. Then this bulb, unlike its brothers in the hallway, gave out, and it became so dark in the elevator that she literally could not see her hand in front of her.
    Â Â Â Â  “How nice. A little preview of death,” she muttered, as much to keep up her flagging spirits as anything else.
    Â Â Â Â  She had never been so grateful for anything as when the doors opened on the thirteenth floor. She stepped outand the elevator bounced up and down like a yo-yo. As the doors closed behind her with a thud like a guillotine blade descending, she walked out into the main corridor. What she saw astounded her.
    Â Â Â Â  The offices of Arthur Penn were beautifully put together, but far from modern. All the furniture was antique; solid, dependable pieces everywhere she looked. The walls were paneled in knotty pine. The carpeting was deep plush in royal blue. Her breath was taken by the extreme contrast between this office and the rest of the building. It was almost as if one of them—the building or the offices—was in the wrong place. She started to wander about until a firm voice called her up short, saying, “Can I help you?”
    Â Â Â Â  She looked around and saw a fierce-looking receptionist seated at a desk, and she wondered how she had missed the woman the first time. She had the demeanor of a pitbull and, unlike the guard downstairs, seemed perfectly capable of wrestling intruders to the floor and tearing out their throats with her teeth. And enjoying it.
    Â Â Â Â  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I have an appointment. An appointment with Mr. Penn.”
    Â Â Â Â  The receptionist glanced down at a calendar on the edge of her uncluttered desk and asked, “You’re Gwen?”
    Â Â Â Â  Gwen nodded.
    Â Â Â Â  The receptionist seemed slightly mollified by the fact that this person was supposed to be here, but still looked like she regretted not having an opportunity to give someone the heave-ho. She said, “Very well. Take a seat, please. Mr. Penn will be with you shortly.”
    Â Â Â Â  Gwen nodded her thanks, sat in an ornately carved chair and looked down at a coffee table next to her, on which several recent news magazines rested. She started to reach for one but then paused and asked, “Would you like me to fill out a form or something?”
    Â Â Â Â  “No. That won’t be necessary.” The receptionist didn’t even bother to glance at her. Instead she had returned tostaring resolutely ahead, like a griffin or some other mythical creature waiting for some intruder to try and breach the doors.
    Â Â Â Â  Why the hell had she thought of such a thing? Mythical beasts? Why had her mind wandered in that direction, of all things?
    Â Â Â Â  Still feeling confused as to her status, Gwen asked, “But how will the people in personnel know anything about me?”
    Â Â Â Â  The receptionist slowly