There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases, and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast to determine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left was the attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, and a fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.
I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—a clock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.
I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched toward and grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. I entered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it to immobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.
The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment I stared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presented it to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and I was ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags with his eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed it toward me.
"Thanks," I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward the remaining bag. "One left over, eh?"
"Yeah." He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. But he was eying me with a "well-why-don't-you-get-along?" look.
I said, "What happens if nobody claims it?"
"Take it inside. Why?"
He was getting too curious. "Oh, I just wondered, that's all."