II
Valdor stood and brushed dry grass from the nondescript blue-gray uniform that covered his aching knees. Time jumping jarred the joints when no portal waited to receive the traveler and sometimes even when there was a portal waiting. Valdor liked free jumping, but he made a mental note to get new knee pads to better cushion his entries. He stood, stuffed the Gretsch into his bag of holding, and pulled out a pair of DeWalt earmuffs to drown out the noise of plane engines revving for rollback. He folded the bag neatly, shoved it inside his pants pocket, then he preset his Gravity Key with the coordinates of his lair.
Dusk and a heavy fog shrouded the tarmac in grey haze, weather conditions that masked his arrival out of nowhere. Darting for the cover of a steal pylon that supported the terminal, Valdor caught his breath and waited for the tram that would carry the band’s luggage and musical equipment to their chartered plane.
“Stop slacking man,” a husky voice behind him groused. “The personal luggage is aboard the charter. We got to load all the instruments now. Trams coming.”
Valdor turned to see a baggage handler beckon him over.
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How perfect. His grey uniform and orange florescent vest blended in with the other workers. And he was being asked to load the band’s instruments and equipment.
“Right,” Valdor agreed. He followed the handler to the terminal’s belt loader and waited for the boxes, cases of amp, guitars, drum kit, speakers, microphones mixers and other ancillary concert equipment to roll down the ramp.
"You new?” the handler inquired. “Ain’t seen you before.”
“I usually work in Rochester,” Valdor lied, referring to the airport that served as the hub for the Mayo clinic. “Corporate sent me up here to fill in for somebody that hurt their back.”
“Right.”
Nothing better than a plausible lie.
There was a thud and a clang, and the ramp begin to roll, sending down a torrent of boxes and cases stenciled with the iconic Led Zeppelin logo.
A train of hitched together airport baggage trolleys rolled up and Valdor and the handler stacked the equipment beneath its black rubber flaps onto the carts
Then he spotted it, a Gibson hard shell case. Narrow profiled black leather, rectangular and about 43 inches long, embossed with a Zeppelin logo and the baggage tags of Jimmy Paige. Valdor pulled the case from the ramp, sat it on the asphalt of the tarmac and loaded more boxes, cases and instruments on to the tram and cart. He waited, watchful and deliberate, until the other handler turned away to load one of the other carts. Sure that no one watched him he unlatched and opened the guitar case and beheld, Black Beauty.