«Joshua managed it,» put in Blade.

«I know,» said J, with another laugh. «But that was a miracle. And it would take another miracle to keep Lord Leighton's brain from coming up with more ideas for two years.»

Leighton laughed in his turn. «It most certainly would. But let's not keep Richard waiting while we argue.»

That was a notion Blade heartily supported. Now that the moment was actually approaching, the strain on him was, as always, close to its peak.

And as always, the routine of preparing himself relieved most of the strain. It was so familiar, so monotonous, so apparently pointless-and therefore so refreshingly normal, so much like ordinary life in Home Dimension.

It might not be pointless, of course. There was no way of knowing what would happen if he didn't smear foulsmelling black paste over every inch of skin. It was supposed to prevent electrical burns and other possible nastinesses from the jolt of current passing through him at the moment of transfer into Dimension X. Perhaps it did. Perhaps if he ever left out this step, he would wind up in Dimension X dead and charred as black as an over-fried chicken wing.

So Blade played it safe. He stripped himself to the skin, smeared himself with the black goo, and pulled on a loincloth. Then he stepped out of the changing booth and walked over to the main chair. One or two wires might have been added or taken away since the project began, but otherwise the chair looked the same. A black metal chair with black rubber padding on the seat and back, it stood on a thick rubber mat inside a glass booth. It always looked and always would look too much like an electric chair.

Blade sat down. Lord Leighton bustled about him, attaching the scores of cobra-headed electrodes to every part of his body. The cords of the electrodes ran off like a horde of multicolored snakes into the great computer. Blade looked up at it. The monstrous consoles in their gray, crackled finish loomed as high as ever, frowning ominously down on him in the dim light of the chamber.