He did just that the next afternoon. The preliminary routine was the same as it had been fourteen times before. In fact, the preliminary routine was threatening to become a crashing bore. But not even Lord Leighton knew that much about Dimension X or the processes that would put Blade there. Not even Lord Leighton could say for certain if leaving out any of the procedures would help or hinder. So Blade and the scientist went through the same old routine with the conscientious care of fighter pilots doing preflight checks on their planes.

Blade goes into the changing booth-check.

Blade strips himself naked-check.

Blade smears foul-smelling black grease all over his body, to prevent electrical burns-check.

Blade leaves the changing booth and sits down in the master chair-check. (And as usual, the chair sitting in its glass booth reminds him of an electric chair, and the rubber of the chair's seat is cold against his bare bottom.)

Lord Leighton comes up to the booth and busies himself attaching cobra-headed electrodes all over Blade's body-check. (And as usual, by the time Leighton finishes, Blade looks as though he is being overgrown by some bizarre tropical growth. Wires of a dozen different colors run off from the electrodes into the guts of the computer.)

Lord Leighton steps back, surveys his work with both care and pride, and then goes over to the master console-check.

Blade leaned back in the chair as far as the attached electrodes would let him, and stared upward. The vast computer consoles in their crackled gray finish loomed over him like the ruins of some abandoned and forgotten city.

Lord Leighton, standing at the main console in his dirty white lab smock, looked like some cheerful gnome inhabiting the ruins. Blade took a deep breath, and forced as much of the tension out of his body as he could. From this point on there was no routine. He could not predict, he could only hope to survive.