"All right," I said, and sent the gyro whirring out of the shed. "Hang on tight, Kid—here goes nothing!"
The MP's poured out of the house just as we took the air. I could see them yelling and waving their neuroblast guns but there was no point in waiting. They wouldn't have listened anyway.
The lab slid under us and we shot straight for the big Di-tube looming up ahead. Breaking into it made me feel the way the Twisters looked—inside out, upside down, impossibly extended and at the same time compressed to microscopic smallness in a vast hueless infinity that lasted for I don't know how long.
It turned out that there really was no such thing as time—or distance either for that matter—between dimensions. The Di-tube itself was a sort of sensory compromise, an illusion created by the mind's effort to visualize a cross-section of a continuum that can't be visualized.
Our transit made me think of the two-dimensional ant. One instant we were over the lab—the next we were out of this world, in superspace.
The Blazers' dimension was worse than the Di-tube.
Looking through the gyro's window made me feel like a schizophrenic drunkard with a set of mirror-image screamies, watching impossibly elastic nightmare shadows flickering across a crazy-house looking-glass. There was an upside-down horizon that heaved like a bowl of phosphorescent jelly, a scattering of what might have been animated buildings and, close at hand, a great flurry of helical Blazers, circling like mad about something I did recognize.
It was a huge orange strain-bubble, a space-warp set up by whatever sort of generator that Blazers had made to pierce our dimension.
There wasn't a chance of making any real sense of what I saw. It would have been easier for a flea on a camel's back to describe what went on in a three-ring circus.
But the strain-bubble was what I had come to see. The rest didn't matter too much.