Hilda plunged into a tunnel, where her life flashed before her.
It was not a pretty sight.
She squirmed like a worm on a hook and, mid squirming, plopped smack into a large corduroy couch. Its cushions engulfed her.
The room circled; noises faded in and out as Hilda, resisting the urge to throw up, tried to right herself. She had no idea what had happened to her, just as she had no idea about portals or the ribbed feel of corduroy—or, for that matter, couches that sucked her in.
She knew of telespraying, and what she had just been through was nothing like it. It was more like . . . something out of an Earth sci-fi film.
Hilda swallowed hard. She waited for her eyes to adjust, for her body to stop pulsing as the thick, stifling smell of disinfectant filled her nostrils.
Telespraying i
