One second, the garage is right outside the windshield, and the next second your time machine is surrounded by an inky darkness broken up by purple ripples. All is dead quiet save for the humming of your equipment. There's no sensation of motion, though you experience an unsettled feeling in the pit of your stomach. Is this an effect of surfing the timestream or simply your own nervous anticipation? The chronometer on the console between the seats counts down the six-minute trip. You place your hands on the steering wheel out of habit. It moves freely, as though it isn't connected to anything meaningful. Although that's what you expected, because you're using autopilot for the voyage out, it still feels wrong. Now there's five minutes and thirty seconds to go. You make good use of your time.