GR translation: magenta firths running comblike into jagged comicbook-orange chunks of island

[Mike Jing]

V634.27-38  . . . it is costing Rózsavölgyi an effort to stay in this
shadowcorner. It is not, at all, his sort of place. For one thing, the rest
of the room seems to be at more of a distance, as through the view-finder
on a camera. And the walls—they don’t appear to be . . . well, solid,
actually. They flow: a coarse, a viscous passage, rippling like a standing
piece of silk or nylon, the color watery gray but now and then with a
surprise island in the flow, some color absolutely foreign to this room:
saffron spindles, palm-green ovals, magenta firths running comblike into
jagged comicbook-orange chunks of island as the wounded fighter-plane
circles, jettisons the tanks, then the silver canopy, sets the flaps to
just above a stall, wheels up as the blue (suddenly, such a violent blue!)
rushes in just before impact throttle closed uhhnnhh!

What kind of comb does it mean here in "comblike"?
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