The Boskonian War was over.
XXIX.
"Did you kids come through QX?" The frightful combat over, the dreadful tension a thing of the past, Kit's first thought was for his sisters.
They were unharmed. None of the Five had suffered anything except mental exhaustion. Recuperation was rapid.
"Better we hunt that tube up and get Dad out of it, don't you think?" Kit suggested.
"Have you got a story arranged that will hold together under examination?" Camilla asked.
"Everything except a few minor details, which we can polish up later."
Smoothly the four girls linked their minds with their brother's; effortlessly the Unit's thought surveyed all nearby space. No hyperspatial tube, nor any trace of one, was there. Tuned to Kinnison's pattern, the Unit then scanned not only normal space and the then present time, but also millions upon millions of other spaces and past and future times; all without finding the Gray Lensman.
Again and again the Unit reached out, farther and farther; out to the extreme limit of even its extraordinary range. Every space and every time was empty. The Children of the Lens broke their linkage and stared at each other, aghast.
They knew starkly what it must mean, but that conclusion was unthinkable. Kinnison—their Dad—the hub of the universe—the unshakable, immutable Rock of Civilization—he couldn't be dead. They simply could not accept the logical explanations as the true one.