So it was planned: neither Eichmil nor Jalte even suspecting two startling truths:
First, that when the Patrol was ready it would strike hard and without warning, and,
Second, that it would strike—not low, but high!
XXIII.
Kinnison played, worked, rested, ate, and slept. He boxed, strenuously and viciously, with masters of the craft. He practiced with his DeLameters until he had regained his old-time speed and dead-center accuracy. He swam for hours at a time, he ran in cross-country races. He lolled, practically naked, in hot sunshine. And finally, when his muscles were writhing and rippling as of yore beneath the bronzed satin of his skin, Lacy answered his insistent demands by coming to see him.
The Gray Lensman met the flier eagerly, but his face fell when he saw that the surgeon general was alone.
"No, MacDougall didn't come—she isn't around any more," he explained guilefully.
"Huh?" came the startled query. "How come?"
"Out in space—out Borova way somewhere. What do you care? After the way you acted you've got the crust of a rhinoceros to think that—"