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Updated: May 6, 2025
He snapped closed his jacket and flipped the switch controlling the archaic fluorescent panels. "Besides, you can always stay here if you want to, you know." "Never mind," Rat said. "I'm coming." He leaped up and anchored himself securely on Alan's shoulder. Kevin Quantrell was waiting for them in front of the building. As Alan emerged Rat said, "One question, Alan." "Shoot."
One of the three founders of the Nation and its editor from 1842 to 1854, when he left Ireland for Australia where he became Prime Minister of Victoria. In 1873 he received a knighthood. Miss Mary Kelly of Galway, afterwards Mrs. Kevin Izod O'Doherty. One of the chief poets of the Nation. A Belfast barrister and, save Edward Walsh, the most Gaelic of Irish poets in the English language.
Puzzled at Quantrell's sudden hesitation after his earlier cockiness, Alan took a couple of shuffling steps toward the bridge, slowly, keeping his eyes on the other starman. "I can't go with you," Kevin finally managed to say. His face was flushed and strained-looking. He was staring upward at the seemingly topless towers of the city. "It's too big for me." He choked back a half-whimper.
"It is a long time since I saw you, Tibraide'," said the king, "but at this minute I am in great haste and hurry. Go you on before me to the fortress, and you can talk to the queen that you'll find there, she that used to be the King of Ulster's wife. Kevin Cochlach, my charioteer, will go with you, and I will follow you myself in a while."
Since the starship would be blasting off at the end of the week, he knew the crew was probably already at work on it, shaping it up for the trip. He belonged on it too. He saw a dark green starship standing nearby; the Encounter, Kevin Quantrell's ship.
Not all the seductions of loo, limited to three pence, nor even that most appropriately designated game, beggar-my-neighbour could withdraw him from his blest retreat. Like his countryman, St. Kevin my friend Petrie has ascertained that the saint was a native of Tralee he fled from the temptations of the world, and the blandishments of the fair; but, alas! like the saint himself, the
Greeneyed monster. I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right. PRIVATE CARR: I don't give a bugger who he is. PRIVATE COMPTON: We don't give a bugger who he is. STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull. KEVIN EGAN: H'lo! Bonjour! The vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. PATRICE: Socialiste! You'll get into trouble. He provokes my intelligence.
The least of us then were all earls, And jewels we wore without name; We drank punch out of rubies and pearls, Mr. Petrie can tell you the same. But except some turf mould and potatoes, There's nothing our own we can call; And the English, bad luck to them! hate us, Because we've more fun than them all! My grand-aunt was niece to Saint Kevin, That's the reason my name's Mickey Free!
The two of them stepped away from the cave and stood in full view as the snapper-boat moved cautiously down toward the asteroid. Rip planned what he would say. "Commander O'Brine, this is Foster!" No, that wouldn't do. Connies would know that Kevin O'Brine commanded the Scorpius, and if they had taken over the Planeteers on the asteroid, they would also have learned Rip's name.
He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona. Alo! Bonjour. Welcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun.
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