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To be him, to have gotten wings, but to have got his scar too! Cadet Lowe turned to the wall with passionate disappointment like a gnawing fox at his vitals. Slobbering and moaning Cadet Lowe, too, dreamed again, sleeping.
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ACHILLES: What preparation would you make for a cross-country flight, Cadet?
MERCURY: Empty your bladder and fill your petrol tank, Sir.
ACHILLES: Carry on, Cadet.
Old Play (about 19——?)
Cadet Lowe, waking, remarked morning, and Gilligan entering the room, dressed. Gilligan looking at him said:
‘How you coming, ace?’
Mahon yet slept beneath his scar, upon a chair his tunic. Above the left pocket, wings swept silkenly, breaking downward above a ribbon. White, purple, white.
‘Oh, God,’ Lowe groaned.
Gilligan with the assurance of physical well-being stood in brisk arrested motion.
‘As you were, fellow. I’m going out and have some breakfast sent up. You stay here until Loot wakes, huh?’
Cadet Lowe tasting his sour mouth groaned again. Gilligan regarded him. ‘Oh, you’ll stay all right, won’t you? I’ll be back soon.’