The car is in condition to win the race.

Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls Of butcher'd princes fight in thy behalf: King Henry's issue, Richmond, comforts thee.

Hath fed on pageants floating through the air / Or calentured in depths of limpid flood.

Far out across the Dust Sea, a great, rolling cloud of debris was being blown high into the Phobosian sky—easily eclipsing the plume generated by Beuller's pulses—fifty, maybe sixty meters up and rising.