Henri Matisse The Green Line

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Ptaclusp's brow furrowed. 'Tricky, that,' he said thoughtfully. 'Interesting idea. I suppose one could build a small one, a million tonner, and float it out on pontoons or something...'
'No,' said very survival depended on his memorising it in extreme detail.
'Wrong?' said Dios.
'No offence. I'm sure you mean well,' said Teppic. 'It's just that, well, he seemed very clear about it at the time and-'
'I mean well?' said Dios, tasting each word as though it was a sour grape. Ptaclusp coughed. He had finished with the floor. Now he started on the ceiling.
Dios took a deep breath. 'Sire,' he said, 'we have always been pyramid builders. All our kings are buried in pyramids. It is how we do things, sire. It is how things are done.'
'Yes, but-'Teppic, trying not to laugh, 'I think what he meant was, buried without-' 'Teppicymon XXVII means that he would want to be buried without delay,' said Dios, his voice like greased silk. 'And there is no doubt that he would require to honour the very best you can build, architect.' 'No, I'm sure you've got it wrong,' said Teppic. Dios's face froze. Ptaclusp's slid into the waxen expression of someone with whom it is, suddenly, nothing to do. He started to stare at the floor as if his