Edgar Degas At the Races

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'You don't get more royal than them, then. You'd need a new word,' said IIa. We're nearly royal in that case.'
'You don't understand business, my son. You think it's all book-keeping. Well, it isn't.'
'It's a question of mass. And the power to weight ratio.' They both glared at Ptaclusp IIb, who was sitting staring at the sketches. the plans, and then got in ten thousand lads on time-and-a-half and double bubble at weekends. They just had to pile the stuff up. You didn't have to be cosmic about it.
Descendants! The gods had seen fit to give him one son who charged you for the amount of breath expended in saying 'Good morning', and another one who worshipped geometry and stayed up all night designing aqueducts. You scrimped and saved to send them to the best schools, and then they went and paid you back by getting educated.
'What are you talking about?' he snapped.He was turning his stylus over and over in his hands, which were trembling with barely-suppressed excitement. 'We'll have to use granite for the lower slopes,' he said, talking to himself, 'the limestone wouldn't take it. Not with all the power flows. Which will be, whooeee, they'll be big. I mean we're not talking razor blades here. This thing could put an edge on a rolling pin.' Ptaclusp rolled his eyes. He was only one generation into a dynasty and already it was trouble. One son a born accountant, the other in love with this new-fangled cosmic engineering. There hadn't been any such thing when he was a lad, there was just architecture. You drew