“It seems not.” His tone was sober as he helped her to a seat beneath the stars. “I like to watch it all the same. Sometime I expect it to speak to me.”
“Speak to you?”
“Yes, why not? Surely it’s stood there in silence long enough. Look,” he leaned close to her, “did you ever think what that great pile of stone over there stands for?”
“No—I—”
“Of course not. You haven’t watched it night after night as I have. It stands for power. That’s what. The power one man wielded over thousands and thousands of others. Think of the weary years toiled cutting those stones with primitive tools and getting them up, up, up toward the sky.”
“What for?”
“Because some man wanted to be remembered after he was dead. They did remember, but only to curse him. We have our monuments today, skyscrapers, museums, places for fishes to live in, homes for mummies and stuffed elephants. They have been built by men who wanted to be remembered. But the people who pay for them are the little people who have made machines, sold goods, and all that for a little pay, and who were left to finish their lives as best they could when they were too old to work any more. That is what the pyramid will say to me some moonlit night.”
“And what shall you do about it?”
“Probably nothing, just as other generations have done. But see here!” he sprang to his feet. “This was to be a night!”
“Of music, laughter and the lighter touch.” She supplied the words. “Well, there’s the music. Isn’t it lovely?”