"The two styles aren't compatible," warned the commercial artist.
"Then make them compatible," she answered. "It's time the two were reconciled."
The commercial artist could not sigh. "Subject matter of the Miro-Goya picture?"
"A peaceful scene. Perhaps rockets to the moon."
"Goya never heard of rockets," began the artist. "And while there was talk of them during Miro's life—"
"Project them," she insisted reasonably. "Project their perceptions to the time of the first rocket to the moon. It's merely a matter of analysis." She gave her name and address. She wasn't going to argue with a robot.
A relay in the artist clicked and sent a routine request for apartment dimensions, color layout, furnishing arrangement. Simultaneously the picture requirements were integrated. For the boy it was easy. The elements of the original artist Roualt were reshuffled and the basic night glowing pigments were selected.
The Miro-Goya picture was harder. Trial and error were necessary. The results would not be happy; a schizoid painting was bound to ensue. It was the task of the commercial artist to see that the pictorial insanity was not too evident.
The middle aged couple stepped into the booth as Danny's mother left. They ordered Grandma Moses and Norman Rockwell, sunny side up.
There was little reason for Danny's mother to be alarmed. An accident was improbable. Nevertheless she sent her companion in one direction while she took another route. Belatedly she thought of Music Hall.