talked over him as if she had not heard him begin to speak. "Everyone who has gone through hypno-keying, unless his creative talent is enormous, supreme, lives in a gentle sort of hell ever after that. He cannot do anything but what the hypno-keying has freed him to do—and he knows he can never do it as well as it can be done. And then the drive, as you said." It was the first indication that she had heard him. "The motivation is somehow stimulated by the hypno-keying. In the end, you can do only one thing, you want to do only one thing, but you can never do it as well as you hope to."
"The others feel this way?" he asked.
"They may not vocalize it as readily, but they feel it."
"It doesn't show," St. Cyr said.
"Doesn't it?" She turned away from her portrait and faced him. She was no longer emotional, no longer angry with herself. In a level voice, she said, "Didn't it seem that the family took Betty's death with little emotion?"
"Your mother was in tears."
"A point for my argument," she said. "Mother went through hypno-training later than all the rest of us. Father was treated as a baby, as were all his children. My mother, however, did not undergo treatment until after they were married. Some vestige of normality remains in her."
"I don't see how you tie together the hypno-keying and any lack of emotional response on your family's part."
"It's easy," she said, and smiled. The smile, as before, was not a smile at all. "Each of us is driven by his particular talent, consumed by it despite the limit of his vision. It is not easy, therefore, to establish relationships with other people, to care deeply about them when your energies are concentrated in this one arena."
"You forget that two other murders have taken place here. I would think all of you justified in reacting less forcefully to this one."
"We reacted the same to the first," Tina said. "A bit of grief, a day or two of loss, then plunge back into the work at hand, create, form, build…" She looked at the paintings on the wall to her right, sighed audibly. ''What all of these hypno-keying experts seem not to understand is that you can't create classic art when you have no love life. If love of art is supreme, it's all masturbation. If life, people, places don't come first, there isn't anything for the talent to draw on, no stuffing for the sack."
Though he was not, as she had subtly observed, a man of any great sensitivity—give him bright colors, bold lines, pleasing shapes, loud and lively music any day; to hell with the proper, genteel criteria—he saw in her a deep and awful suffering that, even with the aid of her explanations, he could not clearly grasp. He supposed that, as the attainment of perfect understanding in her art would always elude her, an understanding of her pain would elude him. He had a feeling that she did not sleep well at night, any night but especially this night—and that she tore up more paintings than she kept. He said nothing, for he had nothing to say that would make her feel any better—or any differently, for that matter.
In a quieter voice, almost a whisper, she said, "How can I ever make anything lasting, get anything genuine down on paper or canvas, when I haven't any ability to care for people, for anyone?"
"You could care," he said.
"No."
"Look, you've spent most all your life among other hypno-keyed artists. But if you were living among other people, normal people, they would react strongly to you, form attachments to you and force you to react as strongly as they did. You could care."
"You really think so?"
"Yes."
Be careful.
Go to hell.
"I doubt it," she said.
The confusion of the real and the subvocal conversations forced him to say, "Doubt what?"
She looked at him curiously and said, "I doubt that I could care for anyone."
"You could," he repeated stupidly.
For a long, awkward moment, they stood facing each other. He did not know how she felt, but he seemed suddenly transformed into a blundering,
"The others feel this way?" he asked.
"They may not vocalize it as readily, but they feel it."
"It doesn't show," St. Cyr said.
"Doesn't it?" She turned away from her portrait and faced him. She was no longer emotional, no longer angry with herself. In a level voice, she said, "Didn't it seem that the family took Betty's death with little emotion?"
"Your mother was in tears."
"A point for my argument," she said. "Mother went through hypno-training later than all the rest of us. Father was treated as a baby, as were all his children. My mother, however, did not undergo treatment until after they were married. Some vestige of normality remains in her."
"I don't see how you tie together the hypno-keying and any lack of emotional response on your family's part."
"It's easy," she said, and smiled. The smile, as before, was not a smile at all. "Each of us is driven by his particular talent, consumed by it despite the limit of his vision. It is not easy, therefore, to establish relationships with other people, to care deeply about them when your energies are concentrated in this one arena."
"You forget that two other murders have taken place here. I would think all of you justified in reacting less forcefully to this one."
"We reacted the same to the first," Tina said. "A bit of grief, a day or two of loss, then plunge back into the work at hand, create, form, build…" She looked at the paintings on the wall to her right, sighed audibly. ''What all of these hypno-keying experts seem not to understand is that you can't create classic art when you have no love life. If love of art is supreme, it's all masturbation. If life, people, places don't come first, there isn't anything for the talent to draw on, no stuffing for the sack."
Though he was not, as she had subtly observed, a man of any great sensitivity—give him bright colors, bold lines, pleasing shapes, loud and lively music any day; to hell with the proper, genteel criteria—he saw in her a deep and awful suffering that, even with the aid of her explanations, he could not clearly grasp. He supposed that, as the attainment of perfect understanding in her art would always elude her, an understanding of her pain would elude him. He had a feeling that she did not sleep well at night, any night but especially this night—and that she tore up more paintings than she kept. He said nothing, for he had nothing to say that would make her feel any better—or any differently, for that matter.
In a quieter voice, almost a whisper, she said, "How can I ever make anything lasting, get anything genuine down on paper or canvas, when I haven't any ability to care for people, for anyone?"
"You could care," he said.
"No."
"Look, you've spent most all your life among other hypno-keyed artists. But if you were living among other people, normal people, they would react strongly to you, form attachments to you and force you to react as strongly as they did. You could care."
"You really think so?"
"Yes."
Be careful.
Go to hell.
"I doubt it," she said.
The confusion of the real and the subvocal conversations forced him to say, "Doubt what?"
She looked at him curiously and said, "I doubt that I could care for anyone."
"You could," he repeated stupidly.
For a long, awkward moment, they stood facing each other. He did not know how she felt, but he seemed suddenly transformed into a blundering,
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