At first I was plain furious. The inventor was selling not only medical diagnoses, but providing penny arcade entertainment as well. Then the impossibility of reporting the results of my investigation to the board struck me. In what conceivable manner could I phrase my findings and still maintain the dignity of our profession? And, worse yet, when you got right down to it, on what grounds could we outlaw and confiscate these machines?

Twenty-four quarters later I confirmed this suspicion. All ten machines were paragons of discretion. Each urged the patient to visit her doctor, or bore some other innocuous medical platitude. They were designed to painlessly accommodate the confirmed hypochondriac without wasting a busy doctor's time. And yet when a truly sick person indicated genuine symptoms, the diagnosis was general but accurate. The instruction to see a physician at once was urgently definite.

I was back before the dollar machine musing at my ugly expression in the mirror, when a light female voice behind me said, "I believe you have the wrong room, gentlemen."

She had short, bronzed, curly hair. She wore trim flannel slacks of dead white. Across her immaculate blouse was slung a pair of straps, one supporting a small tool kit, the other a stout leather pouch which rested on one shapely hip. She looked, to my first embarrassed glance, cute, feminine, intelligent and quite amused.

"We, ah, we were not intruding, Miss," Dennithy spluttered. "I cleared the room so I could show this equipment to—" I kicked him in the shin "—to Mister Klinghammer. He—has a hotel on the west coast. He is interested."

The reason for this evasion was the fact that emblazoned in red over her left breast was the legend:

"JAYSEE SYMPTOMETER SERVICE"

"Clever machines," I flattered. "Well based in feminine psychology," I added, entirely overlooking that she might reasonably be expected to have the same psychology.

"I only service them," she said shortly. "Please step aside so I can operate." She gave me a long, searching look before she swung open the first top panel. Apparently satisfied I was merely a prospective customer, she let me look on.

A swift look inside gave me a virulent case of the quim-quim. Here was no simple coin-snatcher. The answer buttons were switches. From each one ran leads to a panel which bristled with tiny vacuum tubes. It was 

 Prev. P 4/13 next