I sent him out for more coins and set about inserting negative symptomatic answers. Upon examination the questions appeared to be remarkably phrased. Several of them seemed unrelated to the condition of pregnancy, but it turned out that Cunningham knew what he was doing. When the last button was depressed a soft, melodic chime disguised the click of the mechanism which ejected the cardboard tab. It read: "IF YOU HAVE ANSWERED THESE QUESTIONS HONESTLY THE SYMPTOMETER OBSERVES THAT IT IS EXTREMELY UNLIKELY THAT YOU ARE PREGNANT. YOU ARE URGED TO CONSULT A COMPETENT OBSTETRICIAN. VERIFY THIS OPINION." Next, I set into the machine the proper answers to describe an ambiguous condition with contradictory symptoms. Dennithy came back with more change, and this time the tab read: "THERE IS A POSSIBILITY OF PREGNANCY INDICATED. A COMPETENT PHYSICIAN CAN DETERMINE AT ONCE. THERE IS ALSO AN INDICATION THAT YOUR ANSWERS MIGHT BE EITHER INSINCERE OR FACETIOUS. THE INVENTOR OF THE SYMPTOMETER WISHES TO POINT OUT THAT IT'S YOUR DOLLAR YOU JUST SPENT, LADY." I could imagine the chuckle this would get from the old dowager, wise in the ways of such matters and smugly secure from any such contingency; the woman who would be most likely to feed in such confusing data. I snatched another coin from Dennithy and pushed in the buttons which should give symptoms of pregnancy in the last week of the last month. The card read: "MADAME CALL AN AMBULANCE. YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS DOWN TOWN!" 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.