He took coins from his pocket and inserted them, waiting for the mechanism to warm up. "Name?" asked S.P. The voice had an old fashioned sound. A little too hearty and friendly. "Danny." "Danny what?" "Just Danny." The machine answered slowly. "You have the privilege of remaining anonymous. Please sit down." Danny sat down. "Identification." This didn't seem anonymous to Danny. Hesitantly he pressed his thumb against the fingerprint plate. "That's satisfactory," said the machine. "The fingerprint is for my files. I'll not try to trace you." Danny relaxed. The old machine _was_ better for his purpose. "Certain data is necessary before you can be admitted to the consulting chamber," said the S.P. "We'll keep it to a minimum. First your age?" This was critical. "Nineteen," said Danny readily. "That's young," said the machine thoughtfully. "You're aware that persons under eighteen can't be treated?" He was aware. That's why he'd come to this machine. Presumably it was less efficient than newer models, particularly in the detection circuits. "You're still very young," continued the S.P. "My advice is to seek help from your parents. If you don't want to do that, there's a free public counselling service." Danny waited. "Then I will take you," said the machine. "As a sidewalk psychiatrist, I have no choice. However, in view of your stated age I'll have to check your mentality." The newer models of sidewalk psychiatrists did that automatically. Under the direction of the machine Danny placed a clumsy device over his head. He concentrated on thinking slowly and clearly. Above all, clearly. The machine could not read his thoughts, but it could get an encephalocurve which could be compared to standard ones. In time the sidewalk psychiatrist instructed him to remove the device. "At least nineteen mentally," it announced. "Sometimes higher, much higher. In other areas actually childish in configuration. Perhaps that's why you need help." "Maybe," said Danny. "You may enter the consulting chamber. Deposit the amount indicated at the door." * * * * * Half of Danny's weekly allowance vanished in the coin slot. He went in and lay down on the pneumatic couch. The voice was even friendlier than it had been. He should have been reassured but wasn't. "Now, Danny. What's your problem?" He had carried it around with him for months. Once or twice he had tried to talk to others about it. And promptly shut up when he had seen where it was leading. He stirred restlessly. "Music," he mumbled. "You should learn to like it," said the machine. "It's essential for a man of culture." "But I do like it," cried Danny. He remembered and lowered his voice. "I like music," he whispered. "Then there's no problem. Listen to it and enjoy it." "But I do listen. Every chance I get." "Be more moderate," said the sidewalk psychiatrist. "Don't listen so much or soon there'll be nothing you haven't heard."