John's Other Practice
By Winston Marks
Slot machines usually give you a big pain
in the wallet. But Cunningham's Symptometer was
more considerate—it also diagnosed the pain....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
July 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I knew that John Cunningham had been warned on graduation day that noman with a romantic nature should specialize in gynecology. John wasnot only a romanticist; he was also the best looking intern north ofthe equator.
The laws of probability functioned. Within three years, John Cunninghamwas married, divorced, disgraced and flat broke. And so it was that thewinsome, six-foot, blonde-headed nurse's idol of the flashing smile andbrilliant mind, approached life with three strangely related goals,namely: (1) To practice medicine successfully without (2) coming incontact with his patients, and yet (3) make back the family fortune hehad squandered mixing potions with poetry.
In a much less interesting way, I, too, was diverted from an otherwisepromising career in the practice of conventional 21st Centurymedicine. My final exam before the board revealed an aptitude thatlanded me a fat offer from the International Medical Association. Thejob was Special Investigator on the Malpractice Board of Control.My apparent immunity to emotional disturbances from the other sex,ironically, was the deciding factor of my appointment.
My first intimation of John Cunningham's vicarious practice came inthe form of an order to check on a complaint from the Hotel Celt inNew York. I bussed over to the 48-story hostelry and questioned themanager, a fat, bald man of some forty-two years and no arches.
"A lady doctor," he mourned, "has served warning she will sue unless Itake out the slot machines from our mezzanine powder rooms."
"I know," I said. "She filed the complaint that brought me here. WhatI want to know is what does a slot machine violate by being in theladies' room?" I meant, what violation beyond the usual federal, stateand county restrictions whose ineffectual enforcement rendered themanachronisms in this age of device-gambling.
"Why does this remotely concern the medical profession?"
Mr. Dennithy, the manager plucked an imperfect petal from hisbuttonhole carnation and reluctantly pointed out. "These machinesare vending, not gambling devices. They issue medical advice—on alimited scale," he added hurriedly.
"What!" I yelled in his face. "Let's go see this."
The tastefully decorated lounge was jammed with females, many of whomwere bunched in little chirping bevies along the west wall. Stubbyqueues of women gave the place the look of a pari-mutuel stand, but thecheerful, tinkly chatter had nothing of the grim spirit of betting.
The three women attendants threw up their hands in despair when I toldthem to clear the room. "We can hardly get them to leave at night so wecan clean up the place," one complained.
Impatiently I barged in, flashed my gold and platinum serpent-and-staffbadge, and shouted. "These machines are illegal. This is a raid! Standwhere you are, every last one of you!"
That did it. I almost got trampled in the stampede of high heels. Scoreone for my specialty in applied psychology and semantics. I learnedlater that, compared to one John Cunningham, I was a babe in thematernity ward.
Of this I got my first inkling when I examined on