Name Your Symptom

By JIM HARMON
Illustrated by WEISS
Anybody who shunned a Cure needed his head examined—assuming he had one left!
Henry Infield placed the insulated circlet on his head gently. The gleaming rod extended above his head about a foot, the wires from it leading down into his collar, along his spine and finally out his pants leg to a short metallic strap that dragged on the floor.
Clyde Morgan regarded his partner. Suppose—just suppose—you were serious about this, why not just the shoes?
Infield turned his soft blue eyes to the black and tan oxfords with the very thick rubber soles. They might get soaked through.
Morgan took his foot off the chair behind the desk and sat down. Suppose they were soaked through and you were standing on a metal plate—steps or a manhole cover—what good would your lightning rod do you then?
Infield shrugged slightly. I suppose a man must take some chances.
Morgan said, You can't do it, Henry. You're crossing the line. The people we treat are on one side of the line and we're on the other. If you cross that line, you won't be able to treat people again.
The small man looked out the large window, blinking myopically at the brassy sunlight. That's just it, Clyde. There is a line between us, a wall. How can we really understand the people who come to us, if we hide on our side of the wall?
Morgan shook his thick head, ruffling his thinning red hair. I dunno, Henry, but staying on our side is a pretty good way to keep sane and that's quite an accomplishment these days.
Infield whirled and stalked to the desk. That's the answer! The whole world is going mad and we are just sitting back watching it hike along. Do you know that what we are doing is really the most primitive medicine in the world? We are treating the symptoms and not the disease. One cannibal walking another with sleeping sickness doesn't cure anything. Eventually the savage dies—just as all those sick savages out in the street will die unless we can cure the disease, not only the indications.