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."
"I want to be a musician," said Danny.