"It won't be so bad. I'll be making tests every day and that will pass the time and you can play the 'visor." She went over to his bedside table and pulled out the drawer holding the instrument.
"I hate radios," H.D. said sullenly. "I'd like to jam every one down Marconi's throat, first breaking the tubes. Confounded trashy programs, changing every five minutes!"
"Is that how they were? How awful for you! See, you just dial, like this, and one station has nothing but dance music, another nothing but Jimmurian dissonances. See? Anything you like.
"And if you first dial "0" you can then dial for any number or any entire program that's ever been recorded. Here's the index. Too bad we don't have one in English."
H.D. yielded a snicker. "Where's the screen?" he asked, slightly mollified.
"Oh. I did say 'visor,' didn't I? Well, you see, this is a modified visor. No visual, no talking programs, just music. It's too bad, in a way, but we had to have you here for some of the tests. This is a neuro-psychiatric ward, you see. Yes, soft walls and all. It can be stripped down for violents."
H.D. showed signs of becoming that way himself and the doctor smilingly stepped to the door and opened it.
"See you tomorrow."
"Wait!" H.D. roared. "What happens then? What—"
"Three days observation." She nodded, and the door was closing. He reached it in a bound but the lock clicked first.