Pediatrician Sobel's second novel is most believable when he's talking about medicine then (the good old better days) and now, but he's thought up a wildly intemperate story about a middle-aging pediatrician, Jim Keats, in New York (losing his practice and a wife he should be glad to get rid of) who's given a ""miracle"" vires killer by a friend at the Medical Center (Memorial? where they had that fraudulent episode?) with which he has startling successes -- on himself (warts), a dog and a dying child. It proves however to be a blend of anything available in the lab mixed by a schizophrenic attendant. Keats refuses to exploit, negotiably, the last six doses left of this elixir which cannot possibly be duplicated -- not so his less high-minded wife, who with her lover and his competitor try to steal it. Sobel has a pretty heavy touch (the climacterical sex is an embarrassment) and you wonder how hands like these ever managed to get into a vein.