there's an ordinary medicine with which we are all familiar. an everyday medicine of stubbed toes and bunions and boils. a man at a podium in a modern version of the 1920's basement operating theatre.  ,
and then there is another kind. a medicine that holds out to the afflicted the promise of restored life. he glances to a point above his listeners, and an overhead projector splashes a diagram of molecular structure onto a screen. the neurochemist traces the shadow to its maker in the audience.
doctor ?
after i'm through, dr. sayer. if you wouldn't mind. sayer glances around the auditorium. everyone's looking at him. he grasps the offending hand and holds it in his lap with the other.
are you speaking to me? sayer is. and really wants to know the answer. the chemist zips up and moves to the sinks to wash his hands.
dr. sayer, yes? i'm a chemist, doctor. i leave it to you guys to do the damage. he drops the paper towel into the trash and leaves