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you.”
    “To whom are you referring?”
    “The Church, for one.”
    “The Church as moral authority.” Rosacher chuckled. “Now there’s a fresh idea.”
    The florid face of the heavyset man sitting on Febres-Cordero’s left, Councilman Rooney, grew purplish and he said, “You come here dressed like a popinjay and attempt to…”
    “I think we should give Mister Rosacher the opportunity to defend himself.” Febres-Cordero glanced along the table and then looked to Rosacher.
    “Indeed, I would welcome the opportunity to speak,” said Rosacher. “Though not to defend myself, but instead to offer an alternative course of action. Have any of you gentlemen smoked mab?”
    “Now you’re being impertinent,” Febres-Cordero said. “I warn you, do not try our patience.”
    “I intended no impertinence. I merely wished to know whether or not you were conversant with the drug.”
    “We have interviewed a number of addicts and understand its effects.”
    “Did any of these addicts strike you as derelicts? Were they pale and sickly as with opium addicts, or were they hale and neatly attired? Did they not earn an honorable wage?”
    Councilman Savedra, a vulturous, stoop-shouldered man, older than the rest, said, “If the thrust of your argument is to be that the drug causes no physical harm to the addict, it does not touch upon the moral issues.”
    “It is an element of my argument, but not its sole thrust. And it’s not the health of the individual that concerns me so much as the health of the community.” Rosacher stood and went a few paces along the table. “Should the council rule against me in this, I will happily move my business to Port Chantay or another of the coastal towns. It will be an inconvenience, nothing more. But before you banish me, I beg you to let me speak without interruption so I can present my thoughts in a coherent fashion.”
    “You asked a question,” said Savedra. “I answered. You may proceed.”
    “Rhetorical questions require no answer, but never mind. I thank the councilman for his comment, because it brings me round to my next point.” Rosacher moved to a window and gazed out across the valley. “Teocinte is poor. Of all the valley towns, it has—or had—the highest incidence of crime. Morningshade is its least prosperous and most dangerous quarter. The economy of the town is based upon agrarian concerns and a handful of mining operations. These provide an excellent life for a small minority, but the people of Morningshade and the various outlying communities do not fully participate in that economy. Until recently, they have subsisted chiefly by means of preying upon the wealthy and upon one another. Over the past four years, however, the incidence of crime has steadily dropped in Morningshade. When I dwelled there we only saw the constabulary when a crime had been perpetrated against the wealthy. Now, I’m told, they’re scarcely seen at all. There has been a precipitous drop in crime and this is directly attributable to use of mab. I have hundreds…”
    “Balderdash!” said Rooney.
    “I have hundred of addicts in my employ,” said Rosacher, ignoring him. “And I expect to employ hundreds more during the next twelve months alone. They none of them exhibit the violent and erratic behavior generally ascribed to those addicted to other drugs. They’re responsible employees who come to work each day, perform their tasks, and go home at night to their pipe and slippers. In this case, their pipe holds a pellet of mab and the woman who brings their supper is more beautiful than the Queen of Astrikhan. The supper she brings, whether porridge or a chunk of salt pork, has a flavor comparable to the finest of viands. They sleep on soft mattresses and scented sheets, not pallets of straw. They live each in their own tiny palace beside which runs not a sewer, but a sparkling stream. Their lives are infinitely better than they were…and all because of mab.
    “Unlike other