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satisfy the craving induced by the habit. In Britain the addict may go to a doctor and receive his ration of the drug by prescription, all quite legally. Once our federal authorities and Congress realize that that’s the only way to cope with the problem, my services won’t be needed and the underworld will lose a major source of its income.”
    â€œThere are moral kudos even in the peddling of junk. That’s what you’d like me to believe?”
    â€œI insist you believe it, my boy. You’re intelligent enough to understand, if you’ll open your mind.”
    â€œI’m listening, Gresham, but I’m afraid my mind is closed. Junk peddling is junk peddling.”
    â€œOf course your mind is closed. You’ve been raised in an atmosphere of legalistic bias. During Prohibition, for example, you were told that the manufacture, transportation and sale of liquor was a horrid crime. Then the Eighteenth Amendment was repealed, and suddenly liquor became respectable again. I’ll bet you still can’t take a drink without having guilt feelings about it.”
    â€œLiquor and narcotics are hardly the same thing,” Harry snorted. “There’s no danger of alcoholism unless there are underlying psychological causes. But anyone can become a narcotics addict simply through excessive dosage.”
    â€œAll the more reason for recognizing that it’s a medical, not a criminal, problem. And it’s bound to be recognized, Harry. Sooner or later we’ll have the British system here and I’ll be out of business. Meanwhile I’m serving a socially desirable purpose that ought to be served by the government.”
    â€œMan, if ever I heard sophistry …!”
    â€œNot true. There is nothing unsound in my argument; it’s not a rationalization. Admittedly, I’ve made a great deal of money in the commission of acts now considered unlawful, but they’re not unethical acts. It’s our antiquated laws that are wrong, not I.”
    Harry Brown looked at his watch. “Would you kindly come to the point, Gresham? I have to get back to my office.”
    Kurt Gresham pinched at the pink jowls beneath his small round chin. “Harry, I want you to stop thinking of me in terms of gangsters, pushers, despoilers of teenagers and all that. I’m not a conscienceless corrupter of human beings, believe me. For thirty-five years I’ve been serving the needs of statesmen, writers, artists, actors, architects, judges, businessmen, financiers, society people—”
    â€œGod Almighty.”
    â€œI supply only the best, the worthiest; my potential clients are screened by experts; I accept only people of means and discretion; and there are so many, so many …”
    Dr. Harrison Brown sat silent.
    In the silence, Kurt Gresham selected a long thin cigar from a humidor, lit it carefully, blew aromatic smoke.
    In spite of himself, Harry said curiously, “You say you’ve been in this racket—pardon me, humanitarian service—for thirty-five years. How did you get started? What gave you the idea? Mind telling me?”
    â€œNot at all. My father was in the import-export business in a modest way—getting along, not rich, not poor. He died at the age of seventy-nine, and all his adult life he was a heroin addict. Through his international contacts he was able to buy supplies of the drug for his private use: they were brought in for him by a trusted European representative during legitimate business trips. It was because of my father that the idea struck me—what an ideal solution this method would be to the problem of supplying respectable addicts with their necessary drugs—and, of course, how profitable. When my father died and I took over the business, I began to work on my idea—very slowly and carefully. Today I have a small but airtight organization of hand-picked people.”
    â€œHand-picked, am