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It was Bertrand Malloy’s job to keep the production output high and to keep the materiel flowing towards Earth and her allies and outposts.

The job would have been a snap cinch in the right circumstances; the Saarkkada weren’t difficult to get along with. A staff of top-grade men could have handled them without half trying.

But Malloy didn’t have top-grade men. They couldn’t be spared from work that required their total capacity. It’s inefficient to waste a man on a job that he can do without half trying where there are more important jobs that will tax his full output.

So Malloy was stuck with the culls. Not the worst ones, of course; there were places in the galaxy that were less important than Saarkkad to the war effort. Malloy knew that, no matter what was wrong with a man, as long as he had the mental ability to dress himself and get himself to work, useful work could be found for him.

Physical handicaps weren’t at all difficult to deal with. A blind man can work very well in the total darkness of an infrared-film darkroom. Partial or total losses of limbs can be compensated for in one way or another.

The mental disabilities were harder to deal with, but not totally impossible. On a world without liquor, a dipsomaniac could be channeled easily enough; and he’d better not try fermenting his own on Saarkkad unless he brought his own yeast–which was impossible, in view of the sterilization regulations.

But Malloy didn’t like to stop at merely thwarting mental quirks; he liked to find places where they were useful.

* * * * *

The phone chimed. Malloy flipped it on with a practiced hand.

“Malloy here.”

“Mr. Malloy?” said a careful voice. “A special communication for you has been teletyped in from Earth. Shall I bring it in?”

“Bring it in, Miss Drayson.”

Miss Drayson was a case in point. She was uncommunicative. She liked to gather in information, but she found it difficult to give it up once it was in her possession.

Malloy had made her his private secretary. Nothing–but nothing–got out of Malloy’s office without his direct order. It had taken Malloy a long time to get it into Miss Drayson’s head that it was perfectly all right–even desirable–for her to keep secrets from everyone except Malloy.

She came in through the door, a rather handsome woman in her middle thirties, clutching a sheaf of papers in her right hand as though someone might at any instant snatch it from her before she could turn it over to Malloy.

She laid them carefully on the desk. “If anything else comes in, I’ll let you know immediately, sir,” she said. “Will there be anything else?”

Malloy let her stand there while he picked up the communique. She wanted to know what his reaction was going to be; it didn’t matter because no one would ever find out from her what he had done unless she was ordered to tell someone.

He read the first paragraph, and his eyes widened involuntarily.

“Armistice,” he said in a low whisper. “There’s a chance that the war may be over.”

“Yes, sir,” said Miss Drayson in a hushed voice.

Malloy read the whole thing through, fighting to keep his emotions in check. Miss Drayson stood there calmly, her face a mask; her emotions were a secret.

Finally, Malloy looked up. “I’ll let you know as soon as I reach a decision, Miss Drayson. I think I hardly need say that no news of this is to leave this office.”

“Of course not, sir.”

Malloy watched her go out the door without actually seeing her. The war was over–at least for a while. He looked down at the papers again.

The Karna, slowly being beaten back on every front, were suing for peace. They wanted an armistice conference–immediately.

Earth was willing. Interstellar war is too costly to allow it to continue any longer than necessary, and this one had been going on for more than thirteen years now. Peace was necessary. But not peace at any price.