Coogan winked at him. “You’re not just kiddin’, friend. We’re on our way out to a system that looks pretty promising. Old Sainte Marie’s in a position to declare another dividend if it pays off.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “And how I do enjoy those dividends! Do a good job, lad. Do a bang-up job. Baby needs new shoes.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Buddy, I got half of my pay sunk into company stock. So do the rest of these guys. Couple years more, and I can get off this barge, settle down, and just cash checks every quarter for the rest of my life. And laugh like a fool every time I hear about you birds goin’ out to earn me some more.”

Imbry hadn’t known what to make of it, at first. He’d mumbled an answer of some kind. But, listening to the other men talking—Petrick, with the alcohol puffing out on his breath; Kenton, making grandiose plans; Maguire, sneering coldly; Jusek, singlemindedly sharpening his bush knife—he’d gradually realized Coogan wasn’t an exception in this crew of depraved, vicious fakes. Listening to them talk about the Corporation itself, he’d realized, too, that the “pioneers of civilization” line was something reserved for the bought-and-paid-for write-ups only. He wasn’t dewy-eyed. He didn’t expect the Corporation to be in business for its health. But neither had he expected it to be totally cynical and grasping, completely indifferent to whether anyone ever settled the areas it skimmed of their first fruits.

He learned, in a shatteringly short time, just what the contact crew men thought of each other, of the Corporation, and of humanity.