"You got no association with crackpot organizations, anything like that?" General Reuter asked. "You're either a good Liberal-Conservative or Radical-Progressive, aren't you? I don't care which. I don't believe in prying into a man's politics."
"I never belonged to anything," Capt. Shaeffer said.
"Oh, I can assure you, that's been checked out very, very thoroughly," Old Tom said.
The General signaled for another drink. With a sigh of exasperation, Old Tom complied.
"Bob," Old Tom said, "I really think you've had enough. Please, now. Our Master counsels moderation."
"Damn it, Tom," the General said and turned back to the space pilot. "May have a little job for you."
Old Tom shook his head at the General, cautioning him.
"Actually," the General said, ignoring the executive, "we'll be sort of renting you from TUT. In a way you'll still be working for them. I can get a million dollars out of the—"
"Bob!"
"—unmarked appropriation if it goes in in TUT's name. No questions asked. National Defense. I couldn't get anywhere near that much for an individual for a year. It gives us a pie to slice. We were talking about it before you came in. How does a quarter of a million dollars a year sound to you?"