Harry and I waited for Ginger to make her appearance. After a decent
interval she came gracefully out of the hatch. She was young and
red-haired and pretty. She was built the way a girl ought to be built
and she had a million dollar smile. The smile was for Harry Conger.
Right away she liked Harry. She was nice enough to me in a spoiled
little rich girl way, but Harry, was, as they say, her cup of tea. She
went walking off with him toward the stockade to get her first lesson
in Venusian fauna while Mr. Stevenson and I pitched their tent.
I was just as glad Ginger had decided Harry was for her, if either
of us had to be. I had too much to think about. Such as Jason Woods
Stevenson and Spaceman's magazine. Such as what a Wompan could or could
not be expected to do when hunted. Such as our last chance to make good
here on Venus. Let Harry have the lovelife, I'd try to keep Venus on
the Half Shell solvent.
* * * * *
That night after supper Mr. Stevenson and Ginger turned in early in
preparation for our first sally the next day. Harry gaped and gazed and
wandered around the stockade, moonstruck.
"Hey, snap out it," I said.
"Lovely girl," he said.
"Lovely old man in charge of the outdoor section of Spaceman's
magazine," I said.
"Got a smile could melt the night side of Pluto."
"Wompan," I said. "Remember?"
"You can handle it, Gil old boy."
"I don't know if both of us, working together as hard as we ever worked
in our lives, can handle it. But we have to try. We have to be on our
toes, Harry. Are you with me?"
"Did you see how Ginger's whole face lights up when she smiles?"
"Harry," I pleaded. "We have a book inside. It isn't much, but it tells
everything anybody knows about a Wompan. What they do. How they kill
people. How to capture them, if they can be captured. Harry, we're
no hunters. Since Wompan is the solar system's most dangerous game,
wouldn't you say that puts us at a slight disadvantage? Wouldn't you,
Harry old boy?"
"She's really got a sense of humor too, Gil. For a rich kid, she's
simple and unaffected and--"
"Let's go inside and look at that Wompan book."
"I'll be along in a while." He waved at air. He wasn't looking at me.
He wasn't thinking about Wompans or even Venus on the Half Shell. He
was six thousand parsecs away and still running. I sighed and went
inside. I burned the midnight oil learning what there was to learn
about Wompans.
In the morning it was raining. Harry didn't seem to care. He had that
moonstruck grin on his face and I was sure the Stevensons, father and
daughter, noticed it. They were too polite to say anything about it,
though, and Ginger Stevenson did seem friendly toward Harry.
"Do we try it in the rain?" Jason Woods Stevenson asked me. He wore
a poncho which covered him .30-.30 rifle and all. He looked like a
small tent with a head on top, but it was practical. Ginger wore a
transparent raincoat which showed her nice sports clothing and nicer
figure. It wasn't practical, but Ginger was a girl.
"Yes, sir," I said. "We try it in the rain."
And off we marched to find ourselves a Wompan.
* * * * *
We tried it in the rain. We tried it in the dazzling white Venusian
daylight. We tried at dawn and we tried at dusk. We tried every way it
said to try in the book, but we didn't find any Wompan.
Twelve days went by that way. Mr. Stevenson had already told us his
limit was fourteen days. I got glummer and glummer, but not Harry. If I
asked Harry what a Wompan was, he probably would have shrugged and said
it wasn't important. Harry was still moonstruck and the nicest part of
it from Harry's point of view was this: Ginger was moonstruck too.
Mr. Stevenson, though, grew desperate. Not about Ginger and Harry--he
didn't seem to mind. About the Wompan. He wanted one. If you have ever
known a sportsman after particular game, you will understand. He had
to get a Wompan. I knew how he felt: we _had_ to stay in business. No
other animal would do and--although it wasn't our fault--I knew that
if Mr. Stevenson didn't get himself a Wompan, Venus on the Half Shell
would not be saved by a big, many-paged spread in Spaceman's magazine.
On the thirteenth day, Mr. Stevenson said, "Going tomorrow. Early in
the morning. This is our last try, Gil."
"I know that, sir," I said.
"Before we start, thought I'd kick over the sportster's engine. Don't
want last minute trouble, you know."
"Yes, sir," I said. He climbed inside the small spaceship and kicked
her over. He climbed down, satisfied. The rocket engine had purred like
a kitten.
And purred again--outside the stockade!
I jumped about a mile and came down feeling light as a feather. There
couldn't be another sportster in the vicinity. Certainly not. I knew
it and so did Mr. Stevenson, who had studied our little book about the
Wompan.
"Wompan," he said, looking at me.