We Run From The Hunted!
By Darius John Granger
Running a hunting camp on Venus appeared
to be a good deal. But like any business, you
had to attract customers—and maybe a Wompan!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
August 1956
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I dabbed at the nick on my jaw with a towel and said, "Ouch! Do youalways have to read to me when I'm shaving?"
"Shaving," Harry Conger scoffed. "That's just it, shaving. Why can'tyou use dipilator, like ordinary people? What do you expect when youuse an archaic razor?"
"I happen to like the feel of a razor."
"Well, it's the same with .30-.30 rifles instead of blasters," Harrysaid, still riding me. "The best the twenty-first century has to offerisn't good enough for you. Oh, no." He shoved the accumulation ofunpaid bills in front of my face while I put the razor away and askedme, "What do you expect to pay these with—twentieth century coin ofthe realm?"
"O.K.," I said. "Lay off. So we happen to be a little behind in a fewpayments."
"A few payments. We haven't had a customer yet, Gil. Not even onesingle, slightly jaded Earthman. No one."
"I still think 'Venus on the Half Shell' is a good idea," I saidstubbornly.
Harry shook his head. "Good for the bill collectors. Good for thenative bearers, who we've been feeding ever since we opened this joint.Good for the washed up big-game hunter living off what little fat thereis in our land, but not good for us. If we only had one customer—justone...."
"Look out the window," I said, trying to be cheerful. "Venus. Raw.Primitive. Wild. Thirty million miles from civilization. A hunter'sparadise. And we're the guys who can serve Venus up to our customerson the half shell. Hunting. Nature-watching. Just loafing. They canname it—we've got it."
"You mean we've had it," Harry said gloomily, shaking the fistful ofbills. "Hell, Gil. It isn't only that. We haven't paid the bearersyet—not that they've had to bear anything. We haven't even paidwhat's-his-name, the hunter. All he does is drink our whiskey. Whydon't you admit it, Gil? Venus on the Half Shell is all washed up andwe might as well go back to Earth while we still have the fare."
I grinned. "Do we still have the fare?"
"Well, if we sell some of your antique firearms—"
"Sell them?" I cried. "But they're the only way to hunt, Harry. Youknow that. They're the real way to hunt. It's no contest with ablaster—the local fauna don't have a chance."
"If we just had one customer."
"A little while longer, Harry," I pleaded. "You're right. All we needis one customer, just to spread the word. We've got a virgin paradisefor hunters here and—"
"I've heard that song before."
"Well," I said stubbornly, "it's the truth."
Just then someone knocked at the door. Harry and I shared a small cabinin the Venus on the Half Shell stockade. It wasn't much of a cabin andit doubled as office and sleeping quarters. A knock on the door meanteither the leader of the Venusians or Talbot Kramer, our has-beenhunter who so far had been content to sit around drinking our whiskey.
I opened the door. It was Talbot Kramer, complete with week's growthof beard, red-rimmed eyes, mouldly, swamp-smelling clothing and aman-sized scowl.
"Natives are through," he said, and laughed. It may have meant a lot tome and Harry, but it meant nothing to him.
"Through?" I said. "What the hell did they quit for?"
"Wompan," Kramer said.
"Which?" Harry asked him.
"Wompan," I