We Run From the Hunted!

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!
I dabbed at the nick on my jaw with a towel and said, Ouch! Do you always have to read to me when I'm shaving?
Shaving, Harry Conger scoffed. That's just it, shaving. Why can't you use dipilator, like ordinary people? What do you expect when you use an archaic razor?
I happen to like the feel of a razor.
Well, it's the same with .30-.30 rifles instead of blasters, Harry said, still riding me. The best the twenty-first century has to offer isn't good enough for you. Oh, no. He shoved the accumulation of unpaid bills in front of my face while I put the razor away and asked me, What do you expect to pay these with—twentieth century coin of the realm?
O.K., I said. Lay off. So we happen to be a little behind in a few payments.
A few payments. We haven't had a customer yet, Gil. Not even one single, slightly jaded Earthman. No one.
I still think 'Venus on the Half Shell' is a good idea, I said stubbornly.
Harry shook his head. Good for the bill collectors. Good for the native 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 there is in our land, but not good for us. If we only had one customer—just one....
Look out the window, I said, trying to be cheerful. Venus. Raw. Primitive. Wild. Thirty million miles from civilization. A hunter's paradise. And we're the guys who can serve Venus up to our customers on the half shell. Hunting. Nature-watching. Just loafing. They can name it—we've got it.
You mean we've had it, Harry said gloomily, shaking the fistful of bills. Hell, Gil. It isn't only that. We haven't paid the bearers yet—not that they've had to bear anything. We haven't even paid what's-his-name, the hunter. All he does is drink our whiskey. Why don't you admit it, Gil? Venus on the Half Shell is all washed up and we might as well go back to Earth while we still have the fare.