We checked out at the airlock and drove out to the spaceport over the sand-filled roadbed that no amount of work ever kept clean. We cleared the port office, drew spacesuits from Post Supply, and went out to my yacht. Redman looked at her, his heart in his eyes. He seemed overwhelmed by it.
"Lord! she's beautiful!" he breathed, as he looked at the slim polished length standing on her broad fins, nose pointed skyward.
"Just a Starflite-class yacht," I said.
"Look, Cyril," he said. "Will you sell her?"
"If we get to Venus alive and you still want to buy her, she'll cost you—" I hesitated, "twenty-five thousand."
"Done!" he said. It came so fast that I figured I should have asked for fifty.
"The fuel will be extra," I said. "Fifty munits an ounce. There's maybe ten pounds of it."
"How far will that take me?"
"About ten light-years at cruising speed. Gold is economical."