"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."
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. You know that. They're the real way to hunt. It's no contest with a blaster—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 need is one customer, just to spread the word. We've got a virgin paradise for hunters here and—"