The answer was obvious: Gilbert made fifty credits a safari and sometimes went on as many as eight a year. Tips might bring the figure to an even five hundred credits a year. The figure Mulveen had named was ten year's work.
"I'm listening," Gilbert said.
Mulveen paced back and forth. Something had gotten to him. Hunters were like that, Gilbert knew. They were capable of being possessed by an idea—to the exclusion of all else. Gilbert had known hunters who, so possessed, had crossed a dozen light years.
"This planet," Mulveen said, "is real jerkwater, isn't it?"
"If you mean what I think, yes."
"What kind of law do you have?"
"Only what we need. It doesn't apply to extra-terrestrials."
"I thought so. Then an extra-terrestrial can commit any crime, any crime at all?"
Gilbert smiled grimly. "The Earth government—such as it is—considers extra-terrestrials too civilized to commit crimes. Also, extra-terrestrial hunters are responsible for most of Earth's income. This is a poor planet, Mr. Mulveen: civilization and then the attempt to keep up with civilization, has drained it."
"You know a lot for a kid."