We stood with our backs to the Venus on the Half Shell sign running across the upper part of the cabin wall and waited. After a little while the small sportster's hatch swung out. We squinted at it through Venus' dazzling white sunless daylight and waited. A head popped up. Big head with a mane of white hair and pink cheeks and some loose extra chins and a strong jaw and a small red flower of a mouth. Below the head was expensive sports clothing. Very expensive. All suede and linen and the latest hunting styles you see in the catalogues. He looked like a million bucks worth of something out of a Spaceman's magazine. He snapped his fingers and said, "Boy! Our bags." Harry looked at me again. I looked at Harry. I placed the flat of my hand against the small of his back and pushed. He went stumbling across the mud toward the sportster spaceship. When he got there he managed to say, "I'll take your bags, sir." "I'll set up your tent, sir," I said. "Tent?" the man in the sportster repeated. "Your classified ad in Spaceman's didn't say anything about a tent." "That's Venus on the Half Shell," I said. "Outdoor living. Venus as Venus is to the natives. But it's perfectly safe, sir. "We have a stockade, as you can see." "I don't know about any tent or roughing it," the sportsman boomed. "Well," I said. "Game running good?" he asked. "The best," I said. "A blind man could bag the legal limit of roupas and konees and jukets and ferzes in an afternoon." "Better hope it takes longer'n that, son," the sportsman boomed again. "Didn't come all the way to Venus for an afternoon's walk in the woods." "Walk in the woods," I said, nudging Harry who had come back staggering under the weight of several suitcases. "Walk in the woods." "Yes?" the sportsman said. "What I mean is, there's man-sized hunting around here. Really man-sized, sir." "Daughter's with me," he said, wet-blanketing whatever sales pitch I might have made. "Hope we haven't made a mistake. Could have gone on to Venus Joe's. I know Venus Joe's. But I liked your ad in Spaceman's. I always go by ads in Spaceman's. Know why?" "No," I said, shaking my head. "I'm Jason Woods Stevenson," he said, swinging his two-hundred pounds of hard sportsman muscle down the hatch and walking athletically across the swamp toward me. "Jason Woods Stevenson," I said, then suddenly ran forward to pump his hand vigorously. Jason Woods Stevenson! If he liked it here at Venus on the Half Shell, Harry and I had it made. Because Jason Woods Stevenson was the outdoor editor of Spaceman's magazine--and Sportsmen all over the solar system waited breathlessly each month for him to pontificate on some new out-of-the-way sportsman's paradise. If he passed on Venus on the Half Shell, we'd be swamped with business. "Don't see any native trackers around," Jason W. Stevenson said after shaking my hand with a grip that almost broke the finger bones. "Have them outside?" "Well, the truth is--" I said. "Is what?"