"I'll be along in a while." He waved at air. He wasn't looking at me. He wasn't thinking about Wompans or even Venus on the Half Shell. He was six thousand parsecs away and still running. I sighed and went inside. I burned the midnight oil learning what there was to learn about Wompans. In the morning it was raining. Harry didn't seem to care. He had that moonstruck grin on his face and I was sure the Stevensons, father and daughter, noticed it. They were too polite to say anything about it, though, and Ginger Stevenson did seem friendly toward Harry. "Do we try it in the rain?" Jason Woods Stevenson asked me. He wore a poncho which covered him .30-.30 rifle and all. He looked like a small tent with a head on top, but it was practical. Ginger wore a transparent raincoat which showed her nice sports clothing and nicer figure. It wasn't practical, but Ginger was a girl. "Yes, sir," I said. "We try it in the rain." And off we marched to find ourselves a Wompan. * * * * * We tried it in the rain. We tried it in the dazzling white Venusian daylight. We tried at dawn and we tried at dusk. We tried every way it said to try in the book, but we didn't find any Wompan. Twelve days went by that way. Mr. Stevenson had already told us his limit was fourteen days. I got glummer and glummer, but not Harry. If I asked Harry what a Wompan was, he probably would have shrugged and said it wasn't important. Harry was still moonstruck and the nicest part of it from Harry's point of view was this: Ginger was moonstruck too. Mr. Stevenson, though, grew desperate. Not about Ginger and Harry--he didn't seem to mind. About the Wompan. He wanted one. If you have ever known a sportsman after particular game, you will understand. He had to get a Wompan. I knew how he felt: we _had_ to stay in business. No other animal would do and--although it wasn't our fault--I knew that if Mr. Stevenson didn't get himself a Wompan, Venus on the Half Shell would not be saved by a big, many-paged spread in Spaceman's magazine. On the thirteenth day, Mr. Stevenson said, "Going tomorrow. Early in the morning. This is our last try, Gil." "I know that, sir," I said. "Before we start, thought I'd kick over the sportster's engine. Don't want last minute trouble, you know." "Yes, sir," I said. He climbed inside the small spaceship and kicked her over. He climbed down, satisfied. The rocket engine had purred like a kitten. And purred again--outside the stockade! I jumped about a mile and came down feeling light as a feather. There couldn't be another sportster in the vicinity. Certainly not. I knew it and so did Mr. Stevenson, who had studied our little book about the Wompan. "Wompan," he said, looking at me. I nodded and we went for the rifles.