Talk of heat--or better not--on Xecho. This water-logged world combined all the most unattractive features of a steam bath and one could only dream of coolness, greenness--more land than a stingy string of islands.
The young man on the promontory above the crash of the waves wore the winged cap of a spaceman with the insignia of a cargo-master and not much else, save a pair of very short shorts. He wiped one hand absently across his bare chest and brought it away damp as he studied, through protective sun goggles, the treacherous promise of the bright sea. One could swim--if he wanted to lose most of his skin. There were minute organisms in that liquid that smacked their lips--if they had lips--every time they thought of a Terran.