Xenol-2 was foggy. The entire place was covered in a thick layer of soupy cloud. The info-kiosk told us that algae and its by-products comprised the bulk of its extra-regional exports. It exported water locally to a neighboring planet one orbit out from theirs—and was unfortunately on the other side of the parent star from Xenol when we came puttering out of burrow-space, otherwise we might have had less damp accommodations. One of the restaurants at the drop point offered a special on amphibian steaks (“How big are their amphibians?!” I asked of Eva who shrugged. “We’ll pack snacks,” Harris promised.)

Yep, it was foggy. That is the first and last impression of Xenol-2—no matter how many people try to prepare you: “It’s foggy” is the first thing visiters say upon touching down. That is also how merchants greet their customers: “Heyyyyy! It’s foggy.” To which you are to respond somewhere along the lines of: “Really foggy,” “Yes it is,” or (for a punchier response) “I didn’t notice.”
There were no oceans, but the land was awash in shallow seas, ponds and fens. The air stunk of swampy-gas. So after we stepped out onto the stairs leading down from the drop point and got our foggies out of the way, I was the first to say, “It’s smelly.”—which was promptly echoed by my fellow peddlars.