mplete.

The planet was perfect, the climate was perfect, the soil fertile.
There were no natives or hostile life to bother a man. The forests
were wide, the plains were broad and the numerous rivers were not only
full of fish but also emptied into blue seas that were just as full of
fish as the rivers. That report was enough to make a man quit his job
and go to Xenon to start a chicken ranch or grow oranges.

* * * * *

The bureau of Colonization acted with its usual speed. Three years
later, a cataloguing group landed from the supply ship _Hunter_. The
duties of the groups are simple enough; they determine which of the
food crops known to Man can best adapt themselves to the conditions
found on the particular planet under examination. They list the native
flora and fauna, minerals and resources. They chart the weather and
its cycles and, in general, try to determine if Man can exist there
and, if so, if the planet is worth the expense, trouble and danger of
colonization.

Most planets are not worth it, but Xenon was.

And now the group had returned with its final report and its
recommendations. The report? Xenon was perfect, just perfect. The
recommendations? Immediate colonization, but be careful who is sent so
that place isn't spoiled by a bunch of land-grabbing exploiters who
might not appreciate the place.

They had been back nearly a week before Lee Spencer had time to come
to my place for the weekend. Due to a combination of my wife's cooking
and a sedentary desk job with the Bureau, I was beginning to have a
bit of difficulty in bending over far enough to zip on my shoes in the
mornings, but Lee was still as lean and fit as he was the day he
blasted off for Xenon nearly four years before.

He had been given the full returned-hero treatment, complete with
press conferences, testimonial dinner, audience with the
Coordinator--everything. He hadn't had a waking moment to himself
since he landed, so I suppose that might have been one reason that he
relaxed so completely in front of the library fire after dinner and
talked more than he perhaps should have. Or the generous slug of the
old brandy my grandfather left me may have had something to do with
it.

At any rate, he was in an expansive mood that night after Martha had
filled him with one of her always excellent dinners and I had nearly
floated him in Grandfather's brandy.

We had a lot of "do you remember" man talk to c