"Out with it man," you say to Jim. "I know you've got something to say."
Jim sucks his teeth loudly, and you brace yourself for his unique brand of advice.
"Ah," he says solemnly, and shakes his head. "Xenphuth IV isn't for the living. Not if you're made of meat and bone. Xenphuthians love visitors, you know. They long for the squish and crunch of foreign food. Why, your father used to tell me all about a kid your age who thought he'd snag some graxweed and never work again, but within thirty seconds of opening the ship's hatch one of the local bugs got to him." Jim places his hands about a foot apart. "So big, it was, and it took just a moment to suck every drop of water from his body. A terrible thing, that was. The other men survived, they say—but they weren't men any longer. Some things weren't meant to be, and this planet is crawling with the worst of them."
"Graxweed," you say slowly. "It's adaptable, I believe?"