 What doesn't Tunpesh seem to have less of than Earth?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1951. ] Nothing could have seemed pleasanter than that peaceful planet. Or more complex ones, if you went into it deeper. Weltschmerz, perhaps. Pendleton had been in his second year as attache on Tunpesh, a small planet with a G-type sun. Tunpesh had been inspected and certified and approved. Or maybe the Service had slipped up, as it sometimes did, and Tunpesh had received something less than a thorough survey. And then an unscheduled freighter had put in for repairs, one of the very few ships that ever came by Tunpesh. Tunpesh had been Pendleton's second assignment. So friendly that he had made sure that a certain box was on board, filled with shiny atomic rifles, needle pistols, and the fat little gas guns. Eckert and he had been chosen to go to Tunpesh and investigate. The thin red line was practically microscopic now and Templin could feel his lashes lying gently on his cheeks. Their information on Tunpesh was limited. They knew that it had no trading concessions or armed forces and that nobody from neighboring systems seemed to know much about it or even visited it. But a staff anthropologist must have been routinely assigned to Tunpesh to furnish data and reports. "Yes?" "How come our anthropologist on Tunpesh didn't come across with more information?" Warm breezes rustled through Eckert's graying hair and tugged gently at his tunic. He looked at the slim, dwindling shape that was the rocket, and was suddenly, acutely aware that he and Templin would be stranded for six months on a foreign and very possibly dangerous planet. It would be like a famous singer suddenly doing a jazz number in an opera, or having the princess in a fairy tale turn out to be ugly." The village started where the port left off and crawled and wound over the wooded ridges. They finally came out on the field and clustered around him and Templin. The committee of one was a middle-aged man dressed in a simple strip of white cloth twisted about his waist and allowed to hang freely to his knees. There wasn't, so far as he could see, much manufacturing above the level of handicrafts and simple weaving. The other part of the square was given over to the native bazaar where pots and bolts of cloth were for sale, and where numerous stalls were loaded with dried fruits and vegetables and the cleaned and plucked carcasses of the local variety of fowl.
 beautiful people
 weapons  beautiful people  illness  bad weather