Space-Trap at Banya Tor

Exciting entertainment, these telecasts of dashing pirates, gorgeous victims and the always stupid Space Patrol, but Jeff Thorne, famed Derelict of Mars, was grimly bent on stopping them—in all their ghastly reality!
The three patrolmen leaped to their feet, saluting as they arose. Bannerman, the Superintendent, extended a hearty fist.
Welcome, General Wheelwright, he exclaimed, clicking his polished heels.
Glad to be aboard, gentlemen, rasped the Inspector-General of the Planet Patrol, returning the salute. His broad chest, scaled from throat to belt with the medals of twenty worlds, tinkled musically as he rumbled the brusque greeting. At ease. Resume your game. Bannerman, a word with you, if you please.
As the Superintendent closed the black door behind them, he glanced apprehensively at his superior. The big man had slumped in limp exhaustion into the office chair before Bannerman's desk.
Well, sir? Bannerman finally asked. Chain Lucas?
No, replied the General, hardly lifting his head. Not yet. He stared fixedly at his glittering boots, cool runnels of light glancing along their polished curves.
Senator Chanler is dead.
Dead? Old Scrooge? Bannerman's startled incredulity was tempered by a sudden enthusiasm he made no great effort to conceal. Who poisoned him? he inquired.
Come now, Bannerman, replied Wheelwright, repressing a wan smile. I grant you he was a parsimonious fool, but at least we managed to skin our appropriations through his committee one way or another.
Skinned is certainly the word for it, sir, agreed Bannerman shortly.
I'm afraid we'll remember Scrooge with regret, Wheelwright gloomily rejoined. What the new Senator on the committee will do to the appropriation will ground half our ships.