SPACE-TRAP AT BANYA TOR
By W. J. MATTHEWS
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!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
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?"