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 polishedheels.
"Glad to be aboard, gentlemen," rasped the Inspector-General of thePlanet Patrol, returning the salute. His broad chest, scaled fromthroat to belt with the medals of twenty worlds, tinkled musically ashe 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 glancedapprehensively at his superior. The big man had slumped in limpexhaustion 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." Hestared fixedly at his glittering boots, cool runnels of light glancingalong their polished curves.
"Senator Chanler is dead."
"Dead? Old Scrooge?" Bannerman's startled incredulity was tempered bya sudden enthusiasm he made no great effort to conceal. "Who poisonedhim?" he inquired.
"Come now, Bannerman," replied Wheelwright, repressing a wan smile. "Igrant you he was a parsimonious fool, but at least we managed to skinour 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 gloomilyrejoined. "What the new Senator on the committee will do to theappropriation will ground half our ships."
"I had hoped for a relief," sighed Bannerman. "Who's the new man?"
"Chanler's daughter, Iris," replied Wheelwright. "Yes, yes, I know,"he added testily as Bannerman's jaw fell open. "The girl's a reigningbeauty, famous on half a dozen worlds. The World Council appointedher to fill the Senator's unexpired term. Just the usual courtesy, ofcourse, but she flew back from Venus and threw herself wholeheartedlyinto the job."
"Has she long to serve?"
"She hadn't, but she knows publicity. Had enough of it, Lord knows. Sheran for the next term and was re-elected."
"But she's wealthy in her own right, they say. Surely she didn'tinherit Chanler's parsimony with his office?"
"Of course not, Bannerman. She's famous for her easy way with money,and her Chanler's daughter. Notorious, if you like. But the girl'sa featherbrain, a romantic. Devotee of these gangster telecastsglorifying crime." Wheelwright's snort was eloquent of his disgust.
"I know. We get them here, too. Same old Formula Number One, the RobinHood motif. Clean-living space-hawk raiding the lanes, confounding thestupid Planet Patrol, scattering his loot to the poor. Very true tolife."
"It was corn five hundred years ago," scowled Wheelwright. "But itdrags them in today." He pounded the arm of his chair. "Who believescrime does not pay when they can see for themselves on a hundredscanner-screens that it does pay, and handsomely? Of course it'sfiction and they know it, but it tends to build up a subtle disrespectfor law and the Patrol in their minds. What ruined the old Congress butthe popular conception of them as a bunch of hick yokels stumbling overa job