rtian reckoning, he signed a release acknowledging all
circuits to be in proper order, and was locked behind the heavy doors,
alone with a maze of complicated apparatus and cables that filled the
large room from floor to ceiling.

Now it was done! Chance had thrown Wasil into a position where he
could, without great danger of failure, carry out his plan. But at the
same time things had so fallen that he, Wasil, must now die,
regardless of the outcome!

If he succeeded in broadcasting the proceedings of the convention, and
if they had the effect of arousing the public against Wilcox, there
would still be no escape for Wasil. Wilcox, or Scar Balta, would come
straight for this prison, neuro-pistol or needle-ray in hand!

Even if he should fail, death would be his portion for the attempt.

* * * * *

So thinking, Wasil sat down and carefully re-checked the circuits. The
filler broadcast from central office must be sent to the twin cities
of Tarog. Otherwise the convention would learn too soon what was
happening, and would interrupt its business. The thousands who waited
outside on the broad terraces must be regaled with entertainment, as
had been originally planned.

But as for the rest of Mars, and Earth, they would get the truth for
once. Those bankers would speak frankly, in the snug isolation of the
hall. No supervision here. Conventions, empty politeness, would be
forgotten. Sharp tirades, biting facts, threats, veiled and open,
would pass across the table between these masters of money and men.

But this time they would be pitilessly bared to the worlds!

Feverishly, Wasil inspected the repeater. It was a little-used device
that would, an hour or two later, as desired, give out the words and
pictures fed into it. Although Tarog would not learn the convention's
secrets as quickly as the rest of Mars, or Earth, Tarog would learn.
Wasil threw over the links and clamped down the bolts with a grunt of
satisfaction. When a man is about to die, he wants to do his last job
well.

Suddenly a red light glowed, and a voice spoke.

"Special broadcast. Tarog circuit only!"

"Mornin', Lennings," Wasil remarked to the face in the screen. "All
set? Go ahead."

The central office man held up a thick bundle of I. P. scrip, smiled
pleasantly, saying:

"Somebody in North or South Tarog, or in the surrounding territory, is
going to be 100,000 I. P. dollars richer by to-morrow. How would you