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 like to have 100,000 dollars? You all would like this reward. It represents the price of a snug little space cruiser for your family; a new home on the canal; maybe an island of your own. It would take you on a trip to the baths of Venus and leave you some money over. Of course you all want this reward!
"Now, if you'll excuse me a moment—"
The man's picture faded, and the screen glowed with the life and beauty of Princess Sira—Sira, smiling and alluring.
"You all know this young lady," the announcer's voice went on. "The beloved and lovable Sweetheart of Mars, the bride of Scar Balta—"
The Martian's sleek and well-groomed head appeared beside that of the girl.