The big new UN Building, towering over the city, had been built thirty years before to replace the old one. He had supposed it would be an empty shell, now that the whole Secretariat was out on Mars. But it wasn't. Here was Evacuation headquarters for a whole part of America, and the building was jammed with officials, files, clerks.
He was expected, it seemed. He went right through to the regional Evacuation Marshal's office.
John Fairlie was a solid, blond man of thirty-five or so, with the kind of radiant strength, health, and intelligence that always made Wales feel even more lanky and shy than he really was.
"We've been discussing your mission here," Fairlie said bluntly. He indicated the three other men in the room. "My friends and fellow-officials—they're assistants to Evacuation Marshals of other regions. Bliss from Pacific Coast, Chaumez from South America, Holst from Europe—"
They were men about Fairlie's age, and Wales thought that they were anxious men.
"We don't resent your coming, and you'll get 100 percent cooperation from all of us," Fairlie was saying. "We just hope to God you can get Evacuation speeded up to schedule again. We're worried."
"Things are that bad?" said Wales.
Bliss said gloomily, "Bad—and getting worse. If it keeps up, there's going to be millions still left on Earth when Doomsday comes."
"What," asked Wales, "do you think ought to be done first?"