And it was still going on. Under colored lights, Wales saw the long queue of men, women, children moving toward one of the towering ships nearby. Signals flashed. Loudspeakers bawled metallically.
"—to Ship 778! All assigned to Ship 778 this way! Have your evacuation-papers ready!"
Wales went by these people, not looking at their faces, not wanting to see their faces.
The noise and crowded confusion got worse as he neared the Administration Building. Near it the buses were unloading, the endless cargoes of people, people—always people, always those pale faces.
An armed guard outside Administration's entrance looked at Wales' uniform and then at his credentials, and passed him through.
"Port Coordinator's office straight ahead," he said.
The interior of the building was a confusion of uniformed men, and women, of clicking tabulating machines, of ringing phones.
Wales thought that here you felt the real pulse of the Marslift. A pulse that had quickened now—like the pulse of a dying man.
Bourreau, the Port Coordinator, was a stocky, bald sweating man, who had thrown off his uniform jacket and was drinking coffee at his desk when Wales came in.
"Sit down," he said. "Heard you were coming. Heard the Secretary was sending you to burn our tails."