Wales knew, to the last figure, how many times in the last years ships had risen from this spaceport, and how many times, having each one carried thousands of people to Mars, they had returned. Tens of millions had gone out from here. And New Jersey Spaceport was only one of the many spaceports serving the Evacuation. The mind reeled at the job that had been done, the vast number who had been taken to that other world. 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." "Nothing like that," said Wales. "He just wants to know, why the devil are Evacuation schedules falling behind?" Bourreau drained his cup, set it down, and wiped his mouth. "Listen," he said, "you don't want to talk to me." "I don't?" "No, I'm the Port Coordinator, that's all. I've passed millions of people through here. Evacuation Authority sends them in here, from the marshalling point over in New York. Good people, not-so-good people, and people that aren't worth saving. But to me, they're all just units. They reach here, I shoot them out. That's all. The man you want to talk to is John Fairlie." "The regional Evacuation Marshal?" "Yes. Talk to him, over in New York. I've got a car and driver ready for you." * * * * * Wales stood up. It was obvious that Bourreau had been all ready for him, and was not going to take a rap for anybody. It was equally obvious that he'd learn nothing about Kendrick's disappearance from this man. "All right," he said. "I'll see Fairlie first." The driver of the car, a UN private, turned off on a side road almost as soon as they left the spaceport. "No use bucking all the buses and trucks on the evacuation thruways," he said. "We use the old roads when we want to hurry. No traffic on _them_ now."