Chapter 2

14 min

The brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel was peopled with numbers.

The brain of the New Tower of Babel was filled with numbers.

From an invisible source the numbers dropped rhythmically down through the cooled air of the room, being collected, as in a water-basin, at the table at which the great brain of Metropolis worked, becoming objective under the pencils of his secretaries. These eight young men resembled each other as brothers, which they were not. Although sitting as immovable as statues, of which only the writing fingers of the right hand stirred, yet each single one, with sweat-bedewed brow and parted lips, seemed the personification of Breathlessness.

From an invisible source, numbers fell rhythmically through the room’s cool air. They gathered, as if in a water basin, at the table where the great brain of Metropolis worked. There, his secretaries’ pencils made the numbers visible. The eight young men looked like brothers, though they were not. They sat as still as statues, with only the writing fingers of their right hands moving. Yet each one, with a sweat-covered brow and parted lips, seemed to embody Breathlessness.

No head was raised on Freder’s entering. Not even his father’s.

No one looked up when Freder entered. Not even his father.

The lamp under the third loud-speaker glowed white-red.

The lamp beneath the third speaker glowed white-red.

New York spoke.

Joh Fredersen was comparing the figures of the evening exchange report with the lists which lay before him. Once his voice sounded, vibrationless:

Joh Fredersen was comparing the figures in the evening exchange report with the lists before him. He spoke once, his voice flat:

“Mistake. Further inquiry.”

“Mistake. Further investigation.”

The first secretary quivered, stooped lower, rose and retired on soundless soles. Joh Fredersen’s left eyebrow rose a trifle as he watched the retreating figure—only as long as was possible without turning his head.

The first secretary trembled, bowed lower, straightened up, and walked away without a sound. Joh Fredersen’s left eyebrow rose slightly as he watched him leave, only as long as he could without turning his head.

A thin, concise pencil-line crossed out a name.

A thin, precise pencil line crossed out a name.

The white-red light glowed. The voice spoke. The numbers dropped down through the great room. In the brain-pan of Metropolis.

The white-red light glowed. The voice spoke. The numbers dropped through the great room. Inside the brain of Metropolis.

Freder remained standing, motionless, by the door. He was not sure as to whether or not his father had noticed him. Whenever he entered this room he was once more a boy of ten years old, his chief characteristic uncertainty, before the great concentrated, almighty certainty, which was called Joh Fredersen, and was his father.

Freder stood motionless by the door. He was not sure whether his father had noticed him. Whenever he entered this room, he became a ten-year-old boy again, marked above all by uncertainty. Before him stood his father, Joh Fredersen, a force of immense, concentrated, almighty certainty.

The first secretary walked past him, greeting him silently, respectfully. He resembled a competitor leaving the course, beaten. The chalky face of the young man hovered for one moment before Freder’s eyes like a big, white, lacquer mask. Then it was blotted out.

The first secretary walked past him, greeting him silently and respectfully. He looked like a defeated competitor leaving the course. For a moment, the young man’s chalky face hung before Freder’s eyes like a large, white lacquered mask. Then it vanished.

Numbers dropped down through the room.

Numbers fell through the room.

One chair was empty. On seven others sat seven men, pursuing the numbers which sprang unceasingly from the invisible.

One chair was empty. Seven men sat in seven others, following the numbers that appeared endlessly from the invisible.

A lamp glowed white-red.

New York spoke.

A lamp sparkled up: white-green.

A lamp lit up, sparkling white-green.

London began to speak.

Freder looked up at the clock opposite the door, commanding the whole wall like a gigantic wheel. It was the same clock, which, from the heights of the New Tower of Babel, flooded by searchlights, flicked off its second-sparks over the great Metropolis.

Freder looked up at the clock opposite the door. It dominated the whole wall like a gigantic wheel. It was the same clock that stood high on the New Tower of Babel, flooded by searchlights. From there, it flicked sparks with each second over the great Metropolis.

Joh Fredersen’s head stood out against it. It was a crushing yet accepted halo above the brain of Metropolis.

Joh Fredersen’s head stood out against it. It was a crushing but accepted halo above the brain of Metropolis.

The searchlights raved in a delirium of colour upon the narrow windows which ran from floor to ceiling. Cascades of light frothed against the panes. Outside, deep down, at the foot of the New Tower of Babel boiled the Metropolis. But in this room not a sound was to be heard but the incessantly dripping numbers.

The searchlights flashed wildly in a frenzy of color across the narrow windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Cascades of light foamed against the glass. Outside, far below, Metropolis boiled at the foot of the New Tower of Babel. But in this room, the only sound was the endless dripping of numbers.

The Rotwang-process had rendered the walls and windows sound-proof.

The Rotwang-process had made the walls and windows soundproof.

In this room, which was at the same time crowned and subjugated by the mighty time-piece, the clock, indicating numbers, nothing had any significance but numbers. The son of the great Master of Metropolis realised that, as long as numbers came dripping out of the invisible no word, which was not a number, and coming from a visible mouth, could lay claim to the least attention.

The mighty clock crowned the room and ruled over it. There, nothing mattered but numbers. The son of the great Master of Metropolis understood this. As long as numbers kept dripping out of the unseen, no word from a visible mouth could claim the slightest attention, unless it was a number.

Therefore he stood, gazing unceasingly at his father’s head, watching the monstrous hand of the clock sweep onward, inevitably, like a sickle, a reaping scythe, pass through the skull of his father, without harming him, climb upwards, up the number-beset ring, creep around the heights and sink again, to repeat the vain blow of the scythe.

So he stood, staring at his father’s head without looking away. He watched the monstrous clock hand sweep onward, inevitably, like a reaper’s scythe. It passed through his father’s skull without harming him, then climbed the numbered clock face. It crept around the top and sank again, repeating its useless blow.

At last the white-red light went out. A voice ceased.

At last, the white-red light went out. A voice stopped.

Then the white-green light went out, too.

Then the white-green light went out too.

Silence.

The hands of those writing stopped and, for the space of a moment, they sat as though paralysed, relaxed, exhausted. Then Joh Fredersen’s voice said with a dry gentleness:

The people writing stopped. For a moment, they sat as if paralyzed, their bodies slack with exhaustion. Then Joh Fredersen spoke with a dry gentleness:

“Thank you, to-morrow.”

“Thank you, tomorrow.”

And without looking round:

And without looking back:

“What do you want, my boy?”

The seven strangers quitted the now silent room. Freder crossed to his father, whose glance was sweeping the lists of captured number-drops. Freder’s eyes clung to the blue metal plate near his father’s right hand.

The seven strangers left the now silent room. Freder crossed to his father, who was scanning the lists of captured number-drops. Freder’s eyes stayed fixed on the blue metal plate near his father’s right hand.

“How did you know it was I?” he asked, softly.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked softly.

Joh Fredersen did not look up at him. Although his face had gained an expression of patience and pride at the first question which his son put to him he had lost none of his alertness. He glanced at the clock. His fingers glided over the flexible keyboard. Soundlessly were orders flashed out to waiting men.

Joh Fredersen did not look up at him. His son's first question had brought an expression of patience and pride to his face, but he was still alert. He glanced at the clock. His fingers glided over the flexible keyboard. Orders flashed silently to the waiting men.

“The door opened. Nobody was announced. Nobody comes to me unannounced. Only my son.”

“The door opened. No one was announced. No one comes to me without being announced. Only my son.”

A light below glass—a question. Joh Fredersen extinguished the light. The first secretary entered and crossed over to the great Master of Metropolis.

A light beneath glass. A question. Joh Fredersen turned off the light. The first secretary entered and crossed over to the great Master of Metropolis.

“You were right. It was a mistake. It has been rectified,” he reported, expressionlessly.

“You were right. It was a mistake. It has been corrected,” he reported without expression.

“Thank you.” Not a look. Not a gesture. “The G— bank has been notified to pay you your salary. Good evening.”

“Thank you.” Not a look. Not a gesture. “The G- bank has been told to pay your salary. Good evening.”

The young man stood motionless. Three, four, five, six seconds flicked off the gigantic time-piece. Two empty eyes burnt in the chalky face of the young man, impressing their brand of fear upon Freder’s vision.

The young man stood still. Three, four, five, six seconds ticked by on the enormous clock. Two empty eyes burned in his chalk-white face, searing their mark of fear into Freder’s vision.

One of Joh Fredersen’s shoulders made a leisurely movement.

Joh Fredersen slowly moved one shoulder.

“Good evening,” said the young man, in a strangled tone.

“Good evening,” the young man said in a strained voice.

He went.

“Why did you dismiss him, father?” the son asked.

“Why did you dismiss him, Father?” the son asked.

“I have no use for him,” said Joh Fredersen, still not having looked at his son.

“I have no use for him,” said Joh Fredersen, still without looking at his son.

“Why not, father?”

“I have no use for people who start when one speaks to them,” said the Master over Metropolis.

“I have no use for people who jump when someone speaks to them,” said the Master over Metropolis.

“Perhaps he felt ill ... perhaps he is worrying about somebody who is dear to him.”

“Perhaps he felt sick ... perhaps he is worried about someone he cares about.”

“Possibly. Perhaps too, he was still under the effects of the too long night in Yoshiwara. Freder, avoid assuming people to be good, innocent and victimized just because they suffer. He who suffers has sinned, against himself and against others.”

“Possibly. Perhaps he was still feeling the effects of his too-long night in Yoshiwara. Freder, don't assume people are good, innocent, and victims just because they suffer. Anyone who suffers has sinned against himself and others.”

“You do not suffer, father?”

“Are you not suffering, father?”

“No.”

“You are quite free from sin?”

“Are you completely free from sin?”

“The time of sin and suffering lies behind me, Freder.”

“The time of sin and suffering is behind me, Freder.”

“And if this man, now.... I have never seen such a thing ... but I believe that men resolved to end their lives go out of a room as he did....”

“And if this man, now.... I have never seen anything like it ... but I believe men who have decided to kill themselves leave a room the way he did....”

“Perhaps.”

“And suppose you were to hear, to-morrow, that he were dead ... that would leave you untouched...?”

“And suppose you heard tomorrow that he was dead... Would that leave you untouched...?”

“Yes.”

Freder was silent.

His father’s hand slipped over a lever, and pressed it down. The white lamps in all the rooms surrounding the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel went out. The Master over Metropolis had informed the circular world around him that he did not wish to be disturbed without urgent cause.

His father ran his hand over a lever and pressed it down. The white lights went out in all the rooms surrounding the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel. The Master of Metropolis had let the world around him know that he did not want to be disturbed unless it was urgent.

“I cannot tolerate it,” he continued, “when a man, working upon Metropolis, at my right hand, in common with me, denies the only great advantage he possesses above the machine.”

“I cannot tolerate it,” he continued, “when a man working with me on Metropolis, at my right hand, denies the one great advantage he has over a machine.”

“And what is that, father?”

“To take delight in work,” said the Master over Metropolis.

“To enjoy work,” said the Master of Metropolis.

Freder’s hand glided over his hair, then rested on its glorious fairness. He opened his lips, as though he wanted to say something; but he remained silent.

Freder ran his hand over his hair, then rested it on his beautiful fair hair. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but remained silent.

“Do you suppose,” Joh Fredersen went on, “that I need my secretaries’ pencils to check American stock-exchange reports? The index tables of Rotwang’s trans-ocean trumpets are a hundred times more reliable and swift than clerk’s brains and hands. But, by the accuracy of the machine I can measure the accuracy of the men, by the breath of the machine, the lungs of the men who compete with her.”

“Do you think,” Joh Fredersen went on, “that I need my secretaries and their pencils to check American stock market reports? The index tables of Rotwang’s trans-ocean trumpets are a hundred times more reliable and faster than clerks’ brains and hands. But I can use the machine’s accuracy to measure the accuracy of the men. And I can use the machine’s breath to measure the lungs of the men who compete with her.”

“And the man you just dismissed, and who is doomed (for to be dismissed by you, father, means going down!... Down!... Down!...) he lost his breath, didn’t he?”

“And the man you just fired is doomed. (Because being fired by you, father, means going down!... Down!... Down!...) He lost his breath, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Because he was a man and not a machine....”

“Because he denied his humanity before the machine.”

Freder raised his head and his deeply troubled eyes.

Freder raised his head and looked up, his eyes deeply troubled.

“I cannot follow you now, father,” he said, as if in pain.

“I can’t follow you now, Father,” he said, as if in pain.

The expression of patience on Joh Fredersen’s face deepened.

The patient look on Joh Fredersen’s face deepened.

“The man,” he said quietly, “was my first secretary! The salary he drew was eight times as large as that of the last. That was synonymous with the obligation to perform eight times as much. To me. Not to himself. To-morrow the fifth secretary will be in his place. In a week he will have rendered four of the others superfluous. I have use for that man.”

“The man,” he said quietly, “was my first secretary! He was paid eight times as much as the last secretary. That meant he was obliged to do eight times as much work. For me. Not for himself. Tomorrow the fifth secretary will take his place. Within a week, he will have made four of the others unnecessary. I have a use for that man.”

“Because he saves four others.”

“No, Freder. Because he takes delight in the work of four others. Because he throws himself entirely into his work—throws himself as desiringly as if it were a woman.”

“No, Freder. Because he takes pleasure in the work of four others. Because he throws himself completely into his work, with the same desire he would feel for a woman.”

Freder was silent. Joh Fredersen looked at his son. He looked at him carefully.

Freder was silent. Joh Fredersen looked at his son. He studied him carefully.

“You have had some experience?” he asked.

“You have some experience?” he asked.

The eyes of the boy, beautiful and sad, slipped past him, out into space. Wild, white light frothed against the windows, and, in going out, left the sky behind, as a black velvet cloth over Metropolis.

The boy’s beautiful, sad eyes drifted past him, staring into space. Wild, white light foamed against the windows. As it faded, it left the sky like a black velvet cloth over Metropolis.

“I have had no experience,” said Freder, tentatively, “except that I believe for the first time in my life to have comprehended the being of a machine....”

“I have no experience,” Freder said hesitantly, “except that I think I understand the nature of a machine for the first time in my life....”

“That should mean a great deal,” replied the Master over Metropolis. “But you are probably wrong, Freder. If you had really comprehended the being of a machine you would not be so perturbed.”

“That should mean a great deal,” replied the Master of Metropolis. “But you are probably wrong, Freder. If you really understood the nature of a machine, you would not be so upset.”

Slowly the son turned his eyes and the helplessness of his incomprehension to his father.

Slowly, the son turned to his father, looking helpless and confused.

“How can one but be perturbed,” he said, “if one comes to you, as I did, through the machine-rooms. Through the glorious rooms of your glorious machines ... and sees the creatures who are fettered to them by laws of eternal watchfulness ... lidless eyes....”

“How can anyone help being disturbed,” he said, “if they come to you through the machine rooms, as I did? Through the glorious rooms of your glorious machines ... and see the creatures bound to them by the laws of constant vigilance ... eyes without lids....”

He paused. His lips were dry as dust.

Joh Fredersen leant back. He had not taken his gaze from his son, and still held it fast.

Joh Fredersen leaned back. He had not taken his eyes off his son, and he continued to stare at him.

“Why did you come to me through the machine-rooms,” he asked quietly. “It is neither the best, nor the most convenient way.”

“Why did you come to me through the machine rooms?” he asked quietly. “It’s neither the best nor the most convenient way.”

“I wished,” said the son, picking his words carefully, “Just once to look the men in the face—whose little children are my brothers—my sisters....”

“I wanted,” said the son, choosing his words carefully, “just once to look into the faces of the men whose little children are my brothers and sisters....”

“H’m,” said the other with very tight lips. The pencil which he held between his fingers tapped gently, dryly, once, twice, upon the table’s edge. Joh Fredersen’s eyes wandered from his son to the twitching flash of the seconds on the clock, then sinking back again to him.

“H’m,” said the other, his lips pressed tightly together. The pencil in his fingers tapped gently against the edge of the table, once, then twice, with a dry sound. Joh Fredersen’s eyes moved from his son to the ticking seconds on the clock, then back to his son.

“And what did you find?” he asked.

Seconds, seconds, seconds of silence. Then it was as though the son, up-rooting and tearing loose his whole ego, threw himself, with a gesture of utter self-exposure, upon his father, yet he stood still, head a little bent, speaking softly, as though every word were smothering between his lips.

Seconds, seconds, seconds of silence. Then it was as if the son tore out his whole self and threw himself at his father, holding nothing back. Yet he stood still, his head slightly bowed. He spoke softly, as if every word were being smothered between his lips.

“Father! Help the men who live at your machines!”

“I cannot help them,” said the brain of Metropolis. “Nobody can help them. They are where they must be. They are what they must be. They are not fitted for anything more or anything different.”

“I can’t help them,” said the brain of Metropolis. “Nobody can help them. They are where they must be. They are what they must be. They aren’t suited for anything more or anything different.”

“I do not know for what they are fitted,” said Freder, expressionlessly; his head fell upon his breast as though almost severed from his neck. “I only know what I saw—and that it was dreadful to look upon.... I went through the machine-rooms—they were like temples. All the great gods were living in white temples. I saw Baal and Moloch, Huitzilopochtli and Durgha; some frightfully companionable, some terribly solitary. I saw Juggernaut’s divine car and the Towers of Silence, Mahomet’s curved sword, and the crosses of Golgotha. And all machines, machines, machines, which, confined to their pedestals, like deities to their temple thrones, from the resting places which bore them, lived their god-like lives: Eyeless but seeing all, earless but hearing all, without speech, yet, in themselves, a proclaiming mouth—not man, not woman, and yet engendering, receptive, and productive—lifeless, yet shaking the air of their temples with the never-expiring breath of their vitality. And, near the god-machines, the slaves of the god-machines: the men who were as though crushed between machine companionability and machine solitude. They have no loads to carry: the machine carries the loads. They have not to lift and push: the machine lifts and pushes. They have nothing else to do but eternally one and the same thing, each in this place, each at his machine. Divided into periods of brief seconds, always the same clutch at the same second, at the same second. They have eyes, but they are blind but for one thing, the scale of the manometer. They have ears, but they are deaf but for one thing, the hiss of their machine. They watch and watch, having no thought but for one thing: should their watchfulness waver, then the machine awakens from its feigned sleep and begins to race, racing itself to pieces. And the machine, having neither head nor brain, with the tension of its watchfulness, sucks and sucks out the brain from the paralysed skull of its watchman, and does not stay, and sucks, and does not stay until a being is hanging to the sucked-out skull, no longer a man and not yet a machine, pumped dry, hollowed out, used up. And the machine which has sucked out and gulped down the spinal marrow and brain of the man and has wiped out the hollows in his skull with the soft, long tongue of its soft, long hissing, the machine gleams in its silver-velvet radiance, anointed with oil, beautiful, infallible—Baal and Moloch, Huitzilopochtli and Durgha. And you, father, you press your fingers upon the little blue metal plate near your right hand, and your great glorious, dreadful city of Metropolis roars out, proclaiming that she is hungry for fresh human marrow and human brain and then the living food rolls on, like a stream, into the machine-rooms, which are like temples, and that, just used, is thrown up....”

“I don’t know what they are suited for,” said Freder without expression. His head fell on his chest as if it had almost been severed from his neck. “I only know what I saw, and it was dreadful to look at.... I went through the machine rooms. They were like temples. All the great gods lived in white temples. I saw Baal and Moloch, Huitzilopochtli and Durgha. Some were frighteningly sociable, others terribly solitary. I saw Juggernaut’s divine car and the Towers of Silence, Mahomet’s curved sword, and the crosses of Golgotha. “And there were machines, machines, machines everywhere. They were fixed to their pedestals, like gods on their temple thrones. From those resting places, they lived their godlike lives. They had no eyes, but saw everything. They had no ears, but heard everything. They had no speech, yet each was a mouth that proclaimed its own presence. They were neither man nor woman, yet they created, received, and produced. They were lifeless, yet their undying breath of vitality shook the air in their temples. “And near the god-machines were the slaves of the god-machines. The men seemed crushed between the machines’ companionship and their solitude. They carried no loads. The machines carried them. They did not have to lift or push. The machines lifted and pushed. They had nothing to do but the same thing over and over, each in his place, each at his machine. Their work was divided into intervals of a few seconds. Each made the same grab at the same second, at the same second. They had eyes, but were blind to everything except the manometer’s scale. They had ears, but were deaf to everything except their machine’s hiss. “They watched and watched, thinking of nothing else. If their attention wavered, the machine would wake from its pretended sleep and begin to race. It would race until it tore itself apart. The machine had neither head nor brain. Yet the strain of watching it made the machine suck and suck the brain from its watchman’s paralyzed skull. It did not stop sucking until a creature hung from the emptied skull. It was no longer a man and not yet a machine, pumped dry, hollowed out, used up. “The machine sucked down the man’s spinal marrow and brain. It wiped out the hollows of his skull with the soft, long tongue of its soft, long hiss. Then the machine gleamed in its silver-velvet radiance, anointed with oil, beautiful and infallible. It was Baal and Moloch, Huitzilopochtli and Durgha. “And you, father, press your fingers on the little blue metal plate near your right hand. Then your great, glorious, dreadful city of Metropolis roars out that she is hungry for fresh human marrow and human brain. Then the living food rolls like a stream into the machine rooms, which are like temples. And what has just been used is thrown out....”

His voice failed him. He struck his fists violently together, and looked at his father.

His voice gave out. He violently struck his fists together and looked at his father.

“... and they are all human beings!”

“Unfortunately. Yes.”

The father’s voice sounded to the son’s ear as though he were speaking from behind seven closed doors.

To the son, his father's voice sounded as if it came from behind seven closed doors.

“That men are used up so rapidly at the machines, Freder, is no proof of the greed of the machine, but of the deficiency of the human material. Man is the product of change, Freder. A once-and-for-all being. If he is miscast he cannot be sent back to the melting-furnace. One is obliged to use him as he is. Whereby it has been statistically proved that the powers of performance of the non-intellectual worker lessen from month to month.”

“Freder, the fact that men are used up so quickly at the machines does not prove that the machines are greedy. It proves that the human material is deficient. Man is the product of change, Freder. He is made once and for all. If he is cast badly, he cannot be sent back to the furnace to be melted down. We have to use him as he is. Yet statistics have proved that the performance of non-intellectual workers declines from month to month.”

Freder laughed. The laugh came so dry, so parched, from his lips that Joh Fredersen jerked up his head, looking at his son from out narrowed eye-lids. Slowly his eyebrows rose.

Freder laughed. The sound was so dry, so parched, that Joh Fredersen jerked his head up. He looked at his son through narrowed eyes. Slowly, his eyebrows rose.

“Are you not afraid, father (supposing that the statistics are correct and the consumption of man is progressing increasingly, rapidly) that one fine day there will be no more food there for the man-eating god-machines, and that the Moloch of glass, rubber and steel, the Durgha of aluminium with platinum veins, will have to starve miserably?”

“Father, suppose the statistics are correct and people are being consumed faster and faster. Aren’t you afraid that one day there will be no food left for the man-eating god-machines? Won’t the Moloch of glass, rubber and steel, the Durgha of aluminium with platinum veins, starve miserably?”

“The case is conceivable,” said the brain of Metropolis.

“That’s possible,” said the brain of Metropolis.

“And then?”

“Then,” said the brain of Metropolis, “by then a substitute for man will have to have been found.”

“Then,” said the brain of Metropolis, “we will have to find a substitute for man by then.”

“The improved man, you mean—? The machine-man—?”

“You mean the improved man? The machine-man?”

“Perhaps,” said the brain of Metropolis.

Freder brushed the damp hair from his brow. He bent forward, his breath touching his father.

Freder brushed the damp hair from his forehead. He leaned forward, his breath touching his father.

“Then just listen to one thing, father,” he breathed, the veins on his temples standing out, blue, “see to it that the machine-man has no head, or, at any rate, no face, or give him a face which always smiles. Or a Harlequin’s face, or a closed visor. That it does not horrify one to look at him! For, as I walked through the machine-rooms to-day, I saw the men who watch your machines. And they know me, and I greeted them, one after the other. But not one returned my greeting. The machines were all too eagerly tautening their nerve-strings. And when I looked at them, father, quite closely, as closely as I am now looking at you—I was looking myself in the face.... Every single man, father, who slaves at your machines, has my face—has the face of your son....”

“Then just listen to this, father,” he breathed, the blue veins bulging at his temples. “Make sure the machine-man has no head, or at least no face. Or give him a face that always smiles. Or a Harlequin’s face, or a closed visor. Make sure he is not horrifying to look at! Today, as I walked through the machine rooms, I saw the men who watch your machines. They know me, and I greeted them, one after another. But not one returned my greeting. The machines were straining their nerves too intensely. And when I looked at them, father, very closely, as closely as I am looking at you now, I was looking at my own face.... Every single man, father, who slaves at your machines has my face. He has your son’s face....”

“Then mine too, Freder, for we are very like each other,” said the Master over the great Metropolis. He looked at the clock and stretched out his hand. In all the rooms surrounding the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel the white lamps flared up.

“Then mine too, Freder, because we are very much alike,” said the Master of the great Metropolis. He looked at the clock and reached out his hand. White lamps lit up in all the rooms surrounding the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel.

“And doesn’t it fill you with horror,” asked the son, “to know so many shadows, so many phantoms, to be working at your work?”

“And doesn’t it horrify you,” the son asked, “to know that so many shadows, so many phantoms, are doing your work?”

“The time of horror lies behind me, Freder.”

“The time of horror is behind me, Freder.”

Then Freder turned and went, like a blind man—first missing the door with groping hand, then finding it. It opened before him. It closed behind him, and he stood still, in a room that seemed to him to be strange and icy.

Then Freder turned and walked away like a blind man. He reached for the door, missed it, then found it. It opened before him and closed behind him. He stood still in a room that felt strange and icy to him.

Forms rose up from the chairs upon which they had sat, waiting, bowing low to the son of Joh Fredersen, the Master of Metropolis.

Figures rose from the chairs where they had been waiting. They bowed low to the son of Joh Fredersen, the Master of Metropolis.

Freder only recognized one; that was Slim.

Freder recognized only one of them: Slim.

He thanked those who greeted him, still standing near the door, seeming not to know his way. Behind him slipped Slim, going to Joh Fredersen, who had sent for him.

He thanked those who greeted him. He stood near the door, seemingly unsure of his way. Behind him, Slim slipped away to see Joh Fredersen, who had sent for him.

The master of Metropolis was standing by the window, his back to the door.

The master of Metropolis stood by the window with his back to the door.

“Wait!” said the dark square back.

“Wait!” the dark square replied.

Slim did not stir. He breathed inaudibly. His eye-lids lowered, he seemed to sleep while standing. But his mouth, with the remarkable tension of its muscles, made him the personification of concentration.

Slim did not move. He breathed silently. His eyelids lowered, and he seemed to be sleeping on his feet. But the remarkable tension in the muscles around his mouth made him look like concentration itself.

Joh Fredersen’s eyes wandered over Metropolis, a restless roaring sea with a surf of light. In the flashes and waves, the Niagara falls of light, in the colour-play of revolving towers of light and brilliance, Metropolis seemed to have become transparent. The houses, dissected into cones and cubes by the moving scythes of the searchlights gleamed, towering up, hoveringly, light flowing down their flanks like rain. The streets licked up the shining radiance, themselves shining, and the things gliding upon them, an incessant stream, threw cones of light before them. Only the cathedral, with the star-crowned Virgin on the top of its tower, lay stretched out, massively, down in the city, like a black giant lying in an enchanted sleep.

Joh Fredersen’s eyes wandered over Metropolis, a restless, roaring sea with a surf of light. Flashes and waves of light poured down like Niagara Falls. Towers of light revolved in brilliant colors. In their glow, Metropolis seemed to become transparent. Moving searchlights swept across the buildings, cutting them into cones and cubes. The buildings gleamed, rising as if suspended, with light flowing down their sides like rain. The streets drank in the radiance and shone themselves. Things glided along them in an endless stream, casting cones of light ahead. Only the cathedral lay dark and massive in the city, a star-crowned Virgin atop its tower. It looked like a black giant lying in an enchanted sleep.

Joh Fredersen turned around slowly. He saw Slim standing by the door. Slim greeted him. Joh Fredersen came towards him. He crossed the whole width of the room in silence; he walked slowly on until he came up to the man. Standing there before him, he looked at him, as though peeling everything corporeal from him, even to his innermost self.

Joh Fredersen turned slowly and saw Slim standing by the door. Slim greeted him. Joh Fredersen walked slowly across the room in silence until he reached Slim. Standing before him, he looked at him as if stripping away everything physical, down to his innermost self.

Slim held his ground during this peeling scrutiny.

Slim stood his ground under the penetrating scrutiny.

Joh Fredersen said, speaking rather softly:

Joh Fredersen spoke rather softly:

“From now on I wish to be informed of my son’s every action.”

“From now on, I want to know everything my son does.”

Slim bowed, waited, saluted and went.

Slim bowed, waited, saluted, and left.

But he did not find the son of his great master again where he had left him. Nor was he destined to find him.

But he did not find his great master's son where he had left him. He would never find him again.