Chapter 3

22 min

The man who had been Joh Fredersen’s first secretary stood in a cell of the Pater-noster, the never-stop passenger lift which, like a series of never ceasing well-buckets, trans-sected the New Tower of Babel.—With his back against the wooden wall, he was making the journey through the white, humming house, from the heights of the roof, to the depths of the cellars and up again to the heights of the roof, for the thirtieth time, never moving from the one spot.

The man who had been Joh Fredersen’s first secretary stood in a compartment of the Pater-noster. The passenger lift ran continuously through the New Tower of Babel, like a series of endlessly moving well buckets. With his back against the wooden wall, he traveled through the white, humming building. He rode from the heights of the roof to the depths of the cellars and back up again. He had made the journey thirty times, never moving from his spot.

Persons, greedy to gain a few seconds, stumbled in with him, and stories higher, or lower, out again. Nobody paid the least attention to him. One or two certainly recognised him. But, as yet, nobody interpreted the drops on his temples as being anything but a similar greed for the gain of a few seconds. All right—he would wait until they knew better, until they took him and threw him out of the cell: What are you taking up space for, you fool, if you’ve got so much time? Crawl down the stairs, or the first escape....

People eager to save a few seconds stumbled in with him and got out again a few floors higher or lower. Nobody paid him the slightest attention. One or two certainly recognized him. But so far, nobody thought the drops on his temples meant anything more than the same eagerness to save a few seconds. All right, he would wait until they knew better, until they grabbed him and threw him out of the cell: What are you taking up space for, you fool, if you’ve got so much time? Crawl down the stairs, or the nearest fire escape....

With gasping mouth he leant there and waited....

He leaned there, gasping, and waited....

Now emerging from the depths again, he looked with stupified eyes towards the room which guarded Joh Fredersen’s door, and saw Joh Fredersen’s son standing before that door. For the fraction of a second they stared into each other’s over-shadowed faces, and the glances of both broke out as signals of distress, of very different but of equally deep distress. Then the totally indifferent pump-works carried the man in the cell upwards into the darkness of the roof of the tower, and, when he dipped down again, becoming visible once more on his way downwards, the son of Joh Fredersen was standing before the opening of the cell and was, in a step, standing beside the man whose back seemed to be nailed to the wooden wall.

As he rose from the depths again, he looked with stunned eyes toward the room guarding Joh Fredersen’s door. He saw Joh Fredersen’s son standing in front of the door. For a fraction of a second, they stared into each other’s shadowed faces. Both their gazes cried out in distress, different in kind but equally deep. Then the utterly indifferent pumps carried the man in the cell upward into the darkness beneath the tower’s roof. When he descended and came into view again, Joh Fredersen’s son was standing before the opening of the cell. In one step, he was beside the man whose back seemed nailed to the wooden wall.

“What is your name?” he asked gently.

A hesitation in drawing breath, then the answer, which sounded as though he were listening for something: “Josaphat....”

He hesitated before drawing breath. Then he answered, sounding as though he were listening for something: “Josaphat....”

“What will you do now, Josaphat?”

They sank. They sank. As they passed through the great hall the enormous windows of which overlooked the street of bridges, broadly and ostentatiously, Freder saw, on turning his head, outlined against the blackness of the sky, already half extinguished, the dripping word: “Yoshiwara....”

They sank. They sank. As they passed through the great hall, its enormous windows looked out over the street of bridges, broad and showy. Freder turned his head and saw the dripping word “Yoshiwara....” against the black sky, already half extinguished.

He spoke as if stretching out both hands, as just if closing his eyes in speaking:

He spoke as if reaching out with both hands, as if closing his eyes as he spoke:

“Will you come to me, Josaphat?”

A hand fluttered up like a scared bird.

“I—?” gasped the stranger.

“I...?” gasped the stranger.

“Yes, Josaphat.”

The young voice so full of kindness....

The young voice, so full of kindness....

They sank. They sank. Light—darkness—light—darkness again.

They sank. They sank. Light, darkness, light, darkness again.

“Will you come to me, Josaphat?”

“Yes!” said the strange man with incomparable fervour. “Yes!”

“Yes!” said the strange man with unmatched passion. “Yes!”

They dropped into light. Freder seized him by the arm and dragged him out with him, out of the great pump-works of the New Tower of Babel, holding him fast as he reeled.

They dropped into the light. Freder grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the great pump-works of the New Tower of Babel. He held him tightly as he staggered.

“Where do you live, Josaphat?”

“Ninetieth Block. House seven. Seventh floor.”

“Block ninety. House seven. Seventh floor.”

“Then go home, Josaphat. Perhaps I shall come to you myself; perhaps I shall send a messenger who will bring you to me. I do not know what the next few hours will bring forth.... But I do not want any man I know, if I can prevent it, to lie a whole night long, staring up at the ceiling until it seems to come crashing down on him....”

“Then go home, Josaphat. Perhaps I’ll come to you myself. Perhaps I’ll send a messenger to bring you to me. I don’t know what the next few hours will bring.... But if I can prevent it, I don’t want any man I know lying awake all night. I don’t want him staring at the ceiling until it seems to come crashing down on him....”

“What can I do for you?” asked the man.

Freder felt the vice-like pressure of his hand. He smiled. He shook his head. “Nothing. Go home. Wait. Be calm. To-morrow will bring another day and I hope a fair one....”

Freder felt the crushing grip of his hand. He smiled and shook his head. “Nothing. Go home. Wait. Stay calm. Tomorrow is another day, and I hope it will be a good one....”

The man loosened the grip of his hand and went. Freder watched him go. The man stopped and looked back at Freder, and dropped his head with an expression which was so earnest, so unconditional, that the smile died on Freder’s lips.

The man loosened his grip and left. Freder watched him go. The man stopped, looked back at Freder, and lowered his head. His expression was so earnest, so unconditional, that Freder’s smile faded.

“Yes, man,” he said. “I take you at your word!”

“Yes, man,” he said. “I’ll take you at your word!”

The Pater-noster hummed at Freder’s back. The cells, like scoop-buckets, gathered men up and poured them out again. But the son of Joh Fredersen did not see them. Among all those tearing along to gain a few seconds, he alone stood still listening how the New Tower of Babel roared in its revolutions. The roaring seemed to him like the ringing of one of the cathedral bells—like the ore-voice of the archangel Michael. But a song hovered above it, high and sweet. His whole young heart exulted in this song.

The Pater-noster hummed behind Freder. Its compartments scooped up men like buckets and poured them out again. But Joh Fredersen’s son did not see them. Everyone else was rushing to save a few seconds. He alone stood still, listening to the New Tower of Babel roar as it revolved. To him, the roar sounded like a cathedral bell, like the metallic voice of the archangel Michael. But above it floated a song, high and sweet. His whole young heart rejoiced in the song.

“Have I done your will for the first time, you great mediatress of pity?” he asked in the roar of the bell’s voice.

“Have I done what you wanted for the first time, great mediator of pity?” he asked over the roar of the bell.

But no answer came.

But no one answered.

Then he went the way he wanted to go, to find the answer.

Then he went where he wanted to go to find the answer.

As Slim entered Freder’s home to question the servants concerning their master, Joh Fredersen’s son was walking down the steps which led to the lower structure of the New Tower of Babel. As the servants shook their heads at Slim saying that their master had not come home, Joh Fredersen’s son was walking towards the luminous pillars which indicated his way. As Slim, with a glance at his watch, decided to wait, to wait, at any rate for a while—already alarmed, already conjecturing possibilities and how to meet them—Joh Fredersen’s son was entering the room from which the New Tower of Babel drew the energies for its own requirements.

As Slim entered Freder’s home to ask the servants about their master, Joh Fredersen’s son was walking down the steps to the lower structure of the New Tower of Babel. The servants shook their heads and told Slim their master had not come home. At that moment, Joh Fredersen’s son was walking toward the glowing pillars that showed him the way. Slim glanced at his watch and decided to wait, at least for a while. He was already alarmed, already imagining what might have happened and how to deal with it. Meanwhile, Joh Fredersen’s son was entering the room that supplied the New Tower of Babel with the energy it needed.

He had hesitated a long time before opening the door. For a weird existence went on behind that door. There was howling. There was panting. There was whistling. The whole building groaned. An incessant trembling ran through the walls and the floor. And amidst it all there was not one human sound. Only the things and the empty air roared. Men in the room on the other side of this door had powerless sealed lips. But for these men’s sakes Freder had come.

He had hesitated for a long time before opening the door. A strange existence went on behind it. There was howling. There was panting. There was whistling. The whole building groaned. The walls and floor trembled constantly. And amid all this, there was not a single human sound. Only the things and the empty air roared. The men in the room beyond the door kept their lips sealed, powerless. But Freder had come for their sake.

He pushed the door open and then fell back, suffocated. Boiling air smote him, groping at his eyes that he saw nothing. Gradually he regained his sight.

He pushed the door open, then fell back, unable to breathe. Scalding air struck him, blinding him. Gradually, he could see again.

The room was dimly lighted and the ceiling, which looked as though it could carry the weight of the entire earth, seemed perpetually to be falling down.

The room was dimly lit. The ceiling looked strong enough to hold the weight of the entire earth, yet it seemed to be constantly falling.

A faint howling made breathing almost unbearable. It was as though the breath drank in the howling too.

A faint howling made it almost unbearable to breathe. It was as if each breath drew in the howling too.

Air, rammed down to the depths, coming already used from the lungs of the great Metropolis, gushed out of the mouths of pipes. Hurled across the room, it was greedily sucked back by the mouths of pipes on the other side. And its howling light spread a coldness about it which fell into fierce conflict with the sweat-heat of the room.

Air forced down into the depths gushed from the mouths of pipes. It had already been used by the lungs of the great Metropolis. Hurled across the room, it was greedily sucked back into pipes on the other side. And its howling light spread a coldness that clashed fiercely with the sweaty heat of the room.

In the middle of the room crouched the Pater-noster machine. It was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant’s head. It shone with oil. It had gleaming limbs. Under the crouching body and the head which was sunken on the chest, crooked legs rested, gnome-like, upon the platform. The trunk and legs were motionless. But the short arms pushed and pushed alternately forwards, backwards, forwards. A little pointed light sparkled upon the play of the delicate joints. The floor, which was stone, and seamless, trembled under the pushing of the little machine, which was smaller than a five-year-old child.

In the middle of the room crouched the Pater-noster machine. It looked like Ganesha, the god with an elephant’s head. It shone with oil. Its limbs gleamed. Its head was sunk against its chest. Beneath its crouching body, crooked legs rested on the platform like those of a gnome. Its trunk and legs were still. But its short arms pushed alternately forward, backward, forward. A small, pointed light sparkled on its delicate joints as they moved. The little machine was smaller than a five-year-old child, but its pushing made the seamless stone floor tremble.

Heat spat from the walls in which the furnaces were roaring. The odour of oil, which whistled with heat, hung in thick layers in the room. Even the wild chase of the wandering masses of air did not tear out the suffocating fumes of oil. Even the water which was sprayed through the room fought a hopeless battle against the fury of the heat-spitting walls, evaporating, already saturated with oil-fumes, before it could protect the skins of the men in this hell from being roasted.

Heat spat from the walls, where furnaces roared. The smell of oil, sizzling with heat, hung in thick layers throughout the room. Even the wild rush of air could not clear away the suffocating oil fumes. Water sprayed through the room, but it fought a hopeless battle against the fury of the heat-spitting walls. The water was already saturated with oil fumes when it evaporated, before it could protect the men’s skin from roasting in this hell.

Men glided by like swimming shadows. Their movements, the soundlessness of their inaudible slipping past, had something of the black ghostliness of deep-sea divers. Their eyes stood open as though they never closed them.

Men glided past like swimming shadows. Their movements and the silence as they slipped by had the dark, ghostly quality of deep-sea divers. Their eyes were open, as though they never closed them.

Near the little machine in the centre of the room stood a man, wearing the uniform of all the workmen of Metropolis: from throat to ankle, the dark blue linen, bare feet in the hard shoes, hair tightly pressed down by the black cap. The hunted stream of wandering air washed around his form, making the folds of the canvas flutter. The man held his hand on the lever and his gaze was fixed on the clock, the hands of which vibrated like magnetic needles.

A man stood near the small machine in the center of the room. He wore the uniform of all the workers of Metropolis: dark blue linen from neck to ankle, hard shoes on his bare feet, and a black cap pressed tightly over his hair. The rushing, restless air swept around him, making the folds of the canvas flutter. He kept his hand on the lever and his eyes fixed on the clock. Its hands vibrated like magnetic needles.

Freder groped his way across to the man. He stared at him. He could not see his face. How old was the man? A thousand years? Or not yet twenty? He was talking to himself with babbling lips. What was the man muttering about? And had this man, too, the face of Joh Fredersen’s son?

Freder felt his way across to the man. He stared at him. He could not see his face. How old was the man? A thousand years? Or not even twenty? He was babbling to himself. What was he muttering about? Did this man, too, have the face of Joh Fredersen’s son?

“Look at me!” said Freder bending forward.

“Look at me!” said Freder, leaning forward.

But the man’s gaze did not leave the clock. His hand, also, was unceasingly, feverishly, clutching the lever. His lips babbled and babbled, excitedly.

But the man kept his eyes on the clock. His hand kept clutching the lever, feverishly. He babbled on and on, excitedly.

Freder listened. He caught the words. Shreds of words, tattered by the current of air.

Freder listened. He caught fragments of words, torn apart by the moving air.

“Pater-noster ... that means, Our Father!... Our Father, which are in heaven! We are in hell. Our Father!... What is thy name? Art thou called Pater-noster, Our Father? Or Joh Fredersen? Or machine?... Be hallowed by us, machine. Pater-noster!... Thy kingdom come.... Thy kingdom come, machine.... Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.... What is thy will of us, machine, Pater-noster? Art thou the same in heaven as thou art on earth?... Our Father, which art in heaven, when thou callest us into heaven, shall we keep the machines in thy world—the great wheels which break the limbs of thy creatures—the great merry-go-round called the earth?... Thy will be done, Pater-noster!... Give us this day our daily bread.... Grind, machine, grind flour for our bread. The bread is baked from the flour of our bones... And forgive us our trespasses ... what trespasses, Pater-noster? The trespass of having a brain and a heart, that thou hast not, machine? And lead us not into temptation.... Lead us not into temptation to rise against thee, machine, for thou art stronger than we, thou art a thousand times stronger than we, and thou art always in the right and we are always in the wrong, because we are weaker than thou art, machine.... But deliver us from evil, machine.... Deliver us from thee, machine.... For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen.... Pater-noster, that means: ‘Our Father.... Our Father, which are in heaven....’”

“Pater-noster ... that means, Our Father!... Our Father, who is in heaven! We are in hell. Our Father!... What is your name? Are you called Pater-noster, Our Father? Or Joh Fredersen? Or machine?... May we hallow you, machine. Pater-noster!... Your kingdom come.... Your kingdom come, machine.... Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.... What do you want of us, machine, Pater-noster? Are you the same in heaven as you are on earth?... Our Father, who is in heaven, when you call us into heaven, will we tend the machines in your world? Will we tend the great wheels that break the limbs of your creatures? Will we tend the great merry-go-round called the earth?... Your will be done, Pater-noster!... Give us this day our daily bread.... Grind, machine, grind flour for our bread. The bread is baked from the flour of our bones... And forgive us our trespasses ... what trespasses, Pater-noster? Is it a trespass to have a brain and a heart, which you do not have, machine? And lead us not into temptation.... Do not tempt us to rise against you, machine. For you are stronger than we are. You are a thousand times stronger than we are. And you are always right and we are always wrong, because we are weaker than you, machine.... But deliver us from evil, machine.... Deliver us from yourself, machine.... For yours is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever, Amen.... Pater-noster, that means: ‘Our Father.... Our Father, who is in heaven....’”

Freder touched the man’s arm. The man started, struck dumb.

Freder touched the man’s arm. The man flinched, too startled to speak.

His hand lost its hold of the lever and leaped into the air like a shot bird. The man’s jaws stood gaping open as if locked. For one second the white of the eyes in the stiffened face was terribly visible. Then the man collapsed like a rag and Freder caught him as he fell.

His hand lost its grip on the lever and shot into the air like a wounded bird. The man’s jaw hung open as if locked. For a second, the whites of his eyes stood out horribly in his rigid face. Then he collapsed like a rag, and Freder caught him as he fell.

Freder held him fast. He looked around. Nobody was paying any attention, either to him or to the other man. Clouds of steam and fumes surrounded them like a fog. There was a door near by. Freder carried the man to the door and pushed it open. It led to the tool-house. A packing case offered a hard resting place. Freder let the man slip down into it.

Freder held him tightly and looked around. No one was paying attention to either of them. Clouds of steam and fumes surrounded them like fog. There was a door nearby. Freder carried the man to the door and pushed it open. It led to the tool-house. A packing case offered a hard place to rest. Freder lowered the man into it.

Dull eyes looked up at him. The face to which they belonged was little more than that of a boy.

Dull eyes looked up at him. The face was barely more than a boy's.

“What is your name?” said Freder.

“What is your name?” Freder asked.

“11811....”

“I want to know what your mother called you....”

“Georgi.”

“Georgi, do you know me?”

Consciousness returned to the dull eyes together with recognition.

Awareness and recognition returned to the dull eyes at the same time.

“Yes, I know you.... You are the son of Joh Fredersen ... of Joh Fredersen, who is the father of us all....”

“Yes, I know you.... You are the son of Joh Fredersen ... Joh Fredersen, who is the father of us all....”

“Yes. Therefore I am your brother, Georgi, do you see? I heard your Pater-noster....”

“Yes. So I am your brother, Georgi. Do you see? I heard your Lord’s Prayer....”

The body flung itself up with a heave.

The body jerked upward with a heave.

“The machine—” He sprang to his feet. “My machine—!”

“The machine...” He jumped to his feet. “My machine...!”

“Leave it alone, Georgi, and listen to me....”

“Somebody must be at the machine!”

“Someone has to be at the machine!”

“Somebody will be at the machine; but not you....”

“Someone will be at the machine, but not you....”

“Who will, then?”

“I.”

Staring eyes were the answer.

Staring eyes were the only answer.

“I,” repeated Freder. “Are you fit to listen to me, and will you be able to take good note of what I say? It is very important, Georgi!”

“I,” Freder repeated. “Are you able to listen to me and remember what I say? It’s very important, Georgi!”

“Yes,” said Georgi, paralysed.

“Yes,” said Georgi, paralyzed.

“We shall now exchange lives, Georgi. You take mine, I yours. I shall take your place at the machine. You go quietly out in my clothes. Nobody noticed me when I came here. Nobody will notice you when you go. You must only not lose your nerve and keep calm. Keep under cover of where the air is brewing like a mist. When you reach the street take a car. You will find more than enough money in my pockets. Three streets further on change the car. And again after another three streets. Then drive to the Ninetieth Block. At the corner pay off the taxi and wait until the driver is out of sight. Then find your way to the seventh floor of the seventh house. A man called Josaphat lives there. You are to go to him. Tell him I sent you. Wait for me or for a message from me. Do you understand, Georgi?”

“We’re going to exchange lives now, Georgi. You take mine, and I’ll take yours. I’ll take your place at the machine. You quietly leave in my clothes. Nobody noticed me when I came here. Nobody will notice you when you leave. Just don’t lose your nerve. Stay calm. Keep hidden where the air is swirling like mist. When you reach the street, take a taxi. You’ll find more than enough money in my pockets. After three streets, change taxis. Change again after another three streets. Then drive to the Ninetieth Block. At the corner, pay the driver and wait until the taxi is out of sight. Then find your way to the seventh floor of the seventh house. A man named Josaphat lives there. Go to him. Tell him I sent you. Wait for me or for a message from me. Do you understand, Georgi?”

“Yes.”

But the “Yes” was empty and seemed to reply to something other than Freder’s question.

But the “Yes” was empty and seemed to answer something other than Freder’s question.

A little while later the son of Joh Fredersen, the Master of the great Metropolis, was standing before the machine which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant’s head.

A little later, the son of Joh Fredersen stood before a machine that looked like Ganesha, the elephant-headed god. Joh Fredersen was the Master of the great Metropolis.

He wore the uniform of all the workmen of Metropolis: from throat to ankle the dark blue linen, bare feet in the hard shoes, hair firmly pressed down by the black cap.

He wore the same uniform as all the workers of Metropolis. Dark blue linen covered him from throat to ankle. He wore hard shoes on his bare feet, and a black cap pressed his hair firmly down.

He held his hand on the lever and his gaze was set on the clock, the hands of which vibrated like magnetic needles.

He kept his hand on the lever and watched the clock. Its hands vibrated like magnetic needles.

The hunted stream of air washed around him making the folds of the canvas flutter.

The hunted stream of air swept around him, making the folds of the canvas flutter.

Then he felt how, slowly, chokingly, from the incessant trembling of the floor, from the walls in which the furnaces whistled, from the ceiling which seemed eternally to be in the act of falling down, from the pushing of the short arms of the machine, from the steady resistance of the gleaming body, terror welled up in him—terror, even to the certainty of Death.

Then he felt terror rising in him, slowly choking him. It came from the constant trembling of the floor, from the walls where the furnaces whistled, from the ceiling that seemed always on the verge of falling. It came from the push of the machine's short arms and the steady resistance of its gleaming body. His terror grew until he was certain of death.

He felt—and saw, too—how, from out the swathes of vapour, the long soft elephant’s trunk of the god Ganesha loosened itself from the head, sunken on the chest, and gently, with unerring finger, felt for his, Freder’s forehead. He felt the touch of this sucker, almost cool, not in the least painful, but horrible. Just in the centre, over the bridge of the nose, the ghostly trunk sucked itself fast; it was hardly a pain, yet it bored a fine, dead-sure gimlet, towards the centre of the brain. As though fastened to the clock of an infernal machine the heart began to thump. Pater-noster.... Pater-noster.... Pater-noster....

He felt it, and saw it too. Out of the clouds of vapor, the god Ganesha’s long, soft elephant trunk uncoiled from his head, which hung against his chest. With an unerring finger, it gently felt for Freder’s forehead. He felt the touch of its sucker. It was almost cool and not at all painful, but horrible. The ghostly trunk clung to the center of his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. It hardly hurt, yet it bored like a fine, unerring drill toward the center of his brain. His heart began to thump, as though attached to the clock of an infernal machine. Pater-noster.... Pater-noster.... Pater-noster....

“I will not,” said Freder, throwing back his head to break the cursed contact: “I will not.... I will.... I will not....”

“I won’t,” said Freder, throwing his head back to break the cursed contact. “I won’t.... I will.... I won’t....”

He groped for he felt the sweat dropping from his temples like drops of blood in all pockets of the strange uniform which he wore. He felt a rag in one of them and drew it out. He mopped his forehead and, in doing so, felt the sharp edge of a stiff piece of paper, of which he had taken hold together with the cloth.

He felt sweat dripping from his temples like drops of blood, so he searched every pocket of the strange uniform he wore. He found a rag in one pocket and pulled it out. As he wiped his forehead, he felt the sharp edge of a stiff piece of paper he had pulled out with the rag.

He pocketed the cloth and examined the paper.

He put the cloth in his pocket and looked at the paper.

It was no larger than a man’s hand, bearing neither print nor script, being covered over and over with the tracing of a strange symbol and an apparently half-destroyed plan.

It was no larger than a man's hand. It had no print or writing, but was covered with repeated tracings of a strange symbol and an apparently half-destroyed plan.

Freder tried hard to make something of it but he did not succeed. Of all the signs marked on the plan he did not know one. Ways seemed to be indicated, seeming to be false ways, but they all led to one destination; to a place which was filled with crosses.

Freder tried hard to make sense of it, but he couldn't. He didn't recognize a single sign on the plan. The plan seemed to show paths that looked like false leads. But they all led to one destination, a place filled with crosses.

A symbol of life? Sense in nonsense?

A symbol of life? Meaning in nonsense?

As Joh Fredersen’s son, Freder was accustomed swiftly and correctly to grasp anything called a plan. He pocketed the plan though it remained before his eyes.

As Joh Fredersen’s son, Freder was used to understanding any plan quickly and accurately. He put the plan in his pocket, though he could still see it in his mind.

The sucker of the elephant’s trunk of the god Ganesha glided down to the occupied unsubdued brain which reflected, analysed and sought. The head, not tamed, sank back into the chest. Obediently, eagerly, worked the little machine which drove the Pater-noster of the New Tower of Babel.

The sucker at the tip of the god Ganesha’s elephant trunk glided down to the busy, unconquered brain. The brain reflected, analyzed, and searched. The untamed head sank back into the chest. The little machine that drove the Pater-noster of the New Tower of Babel worked obediently and eagerly.

A little glimmering light played upon the more delicate joints almost on the top of the machine, like a small malicious eye.

A tiny light flickered over the delicate joints near the top of the machine, like a small, malicious eye.

The machine had plenty of time. Many hours would pass before the Master of Metropolis, before Joh Fredersen would tear the food which his machines were chewing up from the teeth of his mighty machines.

The machine had plenty of time. Many hours would pass before the Master of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen, tore the food his machines were chewing from their mighty teeth.

Quite softly, almost smilingly, the gleaming eye, the malicious eye, of the delicate machine looked down upon Joh Fredersen’s son, who was standing before it....

The delicate machine’s gleaming, malicious eye looked down at Joh Fredersen’s son, who stood before it. Its gaze was gentle, almost smiling....

Georgi had left the New Tower of Babel unchallenged, through various doors and the city received him, the great Metropolis which swayed in the dance of light and which was a dancer.

Georgi passed through various doors and left the New Tower of Babel without being stopped. The city welcomed him, the great Metropolis that swayed in a dance of light and was itself a dancer.

He stood in the street, drinking in the drunken air. He felt white silk on his body. On his feet he felt shoes which were soft and supple. He breathed deeply and the fullness of his own breath filled him with the most high intoxicating intoxication.

He stood in the street, drinking in the intoxicating air. He felt white silk against his body. His shoes were soft and supple. He breathed deeply, and the fullness of his own breath filled him with the highest intoxication.

He saw a city which he had never seen. He saw it as a man he had never been. He did not walk in a stream of others: a stream twelve files deep.... He wore no blue linen, no hard shoes, no cap. He was not going to work. Work was put away, another man was doing his work for him.

He saw a city he had never seen before. He saw it as a man he had never been before. He was not walking in a stream of people, twelve abreast.... He wore no blue linen, no hard shoes, no cap. He was not going to work. Work was behind him. Another man was doing his work for him.

A man had come to him and had said: “We shall now exchange lives, Georgi; you take mine and I your’s....”

A man had come to him and said, “We will now exchange lives, Georgi. You take mine, and I’ll take yours....”

“When you reach the street, take a car.”

“You will find more than enough money in my pockets....”

“You'll find more than enough money in my pockets....”

“You will find more than enough money in my pockets....”

“You’ll find more than enough money in my pockets....”

“You will find more than enough money in my pockets....”

“You'll find more than enough money in my pockets....”

Georgi looked at the city which he had never seen....

Georgi looked at the city he had never seen before....

Ah! The intoxication of the lights. Ecstasy of Brightness!—Ah! Thousand-limbed city, built up of blocks of light. Towers of brilliance! Steep mountains of splendour! From the velvety sky above you showers golden rain, inexhaustibly, as into the open lap of the Danae.

Ah! The dizzying lights. The thrill of brightness! Ah! City of a thousand limbs, built from blocks of light. Towers of brilliance! Steep mountains of splendor! From the velvety sky above, golden rain pours endlessly over you, as into Danae’s open lap.

Ah—Metropolis! Metropolis!

Ah, Metropolis! Metropolis!

A drunken man, he took his first steps, saw a flame which hissed up into the heavens. A rocket wrote in drops of light on the velvety sky the word: “Yoshiwara....”

Like a drunken man, he took his first steps and saw a flame hiss up into the sky. A rocket wrote the word “Yoshiwara....” in drops of light against the velvety sky.

Georgi ran across the street, reached the steps, and, taking three steps at a time, reached the roadway. Soft, flexible, a black willing beast, a car approached, stopped at his feet.

Georgi ran across the street and climbed the steps three at a time to reach the roadway. A car approached and stopped at his feet, soft and supple like a willing black beast.

Georgi sprang into the car, fell back upon the cushions, the engine of the powerful automobile vibrating soundlessly. A recollection stiffened the man’s body.

Georgi jumped into the car and sank back against the cushions. The powerful car’s engine vibrated silently. A memory made his body go rigid.

Was there not, somewhere in the world—and not so very far away, under the sole of the New Tower of Babel, a room which was run through by incessant trembling? Did not a delicate little machine stand in the middle of this room, shining with oil and having strong, gleaming limbs? Under the crouching body and the head, which was sunken on the chest, crooked legs rested, gnome-like upon the platform. The trunk and legs were motionless. But the short arms pushed and pushed and pushed, alternately forwards, backwards, and forwards. The floor which was of stone and seamless, trembled under the pushing of the little machine which was smaller than a five-year-old child.

Wasn't there a room somewhere in the world, not very far away, beneath the base of the New Tower of Babel? The room trembled constantly. Didn't a delicate little machine stand in its center, shining with oil, its strong limbs gleaming? Its body crouched, its head sunk on its chest. Beneath them, crooked legs rested on the platform like a gnome's. The body and legs were still. But the short arms pushed and pushed and pushed, alternately forward, backward, and forward. The seamless stone floor trembled under the pushing of the little machine, which was smaller than a five-year-old child.

The voice of the driver asked: “Where to, sir?”

The driver asked, “Where to, sir?”

Straight on, motioned Georgi with his hand. Anywhere....

Georgi waved his hand straight ahead. Anywhere....

The man had said to him: Change the car after the third street.

The man had told him: Change cars after the third street.

But the rhythm of the motor-car embraced him too delightfully. Third street ... sixth street ... it was still very far to the ninetieth block.

But the rhythm of the car held him too pleasantly. Third street ... sixth street ... the ninetieth block was still a long way off.

He was filled with the wonder of being thus couched, the bewilderment of the lights, the shudder of entrancement at the motion.

He was filled with wonder at lying there, bewildered by the lights, and thrilled by the motion.

The further that, with the soundless gliding of the wheels, he drew away from the New Tower of Babel, the further did he seem to draw away from the consciousnes of his own self.

The wheels glided silently as he traveled farther from the New Tower of Babel. The farther he went, the more he seemed to lose awareness of himself.

Who was he—? Had he not just stood in a greasy, patched, blue linen uniform, in a seething hell, his brain mangled by eternal watchfulness, with bones, the marrow of which was being sucked out by eternally making the same turn of the lever to eternally the same rhythm, with face scorched by unbearable heat, and in the skin of which the salty sweat tore its devouring furrows?

Who was he? Hadn't he just stood in a boiling hell, wearing a greasy, patched blue linen uniform? His brain had been battered by constant vigilance. The endless turning of the lever, always to the same rhythm, had sucked the marrow from his bones. His face had been scorched by unbearable heat, and salty sweat had torn burning furrows in his skin.

Did he not live in a town which lay deeper under the earth than the underground stations of Metropolis, with their thousand shafts—in a town the houses of which storied just as high above squares and streets as, above in the night, did the houses of Metropolis, which towered so high, one above the other?

Did he not live in a town deeper underground than the Metropolis stations with their thousand shafts? Its buildings rose just as high above its squares and streets as the towering buildings of Metropolis above, in the night.

Had he ever known anything else than the horrible sobriety of these houses, in which there lived not men, but numbers, recognisable only by the enormous placards by the house-doors?

Had he ever known anything but the horrible bleakness of these houses? They were home not to men, but to numbers, recognizable only by the enormous signs beside the doors.

Had his life ever had any purpose other than to go out from these doors, framed with numbers, out to work, when the sirens of Metropolis howled for him—and ten hours later, crushed and tired to death, to stumble into the house by the door of which his number stood?

Had his life ever had any other purpose? When the sirens of Metropolis howled for him, he left through these numbered doors and went to work. Ten hours later, crushed and exhausted, he stumbled home through the door marked with his number.

Was he, himself, anything but a number—number 11811—crammed into his linen, his clothes, his cap? Had not the number also become imprinted into his soul, into his brain, into his blood, that he must even stop and think of his own name?

Was he anything more than a number, 11811, crammed into his underwear, clothes, and cap? Hadn't the number been stamped into his soul, his brain, and his blood? Didn't he even have to stop and think to remember his own name?

And now—?

And now?

And now—?

And now?

His body refreshed by pure cold water which had washed the sweat of labour from him, felt, with wonderful sweetness, the yielding relaxation of all his muscles. With a quiver which rendered all his muscles weak he felt the caressing touch of white silk on the bare skin of his body, and, while giving himself up to the gentle, even rhythm of the motion, the consciousness of the first and complete deliverance from all that which had put so agonising a pressure on his existence overcame him with so overpowering a force that he burst out into the laughter of a madman, his tears falling uncontrollably.

Pure, cold water had washed away the sweat of his labor and refreshed his body. He felt all his muscles relax with wonderful sweetness. The caress of white silk against his bare skin made him tremble, leaving all his muscles weak. He gave himself up to the gentle, steady rhythm of the motion. As he did, he became aware for the first time that he was completely free of everything that had pressed so agonizingly on his existence. The feeling overwhelmed him. He burst into the laughter of a madman, tears falling uncontrollably.

Violently, aye, with a glorious violence, the great city whirled towards him, like a sea which roars around mountains.

The great city whirled toward him violently, with a glorious violence, like a sea roaring around mountains.

The workman No. 11811, the man who lived in a prison-like house, under the underground railway of Metropolis, who knew no other way than that from the hole in which he slept to the machine and from the machine back to the hole—this man saw, for the first time in his life, the wonder of the world, which was Metropolis: the city, by night shining under millions and millions of lights.

Workman No. 11811 lived in a prison-like house beneath the underground railway of Metropolis. He knew only the way from the hole where he slept to the machine, and back again. Now, for the first time in his life, he saw the wonder of the world: Metropolis, the city shining at night under millions and millions of lights.

He saw the ocean of light which filled the endless trails of streets with a silver, flashing lustre. He saw the will-o’-the-wisp sparkle of the electric advertisements, lavishing themselves inexhaustibly in an ecstasy of brightness. He saw towers projecting, built up of blocks of light, feeling himself seized, over-powered to a state of complete impotence by this intoxication of light, feeling this sparkling ocean with its hundreds and thousands of spraying waves, to reach out for him, to take the breath from his mouth, to pierce him, suffocate him....

He saw an ocean of light filling the endless stretches of streets with a flashing silver glow. He saw the fleeting sparkle of electric advertisements, pouring out endless light in an ecstasy of brightness. He saw towers rising, built from blocks of light. The intoxicating light gripped and overwhelmed him, leaving him completely helpless. He felt the sparkling ocean, with its hundreds and thousands of spraying waves, reaching out for him. It seemed to take his breath away, pierce him, and suffocate him....

And then he grasped that this city of machines, this city of sobriety, this fanatic for work, sought, at night, the mighty counterpoise to the frenzy of the day’s work—that this city, at night, lost itself, as one insane, as one entirely witless, in the intoxication of a pleasure, which, flinging up to all heights, hurtling down to all depths, was boundlessly blissful and boundlessly destructive.

And then he understood. This city of machines, this sober city obsessed with work, needed a powerful counterweight to the frenzy of the working day. At night, the city lost itself in the intoxication of pleasure, like someone insane, utterly out of their mind. This pleasure soared to every height and plunged to every depth. It was boundlessly blissful and boundlessly destructive.

Georgi trembled from head to foot. And yet it was not really trembling which seized his resistless body. It was as though all his members were fastened to the soundless evenness of the engine which bore them forwards. No, not to the single engine which was the heart of the motor-car in which he sat—to all these hundreds and thousands of engines which were driving an endlessly gliding, double stream of gleaming illuminated automobiles, on through the streets of the city in its nocturnal fever. And, at the same time, his body was set in vibration by the fire-works of spark-streaming wheels, ten-coloured lettering snow-white fountains of over-charged lamps, rockets, hissing upwards, towers of flame, blazing ice-cold.

Georgi trembled from head to foot. And yet it was not really trembling that seized his powerless body. It was as if every part of him were bound to the silent, steady rhythm of the engine carrying him forward. No, not just the engine that was the heart of the car he sat in. He was bound to all the hundreds and thousands of engines driving an endlessly gliding double stream of gleaming, illuminated cars through the feverish city at night. At the same time, his body vibrated with the fireworks of wheels streaming sparks, lettering in ten colors, snow-white fountains of brilliant lamps, rockets hissing upward, and towers of flame blazing ice-cold.

There was a word which always recurred. From an invisible source there shot up a sheaf of light, which bursting apart at the highest point, dropped down letters in all colours of the rainbow from the velvet-black sky of Metropolis.

One word kept appearing. A beam of light shot up from an invisible source and burst apart at its highest point. Letters in every color of the rainbow fell from the velvet-black sky of Metropolis.

The letters formed themselves into the word: Yoshiwara.

The letters formed the word: Yoshiwara.

What did that mean: Yoshiwara—?

What did Yoshiwara mean?

From the iron-work of the elevated railway-track a yellow-skinned fellow hung, head downwards, suspended by the crocks of his knees, who let a snow-storm of white sheets of paper shower down upon the double row of motor-cars.

A yellow-skinned fellow hung upside down by his knees from the ironwork of the elevated railway track. He showered the double row of motorcars with a snowstorm of white sheets of paper.

The pages fluttered and fell. Georgi’s glance caught one of them. Upon it stood, in large, distorted letters: Yoshiwara.

The pages fluttered and fell. Georgi caught sight of one. On it, in large, distorted letters, was the word: Yoshiwara.

The car stopped at a crossing. Yellow-skinned fellows, in many-coloured embroidered silk jackets, wound themselves, supple as eels, through the twelve-fold strings of waiting cars. One of them swung himself onto the foot-board of the black motor-car in which Georgi sat. For one second the grinning hideousness stared into the young, white, helpless face.

The car stopped at a crossing. Yellow-skinned men in colorful embroidered silk jackets slipped like eels through twelve rows of waiting cars. One of them swung onto the running board of the black car where Georgi sat. For a second, the hideous, grinning man stared into the young, white, helpless face.

A sheaf of hand-bills were hurled through the window, falling upon Georgi’s knee and before his feet. He bent down mechanically and picked up that for which his fingers were groping.

A bundle of flyers was thrown through the window, landing on Georgi’s knee and at his feet. He bent down mechanically and picked up what his fingers were searching for.

On these slips, which gave out a penetrating, bitter-sweet, seductive perfume, there stood, in large, bewitched-looking letters, the word: Yoshiwara....

The slips gave off a strong, bittersweet, seductive perfume. On them, in large letters that looked bewitched, was the word: Yoshiwara....

Georgi’s throat was as dry as dust. He moistened his cracked lips with his tongue, which lay heavy and as though parched in his mouth.

Georgi’s throat was as dry as dust. He wet his cracked lips with his tongue, which felt heavy and parched in his mouth.

A voice had said to him: “You will find more than enough money in my pockets....”

A voice had told him: “You will find more than enough money in my pockets....”

Enough money ... what for? To clutch and drag near this city—this mighty, heavenly, hellish city; to embrace her with both arms, both legs, in the impotence of mastering her; to despair, to throw oneself into her—take me!—take me!—To feel the filled bowl at one’s lips—gulping, gulping—not drawing breath, the brim of the bowl set fast between the teeth—eternal, eternal insatiability, competing with the eternal, eternal overflow, overpouring of the bowl of intoxication....

Enough money ... what for? To grab hold of this city and pull her close. This mighty, heavenly, hellish city. To wrap both arms and both legs around her, powerless to master her. To despair, to throw yourself into her. Take me! Take me! To feel the full bowl against your lips, gulping, gulping, without pausing for breath. The rim clenched between your teeth. Eternal, eternal hunger, competing with the eternal, eternal flood pouring from the bowl of intoxication....

Ah—Metropolis!... Metropolis!...

Ah, Metropolis!... Metropolis!...

“More than enough money....”

A strange sound came from Georgi’s throat, and there was something in it of the throat-rattle of a man who knows he is dreaming and wants to awake, and something of the guttural sound of the beast of prey when it scents blood. His hand did not let go of the wad of banknotes for the second time. It screwed it up in burning convulsive fingers.

A strange sound came from Georgi’s throat. It was partly the throat-rattle of a man who knows he is dreaming and wants to wake up. It was also partly the deep growl of a predator that smells blood. This time, he did not let go of the wad of banknotes. His burning fingers clenched and crumpled the money.

He turned his head this way and that, as though seeking a way out, which, nevertheless, he feared to find....

He turned his head from side to side, as if looking for a way out, though he feared finding one....

Another car slipped silently along beside his, a great, black-gleaming shadow, the couch of a woman, set on four wheels, decorated with flowers, lighted by dim lamps. Georgi saw the woman very clearly, and the woman looked at him. She cowered rather than sat, among the cushions of the car, having entirely wrapped herself in her gleaming cloak, from which one shoulder projected with the dull whiteness of a swan’s feather.

Another car slipped silently alongside his, a large, gleaming black shadow. It was a woman’s couch on four wheels, decorated with flowers and lit by dim lamps. Georgi could see the woman clearly, and she looked at him. She cowered among the car’s cushions rather than sitting. She had wrapped herself completely in her gleaming cloak, with one shoulder showing, dull white as a swan’s feather.

She was bewilderingly made-up—as though she did not wish to be human, to be a woman, but rather a peculiar animal, disposed, perhaps to play, perhaps to murder.

Her makeup was bewildering. It was as if she wanted to be neither human nor a woman, but a strange animal, perhaps ready to play, perhaps to kill.

Calmly holding the man’s gaze, she gently slipped her right hand, sparkling with stones, and the slender arm, which was quite bare and dull white, even as the shoulder, from the wrappings of her cloak, and began to fan herself in a leisurely manner with one of the sheets of paper on which the word Yoshiwara stood....

Calmly holding the man’s gaze, she gently slipped her right hand and slender arm out of her cloak. Her hand sparkled with stones. Her bare arm was dull white, like her shoulder. She slowly fanned herself with a sheet of paper bearing the word Yoshiwara....

“No!” said the man. He panted, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Coolness welled out from the fine, strange stuff with which he dried the perspiration from his brow.

“No!” said the man. He panted as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The fine, strange material he used felt cool against his skin.

Eyes stared at him. Eyes which were fading away. The all-knowing smile of a painted mouth.

Eyes stared at him. Eyes that were fading away. The knowing smile of a painted mouth.

With a panting sound Georgi made to open the door of the taxi and to jump out into the road. However, the movement of the car threw him back on to the cushions. He clenched his fists, pressing them before both eyes. A vision shot through his head, quite misty and lacking in outline, a strong little machine, no larger than a five-year-old child. Its short arms pushed and pushed and pushed, alternately forwards, backwards, forwards.... The head, sunken on the chest, rose, grinning....

Panting, Georgi tried to open the taxi door and jump out into the road. But the moving car threw him back onto the cushions. He clenched his fists and pressed them against his eyes. A vague, shapeless vision flashed through his mind. It was a strong little machine, no bigger than a five-year-old child. Its short arms pushed and pushed and pushed, forward, backward, forward.... Its head, sunken against its chest, rose, grinning....

“No!” shrieked the man, clapping his hands and laughing. He had been set free from the machine. He had exchanged lives.

“No!” the man screamed, clapping his hands and laughing. He was free from the machine. He had traded lives.

Exchanged—with whom?

Exchanged with who?

With a man who had said: “You will find more than enough money in my pockets....”

With a man who had said: “You'll find more than enough money in my pockets....”

The man bent back his head into the nape of his neck and stared at the roof suspended above him.

The man tilted his head back and stared at the roof suspended above him.

On the roof there flamed the word:

On the roof, the word blazed:

Yoshiwara....

The word Yoshiwara became rockets of light which showered around him, paralysing his limbs. He sat motionless, covered in a cold sweat. He clawed his fingers into the leather of the cushions. His back was stiff, as though his spine were made of cold iron. His jaws chattered.

The word Yoshiwara became rockets of light that showered around him, paralyzing his limbs. He sat motionless, covered in a cold sweat. He dug his fingers into the leather cushions. His back was stiff, as if his spine were made of cold iron. His teeth chattered.

“No—!” said Georgi, tearing his fists down. But before his eyes which stared into space, the word flamed up:

“No!” said Georgi, pulling his fists down. But as he stared into space, the word flared up before his eyes:

“Yoshiwara....”

Music was in the air, hurled into the nocturnal streets by enormous loud-speakers. Wanton was the music, most heated of rhythm, of a shrieking, lashing gaiety....

Music filled the air, blasting into the nighttime streets from enormous loudspeakers. It was wild, with a feverish rhythm and a shrieking, lashing joy....

“No—!” panted the man. Blood trickled in drops from his bitten lips.

“No!” the man panted. Blood dripped from his bitten lips.

But a hundred multi-coloured rockets wrote in the velvet-black sky of Metropolis, the word:

But a hundred multicolored rockets wrote the word in the velvet-black sky over Metropolis:

“Yoshiwara....”

Georgi pushed the window open. The glorious town of Metropolis, dancing in the drunkenness of light, threw itself impetuously towards him, as though he were the only-beloved, the only-awaited. He leant out of the window, crying:

Georgi pushed the window open. The glorious city of Metropolis danced, drunk on light, and rushed toward him. It was as if he were the only one it loved, the only one it had been waiting for. He leaned out of the window, crying:

“Yoshiwara—!”

“Yoshiwara!”

He fell back upon the cushions. The car turned in a gentle curve, round in another direction.

He sank back against the cushions. The car turned gently in another direction.

A rocket shot up and wrote in the sky above Metropolis:

Yoshiwara....