Chapter 6

17 min

The proprietor of Yoshiwara used to earn money in a variety of ways. One of them, and quite positively the most harmless, was to make bets that no man—be he never so widely travelled—was capable of guessing to what weird mixture of races he owed his face. So far he had won all such bets, and used to sweep in the money which they brought him with hands, the cruel beauty of which would not have shamed an ancestor of the Spanish Borgias, the nails of which, however, showed an inobliterable shimmer of blue; on the other hand, the politeness of his smile on such profitable occasions originated unmistakably in that graceful insular world, which, from the eastern border of Asia, smiles gently and watchfully across at mighty America.

The proprietor of Yoshiwara made money in many ways. The most harmless, without a doubt, was betting that no man could guess the strange mixture of races behind his face. It did not matter how widely traveled the man was. So far, he had won every such bet. He swept up his winnings with hands whose cruel beauty would not have shamed an ancestor of the Spanish Borgias. Yet his nails had a blue shimmer that could not be erased. His polite smile on these profitable occasions came unmistakably from that graceful island world. From the eastern edge of Asia, it smiles gently and watchfully across at mighty America.

There were prominent properties combined within him which made him appear to be a general representative of Great Britain and Ireland, for he was as red-haired, chaff-loving and with as good a head for drink as if his name had been McFosh, avaricious and superstitious as a Scotsman and—in certain circumstances, which made it requisite, of that highly bred obliviousness, which is a matter of will and a foundation stone of the British Empire. He spoke practically all living languages as though his mother had taught him to pray in them and his father to curse. His greed appeared to hail from the Levant, his contentment from China. And, above all this, two quiet, observant eyes watched with German patience and perseverance.

He had several striking qualities that made him seem to represent Great Britain and Ireland as a whole. He was as red-haired, as fond of teasing, and as able to hold his drink as if his name had been McFosh. He was as greedy and superstitious as a Scotsman. In circumstances that required it, he could also show a highly bred ability to ignore things. This deliberate obliviousness was a foundation stone of the British Empire. He spoke practically all living languages as if his mother had taught him to pray in them and his father to curse. His greed seemed to come from the Levant, his contentment from China. Above all this, two quiet, observant eyes watched with German patience and perseverance.

As to the rest, he was called, for reasons unknown, September.

As for the rest, he was called September for reasons unknown.

The visitants to Yoshiwara had met September in a variety of emotions—from the block-headed dozing away of the well-contented bushman to the dance-ecstatic of the Ukrainer.

The visitors to Yoshiwara had greeted September in different moods. They ranged from the contented bushman's dull dozing to the Ukrainer's ecstatic dancing.

But to come upon his features in an expression of absolute bewilderment was reserved for Slim, when, on the morning after his having lost sight of his young master, he set throbbing the massive gong which demanded entrance to Yoshiwara.

But Slim was the one who would see his face filled with utter bewilderment. The morning after losing sight of his young master, Slim struck the massive gong to demand entry to Yoshiwara.

It was most unusual that the generally very obliging door of Yoshiwara was not opened before the fourth gong-signal; and that this was performed by September himself and with this expression of countenance deepened the impression of an only tolerably overcome catastrophe. Slim bowed. September looked at him. A mask of brass seemed to fall over his face. But a chance glance at the driver of the taxi, in which Slim had come tore it off again.

The door of Yoshiwara was usually opened promptly, so it was most unusual that no one opened it until the fourth gong signal. September himself opened it, and the expression on his face deepened the impression that a catastrophe had only just been overcome. Slim bowed. September looked at him. A mask of brass seemed to fall over his face. But a chance glance at the driver of the taxi Slim had arrived in tore it off again.

“Would to God your tin-kettle had gone up in the air before you could have brought that lunatic here yesterday evening,” he said. “He drove away my guests before they even thought of paying. The girls are huddling down in the corners like lumps of wet floor-cloth—that is, those who are not in hysterics. Unless I call in the police I might just as well close the house; for it doesn’t look as though that chap will have recovered his five senses by this evening.”

“I wish to God your tin can had blown up before you brought that lunatic here yesterday evening,” he said. “He drove my guests away before they even thought of paying. The girls are huddled in the corners like wet rags. Those who aren't hysterical, that is. Unless I call the police, I might as well close the house. It doesn't look as though that fellow will have come to his senses by this evening.”

“Of whom are you speaking, September?” asked Slim.

“Who are you talking about, September?” asked Slim.

September looked at him. At this moment the tiniest hamlet in North Siberia would have flatly refused to have been proclaimed the birth-place of so idiotic looking an individual.

September looked at him. At that moment, even the tiniest village in North Siberia would have flatly refused to claim such an idiotic looking person as its native son.

“If it is the man for whom I have come here to look,” continued Slim, “then I shall rid you of him in a more agreeable and swifter manner than the police.”

“If he is the man I came here to find,” Slim continued, “I’ll get rid of him for you more quickly and pleasantly than the police would.”

“And for what man are you looking, sir?”

“Which man are you looking for, sir?”

Slim hesitated. He cleared his throat slightly. “You know the white silk which is woven for comparatively few in Metropolis....”

Slim hesitated. He cleared his throat softly. “You know the white silk woven for relatively few people in Metropolis....”

In the long line of ancestors, the manifold sediment of whom had been crystalised into September, a fur-trader from Tarnopolis must also have been represented and he now smiled out from the corners of his great-grandson’s wily eyes.

September was formed from the accumulated traits of a long line of ancestors. Among them there must have been a fur trader from Tarnopolis. He now smiled from the corners of his great-grandson’s cunning eyes.

“Come in, sir!” the proprietor of Yoshiwara invited Slim, with true Singalese gentleness.

“Come in, sir!” the owner of Yoshiwara said to Slim, with true Singalese gentleness.

Slim entered. September closed the door behind him.

Slim came in. September closed the door behind him.

In the moment when the matutinal roar of the great Metropolis no longer bellowed up from the streets, another roar from inside the building became perceptible—the roar of a human voice, hotter than the voice of a beast of prey, mad-drunk with triumph.

When the morning roar of the great Metropolis stopped rising from the streets, another roar could be heard inside the building. It was a human voice, fiercer than the voice of a hunting beast, wildly drunk with triumph.

“Who is that?” asked Slim, involuntarily dropping his own voice.

“Who is that?” Slim asked, lowering his voice without meaning to.

“He—!” answered September, and how he could stow the smooth and pointed vengefulness of whole Corsica into the monosyllable remained his own secret.

“He!” answered September. How he packed all the smooth, pointed vengeance of Corsica into that one syllable remained his secret.

Slim’s glance became uncertain, but he said nothing. He followed September over soft and glossy straw mats, along walls of oiled paper, narrowly framed in bamboo.

Slim looked uncertain, but he said nothing. He followed September over soft, glossy straw mats, past oiled paper walls with narrow bamboo frames.

Behind one of these walls the weeping of a woman was to be heard—monotonous, hopeless, heartbreaking, like a long spell of rainy days which envelope the summit of Fuji Yama.

Behind one of these walls, a woman was weeping. Her weeping was monotonous, hopeless, and heartbreaking, like a long spell of rainy days shrouding the summit of Fuji Yama.

“That’s Yuki,” murmured September, with a fierce glance at the paper prison of this pitiful weeping. “She’s been crying since midnight, as if she wanted to be the source of a new salt sea.... This evening she will have a swollen potato on her face instead of a nose.... Who pays for it?—I do!”

“That’s Yuki,” murmured September, glaring at the paper prison where the pitiful weeping came from. “She’s been crying since midnight, as if she wanted to create a new salt sea.... By this evening, she’ll have a swollen potato on her face instead of a nose.... Who pays for it? I do!”

“Why is the little snowflake crying?” asked Slim, half thoughtlessly, for the roaring of the human voice, coming from the depths of the house occupied all the ears and attention he possessed.

“Why is the little snowflake crying?” asked Slim, barely thinking. The roar of a human voice from deep inside the house had all his attention.

“Oh, she isn’t the only one,” answered September, with the tolerant mien of one who owns a prosperous harbour tavern in Shanghai. “But she is at least tame. Plum Blossom has been snapping about her like a young Puma, and Miss Rainbow has thrown the Saki bowl at the mirror and is trying to cut her artery with the chips—and all on account of this white silk youngster.”

“Oh, she isn’t the only one,” answered September. He looked as tolerant as the owner of a thriving harbor tavern in Shanghai. “But at least she’s tame. Plum Blossom has been snapping at everyone like a young puma. Miss Rainbow threw the sake bowl at the mirror and is trying to cut her artery with the shards. And it’s all because of this youngster in white silk.”

The agitated expression on Slim’s face deepened. He shook his head.

Slim looked even more agitated. He shook his head.

“How did he manage to get such a hold over them....” he said, and it was not meant to be a question.

“How did he manage to get such a hold over them....” he said. He did not mean it as a question.

September shrugged his shoulders.

September shrugged.

“Maohee....” he said in a sing-song tone, as though beginning one of those Greenland fairy tales, which, the quicker they sent one to sleep are the more highly appreciated.

“Maohee....” he said in a sing-song voice, as if beginning one of those Greenland fairy tales. The faster such tales put you to sleep, the more highly they are valued.

“What is that: Maohee?” asked Slim, irritably.

“What is Maohee?” Slim asked irritably.

September drew his head down between his shoulders. The Irish and the British blood-corpuscles in his veins seemed to be falling out, violently: but the impenetrable Japanese smile covered this up with its mantle before it could grow dangerous.

September hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. The Irish and British blood cells in his veins seemed to be quarreling violently. But his unreadable Japanese smile covered up the quarrel before it could become dangerous.

“You don’t know what Maohee is.... Not a soul in the great Metropolis knows.... No.... Nobody. But here in Yoshiwara they all know.”

“You don’t know what Maohee is.... No one in the great Metropolis knows.... No.... Nobody. But here in Yoshiwara, everyone knows.”

“I wish to know, too, September,” said Slim.

“I want to know too, September,” said Slim.

Generations of Roman lackeys bowed within September as he said, “Certainly, sir!” But they did not get the better of the wink of the heavy-drinking lying grandfathers in Copenhagen. “Maohee, that is.... Isn’t it odd, that, of all the ten thousand who have been guests here in Yoshiwara and who had experienced in detail what Maohee stands for, outside they know nothing more about it? Don’t walk so fast, sir. The yelling gentleman down there won’t run away from us—and if I am to explain to you what Maohee means....”

Generations of Roman lackeys bowed inside September as he said, “Certainly, sir!” But they could not overcome the wink of his heavy-drinking, lying grandfathers in Copenhagen. “Maohee, that is.... Isn’t it odd? All ten thousand guests here in Yoshiwara have experienced exactly what Maohee stands for. Yet outside, they know nothing more about it. Don’t walk so fast, sir. The yelling gentleman down there won’t run away from us. And if I am to explain what Maohee means to you....”

“Drugs, I expect, September—?”

“Drugs, I guess, September?”

“My dear sir, the lion is also a cat. Maohee is a drug: but what is a cat beside a lion? Maohee is from the other side of the earth. It is the divine, the only thing—because it is the only thing which makes us feel the intoxication of the others.”

“My dear sir, a lion is also a cat. Maohee is a drug, but what is a cat compared to a lion? Maohee comes from the other side of the world. It is divine, the only thing that matters, because it alone lets us feel the intoxication of the others.”

“The intoxication—of the others....?” repeated Slim, stopping still.

“The others’ intoxication...?” Slim repeated, stopping in his tracks.

September smiled the smile of Hotei the god of Happiness, who likes little children. He laid the hand of the Borgia, with the suspiciously blue shimmering nails on Slim’s arm.

September smiled like Hotei, the god of Happiness, who likes little children. He laid the hand of the Borgia, with its suspiciously blue, shimmering nails, on Slim’s arm.

“The intoxication of the others—Sir, do you know what that means? Not of one other—no, of the multitude which rolls itself into a lump, the rolled up intoxication of the multitude gives Maohee its friends...”

“The intoxication of others. Sir, do you know what that means? Not one other person, no, but a crowd rolling itself into a lump. The crowd’s combined intoxication gives Maohee its friends...”

“Has Maohee many friends, September?”

“Does Maohee have many friends, September?”

The proprietor of Yoshiwara grinned, apocalyptically.

The owner of Yoshiwara grinned as if the world were ending.

“Sir, in this house there is a round room. You shall see it. It has not its like. It is built like a winding seashell, like a mammoth shell, in the windings of which thunders the surf of seven oceans; in these windings people crouch, so densely crowded that their faces appear as one face. No one knows the other, yet they are all friends. They all fever. They are all pale with expectation. They have all clasped hands. The trembling of those who sit right down at the bottom of the shell runs right through the windings of the mammoth shell, right up to those, who, from the gleaming top of the spiral, send out their own trembling towards it...”

“Sir, there is a round room in this house. You will see it. There is nothing like it. It is shaped like a winding seashell, a giant shell with the surf of seven oceans thundering through its coils. People crouch in those coils, so tightly packed that their faces seem to form one face. None of them knows the others, yet they are all friends. They are all feverish. They are all pale with anticipation. They are all holding hands. The trembling of those sitting at the bottom of the shell travels through its coils. It reaches those at the gleaming top of the spiral, who send their own trembling back down...”

September gulped for breath. Sweat stood like a fine chain of beads on his brow. An international smile of insanity parted his prating mouth.

September gasped for breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead like a fine chain. An international smile of madness spread across his chattering mouth.

“Go on, September!” said Slim.

“On?—On?—Suddenly the rim of the shell begins to turn... gently... ah how gently, to music such as would bring a tenfold murderer-bandit to sobs and his judges to pardon him on the scaffold—to music on hearing which deadly enemies kiss, beggars believe themselves to be kings, the hungry forget their hunger—to such music the shell revolves around its stationary heart, until it seems to free itself from the ground and, hovering, to revolve about itself. The people scream—not loudly, no, no!—they scream like the birds that bathe in the sea. The twisted hands are clenched to fists. The bodies rock in one rhythm. Then comes the first stammer of: Maohee.... The stammer swells, becomes waves of spray, becomes a spring tide. The revolving shell roars: Maohee ... Maohee...! It is as though a little flame must rest on everyone’s hair parting, like St. Elmo’s fire ... Maohee ... Maohee! They call on their god. They call on him whom the finger of the god touches to-day.... No one knows from where he will come to-day.... He is there.... They know he is amongst them.... He must break out from the rows of them.... He must.... He must, for they call him: Maohee... Maohee! And suddenly—!”

“On? On? Suddenly the rim of the shell begins to turn... gently... oh, how gently, to music. It is music that would make a bandit who had murdered ten people sob, and make his judges pardon him on the scaffold. Hearing this music, deadly enemies kiss, beggars believe they are kings, and the hungry forget their hunger. To this music, the shell revolves around its unmoving heart. It seems to lift off the ground and spin in the air. The people scream, not loudly, no, no! They scream like birds bathing in the sea. Their twisted hands clench into fists. Their bodies sway to the same rhythm. Then comes the first stammer of: Maohee.... The stammer swells, becoming waves of spray, becoming a spring tide. The revolving shell roars: Maohee ... Maohee...! It is as if a little flame must rest on the parting of everyone’s hair, like St. Elmo’s fire ... Maohee ... Maohee! They call on their god. They call on the one whom the god’s finger touches today.... No one knows where he will come from today.... He is there.... They know he is among them.... He must break out from their ranks.... He must.... He must, because they call him: Maohee... Maohee! And suddenly...!”

The hand of the Borgia flew up and hung in the air like a brown claw.

The Borgia's hand flew up and hung in the air like a brown claw.

“And suddenly a man is standing in the middle of the shell, in the gleaming circle, on the milk-white disc. But it is no man. It is the embodied conception of the intoxication of them all. He is not conscious of himself.... A slight froth stands on his mouth. His eyes are stark and bursting and are yet like rushing meteors which leave waving tracks of fire behind them on the route from heaven to earth.... He stands and lives his intoxication. He is what his intoxication is. From the thousands of eyes which have cast anchor into his soul the power of intoxication streams into him. There is no delight in God’s creation which does not reveal itself, surmounted by the medium of these intoxicated souls. What he says becomes visible, what he hears becomes audible to all. What he feels: Power, desire, madness, is felt by them all. On the shimmering area, around which the shell revolves, to music beyond all description, one in ecstasy lives the thousandfold ecstasy which embodies itself in him, for thousands of others....”

“And suddenly a man stands in the middle of the shell, in the gleaming circle, on the milk-white disc. But he is no man. He is the living embodiment of everyone’s intoxication. He is not aware of himself.... A little foam gathers at his mouth. His eyes are wide and bulging, yet they are like speeding meteors. They leave wavering trails of fire behind them on their path from heaven to earth.... He stands and lives his intoxication. He is what his intoxication is. Thousands of eyes have anchored themselves in his soul, and the power of intoxication streams into him from them. Through these intoxicated souls, every delight in God’s creation reveals itself, surpassed by something greater. What he says becomes visible. What he hears becomes audible to all. What he feels, power, desire, madness, is felt by them all. On the shimmering surface around which the shell revolves, music plays beyond all description. There, one person in ecstasy lives the thousandfold ecstasy that takes shape in him, for thousands of others....”

September stopped and smiled at Slim.

“That, sir, is Maohee....”

“It must indeed be a powerful drug,” said Slim with a feeling of dryness in his throat, “which inspires the proprietor of Yoshiwara to such a hymn. Do you think that that yelling individual down there would join in this song of praise?”

“That must be a powerful drug,” said Slim, his throat dry, “to inspire the owner of Yoshiwara to sing its praises like that. Do you think that shouting man down there would join in the praise?”

“Ask him yourself, sir,” said September.

He opened the door and let Slim enter. Just over the threshold Slim stopped, because at first he saw nothing. A gloom, more melancholy than the deepest darkness, spread over a room, the dimensions of which he could not estimate. The floor under his feet inclined in a barely perceptible slope. Where it stopped there appeared to be gloomy emptiness. Right and left, spiral walls, billowing outwards, swept away to each side.

He opened the door and let Slim in. Slim stopped just inside because, at first, he could see nothing. A gloom more melancholy than the deepest darkness filled the room. He could not tell how large it was. The floor beneath his feet sloped almost imperceptibly. Where it ended, there seemed to be a gloomy emptiness. To his right and left, spiral walls curved outward and swept away on either side.

That was all Slim saw. But from the empty depths before him came a white shimmer, no stronger than if coming from a field of snow. On this shimmer there floated a voice, that of a murderer and of one being murdered.

That was all Slim saw. But a faint white shimmer came from the empty depths before him, no brighter than a field of snow. A voice floated on the shimmer, the voice of a murderer and of someone being murdered.

“Light, September!” said Slim with a gulp. An unbearable feeling of thirst gnawed at his throat.

“Light, September!” Slim said with a gulp. An unbearable thirst gnawed at his throat.

The room slowly grew brighter, as though the light were coming unwillingly. Slim saw, he was standing in one of the windings of the round room, which was shaped like a shell. He was standing between the heights and the depths, separated by a low banister from the emptiness from which came the snow-like light and the murderer’s voice and the voice of his victim. He stepped to the banister, and leaned far over it. A milk-white disc, lighted from beneath and luminous. At the edge of the disc, like a dark, rambling pattern on a plate-rim, women, crouching, kneeling there, in their gorgeous attire, as though drunken. Some had dropped their foreheads to the ground, their hands clutched above their ebony hair. Some crouched, huddled together in clumps, head pressed to head, symbols of fear. Some were swaying rhythmically from side to side as if calling on gods. Some were weeping. Some were as if dead.

The room slowly grew brighter, as though the light were reluctant to come. Slim saw that he was standing in one of the curves of the round, shell-shaped room. He stood between the heights and the depths. A low railing separated him from the empty space. From it came the snow-like light, the murderer’s voice, and the voice of his victim. He stepped to the railing and leaned far over it. Below was a milk-white disc, glowing with light from beneath. At its edge, women crouched and knelt in their gorgeous clothes, as if drunk. They looked like a dark, sprawling pattern around the rim of a plate. Some had lowered their foreheads to the ground, their hands clasped above their ebony hair. Some huddled together in groups, their heads pressed together, symbols of fear. Some swayed rhythmically from side to side, as if calling on gods. Some were weeping. Some seemed dead.

But they all seemed to be the hand-maids of the man on the snow-light illuminated disk.

But they all seemed to be servants of the man on the disk, lit by a snow-white light.

The man wore the white silk woven for comparatively few in Metropolis. He wore the soft shoes in which the beloved sons of mighty fathers seemed to caress the earth. But the silk hung in tatters about the body of the man and the shoes looked as though the feet within them bled.

The man wore white silk made for relatively few people in Metropolis. He wore the soft shoes that made the beloved sons of powerful fathers seem to caress the earth. But the silk hung in tatters around his body. His shoes looked as though his feet were bleeding inside them.

“Is that the man for whom you are looking, sir?” asked a Levantine cousin from out September, leaning confidently towards Slim’s ear.

“Is that the man you’re looking for, sir?” asked a Levantine cousin from September, leaning confidently toward Slim’s ear.

Slim did not answer. He was looking at the man.

Slim didn't answer. He was looking at the man.

“At least,” continued September, “it is the youngster who came here yesterday by the same car as you to-day. And the devil take him for it! He has turned my revolving shell into the fore-court of hell! He has been roasting souls! I have known Maohee-drugged beings to have fancied themselves Kings, Gods, Fire, and Storm—and to have forced others to feel themselves Kings, Gods, Fire, and Storm. I have known those in the ecstasy of desire to have forced women down to them from the highest part of the shell’s wall, that they, diving, like seagulls, with out-spread hands, have swooped to his feet, without injuring a limb, while others have fallen to their death. That man there was no God, no Storm, no Fire, and his drunkenness most certainly inspired him with no desire. It seems to me that he had come up from hell and is roaring in the intoxication of damnation. He did not know that the ecstasy for men who are damned is also damnation.... The fool! The prayer he is praying will not redeem him. He believes himself to be a machine and is praying to himself. He has forced the others to pray to him. He has ground them down. He has pounded them to a powder. There are many dragging themselves around Metropolis to-day who cannot comprehend why their limbs are as if broken....”

“At least,” September continued, “he’s the young man who came here yesterday in the same car you took today. And the devil take him for it! He has turned my revolving shell into the entrance to hell! He has been roasting souls! I have known people drugged with Maohee to imagine themselves Kings, Gods, Fire, and Storm. And they have forced others to feel themselves Kings, Gods, Fire, and Storm. I have known people in the ecstasy of desire to draw women down to them from the top of the shell’s wall. The women swooped to his feet like diving seagulls, their hands spread wide, without hurting a limb. Others fell to their deaths. That man there was no God, no Storm, no Fire. And his intoxication certainly inspired no desire in him. It seems to me he came up from hell and is roaring in the intoxication of damnation. He did not know that even the ecstasy of the damned is damnation.... The fool! The prayer he is praying will not redeem him. He believes he is a machine and is praying to himself. He has forced the others to pray to him. He has ground them down. He has pounded them to powder. Many people are dragging themselves around Metropolis today, unable to understand why their limbs feel broken....”

“Be quiet, September!” said Slim hoarsely. His hand flew to his throat which felt like a glowing cork, like smouldering charcoal.

“Be quiet, September!” Slim said hoarsely. His hand flew to his throat. It felt like a glowing cork, like smoldering charcoal.

September fell silent, shrugging his shoulders. Words seethed up from the depths like lava.

September fell silent and shrugged. Words bubbled up from the depths like lava.

“I am the Three-in-one—Lucifer—Belial—Satan—! I am the everlasting Death! I am the everlasting Noway! Come unto me—! In my hell there are many mansions! I shall assign them to you! I am the great king of all the damned—! I am a machine! I am the tower above you all! I am a hammer, a fly-wheel, a fiery oven! I am a murderer and of what I murder I make no use. I want victims and victims do not appease me! Pray to me and know: I do not hear you! Shout at me: Pater-noster! Know: I am deaf!”

“I am the Three-in-one: Lucifer, Belial, Satan! I am everlasting Death! I am the everlasting Noway! Come to me! In my hell there are many mansions! I will assign them to you! I am the great king of all the damned! I am a machine! I am the tower above you all! I am a hammer, a flywheel, a fiery oven! I am a murderer, and I have no use for what I murder. I want victims, and victims do not satisfy me! Pray to me and know that I do not hear you! Shout at me: Pater-noster! Know that I am deaf!”

Slim turned around; he saw September’s face as a chalky mask at his shoulder. Maybe that, among September’s ancestresses there was one who hailed from an isle in the South sea, where gods mean little—spirits everything.

Slim turned around and saw September’s chalk-white face at his shoulder. Perhaps one of September’s female ancestors came from a South Sea island where gods mean little and spirits mean everything.

“That’s no more a man,” he whispered with ashen lips. “A man would have died of it long ago.... Do you see his arms, sir? Do you think a man can imitate the pushing of a machine for hours and hours at a time without its killing him? He is as dead as stone. If you were to call to him he’d collapse and break to pieces like a plaster statue.”

“That’s not a man anymore,” he whispered, his lips pale as ash. “A man would have died from it long ago. Do you see his arms, sir? Do you think a man can copy a machine’s pushing motion for hours without it killing him? He is as dead as stone. If you called to him, he’d collapse and break into pieces like a plaster statue.”

It did not seem as though September’s words had penetrated into Slim’s consciousness. His face wore an expression of loathing and suffering and he spoke as one who speaks with pain.

September’s words did not seem to register with Slim. His face showed loathing and suffering, and he spoke as if in pain.

“I hope, September, that to-night you have had your last opportunity of watching the effects of Maohee on your guests....”

“I hope, September, that tonight was your last chance to watch the effects of Maohee on your guests....”

September smiled his Japanese smile.

He did not answer.

Slim stepped up to the banister at the edge of the curve of the shell in which he stood. He bent down towards the milky disc. He cried a high sharp tone which had the effect of a whistle:

Slim stepped up to the railing at the curved edge of the shell where he stood. He bent down toward the milky disc. He let out a high, sharp sound like a whistle:

“Eleven thousand eight hundred and eleven—!”

“Eleven thousand eight hundred and eleven!”

The man on the shimmering disc swung around as though he had received a blow in the side. The hellish rhythm of his arms ceased, running itself out in vibration. The man fell to earth like a log and did not move again.

The man on the shimmering disc spun around as if he had been struck in the side. The hellish rhythm of his arms slowed to a trembling stop. He fell to the ground like a log and did not move again.

Slim ran down the passage, reached the end and pushed asunder the circle of women, who, stiffened with shock, seemed to be thrown into deeper horror more by the end of that which they had brought to pass than by the beginning. He knelt down beside the man, looked him in the face and pushed the tattered silk away from his heart. He did not give his hand time to test his pulse. He lifted the man up and carried him out in his arms. The sighing of the women soughed behind him like a dense, mist-coloured curtain.

Slim ran down the passage and reached the end. He pushed through the circle of women, who were frozen with shock. They seemed more horrified by how what they had brought about ended than by how it began. He knelt beside the man, looked into his face, and pushed the tattered silk away from his heart. He did not pause to check his pulse. He lifted the man and carried him out in his arms. Behind him, the women’s sighs rustled like a thick, mist-colored curtain.

September stepped across his path. He swept aside as he caught Slim’s glance at him. He ran along by him, like an active dog, breathing rapidly; but he said nothing.

September stepped into his path. He moved aside when he caught Slim looking at him. He ran alongside him like an energetic dog, breathing rapidly, but said nothing.

Slim reached the door of Yoshiwara. September, himself, opened it for him. Slim stepped into the street. The driver pulled open the door of the taxi; he looked in amazement at the man who hung in Slim’s arms, in tatters of white silk with which the wind was playing, and who was more awful to look on than a corpse.

Slim reached the door of Yoshiwara. September himself opened it for him. Slim stepped into the street. The driver pulled open the taxi door. He stared in amazement at the man hanging in Slim’s arms. The wind played with the man’s torn white silk clothes. He was more terrible to look at than a corpse.

The proprietor of Yoshiwara bowed repeatedly while Slim was climbing into the car. But Slim did not give him another glance. September’s face, which was as grey as steel, was reminiscent of the blades of those ancient swords, forged of Indian steel, in Shiras or Ispahan and on which, hidden by ornamentation, stand mocking and deadly words.

The owner of Yoshiwara bowed repeatedly as Slim climbed into the car. But Slim did not look at him again. September’s steel-gray face reminded one of ancient sword blades, forged from Indian steel in Shiras or Ispahan. Mocking and deadly words were hidden among the blades’ ornaments.

The car glided away: September looked after it. He smiled the peacable smile of Eastern Asia.

The car glided away. September watched it go. He smiled the peaceful smile of Eastern Asia.

For he knew perfectly well what Slim did not know, and what, apart from him, nobody in Metropolis knew, that with the first drop of water or wine which moistened the lips of a human being, there disappeared even the very faintest memory of all which appertained to the wonders of the drug, Maohee.

For he knew something Slim did not. Apart from him, no one in Metropolis knew it either. As soon as a drop of water or wine touched a person's lips, every memory of the wonders of the drug Maohee vanished, even the faintest one.

The car stopped before the next medical depot. Male nurses came and carried away the bundle of humanity, shivering in tatters of white silk, to the doctor on duty. Slim looked about him. He beckoned to a policeman who was stationed near the door.

The car stopped outside the next medical depot. Male nurses came and carried the shivering bundle of humanity, dressed in tattered white silk, to the doctor on duty. Slim looked around. He waved to a police officer stationed near the door.

“Take down a report,” he said. His tongue would hardly obey him, so parched was it with thirst.

“Take down a report,” he said. He could hardly move his tongue because it was so dry with thirst.

The policeman entered the house after him.

The policeman followed him into the house.

“Wait!” said Slim, more with the movement of his head than in words. He saw a glass jug of water standing on the table and the coolness of the water had studded the jug with a thousand pearls.

“Wait!” said Slim, more with a movement of his head than with words. He saw a glass jug of water on the table. The cold water had covered the jug with a thousand pearls of condensation.

Slim drank like an animal which finds drink on coming from the desert. He put down the jug and shivered. A short shudder passed through him.

Slim drank like an animal finding water after crossing a desert. He put down the jug and shivered. A brief shudder passed through him.

He turned around and saw the man he had brought with him lying on a bed over which a young doctor was bending.

He turned around and saw the man he had brought with him lying on a bed. A young doctor was bending over the man.

The lips of the sick man were moistened with wine. His eyes stood wide open, staring up at the ceiling, tears upon tears running gently and incessantly from the corners of his eyes, down over his temples. It was as though they had nothing to do with the man—as though they were trickling from a broken vessel and could not stop trickling until the vessel had run quite empty.

The sick man's lips were moistened with wine. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. Tears flowed gently and endlessly from the corners of his eyes, down his temples. It was as if the tears had nothing to do with him. They seemed to be trickling from a broken vessel, unable to stop until it was completely empty.

Slim looked the doctor in the face; the latter shrugged his shoulders. Slim bent over the prostrate man.

Slim looked the doctor in the face. The doctor shrugged. Slim bent over the man lying on the ground.

“Georgi,” he said in a low voice, “can you hear me?”

“Georgi,” he said softly, “can you hear me?”

The sick man nodded; it was the shadow of a nod.

The sick man nodded. It was barely a nod.

“Do you know who I am?”

A second nod.

Another nod.

“Are you in a condition to answer two or three questions?”

“Are you able to answer two or three questions?”

Another nod.

“How did you get the white silk clothes?”

For a long time he received no answer apart from the gentle falling of the tear drops. Then came the voice, softer than a whisper.

For a long time, the only answer he received was the gentle fall of tears. Then a voice came, softer than a whisper.

“... He changed with me....”

“Who did?”

“Freder ... Joh Fredersen’s son....”

“And then, Georgi?”

“He told me I was to wait for him....”

“He told me to wait for him....”

“Wait where, Georgi?”

A long silence. And then, barely audible:

A long silence. Then, barely audible:

“Ninetieth Street. House seven. Seventh floor....”

“Ninetieth Street. House number seven. Seventh floor....”

Slim did not question him further. He knew who lived there. He looked at the doctor; the latter’s face wore a completely impenetrable expression.

Slim asked no more questions. He knew who lived there. He looked at the doctor, whose expression was completely unreadable.

Slim drew a breath as though he were sighing. He said, more deploringly than inquiringly:

Slim drew a breath as if he were sighing. He spoke more in dismay than in curiosity:

“Why did you not rather go there, Georgi....”

“Why didn't you go there instead, Georgi....”

He turned to go but stopped still as Georgi’s voice came wavering after him.

He turned to leave but stopped when he heard Georgi’s wavering voice behind him.

“... The city .... all the lights ... more than enough money.... It is written.... Forgive us our trespasses ... lead us not into temptation....”

“... The city ... all the lights ... more than enough money ... It is written ... Forgive us our sins ... lead us not into temptation ...”

His voice died away. His head fell to one side. He breathed as though his soul wept, for his eyes could do so no longer.

His voice faded. His head fell to one side. He breathed as if his soul were weeping, because his eyes could no longer weep.

The doctor cleared his throat cautiously.

Slim raised his head as though somebody had called him, then dropped it again.

Slim raised his head as if someone had called him, then lowered it again.

“I shall come back again,” he said softly. “He is to remain under your care....”

“I’ll come back,” he said softly. “He is to stay in your care....”

Georgi was asleep.

Slim left the room, followed by the policeman.

“What do you want?” Slim asked with an absent-minded look at him.

“What do you want?” Slim asked, looking at him absently.

“The report, sir.”

“What report?”

“I was to take down a report, sir.”

“I was supposed to write down a report, sir.”

Slim looked at the policeman very attentively, almost meditatively. He raised his hand and rubbed it across his forehead.

Slim looked at the policeman closely, almost thoughtfully. He raised his hand and rubbed his forehead.

“A mistake,” he said. “That was a mistake....”

The policeman saluted and retired, a little puzzled, for he knew Slim.

The policeman saluted and left, a little puzzled because he knew Slim.

He remained standing on the same spot. Again and again he rubbed his forehead with the same helpless gesture.

He stood in the same spot. Again and again, he rubbed his forehead with the same helpless gesture.

Then he shook his head, stepped into the car and said:

Then he shook his head, got into the car, and said:

“Ninetieth block....”