Free Metropolis by Thea von Harbou Page A

and stretched out his hand to the little blue metal plate.

Chapter 5
     

    THE MAN BEFORE THE MACHINE which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant's head, was no longer a human being. Merely a dripping piece of exhaustion, from the pores of which the last powers of volition were oozing out in large drops of sweat. Running eyes no longer saw the manometer. The hand did not hold the lever—It clawed it fast in the last hold which saved the mangled man-creature before it from falling into the crushing arms of the machine.
    The Pater-noster works of the New Tower of Babel turned their buckets with an easy smoothness. The eye of the little machine smiled softly and maliciously at the man who stood before it and who was now no more than a babel.
    "Father!" babbled the son of Joh Fredersen, "to-day, for the first time, since Metropolis stood, you have forgotten to let your city and your great machines roar punctually for fresh food… Has Metropolis gone dumb, father? Look at us! Look at your machines! Your god-machines turn sick at the chewed-up cuds in their mouths—at the mangled food that we are… Why do you strangle its voice to death? Will ten hours never, never come to an end? Our Father, which art in heaven—!"
    But in this moment Joh Fredersen's fingers were pressing the little blue metal plate and the voice of the great Metropolis.
    "Thank you, father!" said the mangled soul before the machine, which was like Ganesha. He smiled. He tasted a salty taste on his lips and did not know if it was from blood, sweat or tears. From out a red mist of long-flamed, drawn-out clouds, fresh men shuffled on towards him. His hand slipped from the lever and he collapsed. Arms pulled him up and led him away. He turned his head aside to hide his face.
    The eye of the little machine, the soft, malicious eye, twinkled at him from behind.
    "Good-bye, friend," said the little machine.
    Freder's head fell upon his breast. He felt himself dragged further, heard the dull evenness of feet tramping onwards, felt himself tramping, a member of twelve members. The ground under his feet began to roll; it was drawn upwards, pulling him up with it.
    Doors stood open, double doors. Towards him came a stream of men.
    The great Metropolis was still roaring.
    Suddenly she fell dumb and in the silence Freder became aware of the breath of a man at his ear, and of a voice-merely a breath—which asked:
    "She has called… Are you coming?"
    He did not know what the question meant, but he nodded. He wanted to get to know the ways of those who walked, as he, in blue linen, in the black cap, in the hard shoes.
    With tightly closed eyelids he groped on, shoulder to shoulder with an unknown man.
    She has called, he thought, half asleep. Who is that… she… ?
    He walked and walked in' smouldering weariness. The way would never, never come to an end. He did not know where he was walking. He heard the tramp of those who were walking with him like the sound of perpetually falling water.
    She has called! he thought. Who is that: she, whose voice is so powerful that these men, exhausted to death by utter weariness, voluntarily throw off sleep, which is the sweetest thing of all to the weary—to follow her when her voice calls?
    It can't be very much further to the centre of the earth…
    Still deeper—still deeper down?
    No longer any light round about, only, here and there, twinkling pocket torches, in men's hands.
    At last, in the far distance, a dull shimmer.
    Have we wandered so far to walk towards the sun, thought Freder, and does the sun dwell in the bowels of the earth?
    The procession came to a standstill. Freder stopped too. He staggered against the dry, cool stones.
    Where are we, he thought—In a cave? If the sun dwells here, then she can't be at home now… I am afraid we have come in vain… Let us turn back, brother… Let us sleep…
    He slid along the wall, fell on his knees, leant his head against the stone… how smooth it was.
    The murmur of