When, at the red hour of sunrise, Grot saw the stream of the multitude rolling along, twelve files deep, led by a girl-dancing to the rhythm of the yelling mob, Grot set the lever of the machine to "Safety," carefully closed the door of the building and waited.
The mob thundered against his door.
"Oh—knock away!" thought Grot. "That door can stand a good bit… "
He looked at the machine. The wheel was spinning slowly. The beautiful spokes were playing, plainly to be seen. Grot nodded to his beautiful machine.
"They will not trouble us long," thought he. He waited for a signal from the New Tower of Babel. For a word from Joh Fredersen. The word did not come.
"He knows," thought Grot, "that he can rely on me… "
The door quaked like a giant drum. The mob hurled itself, a living battering ram, against it.
"There are rather a lot of them, it seems to me," thought Grot. He looked at the door, it trembled, but it held. And it looked as though it would still hold for a long time.
Grot nodded to himself in deep contentment. He would; have loved to light his pipe, if only smoking had not been forbidden here. He heard the yelling of the mob, and rebound upon rebound against the singing door with a feeling of smug fierceness. He loved the door. It was his ally. He turned around and looked at his machine. He nodded at it affectionately: "We two—eh?… What do you say to that boozy lot of fatheads, machine?"
The storm before the door wound itself up into a typhoon. It was the hackling fury born of long resistance.
"Open the door,—!!" hackled the fury. "Open the door, you damned scoundrel—!!"
"Wouldn't that just suit you!" thought Grot. How well the door was holding! His gallant door!
What were those drunken apes out there singing about? "We've passed sentence upon the machines! We have condemned the machines to death!" Ho ho ho—! He could sing too—could Grot! He could sing drunken songs, just fine! He kicked with both heels against the pedestal of the machine, upon which he was sitting. He pushed the black cap down lower in his neck. With his red fists resting upon his knees, opening wide his mouth, he sang with his whole throat, while his little, wild eyes were fixed on the door:
"Come on, you boozy lot, if you dare!"
"Come if you want a good hiding, you lousy apes!"
"Your mother forgot"
"To pull your pants tight"
"When you were little, you guttersnipes"
"You're not even fit for pigs' swill!"
"You fell from the rubbish cart. "
"When it took the big curve!"
"And now you stand before the door. "
"Before my gallant door, and bawl: Open the door! Open the door!"
"Let the devil open it for you, You hen's bugs."
The pedestal of the machine boomed under the drumming rhythm of his boot-heels…
But suddenly they both stopped: drumming and singing. An exceedingly powerful, exceedingly white light flared up three times, under the dome of the building. A sound-signal, as gentle and as penetrating as the gong-beat of a temple bell, became audible, overpowering every sound.
"Yes!" said Grot, the guard of the Heart-machine.
He sprang to his feet. He raised his broad face, which shone with the joyful eagerness of obedience. "Yes, here I am!"
A voice said, slowly and clearly:
"Open the door, and give up the machine!"
Grot stood motionless. Fists like hammers hung down from his arms. He gulped. But he said nothing.
"Repeat instructions," said the quiet voice.
The guard of the heart machine swung his head violently this way and that, like a weighty bundle.
"I… I didn't understand," he said, gaspingly.
The quiet voice spoke in a more forceful tone:
"Open the door and give up the machine!"
The man still said nothing, gazing stupidly upward.
"Repeat instructions," said the quiet voice.
The guard of the Heart-machine drew in a great draught of air.
"Who is speaking there—?" he asked. "What lousy swine is speaking there—?"
"Open the door, Grot… "
"The devil I will—!"
"… and give up the machine!"
"The machine—?" said Grot, "the—my machine?"
"Yes," said the quiet voice.
The guard of the Heart-machine began to shake. His was a quite blue face, in which the eyes stood like whitish balls, The mob, which was throwing itself, as a buffer, against the ringing door yelled, hoarse with yelling:
"The machines must die—to Hell with them!"
"Death! Death! Death to the machines!"
"Who is speaking there?" asked the man, so loudly that his words were a scream.
"Joh Fredersen is speaking."
"I want the pass-word."
"The pass-word is one thousand and three. The machine is running on half power. You have set the lever to 'Safety… '"
The guard of the Heart-machine stood like a log. Then the log turned itself clumsily around, staggered to the door, and tore at the bolts.
The mob heard it. It yelled triumph. The door flew open. The mob swept aside the man who was standing on its threshold. The mob hurled itself towards the machine. The mob made to lay hands upon the machine. A dancing girl was leading the mob on.
"Look—!" she shouted. "Look—! The beating heart of Metropolis! What shall be done to the heart of Metropolis? We've passed sentence upon the machines! We have condemned the machines to death! The machines must die—to hell with them!"
But the mob did not catch up the girl's song. The mob stared over, at the machine—at the beating heart of the great machine city, which was called Metropolis, and which they had fed. They pressed up slowly, as a single body, before the machine, which gleamed like silver. In the face of the mob stood hatred. In the face of the mob stood superstitious fear. Desire for the last destruction stood in the face of the mob.
But before it could take expression Grot, the guard, threw himself before his machine. There was no filthy word which he did not raise to chuck into the face of the mob. The dirtiest term of revilement was not dirty enough for him to apply to the mob. The mob turned red eyes upon him. The mob glared at him. The mob saw: The man there, in front of them, was abusing them in the name of the machine. For them, the man and the machine melted into one. Man and machine deserved the same hatred. They pushed forward against man and machine. They seized the man and meant the machine. They roared him down. They stamped him underfoot. They dragged him hither and thither and out of the door. They forgot the machine, for they had the man-had the guard of the heart-beat of all the machines thinking that, in tearing the man away from the Heart-machine, they were tearing the heart from the breast of the great machine city.
What should be done to the heart of Metropolis?
It should be trodden underfoot by the mob.
"Death!" yelled the victorious mob. "Death to the machines!" yelled the victorious mob.
They did not see that they no longer had a leader. They did not see that the girl was missing from the procession.
The girl was standing before the Heart-machine of the city. Her smile was cool and silver. She stretched out her hand, which was more delicate than glass, she seized the weighty lever, which was set to "Safety." She pressed the lever round, still smiling, then walked out, with light, mad, step.
Behind her the machine began to race. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints, like the sun's disc—like the halo of a divine being—stood the silver racing wheel, the spokes of which appeared, in the whirl of revolution, as a single circling disc.
The heart of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen's city, began to run up a temperature, seized by a deadly illness…
Chapter 16
"FATHER—!!"
Joh Fredersen's son knew quite well that his father could not hear him, for he, the son, was standing in the lowest part: of the pedestal of the New Tower of Babel, whither the twitching pulse of the street had thrown him, and his father was high, high, above the boiling of the city, the untouched brain, in the cool brain-pan. But yet he shouted for him and had to shout, and his shout, itself, was a cry for help and an accusation.
The round structure of the New Tower of Babel was throwing up people who pushed out into the street, laughing as if insane. They were sucked up by the pulp of those in the street. The New Tower of Babel was deserted. Those who had occupied its rooms and passages—those who had been poured by the buckets of the Pater-noster works down to the depths, up to the heights—who had taken up their positions on the stairs—who had received instructions and passed them on—who had suffocated amidst figures—who had listened in to the whispers of the world—all, all streamed out from the New Tower of Babel as blood streams out from a cut vein, until it stood there, horribly empty—bled white.
But the machines went on living.
Yes, they seemed to be coming to life for the first time.
Freder, who stood—a crumb of humanity—alone, in the hugeness of the round structure, heard the soft, deep, rushing howl, like the breath of the New Tower of Babel, growing louder and louder, clearer and clearer, and he saw, on turning round, that the empty cells of the Pater-noster were speeding more and more rapidly, more and more hurriedly, upwards and downwards. Yes, now it was as if these cells, these empty cells, were dancing upwards and downwards and the howling which trans-sected the New Tower of Babel seemed to proceed from out their empty jaws.
"Father—!!" shouted Freder. And the whole round structure roared with him, with all its lungs.
Freder ran, but not to the heights of the Tower. He ran to the depths, driven by horror and curiosity—down into the hell—guided by luminous pillars—to the abode of the Pater-noster machine, which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant's head.
The luminous pillars by which he ran did not shine as usual with their white, icy light. They blinked, they flashed lightning, they flickered. They burnt with an evil, green light. The stones, over which he ran, swayed like water. The nearer he came to the machine-room, the more bellowing did the voice of the tower become. The walls were baking. The air was colourless fire. If the door had not burst open by itself—no human hand could have opened it, for it was like a glowing curtain of liquid steel.
Freder held his arm flung before his forehead, as if wishing to protect his brain from bursting. His eyes sought the machine—the machine in front of which he had once stood. It was crouching in the centre of the howling room. It shone with oil. It had gleaming limbs. Under the crouching body and the head which was sunken on its 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, forwards.
And the machine was quite abandoned. Nobody was watching it. Nobody's hand held the lever. Nobody's gaze was fixed on the clock, the hands of which chased through the grades as though gone mad.
"Father—!!" shouted Freder, about to hurl himself forward. But at the same moment it was as if the hunched up body of the wild machine, which was like Ganesha, raised itself up to a furious height, as though its legs stretched themselves upon stumpy feet, to make a murderous leap, as though its arms no longer stretched themselves to push—no, to seize, to seize to crush—as though the howling voice of the New Tower of Babel broke from the lungs of the Pater-noster machine alone, howling:
"Murder—!"
And howling unceasingly:
"Murder—!"
The flame curtain of the door flew sideways, whistling. The monster-machine rolled itself down from the platform with pushing arms. The whole structure of the New Tower of Babel quivered. The walls shook. The ceiling groaned.
Freder turned around. He threw his arms about his neck and ran. He saw the luminous pillars stabbing at him. He heard a rattling gasp at his back and felt the marrow dry up, and ran and ran. He ran towards doors, pushed them open, slammed them to behind him and raced onwards.
"Father—!!" he shouted—and with a feeling as if his brain were overturning: "Our Father, Which art in heaven—"
Upstairs. Where did these stairs lead to—? Doors thundered open, rebounding against walls.
Aaah—! The temples of the machine-rooms? Deities, the machines—the shining Lords—the god-machines of Metropolis! All the great gods were living in white temples! Baal and Moloch and Huitzilopochtli and Durgha! Some frightfully companionable, some terribly solitary. There—Juggernaut's divine car! There-the Towers of Silence! There—Mahomet's curved sword! There—the crosses of Golgotha!
And not a soul, not a soul in the white rooms. The machines, these god-machines, left terribly alone. And they were all living—yes they were really living—an enhanced, an enflamed life.
For Metropolis had a brain.
Metropolis had a heart.
The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis dwelt in a white, cathedral—Like building. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis was, until this day and this hour, guarded by one single man. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis was a machine and a universe to itself. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints, like the sun's disc—like the halo of a divine being—stood the silver-spinning wheel, the spokes of which appeared in the whirl of revolution, as a single, gleaming, disc.
No machine in all Metropolis which did not receive its power from this heart.
One, single lever controlled this marvel of steel.
With the lever set to "Safety" all the machines would play with their curbed power, like tame animals. The shimmering spokes of the sun-wheel would circle, clearly to be distinguished, above the Heart-machine.
With the lever set to "6"—and it was generally set there—then work would spell slavery. The machines would roar. The powerful wheel of the Heart-machine would hang, an apparently motionless mirror of brightest silver, above it. And the mighty thunder of the machines, produced by the heart-beat of this one, would arch itself, a second heaven, above Metropolis, Joh Fredersen's city.
But never, as yet, since the construction of Metropolis, had the lever been set to "12."