The being obeyed. It laughed, ripplingly.
"Then you know the plan, or what it represents?" asked Joh Fredersen, through the laughter.
"Yes, by my poor soul, I know it," answered Rotwang. "But, by my poor soul, I am not going to tell you what it is until you tell me where you got the plan."
Joh Fredersen reflected. Rotwang did not take his gaze from him. "Do not try to lie to me, Joh Fredersen," he said softly, and with a whimsical melancholy.
"Somebody found the paper," began Joh Fredersen.
"Who—somebody?"
"One of my foremen."
"Grot?"
"Yes, Grot."
"Where did he find the plan?"
"In the pocket of a workman who was killed in the accident to the Geyser machine."
"Grot brought you the paper?"
"Yes."
"And the meaning of the plan seemed to be unknown to him?"
Joh Fredersen hesitated a moment with the answer.
"The meaning—yes; but not the plan. He told me he has often seen this paper in the workmen's hands, and that they anxiously keep it a secret, and that the men will crowd closely around him who holds it."
"So the meaning of the plan has been kept secret from your foreman."
"So it seems, for he could not explain it to me."
"H'm."
Rotwang turned to the being which was standing near him, with the appearance of listening intently.
"What do you say about it, my beautiful Parody?"
The being stood motionless.
"Well—?" said Joh Fredersen, with a sharp expression of impatience.
Rotwang looked at him, jerkily turning his great skull towards him. The glorious eyes crept behind their lids as though wishing to have nothing in common with the strong white teeth and the jaws of the beast of prey. But from beneath the almost closed lids they gazed at Joh Fredersen, as though they sought in his face the door to the great brain.
"How can one bind you, Joh Fredersen," he murmured, "what is a word to you—or an oath… Oh God… you with your own laws. What promise would you keep if the breaking of it seemed expedient to you?"
"Don't talk rubbish, Rotwang," said Joh Fredersen. "I shall hold my tongue because I still need you. I know quite well that the people whom we need are our solitary tyrants. So, if you know, speak."
Rotwang still hesitated; but gradually a smile took possession of his features—a good natured and mysterious smile, which was amusing itself at itself.
"You are standing on the entrance," he said.
"What does that mean?"
"To be taken literally, Joh Fredersen! You are standing on the entrance."
"What entrance, Rotwang? You are wasting time that does not belong to you… "
The smile on Rotwang's face deepened to serenity.
"Do you recollect, Joh Fredersen, how obstinately I refused, that time, to let the underground railway be run under my house?"
"Indeed I do! I still know the sum the detour cost me, also!"
"The secret was expensive, I admit, but it was worth it. Just take a look at the plan, Joh Fredersen, what is that?"
"Perhaps a flight of stairs… "
"Quite certainly a flight of stairs. It is a very slovenly execution in the drawing as in reality… "
"So you know them?"
"I have the honour, Joh Fredersen—yes. Now come two paces sideways. What is that?"
He had taken Joh Fredersen by the arm. He felt the fingers of the artificial hand pressing into his muscles like the claws of a bird of prey. With the right one Rotwang indicated the spot upon which Joh Fredersen had stood.
"What is that?" he asked, shaking the hand which he held in his grip.
Joh Fredersen bent down. He straightened himself up again.
"A door?"
"Right, Joh Fredersen! A door! A perfectly fitting and well shutting door. The man who built this house was an orderly and careful person. Only once did he omit to give heed, and then he had to pay for it. He went down the stairs which are under the door, followed the careless steps and passages which are connected with them, and never found his way back. It is not easy to find, for those who lodged there did not care to have strangers penetrate into their domain… I found my inquisitive predecessor, Joh Fredersen, and recognised him at once—by his pointed red shoes, which have preserved themselves wonderfully. As a corpse he looked peaceful and Christian—Like, both of which he certainly was not in his life. The companions of his last hours probably contributed considerably to the conversion of the erstwhile devil's disciple… "
He tapped with his right forefinger upon a maze of crosses in the centre of the plan.
"Here he lies. Just on this spot. His skull must have enclosed a brain which was worthy of your own, Joh Fredersen, and he had to perish because he once lost his way… What a pity for him… "
"Where did he lose his way?" asked Joh Fredersen.
Rotwang looked long at him before speaking.
"In the city of graves, over which Metropolis stands," he answered at last. "Deep below the moles' tunnels of your underground railway, Joh Fredersen, lies the thousand-year-old Metropolis of the thousand-year-old dead… "
Joh Fredersen was silent. His left eyebrow rose, while his eyes narrowed. He fixed his gaze upon Rotwang, who had not taken his eyes from him.
"What is the plan of this city of graves doing in the hands and pockets of my workmen?"
"That is yet to be discovered," answered Rotwang.
"Will you help me?"
"Yes."
"Tonight?"
"Very well."
"I shall come back after the changing of the shift."
"Do so, Joh Fredersen. And if you take some good advice… "
"Well?"
"Come in the uniform of your workmen, when you come back!"
Joh Fredersen raised his head but the great inventor did not let him speak. He raised his hand as one calling for and admonishing to silence.
"The skull of the man in the red shoes also enclosed a powerful brain, Joh Fredersen, but nevertheless, he could not find his way homewards from those who dwell down there… "
Joh Fredersen reflected. He nodded and turned to go.
"Be courteous, my beautiful Parody," said Rotwang. "Open the doors for the Master over the great Metropolis."
The being glided past Joh Fredersen. He felt the breath of coldness which came forth from it. He saw the silent laughter between the half-open lips of Rotwang, the great inventor. He turned pale with rage, but he remained silent.
The being stretched out the transparent hand in which the bones shone silver, and, touching it with its finger-tips, moved the seal of Solomon, which glowed copperish.
The door yielded back. Joh Fredersen went out after the being, which stepped downstairs before him.
There was no light on the stairs, nor in the narrow passage. But a shimmer came from the being no stronger than that of a green-burning candle, yet strong enough to lighten up the stairs and the black walls.
At the house-door the being stopped still and waited for Joh Fredersen, who was walking slowly along behind it. The house-door opened before him, but not far enough for him to pass out through the opening.
The eyes stared at him from the mass-head of the being, eyes as though painted on closed lids, with the expression of calm madness.
"Be courteous, my beautiful Parody," said a soft, far-off voice, which sounded as though the house were talking in its sleep.
The being bowed. It stretched out a hand—a graceful skeleton hand. Transparent skin was stretched over the slender joints, which gleamed beneath it like dull silver. Fingers, snow-white and fleshless, opened like the petals of a crystal lily.
Joh Fredersen laid his hand in it, feeling it, in the moment of contact, to be burnt by an unbearable coldness. He wanted to push the being away from him but the silver-crystal fingers held him fast.
"Good-bye," Joh Fredersen, said the mass head, in a voice full of a horrible tenderness. "Give me a face soon, Joh Fredersen!"
A soft far-off voice laughed, as if the house were laughing in its sleep.
The hand left go, the door opened, Joh Fredersen reeled into the street.
The door closed behind him. In the gloomy wood of the door glowed, copper-red, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.
When Joh Fredersen was about to enter the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel Slim stood before him, seeming to be slimmer than ever.
"What is it?" asked Joh Fredersen.
Slim made to speak but at the sight of his master the words died on his lips.
"Well—?" said Joh Fredersen, between his teeth.
Slim breathed deeply.
"I must inform you, Mr. Fredersen," he said, "that, since your son left this room, he has disappeared!"
"What does that mean?… disappeared!"
"He has not gone home, and none of our men has seen him… "
Joh Fredersen screwed up his mouth.
"Look for him!" he said hoarsely. "What are you all here for? Look for him!"
He entered the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel. His first glance fell upon the clock. He stepped to the table 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 human voices was around him, like the rustling of trees, moved by the wind…
He smiled peacefully. It's wonderful to be tired…
Then a voice—a voice began to speak…
Oh—sweet voice, thought Freder dreamily. Tender beloved voice, your voice, Virgin-mother! I have fallen asleep… Yes, I am dreaming! I am dreaming of your voice, beloved!
But a slight pain at his temple made him think: I am leaning my head on stone… I am conscious of the coldness which comes out of the stone… I feel coldness under my knees… so I am not sleeping—! am only dreaming… suppose it is not a dream… .? Suppose it is reality… ?
With an exertion of will which brought a groan from him he forced open his eyes and looked about him.
A vault, like the vault of a sepulchre, human heads so closely crowded together as to produce the effect of clods on a freshly ploughed field. All heads turned towards one point: to the source of a light, as mild as God.
Candles burnt with sword—Like flames. Slender, lustrous swords of light stood in a circle around the head of a girl, whose voice was as the Amen of God.