METROPOLIS aJIectionately: "We tw<>-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,-II" hackled the fmy. "Open the door, you damned scoundrel-II" "Wouldn't that just suit youl" thought Grot. How well the door was holdmgl His gallant doorl What were those drunken apes out there singing about? "We've passed sentence upon the machinesl We have condemned the machines to death'" Ho ho h<>-I He could sing tOQ-,could Grotl He could sing drunken songs, just finel 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 darel Come if you want a good hiding, you lousy apesl Your mother forgot
To pull your pants tight When you we,re little, you guttersnipes! You're not even fit for pigs' swill!
You fell from the rubbish cart, When it took the big curvel And now you stand before the door,
Before my gallant door, and bawl: Open the doorl Open the doorl Let the devil open it for you, You hen's bugs."
The pedestal of the machine boomed under the drnmming rhythm of his boot-heels .... But suddenly they both stopped: drumming and singing. An exceedingly powerful, exceedingly white light Hared 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.
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