METROPOLIS "Somebody must be at the machine'" "Somebody will be at the machine; but not you.•••" "Who will, then?" "I." Staring eyes were the answer. "1:' repeated Freder. "Are you fit to listen to me, and will you be able to take good note of what I say? It is very important, Georgi!" "Yes," said Georgi, paralysed. "We shall now exchange lives, Georgi. You take mine. I yours. I shall take your place at the machine. You gQ quietly out in my clothes. Nobody noticed me when I came here. Nobody will notice you when you go. You must only not lose your nerve and keep calm. Keep under cover of where the air is brewing like a mist. When you reach the str~et take a car. You will find more than enough money in my pockets. Three streets further on change the car. And again after another three streets. Then drive to the Ninetieth Block. At the corner payoff the taxi arid wait until the driver is out of sight. Then find your way to the seventh Boor of the seventh house. A man called Josa-phat lives there. You are to go to him. Tell him I sent you. Wait for me or for a message from me. Do you understand, Georgir' "Yes." But the "Yes" was empty and seemed to reply to some· thing other than Freder's question. . A little while later the son of Job Fredersen, the Master of the great Metropolis, was standing before the machine which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant's head. He wore the uniform of all the workmen of Metropolis: from throat to ankle the dark blue linen, bare feet in the hard shoes, hair £rmly pressed down by the black cap. He held his hand on the lever and his gaze was set on the clock, the hands of which vibrated like magnetic needles. The hunted stream of air washed around him making the folds of the canvas Butter. Then he felt how, slowly, chokingly, from the incessant trembling of the Boor, from the walls in which the furnaces whistled, from the ceiling which seemed eternally to be in 38
