METROPOLIS let your city and your great machines roar punctually for
fresh food .... Has Meb-opolis gone dumb, fatherP Look at usl Look at your machinesI Your god-machines tUJn sick at the chewed-up cuds in their mouths-at the mangled food that we are. . . . Why do you sb'ang]e its voice to death? Will ten hours never, never come to an end? Our Father, which art in heaven-I" But in this moment Joh Fredersen's fingers were pressing
the little blue metal plate and the voice of the great Metropolis. "Thank you, fatherl" said the mangled soul before the machine, which was like Gnnesha. 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-Harned, drawn-out clouds, fresh men shufBed 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 fen 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 fen dumb and in the silence Freder became aware of the breath of a man at his ear, and of a voicemerely a breath-which asked:
"She has called.... Are you comingP" 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 lil).en, 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 .•• P 62
