“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 fingertips, 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.
“Goodbye, 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 brainpan 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 brainpan 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.
V
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 Paternoster 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
