Metropolis. Part 17

The structure of the City of the Dead quaked right down to the centre of the earth. It was as if a mighty fist had suddenly opened a sluice-but, instead of water, a maelstrom of stones hurtled from the dammed-up bed-blocks, mortar, crumbles, stone-splinters, ruins poured down from the arch-a curtain of stones-a hail of stones. And above the falling and the smashing was the power of a thunder which was roaring, and roaring long and resonantly, through the destruction.

A current of air, an irresistible whirl, swept the girl aside like a blade of straw. The skeletons rose up from the niches: bones rose up erect and skulls rolled! Doomsday seemed to be breaking over the thousand-year-old City of the Dead.

But above the great Metropolis the monster-voice was still howling and howling.

Red lay the morning above the stone ocean of the city. The red morning saw, amidst the stone ocean of the city, rolling along, a broad, an endless stream.

The stream was twelve files deep. They walked in even step. Men, men, men, all in the same uniform; from throat to ankle in the dark blue linen, bare feet in the same hard shoes, hair tightly pressed down by the same black caps.

And they all had the same faces. Wild faces, with eyes like fire-brands. And they all sang the same song-song without melody, but an oath-a storm vow: "We've pa.s.sed sentence upon the machines!"

"We have condemned the machines to death."

"The machines must die, to h.e.l.l with them!"

"Death!-Death!-Death to the machines-!"

The girl danced along before the streaming, bawling mult.i.tude.

She led the mult.i.tude on. She led the tramping mult.i.tude forward against the heart of the Machine city of Metropolis.

She said: "Come... ! Come... ! Come... ! I will lead you... II will dance the dance of Death before you... I will dance the dance of the murderers before you... !"

"Destroy-destroy-destroy-!" yelled the crowd.

They acted without plan, and yet following a law. Destruction was the name of the law; they obeyed it.

The mult.i.tude divided. A broad stream poured itself, frothing, down into the tunnel of the underground railway.

The trains were standing ready on all the tracks. Searchlights wedged themselves into the darkness which crouched in the shafts, above the rails.

The mult.i.tude yelled. Here was a plaything for giants! Were they not as strong as three thousand giants? They dragged the drivers from the drivers' places. They released the trains and let them run-one after the-other-forward-forwards!

The rails rumbled. The thundering carriage snakes, glitteringly lighted, hurled along by their emptiness, dashed into the brownish darkness. Two, three, four of the drivers fought like men possessed. But the mob sucked them up. "Will you shut your mouths, you dogs-? We are the masters! We want to play! We want to play like giants!"

They howled the song-the song of their deadly hatred: "We've pa.s.sed sentence upon the machines!"

"We have condemned the machines to death!"

They counted the seconds: "Fifty-nine-sixty-sixty-one-sixty-two--now-!-mdash;-Somewhere in the depths of the tunnel, a crash, as if the globe were splitting... Once-and once again... The mob howled:"

"The machines must die-to h.e.l.l with them!"

"Death!-Death!-Death to the machines!"

Then-! What happened then?-Then!!-From one of the tunnels there broke forth a train, like a steed of fire, with sparkling lights, driverless, at a tearing speed-galloping death.

From whence did this h.e.l.l-horse come?-Where were the giants, who were thus giving answer to the giants' game of the mob? The train vanished, amid shrieks-and, some seconds later, came the tearing crash from the depths of the pit. And the second train was crashing onwards, sent off by unknown hands.

The stones shook loose under the feet of the mob. Smoke gushed up from the pit. Suddenly the lights went out. Only the clocks, the whitish-shimmering clocks, hung, as patches of light, in a darkness which was filled with long, dim, drifting clouds.

The mob pressed towards the stairs and up them. Behind them, unchained demons, pulling their reeling carriages along behind them, the engines, now released, hurled themselves on, to fall upon each other and break into flames...

Metropolis had a brain.

Metropolis had a heart.

The heart of the machine city of Metropolis dwelt in a white, cathedral-Like building. The heart of the machine city of Metropolis was guarded by one single man.

The man's name was Grot, and he loved his machine.

The machine was a universe to itself. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints, like the sun's disc, like the halo of a divine being, stood the silver spinning wheel, the spokes of which appeared, in the whirl of revolution, as a single gleaming disc. This disc filled out the back wall of the building, with its entire breadth and height.

No machine in all Metropolis which did not receive its power from this heart.

One single lever controlled this marvel of steel. All the treasures of the world heaped up before him would not, for Grot, have outweighed this, his machine.

When, at the grey hour of dawn, Grot heard the voice of the great Metropolis roaring, he glanced at the clock on the brow of the wall where was the door, and thought: "That's against all nature and regularity... "

When, at the red hour of sunrise, Grot saw the stream of the mult.i.tude rolling along, twelve files deep, led by a girl-dancing to the rhythm of the yelling mob, Grot set the lever of the machine to "Safety," carefully closed the door of the building and waited.

The mob thundered against his door.

"Oh-knock away!" thought Grot. "That door can stand a good bit... "

He looked at the machine. The wheel was spinning slowly. The beautiful spokes were playing, plainly to be seen. Grot nodded to his beautiful machine.

"They will not trouble us long," thought he. He waited for a signal from the New Tower of Babel. For a word from Joh Fredersen. The word did not come.

"He knows," thought Grot, "that he can rely on me... "

The door quaked like a giant drum. The mob hurled itself, a living battering ram, against it.

"There are rather a lot of them, it seems to me," thought Grot. He looked at the door, it trembled, but it held. And it looked as though it would still hold for a long time.

Grot nodded to himself in deep contentment. He would; have loved to light his pipe, if only smoking had not been forbidden here. He heard the yelling of the mob, and rebound upon rebound against the singing door with a feeling of smug fierceness. He loved the door. It was his ally. He turned around and looked at his machine. He nodded at it affectionately: "We two-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,-!!" hackled the fury. "Open the door, you d.a.m.ned scoundrel-!!"

"Wouldn't that just suit you!" thought Grot. How well the door was holding! His gallant door!

What were those drunken apes out there singing about? "We've pa.s.sed sentence upon the machines! We have condemned the machines to death!" Ho ho ho-! He could sing too-could Grot! He could sing drunken songs, just fine! 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 dare!"

"Come if you want a good hiding, you lousy apes!"

"Your mother forgot"

"To pull your pants tight"

"When you were little, you guttersnipes"

"You're not even fit for pigs' swill!"

"You fell from the rubbish cart. "

"When it took the big curve!"

"And now you stand before the door. "

"Before my gallant door, and bawl: Open the door! Open the door!"

"Let the devil open it for you, You hen's bugs."

The pedestal of the machine boomed under the drumming rhythm of his boot-heels...

But suddenly they both stopped: drumming and singing. An exceedingly powerful, exceedingly white light flared 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.

"Yes!" said Grot, the guard of the Heart-machine.

He sprang to his feet. He raised his broad face, which shone with the joyful eagerness of obedience. "Yes, here I am!"

A voice said, slowly and clearly: "Open the door, and give up the machine!"

Grot stood motionless. Fists like hammers hung down from his arms. He gulped. But he said nothing.

"Repeat instructions," said the quiet voice.

The guard of the heart machine swung his head violently this way and that, like a weighty bundle.

"I... I didn't understand," he said, gaspingly.

The quiet voice spoke in a more forceful tone: "Open the door and give up the machine!"

The man still said nothing, gazing stupidly upward.

"Repeat instructions," said the quiet voice.

The guard of the Heart-machine drew in a great draught of air.

"Who is speaking there-?" he asked. "What lousy swine is speaking there-?"

"Open the door, Grot... "

"The devil I will-!"

"... and give up the machine!"

"The machine-?" said Grot, "the-my machine?"

"Yes," said the quiet voice.

The guard of the Heart-machine began to shake. His was a quite blue face, in which the eyes stood like whitish b.a.l.l.s, The mob, which was throwing itself, as a buffer, against the ringing door yelled, hoa.r.s.e with yelling: "The machines must die-to h.e.l.l with them!"

"Death! Death! Death to the machines!"

"Who is speaking there?" asked the man, so loudly that his words were a scream.

"Joh Fredersen is speaking."

"I want the pa.s.s-word."

"The pa.s.s-word is one thousand and three. The machine is running on half power. You have set the lever to 'Safety... '"

The guard of the Heart-machine stood like a log. Then the log turned itself clumsily around, staggered to the door, and tore at the bolts.

The mob heard it. It yelled triumph. The door flew open. The mob swept aside the man who was standing on its threshold. The mob hurled itself towards the machine. The mob made to lay hands upon the machine. A dancing girl was leading the mob on.

"Look-!" she shouted. "Look-! The beating heart of Metropolis! What shall be done to the heart of Metropolis? We've pa.s.sed sentence upon the machines! We have condemned the machines to death! The machines must die-to h.e.l.l with them!"

But the mob did not catch up the girl's song. The mob stared over, at the machine-at the beating heart of the great machine city, which was called Metropolis, and which they had fed. They pressed up slowly, as a single body, before the machine, which gleamed like silver. In the face of the mob stood hatred. In the face of the mob stood superst.i.tious fear. Desire for the last destruction stood in the face of the mob.

But before it could take expression Grot, the guard, threw himself before his machine. There was no filthy word which he did not raise to chuck into the face of the mob. The dirtiest term of revilement was not dirty enough for him to apply to the mob. The mob turned red eyes upon him. The mob glared at him. The mob saw: The man there, in front of them, was abusing them in the name of the machine. For them, the man and the machine melted into one. Man and machine deserved the same hatred. They pushed forward against man and machine. They seized the man and meant the machine. They roared him down. They stamped him underfoot. They dragged him hither and thither and out of the door. They forgot the machine, for they had the man-had the guard of the heart-beat of all the machines thinking that, in tearing the man away from the Heart-machine, they were tearing the heart from the breast of the great machine city.

What should be done to the heart of Metropolis?

It should be trodden underfoot by the mob.

"Death!" yelled the victorious mob. "Death to the machines!" yelled the victorious mob.

They did not see that they no longer had a leader. They did not see that the girl was missing from the procession.

The girl was standing before the Heart-machine of the city. Her smile was cool and silver. She stretched out her hand, which was more delicate than gla.s.s, she seized the weighty lever, which was set to "Safety." She pressed the lever round, still smiling, then walked out, with light, mad, step.

Behind her the machine began to race. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints, like the sun's disc-like the halo of a divine being-stood the silver racing wheel, the spokes of which appeared, in the whirl of revolution, as a single circling disc.

The heart of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen's city, began to run up a temperature, seized by a deadly illness...

Chapter 16.

"FATHER-!!"