Metropolis | Page 5

comprehended it.
It was an immeasurably glorious and transporting sound. As deep and rumbling as, and
more powerful than, any sound on earth. The voice of the ocean when it is angry, the
voice of falling torrents, the voice of very close thunderstorms would be miserably
drowned in this Behemoth-din. Without being shrill it penetrated all walls, and, as long as
it lasted, all things seemed to swing in it. It was omnipresent, coming from the heights
and from the depths, being beautiful and horrible, being an irresistible command.
It was high above the town. It was the voice of the town.
Metropolis raised her voice. The machines of Metropolis roared; they wanted to be fed.
Freder pushed open the glass doors. He felt them tremble like strings under strokes of the
bow. He stepped out on to the narrow gallery which ran around this, almost the highest
house of Metropolis. The roaring sound received him, enveloped him, never coming to an
end.
Great as Metropolis was: at all four corners of the city, this roared command was equally
perceptible.:
Freder looked across the city at the building known to the world as the "New Tower of
Babel."
In the brain-pan of this New Tower of Babel lived the man who was himself the Brain of

Metropolis.
As long as the man over there, who was nothing but work, despising sleep, eating and
drinking mechanically, pressed his fingers on the blue metal plate, which apart from
himself, no man had ever touched, so long would the voice of the machine-city of
Metropolis roar for food, for food, for food...
She wanted living men for food.
Then the living food came pushing along in masses. Along the street it came, along its
own street which never crossed with other people's streets. It rolled on, 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 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. And they all appeared to be of the same age. They held
themselves straightened up, but not straight. They did not raise their heads, they pushed
them forward. They planted their feet forward, but they did not walk. The open gates of
the New Tower of Babel, the machine center of Metropolis, gulped the masses down.
Towards them, but past them, another procession dragged itself along, the shift just used.
It rolled on, 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 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. And they all seemed one thousand years old. They walked
with hanging fists, they walked with hanging heads. No, they planted their feet forward
but they did not walk. The open gates of the New Tower of Babel, the machine centre of
Metropolis, threw the masses up as it gulped them down.
When the fresh living food had disappeared through the gates the roaring voice was silent
at last. And the never ceasing, throbbing hum of the great Metropolis became perceptible
again, producing the effect of silence, a deep relief. The man who was the great brain in
the brain-pan of Metropolis had ceased to press his fingers on the blue metal plate.
In ten hours he would let the machine brute roar anew. And in another ten hours, again.
And always the same, and always the same, without ever loosening the ten-hour clamp.
Metropolis did not know what Sunday was. Metropolis knew neither high days nor
holidays. Metropolis had the most saintly cathedral in the world, richly adorned with
Gothic decoration. In times of which only the chronicles could tell, the star-crowned
Virgin on its tower used to smile, as a mother, from out her golden mantle, deep, deep
down upon the pious red rooves and the only companions of her graciousness were the
doves which used to nest in the gargoyles of the water-spouts and the bells which were
called after the four archangels and of which Saint Michael was the most magnificent.
It was said that the Master who cast it turned villain for its sake, for he stole consecrated
and unconsecrated silver, like a raven, casting it into the metal body of the bell. As a
reward for his deed he suffered, on the place of execution, the dreadful death on the

wheel. But, it was said, he died exceedingly happy, for the Archangel Michael rang him
on his way to death so wonderfully,