Freder let go of Georgi’s hand. He began to run up the stairs. Night embraced him—the night of Metropolis—this light-mad, drunken night....
Everything was still the same as usual. Nothing indicated the storm which was to break out from inside the earth, under Metropolis, to murder the machine-city.
But it seemed to Joh Fredersen’s son as if the stones were giving way under his feet—as though he heard in the air the rushing of wings—the rushing of the wings of strange monsters: beings with women’s bodies and snakes’ heads—beings, half bull, half angel—devils adorned with crowns—human faced lions....
It seemed to him as if he saw death sitting on the New Tower of Babel, in hat and wide cloak, whetting his propped up scythe....
He reached the New Tower of Babel. Everything was as usual. The Dawn was fighting the first fight with the Early Morning. He looked for his father. He did not find him. Nobody could say where Joh Fredersen had gone at midnight.
The Brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel was empty.
Freder wiped from his brow the sweat which was running in drops over his temples.
“I must find my father—!” he said. “I must call him—cost what it may!”
Men, with servants’ eyes looked at him. Men who knew nothing apart from blind obedience—who could not advise, still less help....
Joh Fredersen’s son stepped into his father’s place, at the table where his great father used to sit. He was as white as the silk which he wore as he stretched out his hand and pressed his fingers on the little blue metal plate, which no man ever touched apart from Joh Fredersen.