“Joh Fredersen is speaking.”
“I want the pass-word.”
“The pass-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 passed sentence upon the machines!
We have condemned the machines to death!
The machines must die—to hell 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 superstitious fear. Desire for the last destruction stood in the face of the mob.