Freder staggered along to the tower-house in which the heart of the great machine-city of Metropolis had lived, and which it had torn open from top to bottom, when racing itself to death, in the fever of the “12,” so that the house now looked like a ripped open, gaping gate.
A lump of humanity was crawling about the ruins, seeming, from the sounds it emitted, to be nothing but a single curse, on two legs. The horror which lay over Metropolis was Paradise compared with the last, cruel destruction which the lump of humanity was invoking from the lowest and hottest of hells upon the city and its inhabitants.
He found something among the ruins, raised it to his face, recognised it and broke out into howls, similar to the howls of a kicked dog. He rubbed his sobbing mouth upon the little piece of steel.
“May the stinking plague gnaw you, you lice—! May you sit in muck up to your eyes—! May you swill gas instead of water and burst every day—for ten thousand years—over and over again—!”
“Grot!”
“Filth—!”
“Grot!!—Thank God.... Grot, come here!”
“Who’s that—”
“I am Joh Fredersen’s son—”
“Aaah—Hell and the devil—I wanted you—! Come here, you toad—! I must have you between my fists. I’d much rather have had your father, but you’re a bit of him and better than nothing! Come along here, if you’ve got the guts. Ah—my lad, wouldn’t I like to get hold of you! I’d like to smear you from top to toe in mustard and eat you! D’you know what your father’s done—?”