“I have had no experience,” said Freder, tentatively, “except that I believe for the first time in my life to have comprehended the being of a machine....”
“That should mean a great deal,” replied the Master over Metropolis. “But you are probably wrong, Freder. If you had really comprehended the being of a machine you would not be so perturbed.”
Slowly the son turned his eyes and the helplessness of his incomprehension to his father.
“How can one but be perturbed,” he said, “if one comes to you, as I did, through the machine-rooms. Through the glorious rooms of your glorious machines ... and sees the creatures who are fettered to them by laws of eternal watchfulness ... lidless eyes....”
He paused. His lips were dry as dust.
Joh Fredersen leant back. He had not taken his gaze from his son, and still held it fast.
“Why did you come to me through the machine-rooms,” he asked quietly. “It is neither the best, nor the most convenient way.”
“I wished,” said the son, picking his words carefully, “Just once to look the men in the face—whose little children are my brothers—my sisters....”
“H’m,” said the other with very tight lips. The pencil which he held between his fingers tapped gently, dryly, once, twice, upon the table’s edge. Joh Fredersen’s eyes wandered from his son to the twitching flash of the seconds on the clock, then sinking back again to him.
“And what did you find?” he asked.