The eye of the little machine, the soft, malicious eye, twinkled at him from behind.
“Good-bye, friend,” said the little machine.
Freder’s head fell upon his breast. He felt himself dragged further, heard the dull evenness of feet tramping onwards, felt himself tramping, a member of twelve members. The ground under his feet began to roll; it was drawn upwards, pulling him up with it.
Doors stood open, double doors. Towards him came a stream of men.
The great Metropolis was still roaring.
Suddenly she fell dumb and in the silence Freder became aware of the breath of a man at his ear, and of a voice—merely a breath—which asked:
“She has called.... Are you coming?”
He did not know what the question meant, but he nodded. He wanted to get to know the ways of those who walked, as he, in blue linen, in the black cap, in the hard shoes.
With tightly closed eye-lids he groped on, shoulder to shoulder with an unknown man.
She has called, he thought, half asleep. Who is that ... she...?