“... and give up the machine!” “The machine—?” said Grot, “_the—my machine?_” “Yes,” said the quiet voice. The guard of the Heart-machine began to shake. His was a quite blue face, in which the eyes stood like whitish balls. The mob, which was throwing itself, as a buffer, against the ringing door yelled, hoarse with yelling: “The machines must die—to Hell with them! Death! Death! Death to the machines!” “Who is speaking there?” asked the man, so loudly that his words were a scream. “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. But before it could take expression Grot, the guard, threw himself before his machine. There was no filthy word which he did not raise to chuck into the face of the mob. The dirtiest term of revilement was not dirty enough for him to apply to the mob. The mob turned red eyes upon him. The mob glared at him. The mob saw: The man there, in front of them, was abusing them in the name of the machine. For them, the man and the machine melted into one. Man and machine deserved the same hatred. They pushed forward against man and machine. They seized the man and meant the machine. They roared him down. They stamped him underfoot. They dragged him hither and thither and out of the door. They forgot the machine, for they had the man—had the guard of the heart-beat of all the machines—thinking that, in tearing the man away from the Heart-machine, they were tearing the heart from the breast of the great machine-city. What should be done to the heart of Metropolis? It should be trodden underfoot by the mob. “Death!” yelled the victorious mob. “Death to the machines!” yelled the victorious mob. They did not see that they no longer had a leader. They did not see that the girl was missing from the procession.