And not a soul, not a soul in the white rooms. The machines, these god-machines, left terribly alone. And they were all living—yes they were really living—an enhanced, an enflamed life. For Metropolis had a brain. Metropolis had a heart. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis dwelt in a white, cathedral-like building. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis was, until this day and this hour, guarded by one single man. The heart of the machine-city of Metropolis was a machine and a universe to itself. Above the deep mysteries of its delicate joints, like the sun’s disc—like the halo of a divine being—stood the silver-spinning wheel, the spokes of which appeared in the whirl of revolution, as a single, gleaming, disc. No machine in all Metropolis which did not receive its power from this heart. One, single lever controlled this marvel of steel. With the lever set to “Safety” all the machines would play with their curbed power, like tame animals. The shimmering spokes of the sun-wheel would circle, clearly to be distinguished, above the Heart-machine. With the lever set to “6”—and it was generally set there—then work would spell slavery. The machines would roar. The powerful wheel of the Heart-machine would hang, an apparently motionless mirror of brightest silver, above it. And the mighty thunder of the machines, produced by the heart-beat of this one, would arch itself, a second heaven, above Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s city. But never, as yet, since the construction of Metropolis, had the lever been set to “12.” Now it was set to “12.” Now the lever was set to “12.” A girl’s hand, more delicate than glass, had pressed around the weighty lever, which was set to “Safety,” until it touched “12.” The heart of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen’s great city had begun to run up a temperature, seized by a deadly illness, chasing the red waves of its fever along to all the machines which were fed by its pulse. No machine in all Metropolis which did not receive its power from this heart. Then all the god-machines were taken with the fever.... From the Towers of Silence there broke forth the vapour of decomposition. Blue flames hovered in the space above them. And the towers, the huge towers, which used otherwise to turn about but once in the course of the day, tottered around on their pedestals in a drunken, spinning dance, full to bursting point. Mahomet’s curved sword was as circular lightning in the air. It met with no resistance, it cut and cut. It grew angry because it had nothing to cut. The power which, squandered too uselessly, was still increasing, now gathered itself together and, hissing, sent out snakes, green, hissing snakes, in all directions. From the projecting arms of the crosses of Golgotha there swept long, white, crackling springs of sparks.