“I cannot believe, father, that there is anything mightier than you! I have cursed your overwhelming might—your overwhelming might which has filled me with horror, from the bottom of my heart. Now I run to you and ask you on my knees: Why do you allow Death to lay hands on the city which is yours—?” “Because Death has come upon the city by my will.” “By your will—?” “Yes.” “The city is to perish—?” “Don’t you know why, Freder?” There was no answer. “The city is to go to ruin that you may build it up again....” “—I—?” “You.” “Then you are laying the murder of the city on my shoulders?” “The murder of the city reposes on the shoulders of those alone who trampled Grot, the guard of the heart-machine, to death.” “Did that also take place by your will, father?” “Yes!” “Then you forced them to commit the crime—?” “For your sake, Freder; that you could redeem them....” “And what about those, father, who must die with your dying city, before I can redeem them!” “Concern yourself about the living, Freder—not about the dead.” “And if the living come to kill you—?” “That will not happen, Freder. That will not happen. The way to me, among the raving god-machines, as you called them, could only be found by one. And he found it. That was my son.” Freder dropped his head into his hands. He rocked it to and fro as if in pain. He moaned softly. He was about to speak; but before he could speak a sound ripped the air, which sounded as though the earth were bursting to pieces. For a moment, everything in the white room seemed to hover in space, a foot above the ground—even Moloch and Baal and Huitzilopochtli and Durgha, even the hammer of Asa Thor and the Towers of Silence. The crosses of Golgotha, from the ends of the beams of which long, white crackling sprigs of sparks were blazing, fell together and then straightened up again. Then everything crashed back into its place with furious emphasis. Then all the lights went out. And from the depths and distance the city howled. “Father—!” shouted Freder. “Yes.—Here I am.—What do you want?” “... I want you to put an end to this nightmare—!” “Now?—now—!” “But I don’t want any more people to suffer—! You must help them—you must save them, father—!” “You must save them. Now—immediately!” “Now? no!” “Then,” said Freder, pushing his fists out far before him, as if pushing something away from him, “then I must seek out the man who can help me—even if he is your enemy and mine.” “Do you mean Rotwang?” No answer. Joh Fredersen continued: “Rotwang cannot help you.” “Why not—” “He is dead.” Silence. Then, tentatively, a strangled voice which asked: “Dead...?” “Yes.” “How did he come ... so suddenly ... to die?” “He died, chiefly, Freder, because he dared to stretch out his hands toward the girl whom you love.” Trembling fingers fumbled up the stem of the cross. “Maria, father—Maria...?” “So he called her.” “Maria—was with him?—In his house—?” “Yes, Freder.”