The seven strangers quitted the now silent room. Freder crossed to his father, whose glance was sweeping the lists of captured number-drops. Freder’s eyes clung to the blue metal plate near his father’s right hand. “How did you know it was I?” he asked, softly. Joh Fredersen did not look up at him. Although his face had gained an expression of patience and pride at the first question which his son put to him he had lost none of his alertness. He glanced at the clock. His fingers glided over the flexible keyboard. Soundlessly were orders flashed out to waiting men. “The door opened. Nobody was announced. Nobody comes to me unannounced. Only my son.” A light below glass—a question. Joh Fredersen extinguished the light. The first secretary entered and crossed over to the great Master of Metropolis. “You were right. It was a mistake. It has been rectified,” he reported, expressionlessly. “Thank you.” Not a look. Not a gesture. “The G— bank has been notified to pay you your salary. Good evening.” The young man stood motionless. Three, four, five, six seconds flicked off the gigantic time-piece. Two empty eyes burnt in the chalky face of the young man, impressing their brand of fear upon Freder’s vision. One of Joh Fredersen’s shoulders made a leisurely movement. “Good evening,” said the young man, in a strangled tone. He went. “Why did you dismiss him, father?” the son asked. “I have no use for him,” said Joh Fredersen, still not having looked at his son. “Why not, father?” “I have no use for people who start when one speaks to them,” said the Master over Metropolis. “Perhaps he felt ill ... perhaps he is worrying about somebody who is dear to him.” “Possibly. Perhaps too, he was still under the effects of the too long night in Yoshiwara. Freder, avoid assuming people to be good, innocent and victimized just because they suffer. He who suffers has sinned, against himself and against others.” “You do not suffer, father?” “No.” “You are quite free from sin?” “The time of sin and suffering lies behind me, Freder.” “And if this man, now.... I have never seen such a thing ... but I believe that men resolved to end their lives go out of a room as he did....” “Perhaps.” “And suppose you were to hear, to-morrow, that he were dead ... that would leave you untouched...?” “Yes.” Freder was silent. His father’s hand slipped over a lever, and pressed it down. The white lamps in all the rooms surrounding the brain-pan of the New Tower of Babel went out. The Master over Metropolis had informed the circular world around him that he did not wish to be disturbed without urgent cause. “I cannot tolerate it,” he continued, “when a man, working upon Metropolis, at my right hand, in common with me, denies the only great advantage he possesses above the machine.” “And what is that, father?” “To take delight in work,” said the Master over Metropolis.