Up the stairs of the New Tower of Babel did Josaphat drag himself. He had learnt to swear in that quarter of an hour, even as Grot used to swear, and he made full use of his newly acquired art. He roared at the pain which racked his limbs. He spat out an excess of hatred and contempt at the agony in his knees. Wild and ingenious were the execrations which he hurled at every landing, every new bend in the staircase. But he conquered them all—one hundred and six flights of stairs, each consisting of thirty steps. He reached the semicircle where the lifts had their opening. In the corners before the door to Joh Fredersen’s rooms there crouched knots of human beings, pressed together by the common pressure of a terrible fear. They turned their heads to stare at the man who was crawling up the stairs, dragging himself up by aid of the walls. His wild eyes swept over them. “What is it?” he asked breathlessly. “What are you all doing here?” Agitated voices whispered. Nobody knew who was speaking. Words tumbled over each other. “He drove us out into the town, where death is running as though amok.... He sent us out to look for his son, Freder. We couldn’t find him.... None of us.... We daren’t go in to Joh Fredersen.... Nobody dares take him the news that we haven’t been able to find his son....” A voice swung out, high and sharp from out the knot: “Who can find one single damned soul in this hell—?” “Hush ... hush...!” “Listen—!” “He is talking to Slim.” And in the tension of listening, which smothered every sound, the heads bent towards the door. Behind the door a voice spoke, as were the wood rattling: “Where is my son...?” Josaphat made for the door, staggering. The panting cry of many men tried to stop him. Hands were stretched out towards him. “Don’t—don’t—!!” But he had already pushed open the door. He looked about him. Through the enormous windows the first glow of the youthful day was flowing, lying on the shining floor like pools of blood. By the wall, near the door, stood Slim. And just before him stood Joh Fredersen. His fists were pressed against the wall, right and left of the man, holding him fast, as though they had been drilled through him, crucifying him. “Where is my son—?” said Joh Fredersen. He asked—and his voice cracked as if in suffocation: “Where is my child?” Slim’s head flung back against the wall. From his ashen lips came the toneless words: “To-morrow there will be many in Metropolis who will ask: “‘Joh Fredersen, where is my child?’” Joh Fredersen’s fists relaxed. His whole body twisted around. Then the man who had been the Master over Metropolis saw that another man was standing in the room. He stared at him. The sweat trickled down his face in cold, slow, burdensome drops. The face twitched in a terrible impotence. “Where is my son—?” asked Joh Fredersen, babblingly. He stretched out his hand. The hand shot through the air, groping aimlessly. “Do you know, where my son is—?”