Freder’s hand glided over his hair, then rested on its glorious fairness. He opened his lips, as though he wanted to say something; but he remained silent. “Do you suppose,” Joh Fredersen went on, “that I need my secretaries’ pencils to check American stock-exchange reports? The index tables of Rotwang’s trans-ocean trumpets are a hundred times more reliable and swift than clerk’s brains and hands. But, by the accuracy of the machine I can measure the accuracy of the men, by the breath of the machine, the lungs of the men who compete with her.” “And the man you just dismissed, and who is doomed (for to be dismissed by you, father, means going down!... Down!... Down!...) he lost his breath, didn’t he?” “Yes.” “Because he was a man and not a machine....” “Because he denied his humanity before the machine.” Freder raised his head and his deeply troubled eyes. “I cannot follow you now, father,” he said, as if in pain. The expression of patience on Joh Fredersen’s face deepened. “The man,” he said quietly, “was my first secretary! The salary he drew was eight times as large as that of the last. That was synonymous with the obligation to perform eight times as much. To me. Not to himself. To-morrow the fifth secretary will be in his place. In a week he will have rendered four of the others superfluous. I have use for that man.” “Because he saves four others.” “No, Freder. Because he takes delight in the work of four others. Because he throws himself entirely into his work—throws himself as desiringly as if it were a woman.” Freder was silent. Joh Fredersen looked at his son. He looked at him carefully. “You have had some experience?” he asked. The eyes of the boy, beautiful and sad, slipped past him, out into space. Wild, white light frothed against the windows, and, in going out, left the sky behind, as a black velvet cloth over Metropolis. “I have had no experience,” said Freder, tentatively, “except that I believe for the first time in my life to have comprehended the being of a machine....” “That should mean a great deal,” replied the Master over Metropolis. “But you are probably wrong, Freder. If you had really comprehended the being of a machine you would not be so perturbed.” Slowly the son turned his eyes and the helplessness of his incomprehension to his father. “How can one but be perturbed,” he said, “if one comes to you, as I did, through the machine-rooms. Through the glorious rooms of your glorious machines ... and sees the creatures who are fettered to them by laws of eternal watchfulness ... lidless eyes....” He paused. His lips were dry as dust. Joh Fredersen leant back. He had not taken his gaze from his son, and still held it fast. “Why did you come to me through the machine-rooms,” he asked quietly. “It is neither the best, nor the most convenient way.” “I wished,” said the son, picking his words carefully, “Just once to look the men in the face—whose little children are my brothers—my sisters....”