Consciousness returned to the dull eyes together with recognition. “Yes, I know you.... You are the son of Joh Fredersen ... of Joh Fredersen, who is the father of us all....” “Yes. Therefore I am your brother, Georgi, do you see? I heard your Pater-noster....” The body flung itself up with a heave. “The machine—” He sprang to his feet. “My machine—!” “Leave it alone, Georgi, and listen to me....” “Somebody must be at the machine!” “Somebody will be at the machine; but not you....” “Who will, then?” “I.” Staring eyes were the answer. “I,” repeated Freder. “Are you fit to listen to me, and will you be able to take good note of what I say? It is very important, Georgi!” “Yes,” said Georgi, paralysed. “We shall now exchange lives, Georgi. You take mine, I yours. I shall take your place at the machine. You go quietly out in my clothes. Nobody noticed me when I came here. Nobody will notice you when you go. You must only not lose your nerve and keep calm. Keep under cover of where the air is brewing like a mist. When you reach the street take a car. You will find more than enough money in my pockets. Three streets further on change the car. And again after another three streets. Then drive to the Ninetieth Block. At the corner pay off the taxi and wait until the driver is out of sight. Then find your way to the seventh floor of the seventh house. A man called Josaphat lives there. You are to go to him. Tell him I sent you. Wait for me or for a message from me. Do you understand, Georgi?” “Yes.” But the “Yes” was empty and seemed to reply to something other than Freder’s question. A little while later the son of Joh Fredersen, the Master of the great Metropolis, was standing before the machine which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant’s head. He wore the uniform of all the workmen of Metropolis: from throat to ankle the dark blue linen, bare feet in the hard shoes, hair firmly pressed down by the black cap. He held his hand on the lever and his gaze was set on the clock, the hands of which vibrated like magnetic needles. The hunted stream of air washed around him making the folds of the canvas flutter. Then he felt how, slowly, chokingly, from the incessant trembling of the floor, from the walls in which the furnaces whistled, from the ceiling which seemed eternally to be in the act of falling down, from the pushing of the short arms of the machine, from the steady resistance of the gleaming body, terror welled up in him—terror, even to the certainty of Death.