It was an immeasurably glorious and transporting sound, as deep and rumbling as and more powerful than any sound on earth. The voice of the sea when it is angry, the voice of falling torrents, the voice of very close thunder-storms would be miserably drowned in this Behemoth-din. Without being shrill it penetrated all walls and, as long as it lasted, all things seemed to swing in it. It was omnipresent, coming from the heights and from the depths, being beautiful and horrible, being an irresistible command. It was high above the town. It was the voice of the town. Metropolis raised her voice. The machines of Metropolis roared; they wanted to be fed. “My father,” thought Freder, half unconsciously, “has pressed his fingers upon the blue metal plate. The brain of Metropolis controls the town. Nothing happens in Metropolis which does not come to my father’s ears. I shall go to my father and ask him if the inventor, Rotwang, has played with Maria and with me in the name of Joh Fredersen.” He turned around to wend his way to the New Tower of Babel. He set off with the obstinacy of one possessed, with screwed up lips, sharp lines between the eyebrows, clenched fists on his weak, dangling arms. He set off as though he wanted to pound the stone beneath his feet. It seemed as though every drop of blood in his face had collected in his eyes alone. He ran, and, on the interminable way, at every step, he had the feeling: I am not he who is running.... I am running, a spirit, by the side of my own self.... I, the spirit, am forcing my body to run onwards, although it is tired to death.... Those who stared at him when he arrived at the New Tower of Babel seemed to be seeing, not him, but a spirit.... He was about to enter the Pater-noster, which was pumping its way, a scoop-wheel for human beings, through the New Tower of Babel. But a sudden shudder pushed him away from it. Did there not crouch below, deep, deep, down, under the sole of the New Tower of Babel, a little, gleaming machine, which was like Ganesha, the god with the elephant’s head? Under the crouching body, and the head, which was sunken on the chest, crooked legs rested, gnome-like, upon the platform. The trunk and legs were motionless. But the short arms pushed and pushed and pushed, alternately, forwards, backwards, forwards. Who was standing before the machine now, cursing the Lord’s Prayer—the Lord’s Prayer of the Pater-noster machine? Shivering with horror, he ran up the stairs. Stairs and stairs and stairs.... They would never come to an end.... The brow of the New Tower of Babel lifted itself very near to the sky. The tower roared like the sea. It howled as deep as the storm. The hurtling of a water-fall boomed in its veins. “Where is my father?” Freder asked the servants. They indicated a door. They wanted to announce him. He shook his head. He wondered: Why were these people looking so strangely at him?