Jean-Michel shifted on his feet. Was Richter simply reciting the facts, or was he suggesting he knew something more about Demain's origins.

"You have recently received a patent for a silicon chip which directly stimulates nerve cells, a chip which Demain will be using in its new computer software. But you were apolitical in school. When you were hired by Demain, you adopted Dominique's worldview. Only then did he bring you into the very special inner circle of his New Jacobins, to help him rid France of Algerians, Moroccans, Arabs, and our common enemy the Israelis. But the operative word is help, M. Horne. In the pecking order, ethnic wretches are dispensible. Devoted servants are higher, but they too are replaceable."

Jean-Michel did not speak.

"Then there's just one other matter we have to discuss," Richter said. "How deeply I bite the lamb."

Richter angled the knife so it was point-up. Jean-Michel tried to back away again, but the man behind him grabbed a fistful of hair and held him steady. Richter moved the blade higher until the tip was under the upper eyelid. He continued to move it up slowly, along the contour of the eye, as he spoke.

"Did you know that I studied medicine before I founded the 21st Century party?" Richter asked. "Answer."

"Yes." Hating himself for it, Jean-Michel added, "Please, Herr Richter. Please--"

"I was a doctor," Richter said, "and I would have made a good one had I decided to practice. But I elected not to, and do you know why? Because I realized I couldn't give care to genetic inferiors. I mention this because, as you can see, I found another use for my training. I use it to influence. To control the body and thus the mind. For example, if I continue to push the knife upwards, I know I'll encounter the lateral rectus muscle. If I cut that muscle, you will find it extremely difficult to look up or down. It will be necessary for you to wear an eyepatch after that, or you'll be disoriented as your eyes work independently, and"-- he laughed-- "you will look rather freakish, with one eye staring straight ahead, the other one moving normally."

Jean-Michel was panting, his legs wobbling violently. If the big man weren't holding him by the hair he'd have fallen. The knife was out of focus as the Frenchman looked at Richter's red-tinted face. He felt a prick above the eyeball.

"Please, no," he sobbed. "Mon Dieu, Herr Richter--"

Tears smeared his vision, and the trembling of his jaw caused the eye to shake. Each move caused a fresh and painful nick.

Slowly, the German brought his left hand toward the knife. His fingers were facing down. He placed his palm against the bottom of the hilt, as though he were going to jam it up.