The scalpel cut a thin line in Stein's forehead before Birkin managed to stop him. It began to run crimson over his too-pale skin, running down Stein's nose, but it was very shallow and wouldn't scar.

"He's going to cut out my brain," he said, almost reasonably. "It's wrong. Diseased. It needs to be fixed."

His eyes moved to Birkin's face. Slowly, he lowered his hand and dropped the scalpel into Birkin's other hand. "Why are you so upset?"