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out to
another world, searching for truths about our past and our future,
we would want to maintain our balance—or at least I would.”
    “Understandable, but I tend to agree with
Nietzsche. If we are on this trip in search of some sort of greater
truth, religious convictions would be more dangerous enemies of
that truth than blatant lies,” Dr. Winberg answered.
    Cyrus had seen this coming before they had
even selected him as the astrophysics specialist on this team of
eminent scientists and researchers. A crock pot of twenty men, all
reputed and dominant in their own fields, holed-up and concentrated
under the pressures of trailblazing a virgin frontier; it was only
a matter of time before teeth bared, horns locked, blood was drawn.
But Winberg wasted no time. As soon as the Call to the Post was
sounded, he strained against the reigns of discretion. There was no
doubt that he too saw something in Dr. Tanner, but unlike Cyrus, it
was dark and threatening to Winberg. Cyrus had guessed Dr. Winberg
would be the first to pound his chest. He was a fellow professor at
the Los Angeles Arcology of Science and had as great a reputation
for groundbreaking arrogance as he did for groundbreaking lectures.
Cyrus had only met him directly once briefly at a conference on the
long-term effect of gravity waves on the brain. The brevity of the
meeting had kept the situation sociable, but students and teachers
alike had known Dr. Winberg to brandish his prominence and
knowledge like a standard, and often at the expense of those less
prominent or knowledgeable. Even here, it seemed he had a
refinement of insult that would make those who responded in a
manner Cyrus felt was necessary, appear brazen and uncouth.
Although Cyrus had expected the first press for the hill to come
from Winberg, he had expected it later in the trip, and he had
expected it to be directed toward him.
    Dr. Tanner calmly took another sip of his
pint. “There is a line, however, between the proselytizer and the
zealot, and it is quite wide.”
    Dr. Fordham added as Dr. Tanner drank, “Dr.
Tanner here is merely exercising his own right to worship as he
pleases. He has not sought to offend or accost any of us with his
beliefs.”
    “To Dr. Tanner’s credit, I agree. But,
personally, in the company of such educated men. I find the very
idea of a belief or a religion prostrating any of us as offensive.
In my experience, religion itself is a bandage masking the abscess
of a frail intellect. An ointment to sooth the palsy of ignorance
feebly supported by the gnarled crutch of dogma.” Dr. Winberg
lifted his pint to eclipse what Cyrus thought must have been a
smirk. Any thoughts that his assumptive assessment of Winberg had
been unfounded drained away as quickly as the thick liquid that
passed from Winberg’s cup into his still pudgy belly. Cyrus could
sit idle no longer.
    “Are you suggesting that education is somehow
more valuable than imagination?” Cyrus knew this was not exactly
what Winberg had meant, but he figured if he attacked his statement
directly, he would be walking into a timeworn, prefabricated
response. A response that would, without a doubt, degrade the
discussion to an academic shouting match, filled with intelligent
sounding, but pedestrian, aphorisms and verbiage. Cyrus was
comfortable even in that arena, but he could not watch this man
posturing himself by pushing others around with his academic
ale-belly, and playing on Dr. Winberg’s field would only elicit
more of that.
    “I don’t feel archaic dogmas and traditions
have anything to do with imagination. I think they anchor us to our
lower selves and that education is the only way to free ourselves
of those shackles. It seems it should be obvious to anyone who has
matriculated through Laureateship as we all have.” He spread his
arms to indicate everyone at the table. It was a welcoming gesture,
but to Cyrus it seemed histrionic and overblown.
    “Only those who are born into the