A huge man stood at a podium, staring out at his audience with fierce green eyes. He had wild red hair and a beard streaked with gray, he was clad entirely in black, and the polished handles of his laser pistols were plainly visible atop his holsters.

“And if thy hand offends thee, cut it off,” Father William was intoning in a rich, resonant baritone. “For the Lord is more than an ideal, more than an object of affection, even more than a Creator.” He paused for effect. “Never forget, my children, that the Lord is also a surgeon. And He doesn’t use the sword of redemption. He uses the scalpel of justice!”

Virtue took an aisle seat in the next-to-last row.

“Yes, brethren,” continued Father William, “we’re talking about infection. Not the infection of the body, for the body is the province of the doctor, but the infection of the spirit, which is the province of the Lord and such temporal emissaries as He deigns to have represent Him.”

He paused and reached for a glass that was filled with a blue liquid, took a long swallow, and then resumed speaking.

“Now, they’ve got a lot in common, the body and the spirit. First and foremost, they can bring pleasure to the Lord, the body by being fruitful and multiplying, the spirit by worshiping Him and singing His praises. But they’ve got something else in common, too. Both of them can be overrun with infection; they can become pustules of decay, unsightly in the eyes of both man and God.”

A gaunt man with a handlebar mustache and thick, bushy sideburns entered the tent, looked around for a seat, and finally approached Virtue.

“Do you mind moving over just a bit?” he whispered.

She moved to her left, making room for him.

“I meant to get here sooner, but one of my harvesters broke down,” he added apologetically. “Have I missed much?”

She shook her head and placed a finger to her lips.

“Sorry,” he muttered, turning his attention to Father William.

“Now, if the body gets a mild infection, what do we do?” The preacher glared out at his audience, as if daring them to answer. Nobody said a word. “We give it antibiotics. And if it gets a major infection, we give it other drugs.” He gripped the edges of the podium with his massive hands. “And when it gets infected by a cancer, what do we do?” He made a slashing motion with his right hand. “We cut it out!” he shouted.

He paused and drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “But what about the soul? What do we do when it becomes infected? How do we inject an antibiotic into its bloodstream? How do we amputate a piece of the soul before the infection can spread?”