Free Transhumanist Wager, The by Zoltan Istvan Page A

turned aggressively to
Gregory. “Stay out of it. You’re not the real thing. You and just about
everyone else in this room don’t have a future in philosophy. Your future is in
law, and maybe worse: politics. These classes are just stepping stones to your
BMWs, your fancy parties, your pretense at power in society. For me, this
class, my thesis, and my degree are really about philosophy and how I apply it
to my life. I am a philosopher in the true sense. Not a future law student
thinking about grad admissions and summer internships at Barney &
Fleturstein Law Offices or whatever ambulance-chasing, corporate-suing cheat
shops you're going to end up at. Or worse: brownnosing as a political aide to
Senator So-and-So of whatever loser party they claim to belong to as they
systematically destroy America.”
    For an instant, Jethro appeared as
if he might leap out of his chair and attack Gregory. People in the class were
stunned by the fierce response and the escalating tension.
    Jethro twisted around in his chair
and said to all of them, “I don’t even know why you people exist or even come
here. Isn’t there a better way to get into law school? Or to go into politics?”
    Protectively, the professor walked
in between Jethro and Gregory, bitterly shaking his head. He responded to the
curveball, saying loudly, “They come here, Mr. Knights, for leaving a lasting
mark on the world and its interpretation of the rules society has freely agreed
to follow. They are great minds who drift through the halls of this school and
department, prompted by a higher force. Remember our university motto: In
luine tuo videbimus lumen . In Thy light, we shall see light.”
    “In Thy light!” said Jethro. “The
lawyers defending that imbecilic group that bombed and murdered those
transhuman scientists in Illinois six weeks ago are former philosophy students
from this department. What kind of light is that? It’s screwed up—and we
all know it.”
    There was a pause, a moment of
introspection. Then denial. It was easier to change the subject and stay with
the God talk.
    “You know,” the professor
swaggered, regaining control of the classroom and speaking pensively, almost to
himself, “I had dinner with the President of the United States and some of our
top senators last week, as I usually do with all our most important alumni once
a year. It was right after the town hall forum. A little informal meal.
Reverend Belinas led us through an eloquent grace before we ate. He spoke of
our belief and feelings for something higher than us, something grander than
us. It was quite moving—and, of course, all very true. You should try it
sometime, Jethro. Open your mind and heart to people, to love, to goodness, to
positive energy, to something more grand and wise than your diminutive self.”
    Jethro sat rigid in his seat,
plagued with disbelief—just like Dr. Nathan Cohen at the town hall forum every
time the scientist heard the words “God” or “faith” or “prayer” mentioned.
Jethro was unable to comprehend the irrationally in front of him, surrounding
him, squawking at him. Its form seemed too monstrously idiotic to be authentic.
He uttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” without even knowing he said it.
    “No, Jethro, I’m not kidding,” the
professor answered softly and gravely. “I’m not kidding whatsoever.”
    Professor Rindall walked back to
his desk and slowly sat down in his chair. He now appeared to be lecturing to a
lost, crippled beast who bewildered and disgusted him. “Regrettably, Jethro, I
think we’re all done considering your paper, your thoughts—and, frankly, even
you altogether. There’s really nothing more to say.”
    Rindall looked around the room,
affirming this. “And so, with that, I’m going to ask you to leave now, Mr.
Knights. Leave the class. I didn’t realize your ideas were so—antisocial.
Seeing that you graduate next week, it’s too late to try to stop a man of your
passion and