Sweaty Faced and Starry Eyed

Ghandi stands stunned in the sweltering Kalahari desert, next to the railroad tracks, where sunburnt, peeling Irish slaves are hammering great iron spikes into the rock, every now and then opening their mouths to make horrible sounds- their tongues have been ripped out for speaking the Irish language. Sweat pours down his Ghandi's face. He is bleeding from a bullet hole in his torso, a terrible bloom of scarlet on his white linen.
Carl Sagan stands next to him in a turtleneck sweater, apparently impervious to the heat. He seems to be standing in an invisible bubble of air-conditioning. Behind him, standing still as a statue, is a British army officer, rifle with bayonet pointing straight into the white sky.
"I wouldn't deny that the grandeur of the cosmos does inspire some kind of... religious feeling," Sagan says. "In my experiences with marijuana, I had some sensations that I would describe as religious, for lack of any other word. But I really know nothing about theology. I guess what I want to ask you is... when you say, 'I am Christian, and Hindu, and Moslem, what do you mean?"
Ghandi wheezes something unintelligible. He staggers a bit, and his spectacles fall off his sweat-slick face, and land on the hard-packed earth, the heavy lenses cracking.
"I haven't seen any evidence at all that such a thing as a non-corporeal intelligence can exist. But that doesn't mean that it isn't possible," Sagan concludes.