As soon as I saw her name on the list of pros coming for the First Lunar Golf Invitational, I rushed to Sam’s office.
For the head of a major corporation, Sam had chosen an office that was far from imposing. Modest, even. He wasted no money on the trappings of power. The office was merely a small room in the complex that housed Dante’s Inferno on one side and the virtual reality simulations center on the other.
Sam’s office did feature one concession to his ego, though. His desk was raised slightly on a cleverly disguised platform. And the chairs before the desk were shortened, their legs sawed down a few centimeters. Sitting in front of him, you had to look up at Sam, while he looked down at you. I heard years later that Sam had picked up that trick from reading about Joseph Stalin, the dictator of the Soviet Union. Sam did a lot of reading about powerful men who were short: Napoleon, Stalin, Alexander Hamilton.
“Sam,” I exclaimed as I burst into his office, “you’ve invited Mai Pohan!”
Looking mildly surprised, Sam replied, “Sure. She’s one of the top golfers on the international tour.”
Before I could begin to thank him, Sam added, “And she’s the best-looking woman in the bunch of ’em.” He broke into a leering grin.
Sam’s reputation as a woman-chaser was well known. Behind his desk I could see a panoply of photographs of Sam with spectacularly beautiful women, sometimes two or even three of them hanging on him. Most of them were very scantily clad.
“She’s young, beautiful, unattached,” Sam went on, his leer widening. “I intend to show her the wonders of lunar living.”
At that instant I began to hate Sam Gunn.
I threw myself into building the golf course, while Sam spent most of his time arranging transportation and accommodations for the invited golfers. I’ve got to admit that a good many tourists did sign up to come to Hell for the tournament; Sam’s judgment about its attraction was squarely on the mark.
Once I mapped out the course, the actual construction didn’t take very long. I directed a team of human and robot workers who smoothed the greens areas and fairways (and painted them), removed a good deal of the rocks and pebbles that were strewn everywhere, rearranged some of the bigger boulders so they presented strategic problems for the golfers, and leveled off the tee boxes.
It turned out the greens were now too smooth, too fast. Tap a ball and it rolled right across the green and into the deep sand of the rough. So we had to spread a thin layer of sand over them. And spray-paint it green.
We painted the golf balls too, a brilliant Day-Glo orange, so they could be seen against the gray lunar sand of the tees and the rough.
Finally we planted the tall lighted poles at the holes, so the players could see where they should aim their shots.
Sam was buzzing about like a mosquito on amphetamines, meeting and greeting the invited golfers as they arrived on the Moon. They flew from Earth to Selene, of course, and stayed at the Paradise Hotel (all expenses paid by S. Gunn Enterprises, Unlimited) until the entire fifty professionals—plus their families and/or friends—had arrived. Then they were whisked to Hell Crater on a special passage of the elevated tram line that connected Selene to Hell.
I wondered how Sam could possibly afford all this largesse, but when I asked him about it he simply shrugged and said, “You’ve got to spend money to make money. Prime rule of business, Charlie.”
I made it my prime business to be at the tram depot when the pros arrived on their special train. Sam was there too, of course, eager as a tail-wagging puppy, leading a small army of guides, robot porters, and news reporters. He had even brought the band from Dante’s Inferno to provide lively music.
Sam seemed surprised to see me there, in the midst of all the flunkies.
“Shouldn’t you be rearranging rocks or something?” he asked, over the noise of the milling assistants and the band.
“All done, Sam,” I shouted into his ear. “The course is ready for action.”
He broke into that leering smile of his. “So am I, Charlie.”
The tram glided into the depot, the airlock hatch closed behind it, and the band broke into a raucus welcoming rendition of “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Golfers of all sizes and shapes came pouring out of the tram, together with assorted family members, friends, and hangers-on. I began to worry that I wouldn’t be able to see tiny Mai Pohan in the crowd.
But there she was! She looked like a little waif, standing alone in the swirl of people, like a delicate flower in the midst of a storm.
I pushed through the bodies toward her, but Sam was faster. He grabbed her by the arm and led her to one of the carts that were lined up to take his guests to the Paradise Hotel below the entertainment complex. In all the noise and bustle, Mai didn’t see me. Sam was jabbering in her ear nonstop, and she looked pleased that Sam Gunn himself was escorting her.
He seated her in the cart, then climbed up onto its roof and bellowed, “Welcome to the First Lunar Golf Invitational! I want you all to enjoy yourselves.”
I stood there, hopelessly hemmed in by the surging crowd, as Sam clambered down to sit beside Mai. They headed off for the hotel, leaving me standing there, alone in the midst of the throng.
For a solid week I tried to see Mai alone, but she was either playing practice rounds or in Sam’s company. We had dinner together a couple of times, but always with Sam and a bunch of other golfers.
“It’s a very interesting course,” Mai said to me, from across the dinner table. Sam sat at its head, with Mai on his right. Six others were at the table, all internationally-known golfers.
“I got the best designer in the business,” Sam said proudly.
The man on my left, a burly, ruddy-faced South African, Rufus Kleindienst, complained, “Hitting the ball over the horizon is a bit weird. Why’d you make the course so bloody big?”
“We’re on the Moon,” Sam answered. “Lower gravity, no air resistance.”
“Yes, but you could have just made the balls heavier to compensate for that. Hitting the ball over the horizon is wacko.”
I agreed with him, but one of the other pros, Suddartha Ramjanmyan, a rake-thin Indian, spoke up: “You are a very long hitter, after all. Now the rest of us have a chance to match you.”
Rufus grinned good-naturedly.
But one of the Yanks, a youthful-looking sandy blond sitting down at the end of the table, piped up. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve made this a mixed tournament. Why not a men’s tournament and a separate one for women? That’s the normal way.”
Sam explained, “We’ve got to hustle things along a little. The Sun sets in ten days. That gives us a week for practice and getting accustomed to the course, and three days for the tournament. After that we’ll have two solid weeks of night.”
“Two weeks of night?” The Yank was totally surprised. He might have been a champion golfer, but he hadn’t bothered to learn the first thing about conditions on the Moon.
“Two weeks,” Sam repeated solemnly. “Starlight’s pretty bright, but I think you’ll prefer playing in the daytime.”
