New Frontiers Read Free

don’t know how much time passed or how many drinks I consumed, but all of a sudden Mai sat herself primly on the stool next to mine.
    My jaw dropped open, but she gave me a rueful smile and said, “You almost cost me the tournament, Chou.”
    â€œI did?” I squeaked.
    â€œOnce I saw you I lost all my concentration.”
    â€œI … I’m sorry.”
    She ordered a club soda from the man-sized robot tending the bar while I sat beside her in stunned silence.
    â€œIt’s been a long time,” she said, once her drink arrived.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow is married life?”
    â€œMiserable.”
    Those fathomless eyes of hers widened a bit, then she smiled sadly. “I’m almost glad.”
    I heard myself blurt, “You’re the one I love, Mai. My family arranged the marriage. I had to go through with it.”
    â€œI know,” she said. “I understand.”
    â€œI love you.” It seemed inane, pointless—cruel, almost—but I said it.
    Very softly, so low that I barely heard her, Mai replied, “I love you too. I always have.”
    I kissed her. Right there at the bar. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips. The first and last time we ever kissed.
    Mai said, “Like it or not, you’re a married man.”
    â€œAnd you…?”
    â€œI could never marry anyone else.” There were tears in her eyes.
    That was my encounter with Mai Pohan. That was all there was to it. But we must have been observed, probably by one of the paparazzi following the golf tournament. By the time I got back to Singapore my wife was raging like a forest fire and her mother was hiring women to testify in court that I had fathered their illegitimate children. The police produced DNA evidence, faked of course, but my defense attorney didn’t dare to challenge it.
    My parents disowned me. My contracts for new golf courses disappeared. I was alone, friendless, on my way to jail, when Sam whisked me to the Moon.
    Four hundred thousand kilometers away from Mai Pohan.
    And now she was coming to Hell Crater!
    *   *   *
    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.
    â€œSam,” 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.
    â€œShe’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