New Frontiers Read Free Page A

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.
    â€œShouldn’t you be rearranging rocks or something?” he asked, over the noise of the milling assistants and the band.
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œIt’s a very interesting course,” Mai said to me, from across