New Frontiers Read Free Page B

the dinner table. Sam sat at its head, with Mai on his right. Six others were at the table, all internationally-known golfers.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œWe’re on the Moon,” Sam answered. “Lower gravity, no air resistance.”
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œTwo 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.
    â€œTwo weeks,” Sam repeated solemnly. “Starlight’s pretty bright, but I think you’ll prefer playing in the daytime.”
    The Yank nodded weakly.
    *   *   *
    AS I EXPECTED, the big problem was the spacesuits. There were three basic types. The standard issue had a hard-shell torso of cermet, with fabric sleeves and leggings and accordion-pleated joints at the elbows, knees, and wrists. A newer variation kept the cermet torso, but its sleeves and legs were made of a reasonably flexible plastic. Then there was the exoskeleton, its fabric arms and legs covered with high-strength carbon fiber rods that were powered by tiny servomotors, slaved to the wearer’s body movements. This increased the wearer’s natural strength and made the suit feel more flexible.
    While the exoskeleton allowed the most flexibility, it was twice the weight of the others, which made it cumbersome, even in the light lunar gravity. And it took an hour or more to put on. And take off.
    For four days the golfers tried on different suits, clomping around in their heavy boots, whacking away at golf balls out on the driving range. Most of them eventually went for the exoskeleton, although a handful opted for the standard suit. Nobody wanted the plastic job.
    When I saw Mai in the smallest exoskeleton that was available, she looked like a little child being swallowed alive by some alien metal monster.
    Try as I might to get some time with her alone, Mai was constantly working out on the course or otherwise in the company of her fellow golfers. In the evenings, she was either with the golf pros or with Sam. Or both. She ignored my calls and my messages.
    Finally I decided to face her, once and for all. On the night before the tournament was to begin, I planted myself in the surveillance center and watched for Mai on the dozens of display screens lining the walls of the chamber. Two security technicians monitored the screens, which showed every public space and corridor in the complex.
    I watched Mai at a dinner table in Dante’s Inferno, sitting with Sam and a quartet of other golfers, two of them women. Sam was chattering away, as usual, and Mai seemed to be entranced by whatever he was talking about. Her eyes hardly left his face, even for a moment. I would have gladly strangled him.
    At last they finished their desserts and coffees and got up from the