by Ben Bova
But then my parents exploded all my dreams by announcing they had arranged for me to marry the daughter of Singapore’s prime minister, who was known in the newsnets as “the dragon lady.” And worse. I was flabbergasted.
“This is a great honor for our family,” my father said proudly. He didn’t know that I was hopelessly in love with Mai Pohan; no one knew, not even she.
For a designer of golf courses—a kind of civil engineer, nothing more—to be allied to the ruling family of Singapore was indeed a great honor. But it broke my heart.
I tried to phone Mai Pohan, but she was off on an international golf tour. With misty eyes, I e-mailed her the terrible news. She never answered.
Like a dutiful son, I went through the formalities of courtship and the wedding, which was Singapore’s social event of the year. My bride was quite beautiful and, as I discovered on our wedding night, much more knowledgeable about making love than I was.
Through my mother-in-law’s connections, I received many new contracts to design golf courses. I would be wealthy in my own right within a few years. I began to travel the world, while my wife entertained herself back in Singapore with a succession of lovers—all carefully hidden from the public’s view by her mother’s power.
It was in the United States, at the venerable Pebble Beach golf course in California, that I saw Mai Pohan once again. She was leading in a tournament there by three strokes as her foursome approached the beautiful eighteenth hole, where the blue Pacific Ocean caresses the curving beach.
I stood among the crowd of onlookers as the four women walked to the green. I said nothing, but I saw Mai’s eyes widen when she recognized me. She smiled, and my heart melted.
She barely won the tournament, three-putting the final hole. The crowd applauded politely and I repaired to the nearby bar. I rarely drank alcohol, but I sat at the bar and ordered a scotch. I 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.”
“I did?” I squeaked.
“Once I saw you I lost all my concentration.”
“I … I’m sorry.”
She ordered a club soda from the man-sized robot tending the bar while I sat beside her in stunned silence.
“It’s been a long time,” she said, once her drink arrived.
“Yes.”
“How is married life?”
“Miserable.”
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.”
“I know,” she said. “I understand.”
“I 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.”
“And you…?”
“I 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.
“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.”
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 table. Sam took Mai’s arm—and she let him do it. He escorted her out of Dante’s, along the corridor that led to the elevators, and then down to the level of the Paradise Hotel.
I didn’t realize how tense I was until one of the security techs complained, “Hey, look at what you did to my pen!”
I had unconsciously picked up her pen off her desktop and bent it into a horseshoe shape.
As I muttered an apology and promised to buy her a new one, I watched Mai and Sam make their way down the hotel’s main corridor. They stopped at her door.
I had to admit to myself that they made a well-matched couple. Mai was just a centimeter or so shorter than Sam, and exquisitely beautiful. Sam was far from handsome, but he radiated a vital energy, even in the security camera’s display screen.
My heart was in my throat as Sam began to slip his arms around Mai’s waist. But she artfully disengaged, gave him a peck on the cheek, and slipped into her room, leaving Sam standing alone in the corridor, looking nonplussed.
I let out a yelp that made both the security techs jump, then raced for the door, the elevator, and Mai’s hotel room.
By the time I got to her door Sam was long gone, of course. I tapped lightly. No response. I rapped a little harder, and Mai’s muffled voice came through: “Sam, I need my rest. Please go away.”
“It’s not Sam,” I said, smiling happily. “It’s me.”
“Chou?”
“Yes!”
For a moment nothing happened, then the door slid back and Mai was standing there in a silk robe decorated with flowers and birds. She looked up at me, her face serious, almost gloomy.
“Hello,” she said, sadly.
“Mai, I had to see you. Why haven’t you answered my calls? Why are you spending all your time—”
She put a finger on my lips, silencing me.
“Our last meeting was a disaster, Chou. I ruined your life.”
“Ruined?” I was truly shocked. “You saved my life, Mai!”
“I thought they were going to put you in jail.”
“They would have, if it weren’t for Sam.”
“You owe him a lot.”
That’s when it hit me. Mai was being nice to Sam because she was grateful for what he did for me!
“Sam’s getting his money’s worth out of me,” I growled. “I don’t want you to let him include you in the payment.”
Now she looked shocked. “I would never—”
I didn’t let her finish her sentence. I took her in my arms and kissed her. A couple strolling up the corridor passed by and chuckled softly.
“We’ve been seen again,” Mai said, a little ruefully.
“I don’t care. I’m a free man now.”
“As long as you stay on the Moon.”
“Well, yes,” I had to admit.
“So we’ll always be half a million kilometers apart.”
“Four hundred thousand,” I corrected, inanely. “But it doesn’t have to always be that way. Once my divorce becomes final, maybe I’ll be able to return to Earth.”
Mai said nothing.
“Or maybe you could stay here, on the Moon. We’ll get married and … and…”
“And I’ll give up my career? Become a housewife? And what are you going to do, now that you’ve built Sam’s golf course? Do you think there are others who’d want you to build courses for them here on the Moon?”
I shook my head, crestfallen.
She touched my cheek with her fingertips.
“I love you, Mai,” I whispered.
“I love you, too,” she said. “But I don’t see how it could possibly work out.”
Neither could I.
“You’d better go,” she said.
I couldn’t move.
“The tournament starts tomorrow, Chou. You’re bad for my concentration.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
But then she smiled and took my hand and led me into her room and neither one of us gave a thought to her concentration or our future.
* * *
THE TOURNAMENT STARTED the next morning. Mai hopped out of bed and headed for the shower. I thought about joining her there, but I decided it would be better if I just stole away. Which is what I did, feeling miserable every step of the way.
Love is strange. Powerful. But sometimes so painful it tears the heart out of your chest.
I had nothing to do. My work was finished. So I went to my quarters, cleaned up, got into fresh coveralls, and made my way to the spacious lobby of Dante’s Inferno, which Sam’s people had turned into a sort of auditorium, with comfortable seats filling the floor and enormous video screens hanging on every wall.
The place was already full of eager onlookers, while a team of Hell’s Belles (looking a little bleary this early in the morning) circulated through the crowd with trays of drinks and snacks.
