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.