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Wen decided to make the big move.  "Sir, if you remember, we talked about my transfer to a natural grass course last year, and I've fulfilled all of the requirements."

Tai smiled and leaned closer.  "Wen, there are less than a thousand grass courses left on this continent and we only own a few of those.  The majority of those relics are classics, protected by historic preservation status because they were built by the old master architects.  It takes a special kind of . . . lunatic . . . to manage a natural grass course." 

"But, sir, I added three hours of agronomy to my--"

"It's like this," Tai growled, "your expertise is in computer diagnostics, marketing, equipment maintenance, golfer relations and automated food systems."

"I also took six weeks of golf skills, etiquette and swing theory."

"The old grass courses don't need Golf Systems Managers," Tai continued.  "They require long-forgotten skills, secrets that the old superintendents refuse to share . . . and there are myriad things that pop up during the average day on one of those antiques, things that you are not prepared to deal with and could not learn in years.  Greenkeepers, old-time superintendents, whatever you call them, belong to the past."

"You make it sound primitive, like a golf shaman."

"It is, Wen.  Those old guys consider themselves protectors or priests of the grass cult now and they won't initiate you into their little fraternity because you represent the very epitome of what they fear:  The modern grassless golf course."  

Burton Tai's smile widened.  "Besides, Wen, I should think you might want to have a go at ending the sabotage on your course--before your career is endangered."

The stiff, false smile on Burton Tai's face faded . . . just before the screen went black.

"Wen, technical support is here," whispered the screen, as if the computer knew the man's feelings were crushed.  Wen left his clubhouse office, nodded to the long line of golfers at the first tee, and dejectedly flopped onto the seat of his GV.  Driving across the course toward the equipment center, Wen felt a wave of nausea and despair.  

"Well, Grandpa, what would you say to that?"

"Never let 'em rent space inside your head, boy."

Kelly Mercks was off-loading her equipment retriever as Wen entered the maintenance compound.  She was a tall, lean woman with an olive complexion and a constantly bright disposition.  Kelly was one of several women in the corporation attempting to reach GSM status by serving in a tech capacity.

"Hey," her voice carried across the compound, "I saw your class on how to deconstruct NRM-7 units."  

Kelly jumped down from the loader truck and walked toward Wen.

"You saw that?"

"Well, yeah.  So did everybody with access to secondary channels . . . which is everybody."  She sat down on the seat next to Wen.

"I'm glad I could entertain those bored folks at Corporate."

"Why are you so glum?  At least something interesting happened--and it's happening to all the hybrid courses, especially the ones being encircled by skyscrapers.  Corporate is just letting the equipment fall apart."

Kelly suddenly reached up and switched off her headset.  She pushed back the flip-down eyepiece, dropped it on the seat and pointed to Wen's headset.  He did the same, slowly, with a puzzled look on his face, and rubbed his temples.

"They've been telling me I had a chance at a real-grass course . . . at least until today.  Now I'm stuck on this carpet 'til I die."  He glanced around to see if he had been overheard, then laughed when he realized how stupid that appeared.  There hadn't been any maintenance employees for years--except for old Judd.

"I know what you mean," Kelly said, propping her rubber safe-boots on the cup holders.  "I've been promised a chance at one of those urban short-courses, you know, where they play the soft-ball?  I've taken every class required for a GSM license:  Subterranean suction pumps, runoff water test procedures, syn-grass installation, satellite data analysis interpretation, you name it.  I even studied maintenance of the three major hologram golf swing teaching machines.  But I'm still dragging dead robots off golf courses."

They stopped talking as Judd drove into the compound.  The old man ignored them while he wrestled the cup-cutter down the ramp and shoved it into the designated parking place.  Giving the old machine a good kick, Judd limped over and stood in front of Kelly and Wen.

"Ya'll best stop talkin' about it and just go ahead.  Corporate golf ain't got nothing for you but a tiny room and no pay, just like me."

"Go ahead and do what?"  Kelly grinned.

TO BE CONTINUED