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Judd looked down at the headsets resting on the GV seat and noticed the monitor diodes were off.  "Do something good instead of living off the corporate golf harlot."

"Like what, Judd?" Kelly said, her voice lowering to a whisper.

"You could join GOOG."

"Join what?" Wen dropped his feet to the GV floor and leaned forward. 

"Are you in GOOG?" Kelly was aghast. "Are you really?"

"What's GOOG?" Wen demanded.

"Golf Only On Grass," Judd answered.  "An organization dedicated to golf as it was meant to be played."

"I thought it was just an old story," Kelly laughed.  "What do I have to do?"

Judd eyed Wen.  "You just join up."

"Join one of the subversives? We could go to jail," Wen said, slowly pulling himself out of the GV.  "And what are we joining?  What does GOOG do?  Are they the ones sabotaging my golf course?"  Wen stopped himself.  "Are you the saboteur?"

Judd shook his head.  "No, GOOG operates old-style grass golf courses out in the agricultural zones.  They aren't subject to the Enviro-Enforcement laws that apply here in the urban industrial zones or out in the residential rings.  The Irrigation Act of 2024 doesn't apply to farms because of the food shortages, and the runoff water just happens to wet a little Bermuda grass on the way out."

"I thought there were no jobs," Kelly said, "uh . . . out there in the Ag-zones."

"There's something for young folks like you."  Judd limped back to his vehicle.  "At least go see a real golf course.  They have crews, mowers with steel blades, a golf course superintendent, and even golf pros, instead of them durn magic video boxes."

"Why aren't you at one of the GOOG courses right now, instead of here in this crowded urban zone, with tall buildings and plastic grass?" Kelly asked.

"We all have our assignments in the battle against Babylon," Judd said as he activated the equipment vacuum, signaling the conversation was over.

Kelly slipped her headset back on and flipped down the eyepiece.  The bank of LEDs glowed red across her forehead.  Wen squirmed into his headset and went inside the equipment center.  The wall screen was glowing bright red, pulsing in alarm mode. 

"What's wrong?" Wen demanded.

"I've been unable to contact you, Wen."  The computer voice had almost a touch of irritation in its tone.  "Corporate headquarters wants an incident report.  You have failed to file within the 45 minute limit."

"Tell them I'm still investigating."  Wen turned his headset off again.

Wen decided it was time for a little old-fashioned GSM work.  He stepped into the tool room and selected a nutrient probe, checked the charge on the lithium-ion gel battery and placed the device on the seat of his GV.  Wen found the dockable memory block, dusted it off and lightly placed it beside the probe.  

He then drove out to the large brown spot on the 13th fairway that never responded to the treatment recommended by the World Golf Association consultants.  Of course, they never visited the actual problem area; they just read satellite analysis and dispensed their magic from somewhere in Belgium.  

Wen was sure the old ways were best, especially the nutrient probe, no matter how obsolete the tool appeared.  He lined up the spirit levels, attached the memory block and hit the trigger.  A smooth steel pin augured into the hard, dry soil and began the test procedure.  Wen repeated this same step on four other mystery areas before returning to the equipment center.  

He studied the recommendations of the tiny screen on the probe and docked the memory block to the NI-B, a binary -loaded nutrient injector.  Wen opened the chem-vault and withdrew four small bottles of flowable nitrogen, potassium and various micro-nutrients.  He poured the contents into the NI-B tanks and programmed the operation for 2400 hours.  

The nutrient injector was one of the older wire-guided robots, but it still seemed more precise than the newest Sat-Position Nav-Controllers.

With that task out of the way, Wen drove out to the front side to check his precious grass greens.  He positioned himself far enough from a green to avoid distracting the players, but close enough to hear the ball hit the surface.  It was one of the ways Grandpa Bolton checked the moisture content; the method always seemed to warn the old man long before trouble developed.  

After a few satisfying "thunks", followed by a healthy bounce (instead of the worrisome "splat" that sometimes came when the ball impacted wet turf), Wen checked the suction pumps and sensor relays.  When the sensors were installed, they determined the amount of irrigation necessary, but nowadays, sensors were only used to detect changes in runoff patterns.  

Laser sensors had replaced sub-surface units.

On the way back to the equipment center, Wen stopped by the clubhouse for a grain sandwich and a quick  check of the complaint box, a tradition that dated back 70 years at Woodland Ridge.  There was only one message, a hastily scribbled note from the Octogenarian Golfer's Association.  

They approved of the removal of Mrs. Wenchel's poodle and wished to buy Wen and his entire crew a tankard of beer.

TO BE CONTINUED