continued from...

Wen studied the people being herded through the course like cattle and for the first time, he became aware of the uncomfortable sense of being constantly observed.  He felt like . . . a kind of golf lab animal, watched by cameras, computers and--Nanel Bree of the Corporate Golf Secret Police.

"What do I do now, Grandpa?" Wen contemplated.

"Boy, when you're riding something and you tell it to 'whoa' and it don't whoa, sooner or later, it's gonna kill you."

The room slowly filled with soft red pulsing light.  "Sorry to wake you, Kelly, but Corporate monitors Golf System Manager response time."

"Situation report?" Kelly asked as her feet touched the floor.

"Security confirms arrests of three more sabotage suspects and the Agri-Lamp array you installed on #8 is on fire . . . also you have a call coming in from Director Bree."

Four hundred miles to the west, in the soft blue light of an August dawn, Wen happily wrestled the steering wheel of an ancient reel mower, watching the grass clippings fly while breathing the strangely intoxicating exhaust of a diesel mower.  There was comfort in the old equipment, the cornfields lining the fairways and the big oak trees spaced around the course.  Not much money out here in northern Mississippi, but there was air, sunlight, real grass, real golf and blue sky.

Five hundred miles to the northeast, Judd Peeler peered out of his prison cell window and caught a glimpse of the same blue sky. 

the end