middle of something Armstrong’s plan marked as “second fairway.” Harry didn’t know what a fairway was, but according to the plan he had to get grass to grow on it. That was going to be tricky…
Then Harry shrugged. The antigrav anomaly meant that none of the players was ever going to have a ball land in the area. He might as well just leave it alone. It couldn’t possibly affect the game-could it?
Flight Leftenant Qual took a hefty swing and watched the ball fly down the driving range, curving rapidly from left to right. It was remarkable how a hard little sphere, no bigger than a
Qual understood that one of the humans’ chief leaders, General Blitzkrieg, was on his way to Zenobia to harass the members of Omega Company. Strong-arm seemed to believe that a display of proficiency in launching the golf balls would make the general less harsh toward the local humans. This made some sense if the balls were to be used as weapons, but it seemed that only the officers were being encouraged to launch them. Qual had noticed that in most human military organizations, the officers exposed themselves to danger as little as possible, avoiding the active use of weapons. His good friend Captain Clown seemed to be an exception to that rule, as he was in so many other ways.
Perhaps the balls, like the swords and spears his own race had employed in the distant past, were obsolete weapons used only in symbolic combat. Many human officers seemed to enjoy such symbolic combats-fencing, boxing, driving vehicles at unsafe speeds-so perhaps golf belonged in that category. One of the meanings of “club” did appear to refer to a kind of weapon-although Strong-arm had made it clear to Qual that it was extremely bad form to bash one’s opponents’ heads with the golf clubs. Humans were a curious species-but Qual already knew that.
He removed another ball from the bucket and balanced it on the conical plastic support called, for some nonobvious reason, a “tea.” It rested there while he addressed it with his club. (It had taken him a little while to understand that one did not actually need to inscribe the ball with the name of the place one intended to send it- though it occurred to him that perhaps if one did, it might arrive there more reliably.) He lifted the club-called a “chauffeur,” again for reasons undiscoverable by simple logic-keeping his left elbow straight, as Strong-arm had instructed him. A swift downward movement of the club and this ball soared off to join its companion, somewhere in the brush on the right fringe of the driving range. This was a sort of progress; the last few shots had ended up in more or less the same place.
Qual was taking the next ball out of the bucket when his translator spoke to him. “Greetings, Flight Leftenant Qual. How satisfactory to you is your progress in the practice of hitting balls with the chauffeur golf club?” Or words to that effect; Qual had long since learned that the translator’s output was not to be taken as utterly reliable. Much depended on both context and on the actual speaker’s choice of language. He looked up to see the legionnaire known as Thumper, a nonhuman like himself.
“Greetings, Dull Noisemaker,” Qual replied. “My progress remains uncertain; I have only recently managed to place several consecutive balls in a tight pattern. Unfortunately, that pattern is far to one side of my point of aim.”
Thumper made a movement with his head that, when humans did it, signified understanding or agreement. He said something which Qual’s translator interpreted as, “That is an awkwardness. I hope it would not be impertinent for someone of limited experience to suggest realigning your point of aim to compensate.
“That is a very rational suggestion,” said Qual, putting the golf club over his shoulder. “Of course, it requires consistency of effect, which is what I now strive to attain. With such a realigned aiming point, it would be a misfortune inadvertently to strike a ball so that it flies absolutely straight.”
“Agreement,” said Thumper. “Consistency is the usual result of assiduous application, so we can hope that principle will apply in this case.”
“I appreciate your encouragement,” said Qual. “I intend to exert myself to that end.” After a pause, he added, “Since this golf is a novel pursuit to my kind, I would appreciate any education you can offer me. I have not made great progress, but after all, this is only my first session. Perhaps you would even be so kind as to serve as my adviser during my attempts to compare golfing skills with the humans.”
“Thank you, Flight Leftenant,” said Thumper, via Qual’s translator. “I would much appreciate the opportunity to assist you in your competition, but golf is hardly my specialty. Also, having fallen into General Blitzkrieg’s ill graces through no fault of my own, I have been advised to hold myself as much as possible beyond the periphery of his awareness. I fear I will have to decline the invitation.”
Qual thought for a moment, leaning on his driver. “Perhaps not,” he said. “As a valued ally of the humans, I have certain privileges, including the choice of my own staff. If I elect to employ the services of one of their legionnaires, it should be seen as an honor to the Alliance, rather than a slight. And”-he paused for a moment-“if I have not guessed wrong, you have insights into human activities I am not likely to get from either a human or from one of my own species.”
“The possibility exists,” admitted Thumper. “It does appear to have the potential for amusement. But if you do not object, I wish to consider it a little more-and get the advice of a trusted acquaintance-before giving you a final answer.“
“Utterly reasonable,” said Qual. “And now, if it is not in conflict with your assigned Legion duties, I would appreciate your continued advice on my mode of striking the ball. Please be absolutely candid-it is to my benefit.”
“With enthusiasm,” the translator said, after Thumper had spoken. “Attempt a number of swings, and I will determine if I can detect anything of use.”
“Very well,” said Qual, stepping up to address the ball again. “Be alert! Anything might well occur!” He took a powerful swing, and again the ball flew on its way down-range…
“What the hell’s that up ahead, Soosh?” Do-Wop asked, peering into the darkness that had fallen over the trail. It was clear what he was asking about; some distance away, there was a flickering of light, not quite steady enough to be artificial. They’d been following directions the general storekeeper in town had given them; but it had been dark for some time, and it was anybody’s guess if they were still on the trail.
“I think those are fires,” said Sushi, in a low voice. “If our map’s right, that ought to be the Indian camp they told us about back in town. I think we’re on the right track.”
“Fires, huh?” said Do-Wop. He pointed to his wrist comm. “You think we oughta call the fire department, then? There must be half a dozen of ‘em up there, burning away. Somebody might get hurt…”
Sushi shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I think they’re supposed to be part of the Authentic Western Experience of Cut ‘N’ Shoot. From what I remember, they used to use open fires all the time on Old Earth, for cooking and light, and to keep wild animals away at night.”
“Lousy way to run a planet,” said Do-Wop. “Authentic Western Experience or not, I bet the Italians didn’t do it that way.”
“How do you think they did it?” said Sushi, hunkering down to peer ahead. “Porta-range furnaces? Pocket microwaves?”
“Sure,” said Do-Wop, nonchalantly. “We invented everything else any good. Ice cream, pizza, beer…”
Sushi rolled his eyes. “Right,” he said. “Maybe I’d believe you if I thought you knew enough history to find Italy on a map, which would surprise me no end, considering you can’t find the Legion base on a map of Zenobia.”
“Hey, I can read a map just as good as you can,” said Do-Wop. “Besides, you’re just jealous. Italians invented the mob, too, which your guys only got a stoopid-sounding copy of. What’s it called, Yazooka? Is ‘at some kinda chewin’ gum, or what?”
“Yeah, huh? You call my uncle Nunzio stupid, you gonna find out whether you can walk wit‘ the fishes…”
“I thought it was sleeping with the fishes I was supposed to be worried about,” said Sushi. “Y’know, if you’re going to try to scare people, you ought to at least try to make a threat that makes sense.”
