Orbiters

Moon Shot

…I tell writers to be careful asking other writers to judge their work. A writer is often a terrible judge. They want you to write like them. Can you imagine getting advice from Faulkner? Ouch…

A crack sounded from Spaceship One’s golf simulator. As Captain Rollhagen watched, driver on shoulder, the animated ball vanished over the horizon. A replica of Lunar National, the fairway was three miles long.

“Good shot, Captain!” Lt. Jason Schwartz said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Being the captain, Rollhagen was used to compliments. However, it was a good shot.

He stood back to allow the younger man to tee up. Swinging mightily, his ball pushed right before it hooked far left, into a crater. Lt. Schwartz long ago gave up hitting a ball straight. He compensated by aiming right with every shot. It seldom worked.

They bagged clubs and waited while the simulator recalibrated. The screen zoomed two miles forward. On the Moon they would have taken an anti-gravity cart. Lt. Schwartz pulled out his sand wedge.

“Who do you think will win this year’s Open?” Rollhagen asked. Both men avidly followed pro events. Especially The Open, played on a links-style course. Treeless, sandy, a links course came closest to the Moon’s vast golf courses.

“Who knows?” said the lieutenant. He was concentrating on his shot.

“After the invasion, we’ll move the whole thing to Grande Helios.” He referred to one of the Moon’s tougher courses, eighteen holes spread over forty miles. “See how those boys do then.”

Lt. Schwartz reminded him Phil Mickelson, Brooks Koepka, Scottie Scheffler, et al would be swinging a pick on Mars. As opposed to a golf club on the Moon.

The captain frowned. “You’re right.”

Schwartz swung, digging his club deep into imaginary sand. The ball hit the crater rim and rolled back to his feet.

“Tough luck, young man,” said the captain. Lunar hazards were murder on the average player. But not him. Like a lot of scratch golfers, he often saw himself competing, and quite successfully, with the best. Especially on one’s home turf.

But how? As his subordinate swung again and again, he pondered this. Earthlings would soon be dragged kicking and screaming to Mars, where they will be given shovels, picks, and timecards. But as a Space Corps captain, he might just be able to arrange a special trip to the Moon for a few. A select few.

He decided he would give it his best shot. Defeating the combined military forces of an entire planet was one thing. But out-putting Tiger Woods on a playoff hole? Now that would be memorable.