Beacon Ridge had introduced sim caddies a couple of years ago, the first golf club in the country to do so. Caused quite a stir at the time, but the club members seemed to enjoy the status of being pioneers in the transgenic revolution. Other clubs soon followed suit, but Beacon Ridge remained famous for being the first. By now sims were practically part of the scenery around the links.

“Come on, movie star!” Armstrong called from the green. “You can do it!”

Movie star…on their first meeting he’d said Patrick reminded him of Axel Sommers, the latest digital heartthrob. Patrick figured Armstrong needed glasses. Sure, they both had blue eyes and slightly wavy blond hair, but Sommers looked just a little too pretty for comfort.

Patrick waved and turned to Nabb. “Let me have the five wood.”

The sim’s dark brown eyes shifted between the ball nestled in the rough against a broad-leafed weed, and the green a hundred yards away atop a slope.

“Seven better, sir.”

“That five’s especially made for rough”—Christ knows I’m in it enough—“and this is as rough as it gets.”

Nabb pulled out the seven and handed it to him. “Five too far, sir.”

“What makes you think you know my game?” Patrick said, trying to keep his annoyance out of his tone. He’d take golf advice from just about anyone, even a sim, but he knew his own limitations. “This is the first time you’ve caddied for me.”

“Nabb watch Mist Sulliman before.”

“Really?” He didn’t get to play here all that often. How could this creature know his game?

The sim thrust the iron forward. “Seven.”

Patrick snatched the club. “Okay. We’ll do it your way. But if—I should say,when —it falls short and rolls back down that hill, I’m gonna have your hide.”