Nabb said nothing, simply stepped back to give Patrick room.

Patrick took two practice swings, stepped up to the ball, and whacked it. The ball sailed high, sailed straight, and plopped out of sight somewhere atop the slope.

Armstrong started clapping. “Nice shot! Less than a dozen feet from the hole!”

Patrick turned to Nabb and had to laugh when he saw the huge grin on the sim’s apelike face. “Don’t say you told me so!”

“Nev say, sir. Just want Mist Sulliman win.”

Wants the nonmember to win? Odd. But who could figure what went on in an animal’s head.

Patrick one-putted and birdied the hole—an event rare enough to warrant a victory jig, but he resisted. Armstrong’s caddie seemed as pleased as Nabb.

As they strolled toward the next tee, Patrick noticed swelling and bruising around Deek’s right eye.

“What happened to you?”

“Bump door, sir.”

“Deek ver clums,” Nabb said. “Always bump self. Not watch where go.”

“Quit jawing with the help, Patty,” Armstrong said. He laughed. “Next thing you know you’ll be trying to unionize them.”

Nabb dropped Patrick’s golf bag.

“Sorry, sir,” he said as he knelt to gather up the clubs. “Sometime Nabb too ver clums.”

2

Patrick won the round by a single stroke, so Armstrong would have to buy the drinks. Before heading for the bar, Patrick slipped Nabb a ten-dollar bill.

Armstrong snatched it from the sim’s fingers and handed it back to Patrick. “No tipping sims. That’s a no-no.”

“I always tip my caddie.”

“If he’s human, sure. But what’s a sim gonna do with money?”

“Buy candy bars, or maybe a bottle of Cuervo. Who cares?”

“Better not. Holmes’ll have a fit.”

Patrick knew all about Holmes Carter: club president and a notorious pain-in-the-ass stickler.