Patrick winked at Armstrong. “You ever caddie?”

“Me? Naw.”

Of course not, Patrick thought. You were probably getting private golf lessons instead.

“I did. Right here, before anyone ever heard of sims.”

And I don’t care if he’s human, sim, or some kind of robot, Patrick thought, I willalways tip my caddie.

When Armstrong turned toward the locker room, Patrick rolled up the bill and palmed it to Nabb.

Inside, they had a corner of the bar to themselves, and while they were talking and drinking—Armstrong a Gibson up and Patrick a Rob Roy on the rocks—he had the odd feeling of being watched. But whenever he looked around he saw only the sims bustling about. The wait staff was human, but sims did all the bussing.

Patrick listened to Armstrong’s idea about opening negotiations with the clerks by demanding a few choice give-backs from the full-timers’ benefits package. Figured that would put them on the defensive. What an asshole. The idea sucked, truly and big time. Not because of the give-backs—nothing Patrick liked better than putting the screws to the opposition—but because the clerks’ negotiator was a bitch on wheels who’d take that kind of opening salvo personally. From there on negotiations would go straight downhill.

But he said, “The idea’s got merit, Ben. Let me think on how to approach it.”

No sense in miffing a deep-pocketed client.

Patrick ran a hand over the polished mahogany of the bar and looked around at the well-heeled members gathering in clusters on either side or filtering into the adjacent dining room. He wanted to belong here so bad it made his gut ache. Wander in whenever he damn well felt like it, set his foot on the brass rail, and hang with the high rollers, trolling, setting his hooks, reeling them in.

But he’d already been turned down three times.

While Armstrong was ordering another round, Patrick headed for the men’s room. After he washed up, the white-coated sim attendant handed him a towel.