Martin Fowler steadied himself, his eyes never moving from the target. He considered his position, then moved a step closer. Gripping the powerful club in both hands, he swung downward with all his strength.
“I think you’ve sliced into the rough again, Marty,” said Wheeling noncommittally.
Fowler said a bad word, slung the club back in his bag. The two men took hold of their carts and started down the fairway. They could have ridden in comfort. But, as Wheeling said, walking was the only exercise to golf—might as well get remote-controlled clubs and play from bed as ride a cart. Other men followed.
After a while, Wheeling looked over at his younger friend, spoke comfortingly.
” ‘Course, there’s nothing unusual about me taking money from you, Marty—it’s only natural that those
105
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . .
of us with God-given talent should teach the amateurs. But you usually manage to argue the point. What’s eating you—Petterson?”
“You have a devious and evil mind,” countered the director of the North American Fisheries Control. “If that old crank and the cat-food freaks would just give me leave to open a partial gate—five minutes, that’s all I want, just five lousy minutes! You should see the projected five-year figures. The second-year catch alone—”
“If any of the folks on the commission who lean to your way of thinking heard you refer to another United States senator, their peer, as ‘that old crank,’ they wouldn’t give you a crack big enough to let a sick salmon through, let alone your precious gate.” “I know, Dave. I won’t tell if you won’t. Oh, the senator’s not a bad person, personally. But so damned obstinate!”