Heaven was green lawn.
     Heaven was familiar. To Tim Winston, it was the most familiar
thing there was. Long undulating links, green swards hazy in pickets of
intervening trunks, white pools of floury sand, cropped swales
sprouting with white flags.
     The Big Guy handed Tim a white ball. "Your soul," he said.
     "Which tees? Blue?"
     The Big Guy grinned. "Ultraviolet."
     Tim glanced back. Ten yards back glowed purple-yellow pegs.
Shrugging, he trudged back and teed up.
     The Big Guy stood off to one side, chatting softly with the
remaining members of the foursome: a swarthy, reddish, horned
gentleman, name of Bill Z. Bubb; and a greasy little fellow with a
feral, vulpine cast to his features. Tim did not catch his name,
exactly, but the upshot was that if Tim lost, this one would eat his
     He squared to the tee and addressed the ball. The chatter
     "You mind?" Tim said pointedly.
     The talk ceased. The men stood respectfully, faintly amused, and
     Tim wound up and swung. Tink! The ball headed straight as an
arrow down the fat part of the fairway and bounced past maybe 300
yards. Tim grinned with more than a little relief. This was going to
work out just fine.
     He glanced at the men, who showed approval mixed with
supercilious disdain. Whatever, hell with them -- he'd just ignore
their bullshit. He imagined the chatter and mindgames would start in
earnest on the back nine, and he wanted to be in a zenlike groove by
     "Oh, hey, what's the par on this hole?" he asked the Big Guy.
     "Eighty-six thousand."
     Tim had a sinking feeling. It was going to be a long day.