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Settled in front of the wall screen in the maintenance office, Wen glanced outside for a moment.  Judd was toting his clubs, headed out to play with his buddies, and Kelly was watching a remote screen on her truck, making sure the retriever didn't run over some hapless golfer.

Wen reached for the keyboard and disengaged his system from the Corporate Net.  Next, he silenced the ever-present computer voice and brought up surveillance data from the previous night, the camera responsible for the area where the NRM-7 ran amok. 

Judd's "Babylon" remark had triggered a suspicion that was growing by the minute.  Beginning at dusk of the previous day, Wen ran the camera data at high speed until he saw movement.  The chip data backed up and slowed down.  In enhancement mode--Time Code 0143hrs--Wen watched as a hooded figure drove a sharp shovel through two places in the subsurface disabler barrier circuit.  The black clad figure limped into the shadows between Mrs. Wenchel's Agri-Lamp array.

A now thoroughly post-caffeinated Wen quickly pulled up data from every single incident of the last few weeks.  At sun up, on the first of the month, two arthritic vandals approached #2 tee, poured some kind of oil on the artificial surface of the steep surrounds and gingerly escaped.  Later that day, more than one player took a wild ride down the tee, screaming for a lawyer.

Two nights later, an old woman wearing a scarf, a long dark dress and leaning heavily on a walking cane, appeared on the front side surveillance camera data.  Although she was crippled, the old crone apparently was very strong, as she calmly decapitated every yardage beacon pole on the front side with her cane.  Wen noticed the power in her swing.  She had exceptional follow through and a good finish.  

Wen scanned back to the day one of his syn-greens caught fire.  The data replay showed nothing, all day long--until a lone figure limped across the green and sat a golf bag down on the surface.  Out from the base of the bag oozed a thick liquid.  Less than an hour later, the rubber caught fire.

It was endless.  Incident after incident was right there in front of him, caught by camera data.  He had never wanted to believe sabotage was behind the mysterious incidents.  The cause could have been robot breakdown, leaking fluids or poor installation of wires.  With evidence so damning, Wen knew he faced termination for being derelict in investigating the damage.

As if stalling for time to think, Wen sluggishly performed the daily status check on the organic waste incinerator and totaled the volume of ash to be redistributed over the fairways.  He then memorized the WGA recommendations for the day.  It was always a good idea to know those two key factors before talking to Corporate.  He leaned back in his chair and pondered what strategy might save his job.  His only course of action dawned on him; if he did not report his findings, he would be considered just as guilty as the vandals.

Wen angrily reactivated the net system and instructed the wall screen to contact Corporate Security.  The pinched face of Nanel Bree, Chief of Eastern Operations, appeared on the screen.

"I know what this is about, Mr. Bolton," she said in her abrasive voice.

"What?"

"You have prepared some whining excuse for the security violations of today.  Deactivating the network, turning off your headset and even disengaging your computer voice monitor.  I promise you, I will require a deposition before your next pay period!" 

Wen stared in silence at the bitter woman on the screen.  He slowly stood and left the office, dropping his headset on the ground as he strolled calmly out onto the course.  The relaxed therapy of walking the course had vanished.  In its place was a feeling of uneasiness, the awareness of plastic encroachment, looming dark buildings, harsh rules and too many people. 

TO BE CONTINUED