"Don't go there."
"It's just a golf course. What's the worst that could happen?"
The cashmere hound's tooth pattern on his Toscano jacket flashed briefly.
In a few hours, he was on a plane for India, not knowing what he would find.
After landing and checking in to his Hilton he slept for a few hours after taking some of the new pills that woman from the Financial Times kept talking about. And to his surprise he awoke refreshed.
He met his partner on the course, still feeling the long trip, the warm air of Bangalore only hurting his limbic system's ability to adapt to the time zone.
They chatted idly, catching up on old topics that interested neither of them.
But then the man said something that caught Friedman's ear: "The world, you know, is flat."
Considering the implications he was unable to concentrate on the game, the greens, the space he was in. But was it? Was it true?