Dryden found an end seat toward the back. Just before the lights went out, Melody squeesed past into the next seat. Then from a dozen loudspeakers started the mix of world-weary and high-powered conversation characteristic of press gatherings everywhere — an uncanny effect when all that was visible from where Dryden sat was the glimmer of Valenti’s cigar two rows down.
The arc lights at the front came on again. It was obvious that anyone in their glare could not have seen far into the empty auditorium.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a more insistent voice came through the hubbub. ‘Triple Olympic champion Miss Goldine Serafin is here with her father, Dr. William Serafin, to meet the press.’
To the promised flash effects, some cries of ‘Here she is!’ and a scatter of applause, they entered from the right, pausing as a volley of flashlight signaled the photo session. Goldengirl was wearing the white tracksuit of the U.S. Olympic team, with lettering picked out in red. It was the authentic team uniform; Dryden had seen it in a trade journal not three weeks previously. Detail was meticulous in this operation; from Goldengirl’s neck three ribbons were suspended, each bearing a gold medal.
‘She’s cute,’ Melody remarked in his left ear. ‘Maybe too near the ceiling for perfection, though?’
He made no response, held by the ritual under the lights. He had learned to sit through advertising presentations and promotional launches fixing his undistracted eye on the product through displays of leg and bosom calculated to the last millimetre to impress, but he could not remember an occasion when the product itself was in desirable female form. That produced an unexpected consequence. He had looked at Goldengirl naked almost pore by pore through the camera lens, read her statistics, seen her in motion, heard her history, and still missed the thing her living presence hammered into his perception.
Her sexuality.
Dress it up in euphemisms, say she upped the pulse rate, sent the adrenalin racing, blew the mind. What it came down to was the simple, animal ability to arouse that sets one girl apart from a million others.
He could think of more seductive outfits than a U.S. sweatsuit, but Goldengirl didn’t need them. It radiated from her as she blinked at the flashbulbs. No matter that she was six inches taller than Serafin, two or three taller than Dryden himself. The attraction wasn’t a matter of statistics, though she was beautifully proportioned. Nor was it in the cast of her features, or he would have made his discovery during the film. Then he could study her objectively; it was out of the question now.
A remark Melody made helped him account for it. ‘She believes those medals are for real, you know.’
She obviously did. Whether Dr. Lee’s methods followed Pavlov, Skinner or Svengali, they worked. Goldengirl was vibrant with success. She moved with the conviction that she had conquered the world.
In a frenzy of flashbulbs, Serafin ushered her to the center seat. By degrees the volume of sound reduced to a level where a voice — Lee’s — could announce: ‘First, on behalf of the Organizing Committee and the world press, congratulations, Miss Serafin, on your unique achievement. Before I invite questions, is there anything you would wish to say in the way of a statement?’
She smiled. Not once in the film had she done that. ‘This is a novel experience for me, and I’m not sure what you would have me tell you, but if you’ll be patient with me, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll do the best I can.’ The excitement came over in her voice. Her accent placed her as a Californian, but a tremulous note gave an unintended emphasis to certain syllables.
‘Let’s have the first question, then, from the Pravda representative.’
A solemn voice said, ‘Congratulations, Miss Serafin, from the people of the Soviet Union. Did you believe it possible before the Games that you could achieve the distinction of winning three gold medals?’
She nodded emphatically. ‘You have to be confident. In some ways I can’t believe it’s happened, it’s all been so quick for me, but I came to Moscow to win, yes, if that doesn’t sound too conceited. Oh, and thanks for the congratulations.’
‘Jane Thomas, Woman’s World,’ another loudspeaker announced. ‘How does it feel to be the greatest woman athlete in the world?’
‘That’s nice to hear,’ answered Goldine, ‘but it’s just a little sweeping. You ought to save that accolade for the girl who wins the pentathlon tomorrow. Running, hurdling, high jump, long jump, shot put: that’s the test of a great athlete. I can run fast — period. How does it feel? Like champagne, I guess. I don’t drink liquor at all, but I guess it feels like this.’
‘Tell us about your preparation, Goldine.’
‘Which was the most difficult medal to win?’ came a second voice over the first.
‘I’ll take the second question first. The four hundred was the tough one. They’re all sprints, and that’s the longest. As for preparation, I trained seven days a week, with plenty of practice starting, some work on technique — stride, knee lift, pickup and so on — but generally aiming at speed without strain. You’re going to ask me next how many hours a day, and the answer is that it varied. Some days it might be just an hour on the track, some as much as four. I feel my extensors tighten up, and I think, hmm, it’s time to shower.’
‘Doesn’t all this training mean sacrifices?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Sacrifices? Like not going out with guys? There are still some hours left in the day for that. You can’t do trackwork after dark, but other things aren’t impossible.’ She paused, waiting for the laughter to die in the loudspeakers. ‘Like reading books and listening to music.’
‘Do you have a current boyfriend, Goldine?’
‘Is that a proposition?’ More laughter. ‘I have all the dates I can cope with. There’s a point I’d like to emphasize. Track isn’t all sacrifice and sweat. It can be a social opportunity as well. I don’t know how things are coming along here, but in the States the men in track outnumber us by five to one, and that’s one area where I’m not pressing for equality.’
‘Jim Poindexter. Sports Illustrated. I believe you’re six foot two, Goldine. Would you say your height gives you an unfair advantage over other girls?’
‘If that’s a reference to the previous question, I admit I can spot a good-looking guy at fifty yards, yes. Seriously, it’s definitely an advantage in running to have a certain type of physique. Whether mine’s more efficient for the job, I couldn’t say. Remember I weigh a little more than other girls, so there’s more of me to move, so to speak. How am I doing? Am I talking too much? There seem to be plenty of you with questions.’
‘You’re doing fine,’ said Lee. ‘If I can structure the questioning a little, there are still a number of people with things to ask about your achievements in the stadium.’
‘Jerry Fisher, Track and Field News. I’d be interested to know who you regarded as your greatest rivals.’
‘The answer to that is that every girl was a potential rival. You see, I hadn’t raced against anyone except the U.S. girls before.’
‘Did you study the form of other girls, Miss Serafin?’
‘I don’t mind Goldine, if you like to be informal. Well, I knew the times other girls had clocked, but I didn’t consciously put names to them. In sprints, you don’t have to study other girls’ tactics. We all go like crazy for the tape.’