‘Do you like being a mystery girl?’
‘You make girls sound like books — mystery, romance or Sci-Fi. I like to think I’m a blend of all three.’ She flushed as another programmed response slotted in.
Ingrid continued impassively anointing her stomach.
Dryden inwardly recoiled. He could see the prospect of any untutored statement disappearing as fast as the oil. ‘Won’t the press keep tabs on you? Didn’t you have to supply an address when you filled in your entry for the San Diego meet?’
‘I’m P.O. Box Number 505918, Bakersfield.’
‘What about your club? Don’t you have to belong to a track club?’
‘Hadn’t you noticed? I’m unattached.’ Again, the indulgent wriggle of pleasure.
‘So after you’ve put up your times tomorrow, you’ll just fly off, leaving the legend of a beautiful unknown blonde who burned up the track in San Diego?’
‘You make it sound poetical. I like that.’ She gave him a dreamy smile.
‘Goldine,’ he said as a last throw, ‘suppose you pulled a muscle in the heats tomorrow?’ He had his hand on the door.
‘How could I?’ she answered. ‘I’m going to win the Olympics. Don’t go. Try another question.’ She propped herself on an elbow and faced him. Her figure belied her. She was suddenly a child pleading for attention. ‘Ingrid can’t feed me questions. Please think of something.’
He shook his head in defeat. Lee had won this round. Out of compassion he asked her, ‘How does it feel to stand on the victory rostrum?’
She lay back with a whimper of gratitude. ‘Proud. Pleased for the American people.’ She squirmed on the blanket and brought one of her breasts against the massaging hands. ‘It really gets you here when you see your country’s flag...’ Her eyes closed tightly.
Dryden left.
That evening, a salad meal was served in one of the buildings. By monitoring the state of play on the pool table, he contrived to eat alone. The last thing he wanted just now was Valenti’s company.
He brooded on his failure. In effect, the computer had beaten him by anticipating most of his questions. Once the programed responses started coming, there was nothing he or Goldine could do to control her reflexes. No doubt about it: Lee had harnessed her sexual drive. Somehow he had linked it to the process of question and response. Each question she successfully answered was the equivalent of a caress. The afternoon press conference had suggested something like that was happening; the girl had projected herself in a way his own sexuality had recognised. In her quarters, he had involuntarily confirmed it by supplying her with enough questions to take her to the point of orgasm.
From the PR angle, he should have applauded Lee for a brilliant piece of psychological tinkering, certain to make electrifying occasions of Goldengirl’s press interviews. But he could not put out of his mind her pathetic dependence on him as she had pleaded for another question. He had got it right earlier; her personal life had been sacrificed to Project Goldengirl. Nobody cared about the mess it would be left in, least of all the man who had adopted her as his daughter.
As an attempt to discover how far Goldine was committed to the project, the interview had achieved nothing. Possibly if he had not allowed himself to be put down by her sharp ‘Keep off!’ when he had mentioned her mother, if he had kept to matters that weren’t likely to have been programed, he might have got somewhere, but he doubted it. If she was going to impart confidences, it wouldn’t be in the camp, in front of Ingrid, and to a total stranger. Goldine, more than anyone, knew what was at stake.
What Dryden knew was still uncertain. That was the thing he found hardest to accept. He was used to making informed assessments, weighing probabilities and reaching decisions. He had spent the last twenty-four hours learning about Goldengirl. They had saturated him with information, shown him the film, told him about her background, declared their ambitions for her, answered his questions, let him see her undergoing physical and mental conditioning and allowed him to interview her himself. Yet paradoxically, the more he learned, the less certain he was that he understood. Earlier in the day he had felt near to achieving a total view of the project. At the end of it he was conscious only of uncharted areas on every side.
Worse, he had to admit that although he knew enough about Serafin and his associates to despise them, he was beginning to waver in his certainty that their scheme was impossible. Already he foresaw the dilemma he would face if he was persuaded that Goldine could win her three gold medals. His present objection — the risk to Dryden Merchandising — would not stand up. He would have the choice of going in with Serafin and condoning everything that was being done to guarantee success, or taking a moral stand and turning down a fortune.
Of course it was deplorable to tamper with a girl’s psychology as they had done, forcing her under hypnosis beyond the physical limits her conscious mind imposed, and transferring her sex drive into a public-relations exercise. But suppose he took a high moral stand and refused to have any part in the project. For whose sake would he do it? Would it make any difference to Goldine? Even if there were some way of sabotaging the project, preventing her from qualifying for the Olympics, was that going to help her? She had been shaped and conditioned for one objective. Remove that objective, and where did it leave her? It could destroy her.
He spent an hour after the meal walking around the perimeter of the camp turning these thoughts over. Whichever way he looked at the problem, it came down to Goldine, and what could be salvaged of her personality. Goldine: he had slipped into the way of using her personal name when he thought of her in human terms. For all the layers of polish Serafin had applied to his ‘artifact,’ she had preserved some individuality. And Dryden liked her. She aroused him sexually — no point in denying it — but he also liked her directness, the way she had asked if her breasts were okay and the quick ripostes. Estée Lauder wasn’t available.
He needed a chance to speak to her alone, outside the camp, without Ingrid in attendance or the possibility of bugging devices close by. That way he could judge for himself how far she was hooked on the Olympics. Then he could sort out his own priorities. The only chance of fixing it was by staging something at San Diego next day. Something they wouldn’t have allowed for. They were certain to guard her like the President on a day trip to Dallas, but if there was one thing Jack Dryden had a name for, it was the knack of springing surprises.
He returned to the cabin they had allocated him. Earlier, he had just had time to put his bag inside. Now he unpacked. It was a single room with a view across the compound, simply but comfortably furnished, no worse than scores of hotel bedrooms he had stayed in for conferences. The only thing it lacked was a Gideon Bible. He had the feeling these people were not religious.
He lay on the bed trying to work something out for San Diego. Normally, he would prime himself with information. This time, all he had was what Goldine had told him. To compound his difficulties, he had not attended a track meet in years; he was an armchair fan.
How long he had juggled with the problem he did not know, when he heard a movement outside the door. It was well past sundown, but his eyes had adjusted to the fading light. He didn’t need striplighting to think.
He left the bed and swiftly crossed the room to wait between the washstand and the door. The handle turned smoothly, with menacing slowness. There flashed into his mind the possibility that Serafin had decided to have him eliminated. He had asked questions, raised doubts. They couldn’t see him fitting into the plan. Or risk letting him out alive.