Jackson pointedly shook hands with the winners of the two other heats before going to her lane. Second-placers didn’t rate such recognition.
Words were pouring from the public address, but none of the group were listening, or had eyes for any of the runners but one.
‘Set.’
The shot echoed across the arena as Goldine powered off the blocks in a start so crisp that the first few strides were agonizing to watch in case a second shot signaled she had beaten the gun. Into the turn, she was yards up on everyone.
‘Look at the blonde!’ screamed the announcer. ‘See Serafin go!’
Eight seconds into the race she had nullified the stagger by overtaking everyone except Jackson, and she was poised to demoralize her. Arms pumping, spikes clawing the Tartan surface, she came into the home stretch emphatically clear, her hair streaming on the wind. She crossed the line more than ten yards clear, snapping the tape with her hands, like a distance runner.
‘I don’t believe it!’ croaked the announcer. ‘Nobody in America can do that to Debbie Jackson.’
‘The time,’ Serafin asked. ‘What was the time?’
As if he had heard, the announcer called, ‘Twenty-two point eighty-five. Fans, this is straight out of Ripley! It’s inside the Olympic qualifying time! You have just witnessed the fastest two hundred on American soil this year!’
Hearing this, Goldine threw up her arms. People were running to congratulate her as if they had known her all their lives — officials, other athletes, several spectators who had climbed the barrier. After a moment, she waved them away and jogged across the field to retrieve her tracksuit.
‘That felt like a straight scotch,’ said Cobb.
Sandwiched between the two sprint finals was a walking race, dubbed by Valenti the 1,500-metre yawn. Before the last girls waddled across the line, the finalists for the 100-metre dash were making them look doubly ridiculous by trying starts at the end of the straight.
Having dipped deep into his store of superlatives through the afternoon, the announcer was hard-pressed to do justice to what was still to come. ‘Hope there’s no one here with a heart condition, ’cause this is one that’s guaranteed to give you palpitations. Debbie Jackson, the only girl in California to run eleven flat this year, meets the sensational winner of the two hundred, Goldine — I almost called her Golden — Serafin. Incredibly, Goldine only gets this chance because the line-up has been boosted from six to eight, and let’s offer a small prayer of thanks right now to that AAU official who decreed it in his wisdom. This is shaping up as the race of the afternoon. What do you think: can Debbie hold off Goldine’s challenge over 100 metres, her favorite event? Hey, we’ve got the sunshine back to top it off. How do you like that? Let’s not forget either that we’ll be watching six other delectable dashers out to prove that what Goldine did in the furlong, they can do in the short sprint. I’ll call them over now in lane order...’
‘What’s the Olympic standard?’ Cobb asked.
‘Eleven point twenty-five,’ answered Serafin. ‘It won’t be easy. The wind’s dead against them. Look at that flag.’
As a spectacle, the line-up was improved by the addition of two extra runners. Again, Goldine had drawn a central lane, but the girls on either side were no midgets. Jackson, at far left, shook nobody’s hand this time.
In the hunched ritual of the start, somebody was unsteady. The starter got them upright again.
They stepped forward to the blocks for the second time, got set, leaning across the line, tensed for the gun. As it fired, Goldine drove away as explosively as she had in the other final. The gun cracked again. A false start. The marshal spoke to Goldine.
‘There was nothing wrong with that,’ Serafin protested. ‘She has faster reactions than the others. Is she to be penalised for that?’
‘She’ll be disqualified if it happens again,’ Brannon bluntly informed him.
But she was not. If anything, she got away a fraction late. That did not handicap her long. At 200 metres, still carried low by the thrust from the blocks, she was showing ahead, bringing with her the girls on either side in an echelon. The symmetry was short in duration. By midway, Goldine was alone, the others struggling to hold their form, a ragged line of no-hopers learning what it means to be utterly outclassed. Moving with a zest and rhythm rarely seen on any track, she parted the tape, ran on into the bend, turned and held out her hand to Debbie Jackson as she came level. Jackson’s comment carried clearly into the stand: ‘Jesus, chick. What d’you use for fuel?’
Dryden touched Brannon’s shoulder. ‘I’d like to go downstairs before the next race, Elmer. If you’re my escort...’
In the excitement generated by the race they were able to leave the group without drawing comment. Serafin registered Brannon’s move with a nod and turned back to say something to Cobb.
‘That run of Goldine’s was electronically timed at eleven point zero eight,’ said the announcer in a voice that told you he was shaking his head, ‘and she was hitting a one-point-three-metre-per-second headwind. Fans, give or take a few hundredths, that’s worth ten point nine in good conditions. This afternoon we’ve been privileged to witness a truly great double — Olympic qualifying times in each of the short sprints by this unknown blonde from Bakersfield, Goldine Serafin. I have the feeling this afternoon’s doings in San Diego are going to cause quite some shake-up in the world of women’s track. Incidentally, Goldine entered her name for the last event on our program, the four hundred, but I guess she’ll settle for two finals in one afternoon, which ought to please those girls listed for the one-lap race, due off at four forty-five. Before that, the interclub relay...’
On the stone steps leading to the warmup area, Dryden touched off the scheme he had worked out. He stumbled, tugged at Brannon’s arm and landed heavily several steps down.
‘Christ. Whassa matter?’ demanded Brannon.
‘I missed my footing. Wow, the ankle hurts!’ He rubbed it energetically, still sitting on the stairs. ‘Can you help me up, Elmer?’ On his feet, he groaned. ‘Feels bad. It may be a break. I have a weakness in my right leg. It went once before. Look, I need someone to take a look at it. The medical room’s below. Can you support me that far? You’re a pal. God, it’s like a knife thrust!’
Hanging from Elmer’s shoulder, he hopped clumsily down the remaining stairs, past the sharp glances of the few girls still exercising in the warmup area and as far as the door marked with a red cross. Elmer pushed it open.
The meet physician in his white coat was attending to a pretty, dark-haired girl whose foot was bleeding. She was lying on a rubbing table, wearing a tracksuit top and brief scarlet shorts.
‘What’s this, then? Someone else in trouble?’ the physician asked, without putting down the swab he was using.
‘Fell on the stairs. Hurt his ankle,’ Elmer explained. ‘Could you take a look at it, Doc?’
‘Be my guest. Would you sit in the chair, sir, while I dress this young lady’s foot. You’re not in severe pain?’
‘Not severe,’ Dryden confirmed.
‘She was spiked in the walk,’ the physician told them. ‘Nothing too serious, but it needs cleaning up. You don’t mind these gentlemen waiting here, miss... er—’
‘Gee, no. It doesn’t bother me,’ the girl said with a smile in Dryden’s direction. ‘After all, it’s only my foot.’