‘I see someone else has been digging,’ said Cobb.
‘That’s all we’re sweating over?’ said Sternberg. ‘Do you think anyone gives six bits whether we’re all growing taller?’
‘No,’ said Cobb. ‘But think about what will happen when people read in the papers that Goldengirl was running in Moscow to prove a scientific hypothesis. That she has an exceptional physiology. They’re going to translate that into something simpler. The girl they saw winning all those medals on TV wasn’t the kid next door, after all. She was some kind of weirdo. A freak. It wasn’t Uncle Sam she was running for, bringing a lump to their throats; it was a group of scientists. What do you think that’s going to do for her image? Do you suppose the orange growers of California will want her in their ads after that?’
Serafin was shaking his head. ‘How can I make you understand? I don’t intend it to be like that. This will be a scientific paper. It need not mention her name.’
‘Do you suppose that’s going to fool the press — Miss S, who won three gold medals?’ asked Cobb relentlessly. ‘After Moscow, the girl will be a world celebrity. Everything about her is of interest. You know as well as the rest of us that nothing sells papers faster than dirt on some big name.’
‘Dirt?’ Serafin was almost speechless. ‘This isn’t dirt.’
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ said Cobb. ‘All it wants is a headline “Goldengirl Was Guinea Pig” and that’s our revenue cut — by how much would you say, Dryden?’
‘It’s true. We’d be sunk.’
‘Spooked,’ said Sternberg.
‘So how do we handle this?’ said Valenti, mashing his half-finished cigar into an ashtray.
‘We keep cool,’ said Cobb. ‘Let’s be reasonable. Dr. Serafin was the architect of Project Goldengirl, and he’s still essential to its success. If he hasn’t been entirely frank with us about his intentions, that wasn’t from any wish to do us in. I’m satisfied he didn’t realize the damage he could do the project by publishing his paper. I think there’s room for compromise here. Dryden has said the merchandising campaign needs eighteen months to two years. I’d like to suggest that Dr. Serafin delay publication until August 1982, or earlier if we hit our twenty-million-dollar target before then.’ He looked around the table. ‘Would that be generally acceptable?’
‘Sounds like you have the answer,’ said Valenti. ‘Do you see any problem, Dryden?’
‘Not if Dr. Serafin agrees. Publicity of this kind would be damaging early in the campaign. Actually, at the end, it might give it a lift. We won’t be pitching for contracts at that stage.’
‘How about it, then?’ Cobb asked Serafin. He put the question as genially as offering a drink, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was an ultimatum.
Serafin’s eyes had the glased look of a man on trial who knows it’s all over, the sentencing is done. The consortium he had created had taken over. ‘I’ll delay publication,’ he promised. ‘When you have waited as long as I have to prove yourself right, you can hold on for longer.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Cobb, picking up his calculator from the table. ‘I just wanted to clarify the point.’
Fifteen
‘Anyone want a pair of track shoes, as once used in the U.S. Olympic Trials?’ The girl in the Kansas University tracksuit was close to tears. She stood at the dressing-room door, hot from running, black hair moist with sweat, warm-ups dangling from her arm, the spikes in her hand. Nobody was listening to her. ‘Size 6a, urethane-coated kangaroo uppers with wraparound heel,’ she read from the label in a voice that demanded attention. ‘No takers, huh?’ She held them at arm’s length over the wastebasket to the right of the door. ‘Positively your last chance, girls, to bid for the shoes that took fourth place in Heat Three of the one-hundred-metres Qualifying Round. Do I hear an offer? Too late.’ She let them drop into the basket. ‘That’s my contribution to the U.S. Olympic Appeal.’ Buoyed up a little by what she said, she crossed the tiled floor to the open cubicle where her things were. Around her, other girls obliviously continued changing for their turn in the arena. She got no response from anyone before a second loser came dejectedly through the door. ‘What did you do?’
This girl was in the Crown Cities Track Club colours. She held up her right hand with all fingers extended.
‘Fifth? Too bad. Join the club. I’m through with track. I just threw my spikes away. What time did they give you?’
‘Eleven-five.’
The Kansas girl shook her head. ‘That’s slow. I made eleven-three-six. My best ever, but I’m still quitting. Did you see Heat Three? It was my luck to draw the Serafin dame. What does the G stand for — Giant? It was like lining up with the Statue of Liberty. She wasn’t even trying. Eleven-one. I’ll never go that fast. What’s the pleasure in going on, if you know you can never be the best? I tell you, from now on, it’s nonstop dissipation for me: cigarettes, champagne and S-E-X. I shall burn my letter sweater the moment I get back to Kansas. I want to know the bliss of walking around college without guys giving me the elbow and saying “Hey, stud.”’ She tugged off her damp trackshirt, unfastened the bra underneath, and took the weight of her breasts in her hands. ‘As of now, buddies, you’re going to live a little. You can thank Miss G. Serafin, unattached, for that.’
Midway up the terraced stand along the home stretch of the University of Oregon’s Hayward Field, Dryden was sitting between Serafin and Melody. There was no obligation to sit with the consortium, as there had been in San Diego; Sternberg and Valenti had stayed beside one of the pools at the Jacaranda, claiming they had such confidence in Goldengirl that watching qualifying rounds would bore them. Dick Armitage had a previous arrangement to use the University tennis court for practice. Cobb was standing with Lee and Klugman beside the track barrier, in conversation with Goldine on the inner side. She looked relaxed after her stylish success in the 100-metre heats. The second round was starting in twenty-five minutes, after the finish of the race in progress, the men’s 10,000 metres.
Dryden might have been down there with them, but for a late-night drink he had taken with Cobb. After the disclosures at the meeting, it had been logical to compare notes on Serafin. Cobb’s information had been commissioned from an inquiry agent. There was nothing in the report Dryden hadn’t learned for himself in Bakersfield. But they did agree it was vital to provide Serafin with reassurance. They didn’t want him deciding the meeting had been a takeover. Dryden had volunteered to take first turn.
Melody’s job for the afternoon was listing the detailed results of every heat in the two rounds of the 100 metres, including anemometer readings. As well as the information coming from the public address and the bulletin board, Serafin dictated his own observations on the way each race was run, pinpointing likely rivals in the rounds to come. From the care he took in distinguishing between winners who were fully extended and others with something in reserve, his commitment to the project hadn’t evaporated yet.
The draw for the second round had just been announced.
‘Number one twenty-six. Who was that?’ Serafin asked.
Melody consulted her clipboard. ‘M. Devine, Tennessee State University. The little black girl with Afro hair who won the heat after Goldengirl’s. I’ll tell you her time. Eleven point sixteen. Wind reading point zero eight against.’
‘Mary-Lou Devine,’ said Serafin. ‘That’s strong opposition for the Quarter-Final. How about one hundred three?’
‘J. Pharoah, Valley of the Sun Track Club.’